the works of john dryden, now first collected _in eighteen volumes._ illustrated with notes, historical, critical, and explanatory, and a life of the author, by walter scott, esq. vol. vii. london: printed for william miller, albemarle street, by james ballantyne and co. edinburgh . * * * * * contents of volume seventh. the duke of guise, a tragedy epistle dedicatory to the earl of rochester the vindication of the duke of guise albion and albanius, an opera preface don sebastian, a tragedy epistle dedicatory to the earl of leicester preface * * * * * the duke of guise. a tragedy. outôs de philotimoi physeis en tais politeiais to agan mê phylaxamenai, tôi agathou meizon to kakon echousi. plutarch. in agesilao. the duke of guise. in the latter part of charles the second's reign, the stage, as well as every other engine which could affect the popular mind, was eagerly employed in the service of the contending factions. settle and shadwell had, in tragedy and comedy, contributed their mite to the support of the popular cause. in the stormy session of parliament, in , the famous bill was moved, for the exclusion of the duke of york, as a papist, from the succession, and accompanied by others of a nature equally peremptory and determined. the most remarkable was a bill to order an association for the safety of his majesty's person, for defence of the protestant religion, for the preservation of the protestant liege subjects against invasion and opposition, and for preventing any papist from succeeding to the throne of england. to recommend these rigid measures, and to keep up that zealous hatred and terror of the catholic religion, which the plot had inspired, settle wrote his forgotten tragedy of "pope joan," in which he revives the old fable of a female pope, and loads her with all the crimes of which a priest, or a woman, could possibly be guilty. shadwell's comedy of the "lancashire witches" was levelled more immediately at the papists, but interspersed with most gross and scurrilous reflections upon the english divines of the high church party. otway, lee, and dryden were the formidable antagonists, whom the court opposed to the whig poets. thus arrayed and confronted, the stage absolutely foamed with politics; the prologues and epilogues, in particular formed channels, through which the tenets of the opposite parties were frequently assailed, and the persons of their leaders and their poets exposed to scandal and derision. in the middle of these political broils, dryden was called upon, as he informs us, by lee, to return the assistance which that poet had afforded in composing "oedipus." the history of the duke of guise had formerly occupied his attention, as an acceptable subject to the court after the restoration. a league, formed under pretence of religion, and in defence of the king's authority, against his person, presented facilities of application to the late civil wars, to which, we may be sure, our poet was by no means insensible. but however apt these allusions might have been in , the events which had taken place in - admitted of a closer parallel, and excited a deeper interest. the unbounded power which shaftesbury had acquired in the city of london, and its state of factious fermentation, had been equalled by nothing but the sway exercised by the leaders of the league in the metropolis of france. the intrigues by which the council of sixteen placed and displaced, flattered or libelled, those popular officers of paris, whom the french call _echevins_, admitted of a direct and immediate comparison with the contest between the court and the whigs, for the election of the sheriffs of london; contests which attained so great violence, that, at one time, there was little reason to hope they would have terminated without bloodshed. the tumultuous day of the barricades, when henry the second, after having in vain called in the assistance of his guards, was obliged to abandon his capital to the duke of guise and his faction, and assemble the states of his kingdom at blois, was not entirely without a parallel in the annals of . the violence of the parliament at london had led to its dissolution; and, in order to insure the tractability of their successors, they were assembled, by the king, at oxford, where a concurrence of circumstances rendered the royal authority more paramount than in any other city of the kingdom. to this parliament the members came in an array, which more resembled the parliament of the white bands, in the reign of edward the second, than any that had since taken place. yet, though armed, and attended by their retainers and the more ardent of their favourers, the leaders of opposition expressed their apprehensions of danger from the royal party. the sixteen whig peers, in their memorable petition against this removal, complained, that the parliament would at oxford be exposed to the bloody machinations of the papists and their adherents, "of whom too many had crept into his majesty's guards." the aid of ballads and libellous prints was called in, to represent this alteration of the usual place of meeting as a manoeuvre to throw the parliament, its members, and its votes, at the feet of an arbitrary monarch[ ]. it is probable that this meeting, which rather resembled a polish diet than a british parliament, would not have separated without some signal, and perhaps bloody catastrophe, if the political art of halifax, who was at the head of the small moderate party, called trimmers, joined to the reluctance of either faction to commence hostilities against an enemy as fully prepared as themselves, had not averted so eminent a crisis. in all particulars, excepting the actual assassination, the parliament of oxford resembled the assembly of the states general at blois. the general character of the duke of monmouth certainly had not many points of similarity to that of the duke of guise; but in one particular incident his conduct had been formed on that model, and it is an incident which makes a considerable figure in the tragedy. in september , after the king's illness, monmouth was disgraced, and obliged to leave the kingdom. he retired to holland, where he resided until the intrigues of shaftesbury assured him the support of a party so strongly popular, that he might return, in open defiance of the court. in the november following, he conceived his presence necessary to animate his partizans; and, without the king's permission for his return, he embarked at the brill, and landed at london on the th, at midnight, where the tumultuous rejoicings of the popular party more than compensated for the obscurity of his departure[ ]. this bold step was, in all its circumstances, very similar to the return of the duke of guise from his government to paris, against the express command of henry the second, together with his reception by the populace, whom he came prepared to head in insurrection. above all, the bill of exclusion bore a striking resemblance to the proceedings of the league against the king of navarre, presumptive heir of the throne, whom, on account of his attachment to the protestant faith, they threatened to deprive of the succession. the historical passages, corresponding in many particulars with such striking accuracy, offered an excellent groundwork for a political play, and the "duke of guise" was composed accordingly; dryden making use of the scenes which he had formerly written on the subject, and lee contributing the remainder, which he eked out by some scenes and speeches adopted from the "massacre of paris," then, lying by him in manuscript. the court, however, considered the representation of the piece as at least of dubious propriety. the parallel was capable of being so extended as to exhibit no very flattering picture of the king's politics; and, on the other hand, it is possible, that the fate of the duke of guise, as identified with monmouth, might shock the feelings of charles, and the justice of the audience. accordingly, we learn from the "vindication," that the representation of the piece was prohibited; that it lay in the hands of the lord chamberlain (henry lord arlington) from before mid-summer, , till two months after that term; and that orders were not finally given for its being acted until the month of december in the same year. the king's tenderness for the duke of monmouth had by this time so far given way, that he had ordered his arrest at stafford; and, from the dark preparations on both sides, it was obvious, that no measures were any longer to be kept betwixt them. all the motives of delicacy and prudence, which had prevented the representation of this obnoxious party performance, were now therefore annihilated or overlooked. our author's part of the "duke of guise" is important, though not of great extent, as his scenes contain some of the most striking political sketches. the debate of the council of sixteen, with which the play opens, was his composition; the whole of the fourth act, which makes him responsible for the alleged parallel betwixt guise and monmouth, and the ridicule cast upon the sheriffs and citizens of the popular party, with the first part of the fifth, which implicates him in vindicating the assassination of guise. the character and sentiments of the king, in these scenes, are drawn very closely after davila, as the reader will easily see, from the italian original subjoined in the notes. that picturesque historian had indeed anticipated almost all that even a poet could do, in conveying a portraiture, equally minute and striking, of the stormy period which he had undertaken to describe; and, had his powers of description been inferior, it is probable, that dryden, hampered as he was, by restraints of prudence and delicacy, would not have chosen to go far beyond the authority to which he referred the lord chamberlain. the language of the play, at least in these scenes, seldom rises above that of the higher tone of historical oratory; and the descriptions are almost literally taken from davila, and thrown into beautiful verse. in the character of marmoutiere, there seems to be an allusion to the duchess of buccleuch and monmouth, whose influence was always, and sometimes successfully, used to detach her husband from the desperate schemes of shaftesbury and armstrong. the introduction of the necromancer, malicorn, seems to refer to some artifices, by which the party of monmouth endeavoured to call to their assistance the sanction of supernatural powers[ ]. the particular story of malicorn is said to be taken from a narrative in rosset's _histoires tragiques_, a work which the present editor has never seen. in the conference between malicorn and melanax, dryden has made much use of his astrological knowledge; and its mystical terms give a solemnity to the spirit's predictions, which was probably deepened by the poet's secret belief in this visionary study. as he borrowed liberally from davila in the other parts of the play, he has not here disdained to use the assistance of pulci, from whose romantic poem he has translated one or two striking passages, as the reader will find upon consulting the notes. the last scene betwixt the necromancer and the fiend is horribly fine: the description of the approach of the evil one, and the effect which his presence produces upon the attendants, the domestic animals, and the wizard himself, is an instance, amongst many, of the powerful interest which may be produced by a judicious appeal to the early prejudices of superstition. i may be pardoned, however, when i add, that such scenes are, in general, unfit for the stage, where the actual appearance of a demon is apt to excite emotions rather ludicrous than terrific. accordingly, that of dryden failed in the representation. the circumstance, upon which the destruction of the wizard turns, is rather puerile; but there are many similar fables in the annals of popular superstition[ ]. lee's part of this play is, in general, very well written, and contains less rant than he usually puts in the mouths of his characters. the factions have been long at rest which were so deeply agitated by the first representation of this performance; yet some pains has been taken to trace those points of resemblance, which gave so much offence to one party, and triumph to the other. many must doubtless have escaped our notice; but enough remains to shew the singular felicity with which dryden, in the present instance, as in that of "absalom and achitophel," could adapt the narrative of ancient or foreign transactions to the political events of his own time, and "moralize two meanings in one word." altogether abstracted from this consideration, the "duke of guise," as a historical play, possesses merit amply sufficient to rescue it from the oblivion into which it has fallen. the play was first acted th december, , and encountered a stormy and dubious, if not an unfavourable, reception. but as, the strength of the court party increased, the piece was enabled to maintain its ground with more general approbation. it was performed by the united companies, and printed in . footnotes: . i cannot resist transcribing that ballad, which cost poor college, the protestant joiner, so extremely dear. it is extracted from mr luttrell's collection, who has marked it thus. "a most scandalous libel against the government, for which, with other things, college was justly executed." the justice of the execution may, i think, be questioned, unless, like cinna the poet, the luckless ballad-monger was hanged for his bad verses. there is prefixed a cut, representing the king with a double face, carrying the house of commons in a shew-box at his back. in another copartment, he sticks fast in the mud with his burden. in another, topham, the serjeant of the house of commons, with the other officers of parliament, liberate the members, and cram the bishops into the shew-box. a raree show. to the tune of--"i am a senseless thing." _leviathan._ come hither, topham, come, with a hey, with a hey; bring a pipe and a drum, with a ho; where'er about i go, attend my raree show, with a hey, trany, nony, nony, no. _topham._ that monstrous foul beast, with a hey, with a hey, has houses twain in's chest, with a ho; o cowper, hughes, and snow, stop thief with raree show, with a hey, &c. for if he should escape, with a hey, with a hey, with halifaxe's trap, with a ho, he'll carry good dom. com. unto the pope of rome, with a hey, &c. _leviathan._ be quiet, ye dull tools, with a hey, with a hey, as other free-born fools, with a ho, do not all gaping stand to see my slight of hand. with a hey, &c. 'tis not to rome that i, with a hey, with a hey, lug about my trumpery, with a ho, but oxford, york, carlisle, and round about the isle, with a hey, &c. but if they would come out, with a hey, with a hey, let them first make a vote, with a ho. to yield up all they have, and tower lords to save, with a hey, &c. _topham._ now that is very hard, with a hey, with a hey, thou art worse than cut-nose guard, with a ho. and clifford, danby, hide, halifax does all outride, with a hey, &c. holy ghost, in bag of cloak, with a hey, with a hey, quaking king in royal oak, with a ho. and rosamond in bower, all badges are of power. with a hey, &c. and popularity, with a hey, with a hey, adds power to majesty, with a ho; but dom. com. in little ease, will all the world displease, with a hey, &c. _leviathan._ let 'um hate me, so they fear, with a hey, with a hey, curst fox has the best cheer, with a ho; two states, in blind house pent, make brave strong government. with a hey, &c. _topham._ but child of heathen hobbes, with a hey, with a hey, remember old dry bobs, with a ho, for fleecing england's flocks. long fed with bits and knocks, with a hey, &c. _leviathan._ what's past is not to come, with a hey, with a hey, now safe is david's bum, with a ho; then hey for oxford ho, strong government, raree show, with a hey, &c. raree show is resouled, with a hey, with a hey, this is worse than desouled, with a ho; may the mighty weight at's back make's lecherous loins to crack, with a hey, &c. methinks he seems to stagger, with a hey, with a hey, who but now did so swagger, with a ho; god's fish he's stuck in the mire, and all the fat's in the fire, with a hey, &c. help cooper, hughs, and snow, with a hey, with a hey, to pull down raree show, with a ho: so, so, the gyant's down, let's masters out of pound, with a hey, &c. and now you've freed the nation, with a hey, with a hey, cram in the convocation, with a ho, with pensioners all and some. into this chest of rome, with a hey, &c. and thrust in six-and-twenty, with a hey, with a hey. with _not guilties_ good plenty, with a ho, and hoot them hence away to cologn or breda, with a hey, &c. haloo, the hunt's begun, with a hey, with a hey, like father like son, with a ho; raree show in french lap is gone to take a nap, and succession has the clap, with a hey, trany, nony, nony, no. . "the news of his landing being reported by the watch, it soon spread abroad through the whole city; insomuch, that before day-light they rang the bells at st giles in the fields, placing several flambeaus on the top of the steeple, and divers great bonefires were made, two of which were very large, one in the palace-yard at westminster, and the other in thames-street, near the custom-house, which was kindled in the morning, and maintained burning all day till evening, and then the universal joy of the people was expressed in most of the streets throughout london and westminster by bone-fires, fireworks, and ringing of bells, accompanied with loud acclamations of joy, to the great grief of the papists." _an account of the heroick life and magnanimous actions of the most illustrious protestant prince, james, duke of monmouth._ london, . p. . . "a relation was published in the name of one elizabeth freeman, afterwards called the mayor of hatfield, setting forth, that, on the th of january, the apparition of a woman, all in white [the duke of monmouth's mother was here to be understood], with a white veil over her face, accosted her with these words; 'sweetheart, the th of may is appointed for the blood-royal to be poisoned. be not afraid, for i am sent to tell thee.' that on the th the same appearance stood before her again, and she having then acquired courage enough to lay it under the usual adjuration, in the name, &c. it assumed a more glorious shape, and said in a harsher tone of voice, 'tell king charles from me, and bid him not remove his parliament (i.e. from london to oxford), and stand to his council;' adding, 'do as i bid you.' that on the th, it appeared to her a third time, but said only, 'do your message;' and that on the next night, when she saw it for the last time, it said nothing at all. those, who depend upon the people for support, must try all manner of practices upon them, and such fooleries as these sometimes operate more forcibly than experiments of a more rational kind. care was besides taken to have this relation attested by sir joseph jordan, a justice of peace, and the rector of hatfield, dr lee, who was one of the king's chaplains. nay, the message was actually sent to his majesty, and the whole forgery very officially circulated over the kingdom." ralph's _history_ vol. i. p. . . in truth, the devil and the conjuror did not always play upon the square, but often took the most unfair advantages of each other. there is more than one instance of bad faith in the history of that renowned enchanter, peter fabel. on one occasion, he prevailed upon the devil, when he came to carry him off, to repose himself in an enchanted chair, from which he refused to liberate him, until he had granted him an additional lease of seven years. when this term was also expired, he had the eloquence and art to prevail on the fiend to allow him a farther respite, till a wax taper, then nearly expiring, was burned out. this boon being granted, he instantly put out the light, and deposited the taper in the church at edmonton. hence, in weiver's "funeral monuments," he is thus mentioned: "here (at edmonton) lieth interred, under a seemly tombe without inscription, the body of peter fabell, as the report goes, upon whom this fable was fathered, that he, by his wittie devices, beguiled the devill." p . see also the _book of his merry prankes_. another instance occurs, in the famous history of friar bacon, (london ) where that renowned conjurer is recorded to have saved a man, that had given himself to the devil on condition of his debts being paid. "the case was referred to the friar. 'deceiver of mankind, said he (speaking to the devil), it was thy bargain never to meddle with him so long as he was indebted to any; now how canst thou demand of him any thing, when he is indebted for all he hath to thee? when he payeth thee thy money, then take him as thy due; till then thou hast nothing to do with him; and so i charge thee to be gone.' at this the devil vanished with great horrour; but fryar bacon comforted the gentleman, and sent him home with a quiet conscience, bidding him never to pay the devil's money back, as he tendred his own safety, which he promised for to observe." from these instances, melanax might have quoted precedent for insisting on the literal execution of his stipulation with malicorn, since, to give the devil his due, the strict legal interpretation appears always to have been applied to bargains of that nature. to the right honourable lawrence, earl of rochester, &c.[ ] my lord, the authors of this poem present it humbly to your lordship's patronage, if you shall think it worthy of that honour. it has already been a confessor, and was almost made a martyr for the royal cause: but having stood two trials from its enemies,--one before it was acted, another in the representation,--and having been in both acquitted, it is now to stand the public censure in the reading: where since, of necessity, it must have the same enemies, we hope it may also find the same friends; and therein we are secure, not only of the greater number, but of the more honest and loyal party. we only expected bare justice in the permission to have it acted; and that we had, after a severe and long examination, from an upright and knowing judge, who, having heard both sides, and examined the merits of the cause, in a strict perusal of the play, gave sentence for us, that it was neither a libel, nor a parallel of particular persons[ ]. in the representation itself, it was persecuted with so notorious malice by one side, that it procured us the partiality of the other; so that the favour more than recompensed the prejudice. and it is happier to have been saved (if so we were) by the indulgence of our good and faithful fellow-subjects, than by our own deserts; because, thereby the weakness of the faction is discovered, which, in us, at that time attacked the government, and stood combined, like the members of the rebellious league, against the lawful sovereign authority. to what topic will they have recourse, when they are manifestly beaten from their chief post, which has always been popularity, and majority of voices? they will tell us,--that the voices of a people are not to be gathered in a play-house; and yet, even there, the enemies, as well as friends, have free admission: but, while our argument was serviceable to their interests, they could boast, that the theatres were true protestant; and came insulting to the plays, when their own triumphs were represented[ ]. but let them now assure themselves, that they can make the major part of no assembly, except it be of a meeting-house[ ]. their tide of popularity is spent; and the natural current of obedience is, in spite of them, at last prevalent. in which, my lord, after the merciful providence of god, the unshaken resolution, and prudent carriage of the king, and the inviolable duty, and manifest innocence of his royal highness,--the prudent management of the ministers is also most conspicuous. i am not particular in this commendation, because i am unwilling to raise envy to your lordship, who are too just, not to desire that praise should be communicated to others, which was the common endeavour and co-operation of all. it is enough, my lord, that your own part was neither obscure in it, nor unhazardous. and if ever this excellent government, so well established by the wisdom of our forefathers, and so much shaken by the folly of this age, shall recover its ancient splendour, posterity cannot be so ungrateful as to forget those, who, in the worst of times, have stood undaunted by their king and country, and, for the safeguard of both, have exposed themselves to the malice of false patriots, and the madness of an headstrong rabble. but since this glorious work is yet unfinished, and though we have reason to hope well of the success, yet the event depends on the unsearchable providence of almighty god, it is no time to raise trophies, while the victory is in dispute; but every man, by your example, to contribute what is in his power to maintain so just a cause, on which depends the future settlement and prosperity of three nations. the pilot's prayer to neptune was not amiss in the middle of the storm: "thou mayest do with me, o neptune, what thou pleasest, but i will be sure to hold fast the rudder." we are to trust firmly in the deity, but so as not to forget, that he commonly works by second causes, and admits of our endeavours with his concurrence. for our own parts, we are sensible, as we ought, how little we can contribute with our weak assistance. the most we can boast of, is, that we are not so inconsiderable as to want enemies, whom we have raised to ourselves on no other account than that we are not of their number; and, since that is their quarrel, they shall have daily occasion to hate us more. it is not, my lord, that any man delights to see himself pasquined and affronted by their inveterate scribblers; but, on the other side, it ought to be our glory, that themselves believe not of us what they write. reasonable men are well satisfied for whose sakes the venom of their party is shed on us; because they see, that at the same time our adversaries spare not those to whom they owe allegiance and veneration. their despair has pushed them to break those bonds; and it is observable, that the lower they are driven, the more violently they write; as lucifer and his companions were only proud when angels, but grew malicious when devils. let them rail, since it is the only solace of their miseries, and the only revenge which, we hope, they now can take. the greatest and the best of men are above their reach; and, for our meanness, though they assault us like footpads in the dark, their blows have done us little harm: we yet live to justify ourselves in open day, to vindicate our loyalty to the government, and to assure your lordship, with all submission and sincerity, that we are your lordship's most obedient, faithful servants, john dryden. nat. lee. footnotes: . lawrence hyde, created earl of rochester in , was the second son of the famous lord clarendon, and affords a rare instance of the son of a disgraced minister recovering that favour at court, which had been withdrawn from his father. he was now at the head of the commissioners for the treasury, and a patron of our poet; as appears from the terms of dryden's letter, soliciting his interest in very affecting terms, and from the subsequent dedication of "cleomenes," where he acknowledges his lordship's goodness during the reign of two masters; and that, even from a bare treasury, his success was contrary to that of mr cowley; gideon's fleece having been moistened, when all the ground was dry around it. the earl of rochester was the more proper patron for the "duke of guise," as he was a violent opponent of the bill of exclusion. he was lord high treasurer in the reign of james ii., and died in . . henry bennet, earl of arlington, then lord chamberlain. . dryden seems here to allude to the triumphant strain in which shadwell mentions the reception of "the lancashire witches:" "i could not imagine," he says, "till i heard that great opposition was designed against the play a month before it was acted, by a party who, being ashamed to say it was for the sake of the irish priest, pretended that i had written a satire on the church of england; and several profest papists railed at it violently before they had seen it, alleging that for a reason, such dear friends they are to our church: and, notwithstanding all was put out that could any way be wrested to an offence against the church, yet they came with the greatest malice in the world to hiss it; and many, that called themselves protestants, joined with them in that noble enterprise. "but, for all this, they came resolved to hiss it, right or wrong, and had gotten mercenary fellows, who were such fools they did not know when to hiss; and this was evident to all the audience. it was wonderful to see men of great quality, and gentlemen, in so mean a combination; but, to my great satisfaction, they came off as meanly as i could wish. i had so numerous an assembly of the best sort of men, who stood so generously in my defence for the three first days, that they quashed all the vain attempts of my enemies; the inconsiderable party of hissers yielded, and the play lived in spite of them. "had it been never so bad, i had valued the honour of having so many and such friends as eminently appeared for me, above that of excelling the most admirable jonson, if it were possible to be done by me." this flourish of exultation contains many things which were doubtless offensive to dryden's jealousy of dramatic fame, as well as to his political principles. nor was he probably insensible to the affected praise bestowed on jonson, whose merit, it was fashionable to say, he had attempted to depreciate. . the greater, and, perhaps, the most formidable, part of those who now opposed the court, were the remnants of the old fanatics, whose religious principles were shocked by the dissolute manners of charles and his courtiers. these, of course, added little to the force of the party in the theatres, which they never frequented. shadwell seems to acknowledge this disadvantage in the epilogue to "the lancashire witches:" our popes and friars on one side offend, and yet, alas! the city's not our friend: the city neither like us nor our wit, they say their wives learn ogling in the pit; they're from the boxes taught to make advances, to answer stolen sighs and naughty glances. we virtuous ladies some new ways must seek, for all conspire our playing trade to break. but although the citizens declined to frequent even the plays written on their own side of the question, armstrong, and the personal followers of monmouth, were of a gayer complexion, and doubtless, as they were not inferior to the courtiers in the licence assumed by the age, formed the principal part of the audience at the protestant plays. the discovery of the rye-house plot broke the strength of this part of the confederacy, and the odium attending that enterprise rendered their opposition to the court in public assemblies both fruitless and dangerous. prologue written by mr dryden. spoken by mr smith. our play's a parallel: the holy league begot our covenant: guisards got the whig: whate'er our hot-brained sheriffs did advance, was, like our fashions, first produced in france; and, when worn out, well scourged, and banished there, sent over, like their godly beggars, here. could the same trick, twice played, our nation gull? it looks as if the devil were grown dull; or served us up, in scorn, his broken meat, and thought we were not worth a better cheat. the fulsome covenant, one would think in reason, had given us all our bellies full of treason; and yet, the name but changed, our nasty nation chews its own excrements, the association[ ]. 'tis true, we have not learned their poisoning way, for that's a mode but newly come in play; resides, your drug's uncertain to prevail, but your true protestant can never fail with that compendious instrument, a flail[ ]. go on, and bite, even though the hook lies bare; twice in one age expel the lawful heir; once more decide religion by the sword, and purchase for us a new tyrant lord. pray for your king, but yet your purses spare; make him not two-pence richer by your prayer. to show you love him much, chastise him more, and make him very great, and very poor. push him to wars, but still no peace advance; let him lose england, to recover france. cry freedom up, with popular noisy votes, and get enough to cut each other's throats. lop all the rights that fence your monarch's throne; for fear of too much power, pray leave him none. a noise was made of arbitrary sway; but, in revenge, you whigs have found a way an arbitrary duty now to pay. let his own servants turn to save their stake, glean from his plenty, and his wants forsake; but let some judas near his person stay, to swallow the last sop, and then betray. make london independent of the crown; a realm apart; the kingdom of the town. let ignoramus juries find no traitors[ ], and ignoramus poets scribble satires. and, that your meaning none may fail to scan, do what in coffee-houses you began,-- pull down the master, and set up the man. footnotes: . the association proposed in parliament was, by the royalists, said to be, a revival of the solemn league and covenant. but the draught of an association, found in lord shaftesbury's cabinet, and produced on his trial, in which that memorable engagement seems to be pretty closely copied, was probably what our poet alludes to. . the protestant flail was a kind of bludgeon, so jointed as to fold together, and lie concealed in the pocket. they are supposed to have been invented to arm the insurgents about this period. in the trial of braddon and spoke for a misdemeanor, the recorder offered to prove, that braddon had bragged, that "he was the only inventor of the protestant flails; an instrument you have heard of, gentlemen, and for what use designed." this circumstance was not omitted by jefferies, in his characteristic address to the prisoner. "but oh what a happiness it was for this sort of people, that they had got mr braddon, an honest man and a man of courage, says mr speke, a man _a propos_! and pray, says he to his friend, give him the best advice you can, for he is a man very fit for the purpose; and pray secure him under a sham name, for i'll undertake there are such designs upon pious mr braddon, such connivances to do him mischief, that, if he had not had his _protestant flail_ about him, somebody or other would have knocked him on the head; and he is such a wonderful man, that all the king's courts must needs conspire to do mr braddon a mischief. a very pretty sort of man, upon my word, and he must be used accordingly." _state trials_, vol. iii. p. . in one of the scarce medals struck by james ii. justice is represented weighing mural crowns, which preponderate against a naked sword, a serpent, and a protestant flail: on each side of the figure are a head and trunk, representing those of argyle and monmouth. an accurate description of this weapon occurs in the following passage from roger north: "there was much recommendation of silk armour, and the prudence of being provided with it against the time protestants were to be massacred. and accordingly there were abundance of these silken backs, breasts, and pots (i.e. head-pieces), made and sold, that were pretended to be pistol proof; in which any man dressed up was as safe as in a house, for it was impossible any one could go to strike him for laughing. so ridiculous was the figure, as they say, of hogs in armour; an image of derision, insensible but to the view, as i have had it. this was armour of defence; but our sparks were not altogether so tame as to carry their provisions no farther, for truly they intended to be assailants upon fair occasion, and had for that end recommended also to them a certain pocket weapon, which, for its design and efficacy, had the honour to be called a _protestant flail_. it was for street and crowd-work; and the engine lying perdue in a coat pocket, might readily sally out to execution, and by clearing a great hall, a piazza, or so, carry an election by a choice way of polling, called _knocking down_. the handle resembled a farrier's blood-stick, and the fall was joined to the end by a strong nervous ligature, that in its swing fell just short of the hand, and was made of _lignum vitæ_, or rather, as the poet termed it, _mortis_." _examen._ p. . the following is the first stanza of "the protestant flail; an excellent new song, to the tune of, lacy's maggot, or the hobby horse." it is thus labelled by luttrell: "a bonny thing, june, ." listen a while, and i'll tell you a tale of a new device of a protestant flail; with a thump, thump, thump a thump. thump a thump, thump. this flail it was made of the finest wood, all lined with lead, and notable good for splitting of bones, and shedding the blood of all that withstood, with a thump, &c. . shaftesbury, college, and others, were liberated by grand juries, who refused to find bills against them, bringing in what are technically called verdicts of _ignoramus_. it was here that the whig sheriffs were of most consequence to their party; for by their means the juries were picked from the very centre of the faction; and although they included many men of eminence, both for rank and talents, yet they were generally such as had made up their minds to cast the bill long before they came into court. this gave great offence to the royalists. north says, "there lay the barrier of the faction; and that stately word (_ignoramus_) became the appellative of the whole corrupt practice, and the infamous title of all the persons concerned in it." in luttrell's collection i find, "ignoramus, an excellent new song, to the tune of lay by your pleading, law lies a bleeding." dec. . at the old bailey, where rogues flock daily, a greater rogue far than coleman, white, or stayley, was late indicted. witnesses cited, but then he was set free, so the king was righted. 'gainst princes offences proved in all senses, but 'gainst a whig there is no truth in evidences; they sham us, and flam us, and ram us, and damn us. and then, in spite of law, come off with ignoramus, &c. this song, according to the invariable practice of the scribblers on both sides, was answered by a new ignoramus. dramatis personÆ. _the king of france._ _duke of_ guise. _duke of_ mayenne. grillon, _colonel of the guard._ alphonso corso, _a colonel._ belleure, _a courtier._ abbot del bene, } _royalists._ m. monfert, } _the cardinal of_ guise. } _archbishop of_ lyons. } polin, } aumale, } _of guise's_ bussy, } _faction._ _the curate of st_ eustace, } malicorn, _a necromancer,_ } melanax, _a spirit,_ } _two sheriffs,_ _citizens and rabble, &c._ _queen mother._ marmoutiere, _niece to_ grillon. scene,--_paris._ the duke of guise. act i. scene i.--_the council of sixteen seated; an empty chair prepared for the duke of guise._ bussy _and_ polin, _two of the sixteen._ _buss._ lights there! more lights! what, burn the tapers dim, when glorious guise, the moses, gideon, david, the saviour of the nation, makes approach? _pol._ and therefore are we met; the whole sixteen, that sway the crowd of paris, guide their votes, manage their purses, persons, fortunes, lives, to mount the guise, where merit calls him, high, and give him a whole heaven for room to shine. _enter curate of st_ eustace. _buss._ the curate of st eustace comes at last: but, father, why so late? _cur._ i have been taking godly pains to satisfy some scruples raised amongst weak brothers of our party, that were staggering in the cause. _pol._ what could they find to object? _cur._ they thought, to arm against the king was treason. _buss._ i hope you set them right? _cur._ yes; and for answer, i produced this book. a calvinist minister of orleans writ this, to justify the admiral for taking arms against the king deceased; wherein he proves, that irreligious kings may justly be deposed, and put to death. _buss._ to borrow arguments from heretic books, methinks, was not so prudent. _cur._ yes; from the devil, if it would help our cause. the author was indeed a heretic; the matter of the book is good and pious. _pol._ but one prime article of our holy league is to preserve the king, his power, and person. _cur._ that must be said, you know, for decency; a pretty blind to make the shoot secure. _buss._ but did the primitive christians e'er rebel, when under heathen lords? i hope they did. _cur._ no sure, they did not; for they had not power; the conscience of a people is their power. _pol._ well; the next article in our solemn covenant has cleared the point again. _buss._ what is't? i should be glad to find the king no safer than needs must. _pol._ that, in case of opposition from any person whatsoever-- _cur._ that's well, that well; then the king is not excepted, if he oppose us.-- _pol._ we are obliged to join as one, to punish all, who attempt to hinder or disturb us. _buss._ 'tis a plain case; the king's included in the punishment, in case he rebel against the people. _pol._ but how can he rebel? _cur._ i'll make it out: rebellion is an insurrection against the government; but they that have the power are actually the government; therefore, if the people have the power, the rebellion is in the king. _buss._ a most convincing argument for faction. _cur._ for arming, if you please, but not for faction: for still the faction is the fewest number: so what they call the lawful government, is now the faction; for the most are ours. _pol._ since we are proved to be above the king, i would gladly understand whom we are to obey, or, whether we are to be all kings together? _cur._ are you a member of the league, and ask that question? there's an article, that, i may say, is as necessary as any in the creed; namely, that we, the said associates, are sworn to yield ready obedience, and faithful service, to that head which shall be deputed. _buss._ 'tis most manifest, that, by virtue of our oath, we are all subjects to the duke of guise. the king's an officer that has betrayed his trust; and therefore we have turned him out of service. _omn._ agreed, agreed. _enter the duke of_ guise, _cardinal of_ guise, aumale: _torches before them. the duke takes the chair._ _buss._ your highness enters in a lucky hour; the unanimous vote you heard, confirms your choice. as head of paris and the holy league. _card._ i say amen to that. _pol._ you are our champion, buckler of our faith. _card._ the king, like saul, is heaven's repented choice; you his anointed one, on better thought. _gui._ i'm what you please to call me; any thing, lieutenant-general, chief, or constable, good decent names, that only mean--your slave. _buss._ you chased the germans hence, exiled navarre, and rescued france from heretics and strangers. _aum._ what he, and all of us have done, is known. what's our reward? our offices are lost, turned out, like laboured oxen after harvest, to the bare commons of the withered field. _buss._ our charters will go next; because we sheriffs permit no justice to be done on those the court calls rebels, but we call them saints. _gui._ yes; we are all involved, as heads, or parties; dipt in the noisy crime of state, called treason; and traitors we must be, to king, or country. _buss._ why then my choice is made. _pol._ and mine. _omn._ and all. _card._ heaven is itself head of the holy league; and all the saints are cov'nanters and guisards. _gui._ what say you, curate? _cur._ i hope well, my lord. _card._ that is, he hopes you mean to make him abbot, and he deserves your care of his preferment; for all his prayers are curses on the government, and all his sermons libels on the king; in short, a pious, hearty, factious priest. _gui._ all that are here, my friends, shall share my fortunes: there's spoil, preferments, wealth enough in france; 'tis but deserve, and have. the spanish king consigns me fifty thousand crowns a-week to raise, and to foment a civil war. 'tis true, a pension, from a foreign prince, sounds treason in the letter of the law, but good intentions justify the deed. _cur._ heaven's good; the cause is good; the money's good; no matter whence it comes. _buss._ our city-bands are twenty thousand strong, well-disciplined, well-armed, well-seasoned traitors, thick-rinded heads, that leave no room for kernel; shop-consciences, of proof against an oath, preached up, and ready tined for a rebellion[ ]. _gui._ why then the noble plot is fit for birth; and labouring france cries out for midwife hands. we missed surprising of the king at blois, when last the states were held: 'twas oversight; beware we make not such another blot. _card._ this holy time of lent we have him sure; he goes unguarded, mixed with whipping friars. in that procession, he's more fit for heaven: what hinders us to seize the royal penitent, and close him in a cloister? _cur._ or dispatch him; i love to make all sure. _gui._ no; guard him safe; thin diet will do well; 'twill starve him into reason, 'till he exclude his brother of navarre, and graft succession on a worthier choice. to favour this, five hundred men in arms shall stand prepared, to enter at your call, and speed the work; st martin's gate was named; but the sheriff conty, who commands that ward, refused me passage there. _buss._ i know that conty; a snivelling, conscientious, loyal rogue; he'll peach, and ruin all. _card._ give out he's arbitrary, a navarist, a heretic; discredit him betimes, and make his witness void. _cur._ i'll swear him guilty. i swallow oaths as easy as snap-dragon, mock-fire that never burns. _gui._ then, bussy, be it your care to admit my troops, at port st honore: [_rises._] night wears apace, and day-light must not peep on dark designs. i will myself to court, pay formal duty, take leave, and to my government retire; impatient to be soon recalled, to see the king imprisoned, and the nation free[ ]. [_exeunt._ scene ii. _enter_ malicorn _solus._ _mal._ each dismal minute, when i call to mind the promise, that i made the prince of hell, in one-and-twenty years to be his slave, of which near twelve are gone, my soul runs back, the wards of reason roll into their spring. o horrid thought! but one-and-twenty years, and twelve near past, then to be steeped in fire, dashed against rocks, or snatched from molten lead, reeking, and dropping, piece-meal borne by winds, and quenched ten thousand fathom in the deep!-- but hark! he comes: see there! my blood stands still, [_knocking at the door._ my spirits start on end for guise's fate. _a devil rises._ _mal._ what counsel does the fate of guise require? _dev._ remember, with his prince there's no delay. but, the sword drawn, to fling the sheath away; let not the fear of hell his spirit grieve, the tomb is still, whatever fools believe: laugh at the tales which withered sages bring, proverbs and morals; let the waxen king, that rules the hive, be born without a sting; let guise by blood resolve to mount to power. and he is great as mecca's emperor. he comes; bid him not stand on altar-vows, but then strike deepest, when he lowest bows; tell him, fate's awed when an usurper springs, and joins to crowd out just indulgent kings. [_vanishes._ scene iii. _enter the duke of_ guise, _and duke of_ mayenne. _may._ all offices and dignities he gives to your profest and most inveterate foes; but if he were inclined, as we could wish him, there is a lady-regent at his ear, that never pardons. _gui._ poison on her name! take my hand on't, that cormorant dowager will never rest, till she has all our heads in her lap. i was at bayonne with her, when she, the king, and grisly d'alva met. methinks, i see her listening now before me, marking the very motion of his beard, his opening nostrils, and his dropping lids. i hear him croak too to the gaping council,-- fish for the great fish, take no care for frogs, cut off the poppy-heads, sir;--madam, charm the winds but fast, the billows will be still[ ]. _may._ but, sir, how comes it you should be thus warm, still pushing counsels when among your friends; yet, at the court, cautious, and cold as age, your voice, your eyes, your mien so different, you seem to me two men? _gui._ the reason's plain. hot with my friends, because, the question given, i start the judgment right, where others drag. this is the effect of equal elements, and atoms justly poised; nor should you wonder more at the strength of body than of mind; 'tis equally the same to see me plunge headlong into the seine, all over armed, and plow against the torrent to my point, as 'twas to hear my judgment on the germans, this to another man would be a brag; or at the court among my enemies, to be, as i am here, quite off my guard, would make me such another thing as grillon, a blunt, hot, honest, downright, valiant fool. _may._ yet this you must allow a failure in you,-- you love his niece; and to a politician all passion's bane, but love directly death. _gui._ false, false, my mayenne; thou'rt but half guise again. were she not such a wond'rous composition, a soul, so flushed as mine is with ambition, sagacious and so nice, must have disdained her: but she was made when nature was in humour, as if a grillon got her on the queen, where all the honest atoms fought their way, took a full tincture of the mother's wit, but left the dregs of wickedness behind. _may._ have you not told her what we have in hand? _gui._ my utmost aim has been to hide it from her, but there i'm short; by the long chain of causes she has scanned it, just as if she were my soul; and though i flew about with circumstances. denials, oaths, improbabilities; yet, through the histories of our lives, she looked, she saw, she overcame. _may._ why then, we're all undone. _gui._ again you err. chaste as she is, she would as soon give up her honour, as betray me to the king: i tell thee, she's the character of heaven; such an habitual over-womanly goodness, she dazzles, walks mere angel upon earth. but see, she comes; call the cardinal guise, while malicorn attends for some dispatches, before i take my farewell of the court. [_exit_ may. _enter_ marmoutiere. _mar._ ah guise, you are undone! _gui._ how, madam? _mar._ lost, beyond the possibility of hope: despair, and die. _gui._ you menace deeply, madam: and should this come from any mouth but yours, my smile should answer how the ruin touched me. _mar._ why do you leave the court? _gui._ the court leaves me. _mar._ were there no more, but weariness of state, or could you, like great scipio, retire, call rome ungrateful, and sit down with that; such inward gallantry would gain you more than all the sullied conquests you can boast: but oh, you want that roman mastery; you have too much of the tumultuous times, and i must mourn the fate of your ambition. _gui._ because the king disdains my services, must i not let him know i dare be gone? what, when i feel his council on my neck, shall i not cast them backward if i can, and at his feet make known their villainy? _mar._ no, guise, not at his feet, but on his head; for there you strike. _gui._ madam, you wrong me now: for still, whate'er shall come in fortune's whirl, his person must be safe. _mar._ i cannot think it. however, your last words confess too much. confess! what need i urge that evidence, when every hour i see you court the crowd, when with the shouts of the rebellious rabble, i see you borne on shoulders to cabals; where, with the traitorous council of sixteen, you sit, and plot the royal henry's death; cloud the majestic name with fumes of wine, infamous scrolls, and treasonable verse; while, on the other side, the name of guise, by the whole kennel of the slaves, is rung. pamphleteers, ballad-mongers sing your ruin. while all the vermin of the vile parisians toss up their greasy caps where'er you pass, and hurl your dirty glories in your face. _gui._ can i help this? _mar._ by heaven, i'd earth myself, rather than live to act such black ambition: but, sir, you seek it with your smiles and bows. this side and that side congeing to the crowd. you have your writers too, that cant your battles, that stile you, the new david, second moses, prop of the church, deliverer of the people. thus from the city, as from the heart, they spread through all the provinces, alarm the countries, where they run forth in heaps, bellowing your wonders; then cry,--the king, the king's a hugonot, and, spite of us, will have navarre succeed, spite of the laws, and spite of our religion: but we will pull them down, down with them, down[ ]. [_kneels._ _gui._ ha, madam! why this posture? _mar._ hear me, sir; for, if 'tis possible, my lord, i'll move you. look back, return, implore the royal mercy, ere 'tis too late; i beg you by these tears, these sighs, and by the ambitious love you bear me; by all the wounds of your poor groaning country, that bleeds to death. o seek the best of kings, kneel, fling your stubborn body at his feet: your pardon shall be signed, your country saved, virgins and matrons all shall sing your fame, and every babe shall bless the guise's name. _gui._ o rise, thou image of the deity! you shall prevail, i will do any thing: you've broke the very gall of my ambition, and all my powers now float in peace again. be satisfied that i will see the king, kneel to him, ere i journey to champaigne, and beg a kind farewell. _mar._ no, no, my lord; i see through that; you but withdraw a while, to muster all the forces that you can, and then rejoin the council of sixteen. you must not go. _gui._ all the heads of the league expect me, and i have engaged my honour. _mar._ would all those heads were off, so yours were saved! once more, o guise, the weeping marmoutiere entreats you, do not go. _gui._ is't possible that guise should say, in this he must refuse you! _mar._ go then, my lord. i late received a letter from one at court, who tells me, the king loves me: read it,--there is no more than what you hear. i've jewels offered too,--perhaps may take them; and if you go from paris, i'll to court. _gui._ but, madam, i have often heard you say, you loved not courts. _mar._ perhaps i've changed my mind: nothing as yet could draw me, but a king; and such a king,--so good, so just, so great, that, at his birth, the heavenly council paused, and then, at last, cried out,--this is a man. _gui._ come, 'tis but counterfeit; you dare not go. _mar._ go to your government, and try. _gui._ i will. _mar._ then i'll to court, nay--to the king. _gui._ by heaven, i swear you cannot, shall not,--dare not see him. _mar._ by heaven, i can, i dare, nay--and i will; and nothing but your stay shall hinder me; for now, methinks, i long for't. _gui._ possible! _mar._ i'll give you yet a little time to think; but, if i hear you go to take your leave, i'll meet you there; before the throne i'll stand,-- nay you shall see me kneel and kiss his hand. [_exit._ _gui._ furies and hell! she does but try me,--ha! this is the mother-queen, and espernon, abbot delbene, alphonso corso too, all packed to plot, and turn me into madness. [_reading the letter._ _enter cardinal_ guise, _duke of_ mayenne, malicorn, _&c._ ha! can it be! "madam, the king loves you."-- [_reads._ but vengeance i will have; to pieces, thus, to pieces with them all. [_tears the letter._ _card._ speak lower. _gui._ no; by all the torments of this galling passion, i'll hollow the revenge i vow, so loud, my father's ghost shall hear me up to heaven. _card._ contain yourself; this outrage will undo us. _gui._ all things are ripe, and love new points their ruin. ha! my good lords, what if the murdering council were in our power, should they escape our justice? i see, by each man's laying of his hand upon his sword, you swear the like revenge. for me, i wish that mine may both rot off-- _card._ no more. _may._ the council of sixteen attend you. _gui._ i go--that vermin may devour my limbs; that i may die, like the late puling francis[ ], under the barber's hands, imposthumes choak me,-- if while alive, i cease to chew their ruin; alphonso corso, grillon, priest, together: to hang them in effigy,--nay, to tread, drag, stamp, and grind them, after they are dead. [_exeunt._ act ii. scene i. _enter queen-mother, abbot_ delbene, _and_ polin. _qu. m._ pray, mark the form of the conspiracy: guise gives it out, he journeys to champaigne, but lurks indeed at lagny, hard by paris, where every hour he hears and gives instructions. mean time the council of sixteen assure him, they have twenty thousand citizens in arms. is it not so, polin? _pol._ true, on my life; and, if the king doubts the discovery, send me to the bastile till all be proved. _qu. m._ call colonel grillon; the king would speak with him. _ab._ was ever age like this? [_exit_ polin. _qu. m._ polin is honest; beside, the whole proceeding is so like the hair-brained rout, i guessed as much before. know then, it is resolved to seize the king, when next he goes in penitential weeds among the friars, without his usual guards; then, under shew of popular sedition, for safety, shut him in a monastery, and sacrifice his favourites to their rage. _ab._ when is this council to be held again? _qu. m._ immediately upon the duke's departure. _ab._ why sends not then the king sufficient guards, to seize the fiends, and hew them into pieces? _qu. m._ 'tis in appearance easy, but the effect most hazardous; for straight, upon the alarm, the city would be sure to be in arms; therefore, to undertake, and not to compass, were to come off with ruin and dishonour. you know the italian proverb--_bisogna copriersi_[ ],-- he, that will venture on a hornet's nest, should arm his head, and buckler well his breast. _ab._ but wherefore seems the king so unresolved? _qu. m._ i brought polin, and made the demonstration; told him--necessity cried out, to take a resolution to preserve his life, and look on guise as a reclaimless rebel: but, through the natural sweetness of his temper, and dangerous mercy, coldly he replied,-- madam i will consider what you say. _ab._ yet after all, could we but fix him-- _qu. m._ right,-- the business were more firm for this delay; for noblest natures, though they suffer long, when once provoked, they turn the face to danger. but see, he comes, alphonso corso with him; let us withdraw, and when 'tis fit rejoin him. [_exeunt._ _enter king, and_ alphonso corso. _king._ alphonso corso. _alph._ sir. _king._ i think thou lovest me. _alph._ more than my life. _king._ that's much; yet i believe thee. my mother has the judgment of the world, and all things move by that; but, my alphonso, she has a cruel wit. _alph._ the provocation, sir. _king._ i know it well; but,--if thou'dst have my heart within thy hand,-- all conjurations blot the name of kings. what honours, interest, were the world to buy him, shall make a brave man smile, and do a murder? therefore i hate the memory of brutus, i mean the latter, so cried up in story. cæsar did ill, but did it in the sun, and foremost in the field; but sneaking brutus, whom none but cowards and white-livered knaves would dare commend, lagging behind his fellows, his dagger in his bosom, stabbed his father. this is a blot, which tully's eloquence could ne'er wipe off, though the mistaken man makes bold to call those traitors,--men divine. _alph._ tully was wise, but wanted constancy. _enter queen mother, and abbot_ delbene. _qu. m._ good-even, sir; 'tis just the time you ordered to wait on your decrees. _king._ oh, madam! _qu. m._ sir? _king._ oh mother,--but i cannot make it way;-- chaos and shades,--'tis huddled up in night. _qu. m._ speak then, for speech is morning to the mind; it spreads the beauteous images abroad, which else lie furled and clouded in the soul. _king._ you would embark me in a sea of blood. _qu. m._ you see the plot directly on your person; but give it o'er, i did but state the case. take guise into your heart, and drive your friends; let knaves in shops prescribe you how to sway, and, when they read your acts with their vile breath, proclaim aloud, they like not this or that; then in a drove come lowing to the louvre, and cry,--they'll have it mended, that they will, or you shall be no king. _king._ 'tis true, the people ne'er know a mean, when once they get the power; but o, if the design we lay should fail, better the traitors never should be touched, if execution cries not out--'tis done. _qu. m._ no, sir, you cannot fear the sure design: but i have lived too long, since my own blood dares not confide in her that gave him being. _king._ stay, madam, stay; come back, forgive my fears, where all our thoughts should creep like deepest streams: know, then, i hate aspiring guise to death; whored margarita,--plots upon my life,-- and shall i not revenge?[ ] _qu. m._ why, this is harry; harry at moncontour, when in his bloom he saw the admiral coligny's back.[ ] _king._ o this whale guise, with all the lorrain fry! might i but view him, after his plots and plunges, struck on those cowring shallows that await him,-- this were a florence master-piece indeed. _qu. m._ he comes to take his leave. _king._ then for champaigne; but lies in wait till paris is in arms. call grillon in. all that i beg you now, is to be hushed upon the consultation, as urns, that never blab. _qu. m._ doubt not your friends; love them, and then you need not fear your foes. _enter_ grillon. _king._ welcome, my honest man, my old tried friend. why dost thou fly me, grillon, and retire? _gril._ rather let me demand your majesty, why fly you from yourself? i've heard you say, you'd arm against the league; why do you not? the thoughts of such as you, are starts divine; and when you mould with second cast the spirit, the air, the life, the golden vapour's gone. _king._ soft, my old friend; guise plots upon my life; polin shall tell thee more. hast thou not heard the insufferable affronts he daily offers,-- war without treasure on the huguenots; while i am forced against my bent of soul, against all laws, all custom, right, succession, to cast navarre from the imperial line? _gril._ why do you, sir? death, let me tell the traitor-- _king._ peace, guise is going to his government; you are his foe of old; go to him, grillon; visit him as from me, to be employed in this great war against the huguenots; and, pr'ythee, tell him roundly of his faults, no farther, honest grillon. _gril._ shall i fight him? _king._ i charge thee, not. _gril._ if he provokes me, strike him; you'll grant me that? _king._ not so, my honest soldier; yet speak to him. _gril._ i will, by heaven, to the purpose; and, if he force a beating, who can help it? [_exit._ _king._ follow, alphonso; when the storm is up, call me to part them. _qu. m._ grillon, to ask him pardon, will let guise know we are not in the dark. _king._ you hit the judgment; yet, o yet, there's more; something upon my heart, after these counsels, so soft, and so unworthy to be named!-- _qu. m._ they say, that grillon's niece is come to court, and means to kiss your hand. [_exit._ _king._ could i but hope it! o my dear father, pardon me in this, and then enjoin me all that man can suffer; but sure the powers above will take our tears for such a fault--love is so like themselves. [_exeunt._ scene ii.--_the louvre._ _enter_ guise, _attended with his family;_ marmoutiere _meeting him new drest, attended, &c._ _gui._ furies! she keeps her word, and i am lost; yet let not my ambition shew it to her; for, after all, she does it but to try me, and foil my vowed design.--madam, i see you're come to court; the robes you wear become you; your air, your mien, your charms, your every grace, will kill at least your thousand in a day. _mar._ what, a whole day, and kill but one poor thousand! an hour you mean, and in that hour ten thousand. yes, i would make with every glance a murder.-- mend me this curl. _gui._ woman! [_aside._ _mar._ you see, my lord, i have my followers, like you. i swear, the court's a heavenly place; but--o, my heart! i know not why that sigh should come uncalled; perhaps, 'twas for your going; yet i swear, i never was so moved, o guise, as now, just as you entered, when from yonder window i saw the king. _gui._ woman, all over woman! [_aside._ the world confesses, madam, henry's form is noble and majestic. _mar._ o you grudge the extorted praise, and speak him but by halves. _gui._ priest, corso, devils! how she carries it! _mar._ i see, my lord, you're come to take your leave; and were it not to give the court suspicion, i would oblige you, sir, before you go, to lead me to the king. _gui._ death and the devil! _mar._ but since that cannot be, i'll take my leave of you, my lord; heaven grant your journey safe! farewell, once more. [_offers her hand._] not stir! does this become you,-- does your ambition swell into your eyes?-- jealousy by this light; nay then, proud guise, i tell you, you're not worthy of the grace; but i will carry't, sir, to those that are, and leave you to the curse of bosom-war. [_exit._ _may._ is this the heavenly-- _gui._ devil, devil, as they are all. 'tis true, at first she caught the heavenly form, but now ambition sets her on her head, by hell, i see the cloven mark upon her. ha! grillon here! some new court-trick upon me. _enter_ grillon. _gril._ sir, i have business for your ear. _gui._ retire. [_exeunt his followers._ _gril._ the king, my lord, commanded me to wait you, and bid you welcome to the court. _gui._ the king still loads me with new honours; but none greater than this, the last. _gril._ there is one greater yet, your high commission 'gainst the huguenots; i and my family shall shortly wait you, and 'twill be glorious work. _gui._ if you are there, there must be action. _gril._ o, your pardon, sir; i'm but a stripling in the trade of war: but you, whose life is one continued broil, what will not your triumphant arms accomplish! you, that were formed for mastery in war. that, with a start, cried to your brother mayenne,-- "to horse!" and slaughtered forty thousand germans[ ]. _gui._ let me beseech you, colonel, no more. _gril._ but, sir, since i must make at least a figure in this great business, let me understand what 'tis you mean, and why you force the king upon so dangerous an expedition. _gui._ sir, i intend the greatness of the king; the greatness of all france, whom it imports to make their arms their business, aim, and glory; and where so proper as upon those rebels, that covered all the state with blood and death? _gril._ stored arsenals and armouries, fields of horse, ordnance, munition, and the nerve of war, sound infantry, not harassed and diseased, to meet the fierce navarre, should first be thought on. _gui._ i find, my lord, the argument grows warm, therefore, thus much, and i have done: i go to join the holy league in this great war, in which no place of office, or command, not of the greatest, shall be bought or sold; whereas too often honours are conferred on soldiers, and no soldiers: this man knighted, because he charged a troop before his dinner, and sculked behind a hedge i'the afternoon: i will have strict examination made betwixt the meritorious and the base. _gril._ you have mouthed it bravely, and there is no doubt your deeds would answer well your haughty words; yet let me tell you, sir, there is a man, (curse on the hearts that hate him!) that would better, better than you, or all your puffy race, that better would become the great battalion; that when he shines in arms, and suns the field, moves, speaks, and fights, and is himself a war. _gui._ your idol, sir; you mean the great navarre: but yet-- _gril._ no _yet_, my lord of guise, no _yet_; by arms, i bar you that; i swear, no _yet_; for never was his like, nor shall again. though voted from his right by your cursed league. _gui._ judge not too rashly of the holy league, but look at home. _gril._ ha! darest thou justify those villains? _gui._ i'll not justify a villain, more than yourself; but if you thus proceed, if every heated breath can puff away, on each surmise, the lives of free-born people, what need that awful general convocation, the assembly of the states?--nay, let me urge,-- if thus they vilify the holy league, what may their heads expect? _gril._ what, if i could, they should be certain of,--whole piles of fire. _gui._ colonel, 'tis very well i know your mind, which, without fear, or flattery to your person, i'll tell the king; and then, with his permission, proclaim it for a warning to our people. _gril._ come, you're a murderer yourself within, a traitor. _gui._ thou a ---- hot old hair-brained fool. _gril._ you were complotter with the cursed league, the black abettor of our harry's death. _gui._ 'tis false. _gril._ 'tis true, as thou art double-hearted: thou double traitor, to conspire so basely; and when found out, more basely to deny't. _gui._ o gracious harry, let me sound thy name, lest this old rust of war, this knotty trifler, should raise me to extremes. _gril._ if thou'rt a man, that didst refuse the challenge of navarre, come forth[ ]. _gui._ go on; since thou'rt resolved on death, i'll follow thee, and rid thy shaking soul. _enter king, queen-mother,_ alphonso, _abbot, &c._ but see, the king: i scorn to ruin thee, therefore go tell him, tell him thy own story. _king._ ha, colonel, is this your friendly visit? tell me the truth, how happened this disorder? those ruffled hands, red looks, and port of fury? _gril._ i told him, sir, since you will have it so, he was the author of the rebel-league; therefore, a traitor and a murderer. _king._ is't possible? _gui._ no matter, sir, no matter; a few hot words, no more, upon my life; the old man roused, and shook himself a little: so, if your majesty will do me honour, i do beseech you, let the business die. _king._ grillon, submit yourself, and ask his pardon. _gril._ pardon me, i cannot do't. _king._ where are the guards! _gui._ hold, sir;--come, colonel, i'll ask pardon for you; this soldierly embrace makes up the breach; we will be sorry, sir, for one another. _gril._ my lord, i know not what to answer you; i'm friends,--and i am not,--and so farewell. [_exit._ _king._ you have your orders; yet before you go, take this embrace: i court you for my friend, though grillon would not. _gui._ i thank you on my knees; and still, while life shall last, will take strict care to justify my loyalty to your person. [_exit._ _qu. m._ excellent loyalty, to lock you up! _king._ i see even to the bottom of his soul; and, madam, i must say the guise has beauties, but they are set in night, and foul design: he was my friend when young, and might be still. _ab._ marked you his hollow accents at the parting? _qu. m._ graves in his smiles. _king._ death in his bloodless hands.-- o marmoutiere! now i will haste to meet thee: the face of beauty, on this rising horror, looks like the midnight moon upon a murder; it gilds the dark design that stays for fate, and drives the shades, that thicken, from the state. [_exuent._ act iii. scene i. _enter_ grillon _and_ polin._ _gril._ have then this pious council of sixteen scented your late discovery of the plot? _pol._ not as from me; for still i kennel with them. and bark as loud as the most deep-mouthed traitor, against the king, his government, and laws; whereon immediately there runs a cry of,--seize him on the next procession! seize him. and clap the chilperick in a monastery! thus it was fixt, as i before discovered; but when, against his custom, they perceived the king absented, strait the rebels met, and roared,--they were undone. _gril._ o, 'tis like them; 'tis like their mongrel souls: flesh them with fortune, and they will worry royalty to death; but if some crabbed virtue turn and pinch them, mark me, they'll run, and yelp, and clap their tails, like curs, betwixt their legs, and howl for mercy. _pol._ but malicorn, sagacious on the point, cried,--call the sheriffs, and bid them arm their bands; add yet to this, to raise you above hope, the guise, my master, will be here to-day.-- for on bare guess of what has been revealed, he winged a messenger to give him notice; yet, spite of all this factor of the fiends could urge, they slunk their heads, like hinds in storms. but see, they come. _enter sheriffs, with the populace._ _gril._ away, i'll have amongst them; fly to the king, warn him of guise's coming, that he may strait despatch his strict commands to stop him. [_exit_ polin. _ sher._ nay, this is colonel grillon, the blunderbuss o'the court; away, away, he carries ammunition in his face. _gril._ hark you, my friends, if you are not in haste, because you are the pillars of the city, i would inform you of a general ruin. _ sher._ ruin to the city! marry, heaven forbid! _gril._ amen, i say; for, look you, i'm your friend. 'tis blown about, you've plotted on the king, to seize him, if not kill him; for, who knows, when once your conscience yields, how far 'twill stretch; next, quite to dash your firmest hopes in pieces, the duke of guise is dead. _ sher._ dead, colonel! _ sher._ undone, undone! _gril._ the world cannot redeem you; for what, sirs, if the king, provoked at last, should join the spaniard, and should fire your city; paris, your head,--but a most venomous one,-- which must be blooded? _ sher._ blooded, colonel! _gril._ ay, blooded, thou most infamous magistrate, or you will blood the king, and burn the louvre; but ere that be, fall million miscreant souls, such earth-born minds as yours; for, mark me, slaves, did you not, ages past, consign your lives, liberties, fortunes, to imperial hands, made them the guardians of your sickly years? and now you're grown up to a booby's greatness, what, would you wrest the sceptre from his hand? now, by the majesty of kings i swear, you shall as soon be saved for packing juries. _ sher._ why, sir, mayn't citizens be saved? _gril._ yes, sir, from drowning, to be hanged, burnt, broke o'the wheel. _ sher._ colonel, you speak us plain. _gril._ a plague confound you, why should i not? what is there in such rascals, should make me hide my thought, or hold my tongue? now, in the devil's name, what make you here, daubing the inside of the court, like snails, sliming our walls, and pricking out your horns? to hear, i warrant, what the king's a doing, and what the cabinet-council; then to the city, to spread your monstrous lies, and sow sedition? wild fire choke you! _ sher._ well, we'll think of this; and so we take our leaves. _gril._ nay, stay, my masters; for i'm a thinking now just whereabouts grow the two tallest trees in arden forest. _ sher._ for what, pray, colonel, if we may be so bold? _gril._ why, to hang you upon the highest branches. 'fore god, it will be so; and i shall laugh to see you dangling to and fro i'the air, with the honest crows pecking your traitors' limbs. _all._ good colonel! _gril._ good rats, my precious vermin. you moving dirt, you rank stark muck o'the world, you oven-bats, you things so far from souls, like dogs, you're out of providence's reach, and only fit for hanging; but be gone, and think of plunder.--you right elder sheriff, who carved our henry's image on a table, at your club-feast, and after stabbed it through,--[ ] _ sher._ mercy, good colonel. _gril._ run with your nose to earth; run, blood-hound, run, and scent out royal murder.-- you second rogue, but equal to the first, plunder, go hang,--nay, take your tackling with you, for these shall hold you fast,--your slaves shall hang you. to the mid region in the sun: plunder! begone, vipers, asps, and adders! [_exeunt sheriffs and people._ _enter_ malicorn. ha! but here comes a fiend, that soars above; a prince o'the air, that sets the mud a moving. _mal._ colonel, a word. _gril._ i hold no speech with villains. _mal._ but, sir, it may concern your fame and safety. _gril._ no matter; i had rather die traduced, than live by such a villain's help as thine. _mal._ hate then the traitor, but yet love the treason. _gril._ why, are you not a villain? _mal._ 'tis confessed. _gril._ then, in the name of all thy brother-devils, what wouldst thou have with me? _mal._ i know you're honest; therefore it is my business to disturb you. _gril._ 'fore god, i'll beat thee, if thou urge me farther. _mal._ why, though you should, yet, if you hear me after, the pleasure i shall take in your vexation, will heal my bruises. _gril._ wert thou definite rogue, i'faith, i think, that i should give thee hearing; but such a boundless villainy as thine admits no patience. _mal._ your niece is come to court, and yields her honour to our henry's bed. _gril._ thou liest, damned villain. [_strikes him._ _mal._ so: why this i looked for; but yet i swear by hell, and my revenge, 'tis true, as you have wronged me. _gril._ wronged thee, villain! and name revenge! o wert thou grillon's match, and worthy of my sword, i swear, by this one had been past an oath; but thou'rt a worm, and if i tread thee, darest not turn again. _mal._ 'tis false; i dare, like you, but cannot act; there is no force in this enervate arm. blasted i was ere born--curse on my stars!-- got by some dotard in his pithless years, and sent a withered sapling to the world. yet i have brain, and there is my revenge; therefore i say again, these eyes have seen thy blood at court, bright as a summer's morn, when all the heaven is streaked with dappled fires. and flecked with blushes like a rifled maid; nay, by the gleamy fires that melted from her, fast sighs and smiles, swol'n lips, and heaving breasts, my soul presages henry has enjoyed her. _gril._ again thou liest! and i will crumble thee, thou bottled spider, into thy primitive earth, unless thou swear thy very thought's a lie. _mal._ i stand in adamant, and thus defy thee! nay, draw, and with the edge betwixt my lips, even while thou rak'st it through my teeth, i'll swear all i have said is true, as thou art honest, or i a villain. _gril._ damned infamous wretch! so much below my scorn, i dare not kill thee; and yet so much my hate, that i must fear thee. for should it be as thou hast said, not all the trophies of my laurelled honesty should bar me from forsaking this bad world, and never draw my sword for henry more. _mal._ ha! 'tis well, and now i am revenged. i was in hopes thou wouldst have uttered treason, and forfeited thy head, to pay me fully. _gril._ hast thou compacted for a lease of years with hell, that thus thou ventured to provoke me? _mal._ perhaps i have: (how right the blockhead hits!) yet more to rack thy heart, and break thy brain, thy niece has been before the guise's mistress. _gril._ hell-hound, avaunt! _mal._ forgive my honest meaning. [_exit._ _gril._ 'tis hatched beneath, a plot upon mine honour; and thus he lays his baits to catch my soul:-- ha! but the presence opens; who comes here? by heaven, my niece! led by alphonso corso! ha, malicorn! is't possible? truth from thee! 'tis plain! and i, in justifying woman, have done the devil wrong. _enter_ alphonso corso, _leading in_ marmoutiere. _alph._ madam, the king (please you to sit) will instantly attend you. [_exit._ _gril._ death, hell, and furies! ha! she comes to seek him!-- o prostitute!--and, on her prodigal flesh, she has lavished all the diamonds of the guise, to set her off, and sell her to the king. _mar._ o heavens! did ever virgin yet attempt an enterprise like mine? i, that resolved never to leave those dear delightful shades, but act the little part that nature gave me, on the green carpets of some guiltless grove, and having finished it, forsake the world; unless sometimes my heart might entertain some small remembrance of the taking guise: but that far, far from any darkening thought, to cloud my honour, or eclipse my virtue. _gril._ thou liest! and if thou hadst not glanced aside, and spied me coming, i had had it all. _mar._ by heaven! by all that's good-- _gril._ thou hast lost thy honour. give me this hand, this hand by which i caught thee from the bold ruffian in the massacre, that would have stained thy almost infant honour, with lust, and blood;--dost thou remember it? _mar._ i do, and bless the godlike arm, that saved me. _gril._ 'tis false! thou hast forgot my generous action; and now thou laugh'st, to think how thou hast cheated, for all his kindness, this old grisled fool. _mar._ forbid it heaven! _gril._ but oh, that thou hadst died ten thousand deaths, ere blasted grillon's glory; grillon, that saved thee from a barbarous world. where thou hadst starved, or sold thyself for bread; took thee into his bosom, fostered thee as his own soul, and laid thee in his heart-strings; and now, for all my cares, to serve me thus! o 'tis too much, ye powers! double confusion on all my wars; and oh,--out, shame upon thee! it wrings the tears from grillon's iron heart, and melts me to a babe. _mar._ sir! father! hear me! i come to court, to save the life of guise. _gril._ and prostitute thy honour to the king. _mar._ i have looked, perhaps, too nicely for my sex, into the dark affairs of fatal state; and, to advance this dangerous inquisition, i listened to the love of daring guise. _gril._ by arms, by honesty, i swear thou lovest him! _mar._ by heaven, that gave those arms success, i swear i do not, as you think! but take it all. i have heard the guise, not with an angel's temper, something beyond the tenderness of pity, and yet, not love. now, by the powers that framed me, this is all! nor should the world have wrought this close confession, but to rebate your jealousy of honour. _gril._ i know not what to say, nor what to think; there's heaven still in thy voice, but that's a sign virtue's departing; for thy better angel still makes the woman's tongue his rising ground, wags there a while, and takes his flight for ever. _mar._ you must not go. _gril._ though i have reason, plain as day, to judge thee false, i think thee true: by heaven, methinks i see a glory round thee! there's something says, thou wilt not lose thy honour:-- death and the devil! that's my own honesty; my foolish open nature, that would have all like myself;--but off; i'll hence and curse thee! _mar._ o, stay! _gril._ i will not. _mar._ hark! the king's coming. let me conjure you, for your own soul's quiet, and for the everlasting rest of mine, stir not, till you have heard my heart's design. _gril._ angel, or devil, i will.--nay, at this rate, she'll make me shortly bring him to her bed.-- bawd for him? no, he shall make me run my head into a cannon, when 'tis firing, first; that's honourable sport. but i'll retire, and if she plays me false, here's that shall mend her. [_touching his dagger, exit._ marmoutiere _sits. song and dance._ _enter the king._ _king._ after the breathing of a love-sick heart upon your hand, once more,--nay twice,--forgive me. _mar._ i discompose you, sir. _king._ thou dost, by heaven; but with such charming pleasure, i love, and tremble, as at angels' view. _mar._ love me, my lord? _king._ who should be loved, but you? so loved, that even my crown, and self are vile, while you are by. try me upon despair; my kingdom at the stake, ambition starved, revenge forgot, and all great appetites that whet uncommon spirits to aspire, so once a day i may have leave-- nay, madam, then you fear me. _mar._ fear you, sir! what is there dreadful in you? you've all the graces that can crown mankind; yet wear them so, as if you did not know them; so stainless, fearless, free in all your actions, as if heaven lent you to the world to pattern. _king._ madam, i find you are no petitioner; my people would not treat me in this sort, though 'twere to gain a part of their design; but to the guise they deal their faithless praise as fast, as you your flattery to me; though for what end i cannot guess, except you come, like them, to mock at my misfortunes. _mar._ forgive you, heaven, that thought! no, mighty monarch, the love of all the good, and wonder of the great; i swear, by heaven, my heart adores, and loves you. _king._ o madam, rise. _mar._ nay, were you, sir, unthroned by this seditious rout that dare despise you, blast all my days, ye powers! torment my nights; nay, let the misery invade my sex, that could not for the royal cause, like me, throw all their luxury before your feet, and follow you, like pilgrims, through the world. _gril._ sound wind and limb! 'fore god, a gallant girl! [_aside._ _king._ what shall i answer to thee, o thou balm to heal a broken, yet a kingly heart! for, so i swear i will be to my last. come to my arms, and be thy harry's angel, shine through my cares, and make my crown sit easy. _mar._ o never, sir. _king._ what said you, marmoutiere? why dost thou turn thy beauties into frowns? _mar._ you know, sir, 'tis impossible; no more. _king._ no more?--and with that stern resolved behaviour? by heaven! were i a dying, and the priest should urge my last confession, i'd cry out, oh marmoutiere! and yet thou say'st,--no more! _mar._ 'tis well, sir; i have lost my aim, farewell. _king._ come back! o stay, my life flows after you. _mar._ no, sir, i find i am a trouble to you; you will not hear my suit. _king._ you cannot go, you shall not.--o your suit, i kneel to grant it; i beg you take whatever you demand. _mar._ then, sir, thus low, or prostrate if you please, let me intreat for guise. _king._ ha, madam, what! for guise; for guise! that stubborn arrogant rebel, that laughs at proffered mercy, slights his pardon, mocks royal grace, and plots upon my life? ha! and do you protect him? then the world is sworn to henry's death: does beauty too, and innocence itself conspire against me? then let me tamely yield my glories up, which once i vowed with my drawn sword to wear to my last drop of blood.--come guise, come cardinal, all you loved traitors, come--i strip to meet you; sheathe all your daggers in curst henry's heart. _mar._ this i expected; but when you have heard how far i would intreat your majesty, perhaps you'll be more calm. _king._ see, i am hushed; speak then; how far, madam, would you command? _mar._ not to proceed to last extremities, before the wound is desperate. think alone, for no man judges like your majesty: take your own methods; all the heads of france cannot so well advise you, as yourself. therefore resume, my lord, your god-like temper, yet do not bear more than a monarch should; believe it, sir, the more your majesty draws back your arm, the more of fate it carries. _king._ thou genius of my state, thou perfect model of heaven itself, and abstract of the angels, forgive the late disturbance of my soul! i'm clear by nature, as a rockless stream; but they dig through the gravel of my heart, and raise the mud of passions up to cloud me; therefore let me conjure you, do not go; 'tis said, the guise will come in spite of me; suppose it possible, and stay to advise me. _mar._ i will; but, on your royal word, no more. _king._ i will be easy, to my last gasp, as your own virgin thoughts, and never dare to breathe my passion more; yet you'll allow me now and then to sigh as we discourse, and court you with my eyes? _enter_ alphonso. why do you wave your hand, and warn me hence? so looks the poor condemned, when justice beckons, there's no hope of pardon. sternly, like you, the judge the victim eyes, and thus, like me, the wretch, despairing, dies. [_exit with_ alphonso. _enter_ grillon. _gril._ o rare, rare creature! by the power that made me, wer't possible we could be damned again by some new eve, such virtue might redeem us. oh i could clasp thee, but that my arms are rough, till all thy sweets were broke with my embraces, and kiss thy beauties to a dissolution! _mar._ ah father, uncle, brother, all the kin, the precious blood that's left me in the world, believe, dear sir, whate'er my actions seem, i will not lose my virtue, for a throne. _gril._ why, i will carve thee out a throne myself; i'll hew down all the kings in christendom, and seat thee on their necks, as high as heaven. _enter abbot_ delbene. _abb._ colonel, your ear. _mar._ by these whispering councils, my soul presages that the guise is coming. if he dares come, were i a man, a king, i'd sacrifice him in the city's sight.-- o heavens! what was't i said? were i a man, i know not that; but, as i am a virgin, if i would offer thee, too lovely guise, it should be kneeling to the throne of mercy.-- ha! then thou lovest, that thou art thus concerned. down, rising mischief, down, or i will kill thee, even in thy cause, and strangle new-born pity!-- yet if he were not married!--ha, what then? his charms prevail;--no, let the rebel die. i faint beneath this strong oppression here; reason and love rend my divided soul; heaven be the judge, and still let virtue conquer. love to his tune my jarring heart would bring, but reason over-winds, and cracks the string. [_exit._ _abb._ the king dispatches order upon order, with positive command to stop his coming. yet there is notice given to the city; besides, belleure brought but a half account, how that the guise replied, he would obey his majesty in all; yet, if he might have leave to justify himself before him, he doubted not his cause. _gril._ the axe, the axe: rebellion's pampered to a pleurisy, and it must bleed. [_shout within._ _abb._ hark, what a shout was there! i'll to the king; it may be, 'tis reported on purpose thus. let there be truth or lies in this mad fame, i'll bring you instant word. [_exit abbot._ _manet_ grillon: _enter_ guise, cardinal, mayenne, malicorn, _attendants, &c. shouts again._ _gril._ death, and thou devil malicorn, is that thy master? _gui._ yes, grillon, 'tis the guise; one, that would court you for a friend. _gril._ a friend! traitor thou mean'st, and so i bid thee welcome; but since thou art so insolent, thy blood be on thy head, and fall by me unpitied. [_exit._ _gui._ the bruises of his loyalty have crazed him. [_shouts louder._ _spirit within sings._ _malicorn, malicorn, malicorn, ho! if the guise resolves to go, i charge, i warn thee let him know, perhaps his head may lie too low._ _gui._ why, malicorn. _mal._ [_starting._] sir, do not see the king. _gui._ i will. _mal._ 'tis dangerous. _gui._ therefore i will see him, and so report my danger to the people. halt--to your judgment.--[malicorn _makes signs of assassination._] let him, if he dare.-- but more, more, more;--why, malicorn!--again? i thought a look, with us, had been a language; i'll talk my mind on any point but this by glances;--ha! not yet? thou mak'st me blush at thy delay; why, man, 'tis more than life, ambition, or a crown[ ]. _mal._ what, marmoutiere? _gui._ ay, there a general's heart beat like a drum! quick, quick! my reins, my back, and head and breast ache, as i'd been a horse-back forty hours. _mal._ she has seen the king. _gui._ i thought she might. a trick upon me; well. _mal._ passion o' both sides. _gui._ his, thou meanest. _mal._ on hers. down on her knees. _gui._ and up again; no matter. _mal._ now all in tears, now smiling, sad at parting. _gui._ dissembled, for she told me this before; 'twas all put on, that i might hear and rave. _mal._ and so, to make sure work on't, by consent of grillon, who is made their bawd,-- _gui._ away! _mal._ she's lodged at court. _gui._ 'tis false, they do belie her. _mal._ but, sir, i saw the apartment. _gui._ what, at court? _mal._ at court, and near the king; 'tis true, by heaven: i never play'd you foul, why should you doubt me? _gui._ i would thou hadst, ere thus unmanned my heart! blood, battles, fire, and death! i run, i run! with this last blow he drives me like a coward; nay, let me never win a field again, if, with the thought of these irregular vapours, the blood ha'nt burst my lips. _card._ peace, brother. _gui._ by heaven, i took thee for my soul's physician, and dost thou vomit me with this loathed peace? 'tis contradiction: no, my peaceful brother, i'll meet him now, though fire-armed cherubins should cross my way. o jealousy of love! greater than fame! thou eldest of the passions, or rather all in one, i here invoke thee, where'er thou'rt throned in air, in earth, or hell, wing me to my revenge, to blood, and ruin! _card._ have you no temper? _gui._ pray, sir, give me leave. a moment's thought;--ha, but i sweat and tremble, my brain runs this and that way; it will not fix on aught but vengeance.--malicorn, call the people. [_shouts within._ but hark, they shout again: i'll on and meet them; nay, head them to his palace, as my guards. yet more, on such exalted causes borne, i'll wait him in his cabinet alone, and look him pale; while in his courts without, the people shout him dead with their alarms, and make his mistress tremble in his arms. [_exeunt._ scene ii. _enter king and council._ [_shouts without._ _king._ what mean these shouts? _abb._ i told your majesty, the sheriffs have puffed the populace with hopes of their deliverer. [_shouts again._ _king._ hark! there rung a peal like thunder: see, alphonso, what's the cause. _enter_ grillon. _gril._ my lord, the guise is come. _king._ is't possible! ha, grillon, said'st thou, come? _gril._ why droops the royal majesty? o sir! _king._ o villain, slave, wert thou my late-born heir, given me by heaven, even when i lay a-dying-- but peace, thou festering thought, and hide thy wound;-- where is he? _gril._ with her majesty, your mother; she has taken chair, and he walks bowing by her, with thirty thousand rebels at his heels. _king._ what's to be done? no pall upon my spirit; but he that loves me best, and dares the most on this nice point of empire, let him speak. _alph._ i would advise you, sir, to call him in, and kill him instantly upon the spot. _abb._ i like alphonso's counsel, short, sure work; cut off the head, and let the body walk. _enter_ queen-mother. _qu. m._ sir, the guise waits. _king._ he enters on his fate. _qu. m._ not so,--forbear; the city is up in arms; nor doubt, if, in their heat, you cut him off, that they will spare the royal majesty. once, sir, let me advise, and rule your fury. _king._ you shall: i'll see him, and i'll spare him now. _qu. m._ what will you say? _king._ i know not;-- colonel grillon, call the archers in, double your guards, and strictly charge the swiss stand to their arms, receive him as a traitor. [_exit_ grillon. my heart has set thee down, o guise, in blood,-- blood, mother, blood, ne'er to be blotted out. _qu. m._ yet you'll relent, when this hot fit is over. _king._ if i forgive him, may i ne'er be forgiven! no, if i tamely bear such insolence, what act of treason will the villains stop at? seize me, they've sworn; imprison me is the next, perhaps arraign me, and then doom me dead. but ere i suffer that, fall all together, or rather, on their slaughtered heaps erect my throne, and then proclaim it for example. i'm born a monarch, which implies alone to wield the sceptre, and depend on none. [_exeunt[ ]._ act iv. scene i._--the louvre._ _a chair of state placed; the king appears sitting in it; a table by him, on which he leans; attendants on each side of him; amongst the rest,_ abbot, grillon, _and_ bellieure. _the_ queen-mother _enters, led by the duke of_ guise, _who makes his approach with three reverences to the king's chair; after the third, the king rises, and coming forward, speaks._ _king._ i sent you word, you should not come. _gui._ sir, that i came-- _king._ why, that you came, i see. once more, i sent you word, you should not come. _gui._ not come to throw myself, with all submission, beneath your royal feet! to put my cause and person in the hands of sovereign justice! _king._ now 'tis with all submission,--that's the preface,-- yet still you came against my strict command; you disobeyed me, duke, with all submission. _gui._ sir, 'twas the last necessity that drove me, to clear myself of calumnies, and slanders, much urged, but never proved, against my innocence; yet had i known 'twas your express command, i should not have approached. _king._ 'twas as express, as words could signify;-- stand forth, bellieure,--it shall be proved you knew it,-- stand forth, and to this false man's face declare your message, word for word. _bel._ sir, thus it was. i met him on the way, and plain as i could speak, i gave your orders, just in these following words:-- _king._ enough, i know you told him; but he has used me long to be contemned, and i can still be patient, and forgive. _gui._ and i can ask forgiveness, when i err; but let my gracious master please to know the true intent of my misconstrued faith. should i not come to vindicate my fame from wrong constructions? and-- _king._ come, duke, you were not wronged; your conscience knows you were not wronged; were you not plainly told, that, if you dared to set your foot in paris, you should be held the cause of all commotions that should from thence ensue? and yet you came. _gui._ sir, will you please with patience but to hear me? _king._ i will; and would be glad, my lord of guise, to clear you to myself. _gui._ i had been told, there were in agitation here at court, things of the highest note against religion, against the common properties of subjects, and lives of honest well-affected men; i therefore judged,-- _king._ then you, it seems, are judge betwixt the prince and people? judge for them, and champion against me? _gui._ i feared it might be represented so, and came resolved,-- _king._ to head the factious crowd. _gui._ to clear my innocence. _king._ the means for that, had been your absence from this hot-brained town, where you, not i, are king!-- i feel my blood kindling within my veins; the genius of the throne knocks at my heart: come what may come, he dies. _qu. m._ [_stopping the king._] what mean you, sir? you tremble and look pale; for heaven's sake think, 'tis your own life you venture, if you kill him. _king._ had i ten thousand lives, i'll venture all. give me way, madam! _qu. m._ not to your destruction. the whole parisian herd is at your gates; a crowd's a name too small, they are a nation, numberless, armed, enraged, one soul informs them. _king._ and that one soul's the guise. i'll rend it out, and damn the rabble all at once in him. _gui._ my fate is now in the balance; fool within, i thank thee for thy foresight. [_aside._ _qu. m._ your guards oppose them! _king._ why not? a multitude's a bulky coward. _qu. m._ by heaven, there are not limbs in all your guards, for every one a morsel. _king._ cæsar quelled them, but with a look and word. _qu. m._ so galba thought. _king._ but galba was not cæsar. _gui._ i must not give them time for resolution.-- [_aside._ my journey, sir, has discomposed my health, [_to the king._ i humbly beg your leave, i may retire, till your commands recall me to your service. [_exit[ ]._ _king._ so, you have counselled well; the traitor's gone, to mock the meekness of an injured king. [_to qu. m._ why did not you, who gave me part of life, infuse my father stronger in my veins? but when you kept me cooped within your womb, you palled his generous blood with the dull mixture of your italian food, and milked slow arts of womanish tameness in my infant mouth. why stood i stupid else, and missed a blow, which heaven and daring folly made so fair? _qu. m._ i still maintain, 'twas wisely done to spare him. _gril._ a pox on this unseasonable wisdom! he was a fool to come; if so, then they, who let him go, were somewhat. _king._ the event, the event will shew us what we were; for, like a blazing meteor hence he shot, and drew a sweeping fiery train along.-- o paris, paris, once my seat of triumph, but now the scene of all thy king's misfortunes; ungrateful, perjured, and disloyal town, which by my royal presence i have warmed so long, that now the serpent hisses out, and shakes his forked tongue at majesty, while i-- _qu. m._ while you lose time in idle talk, and use no means for safety and prevention. _king._ what can i do? o mother, abbot, grillon! all dumb! nay, then 'tis plain, my cause is desperate. such an overwhelming ill makes grief a fool, as if redress were past. _gril._ i'll go to the next sheriff, and beg the first reversion of a rope: dispatch is all my business; i'll hang for you. _abb._ 'tis not so bad, as vainly you surmise; some space there is, some little space, some steps betwixt our fate and us: our foes are powerful, but yet not armed, nor marshalled into order; believe it, sir, the guise will not attempt, till he have rolled his snow-ball to a heap. _king._ so then, my lord, we're a day off from death: what shall to-morrow do? _abb._ to-morrow, sir, if hours between slide not too idly by, you may be master of their destiny, who now dispose so loftily of yours. not far without the suburbs there are quartered three thousand swiss, and two french regiments. _king._ would they were here, and i were at their head! _qu. m._ send mareschal byron to lead them up. _king._ it shall be so: by heaven there's life in this! the wrack of clouds is driving on the winds, and shews a break of sunshine-- go grillon, give my orders to byron, and see your soldiers well disposed within, for safeguard of the louvre. _qu. m._ one thing more: the guise (his business yet not fully ripe,) will treat, at least, for shew of loyalty; let him be met with the same arts he brings. _king._ i know, he'll make exorbitant demands, but here your part of me will come in play; the italian soul shall teach me how to sooth: even jove must flatter with an empty hand, 'tis time to thunder, when he gripes the brand. [_exeunt._ scene _ii.--a night scene._ _enter_ malicorn _solus._ _mal._ thus far the cause of god; but god's or devil's,-- i mean my master's cause, and mine,--succeed, what shall the guise do next? [_a flash of lightning._ _enter the spirit_ melanax. _mel._ first seize the king, and after murder him. _mal._ officious fiend, thou comest uncalled to-night. _mel._ always uncalled, and still at hand for mischief. _mal._ but why in this fanatic habit, devil? thou look'st like one that preaches to the crowd; gospel is in thy face, and outward garb, and treason on thy tongue. _mel._ thou hast me right: ten thousand devils more are in this habit; saintship and zeal are still our best disguise: we mix unknown with the hot thoughtless crowd, and quoting scriptures, (which too well we know,) with impious glosses ban the holy text, and make it speak rebellion, schism, and murder; so turn the arms of heaven against itself. _mal._ what makes the curate of st. eustace here? _mel._ thou art mistaken, master; 'tis not he, but 'tis a zealous, godly, canting devil, who has assumed the churchman's lucky shape, to talk the crowd to madness and rebellion. _mal._ o true enthusiastic devil, true,-- (for lying is thy nature, even to me,) did'st thou not tell me, if my lord, the guise, entered the court, his head should then lie low? that was a lie; he went, and is returned. _mel._ 'tis false; i said, _perhaps_ it should lie low; and, but i chilled the blood in henry's veins, and crammed a thousand ghastly, frightful thoughts, nay, thrust them foremost in his labouring brain, even so it would have been. _mal._ thou hast deserved me, and i am thine, dear devil: what do we next? _mel._ i said, first seize the king. _mal._ suppose it done: he's clapt within a convent, shorn a saint, my master mounts the throne. _mel._ not so fast, malicorn; thy master mounts not, till the king be slain. _mal._ not when deposed? _mel._ he cannot be deposed: he may be killed, a violent fate attends him; but at his birth there shone a regal star. _mal._ my master had a stronger. _mel._ no, not a stronger, but more popular. their births were full opposed, the guise now strongest but if the ill influence pass o'er harry's head, as in a year it will, france ne'er shall boast a greater king than he; now cut him off, while yet his stars are weak. _mal._ thou talk'st of stars: can'st thou not see more deep into events, and by a surer way? _mel._ no, malicorn; the ways of heaven are broken since our fall, gulph beyond gulph, and never to be shot. once we could read our mighty maker's mind, as in a crystal mirror, see the ideas of things that always are, as he is always; now, shut below in this dark sphere, by second causes dimly we may guess, and peep far off on heaven's revolving orbs, which cast obscure reflections from the throne. _mal._ then tell me thy surmises of the future. _mel._ i took the revolution of the year, just when the sun was entering in the ham: the ascending scorpion poisoned all the sky, a sign of deep deceit and treachery. full on his cusp his angry master sate, conjoined with saturn, baleful both to man: of secret slaughters, empires overturned, strife, blood, and massacres, expect to hear, and all the events of an ill-omened year. _mal._ then flourish hell, and mighty mischief reign! mischief, to some, to others must be good. but hark! for now, though 'tis the dead of night, when silence broods upon our darkened world, methinks i hear a murmuring hollow sound, like the deaf chimes of bells in steeples touched. _mel._ it is truly guessed; but know, 'tis from no nightly sexton's hand. there's not a damned ghost, nor hell-born fiend, that can from limbo 'scape, but hither flies; with leathern wings they beat the dusky skies, to sacred churches all in swarms repair; some crowd the spires, but most the hallowed bells, } and softly toll for souls departing knells: } each chime, thou hear'st, a future death foretells, } now there they perch to have them in their eyes, 'till all go loaded to the nether skies[ ]. _mal._ to-morrow then. _mel._ to-morrow let it be; or thou deceiv'st those hungry, gaping fiends, and beelzebub will rage. _mal._ why beelzebub? hast thou not often said, that lucifer's your king? _mel._ i told thee true; but lucifer, as he who foremost fell, so now lies lowest in the abyss of hell, chained till the dreadful doom; in place of whom sits beelzebub, vicegerent of the damned, who, listening downward, hears his roaring lord, and executes his purpose.--but no more[ ]. the morning creeps behind yon eastern hill, and now the guard is mine, to drive the elves, and foolish fairies, from their moonlight play, and lash the laggers from the sight of day. [_descends._ [_exit_ mal. scene iii. _enter_ guise, mayenne, cardinal, _and_ archbishop. _may._ sullen, methinks, and slow the morning breaks, as if the sun were listless to appear, and dark designs hung heavy on the day. _gui._ you're an old man too soon, you're superstitious; i'll trust my stars, i know them now by proof; the genius of the king bends under mine: environed with his guards, he durst not touch me; but awed and cravened, as he had been spelled, would have pronounced, go kill the guise, and durst not. _card._ we have him in our power, coop'd in his court. who leads the first attack? now by yon heaven, that blushes at my scarlet robes, i'll doff this womanish attire of godly peace, and cry,--lie there, lord cardinal of guise. _gui._ as much too hot, as mayenne is too cool. but 'tis the manlier fault of the two. _arch._ have you not heard the king, preventing day, received the guards into the city gates, the jolly swisses marching to their fifes? the crowd stood gaping, heartless and amazed, shrunk to their shops, and left the passage free. _gui._ i would it should be so, 'twas a good horror[ ]. first let them fear for rapes, and ransacked houses; that very fright, when i appear to head them, will harden their soft city courages: cold burghers must be struck, and struck like flints, ere their hid fire will sparkle. _arch._ i'm glad the king has introduced these guards. _card._ your reason. _arch._ they are too few for us to fear; our numbers in old martial men are more, the city not cast in; but the pretence, that hither they are brought to bridle paris, will make this rising pass for just defence. _may._ suppose the city should not rise? _gui._ suppose, as well, the sun should never rise: he may not rise, for heaven may play a trick; but he has risen from adam's time to ours. is nothing to be left to noble hazard? no venture made, but all dull certainty? by heaven i'll tug with henry for a crown, rather than have it on tame terms of yielding: i scorn to poach for power. _enter a servant, who whispers_ guise. a lady, say'st thou, young and beautiful, brought in a chair? conduct her in.-- [_exit servant._ _card._ you would be left alone? _gui._ i would; retire. [_exeunt_ may. card. _&c._ _re-enter servant with_ marmoutiere, _and exit._ _starting back._] is't possible? i dare not trust my eyes! you are not marmoutiere? _mar._ what am i then? _gui._ why, any thing but she: what should the mistress of a king do here? _mar._ find him, who would be master of a king. _gui._ i sent not for you, madam. _mar._ i think, my lord, the king sent not for you. _gui._ do you not fear, your visit will be known? _mar._ fear is for guilty men, rebels, and traitors: where'er i go, my virtue is my guard. _gui._ what devil has sent thee here to plague my soul? o that i could detest thee now as much as ever i have loved, nay, even as much as yet, in spite of all thy crimes, i love! but 'tis a love so mixt with dark despair, the smoke and soot smother the rising flame, and make my soul a furnace. woman, woman, what can i call thee more? if devil, 'twere less. sure, thine's a race was never got by adam, but eve played false, engendering with the serpent, her own part worse than his. _mar._ then they got traitors. _gui._ yes, angel-traitors, fit to shine in palaces, forked into ills, and split into deceits; two in their very frame. 'twas well, 'twas well, i saw thee not at court, thou basilisk; for if i had, those eyes, without his guards, had done the tyrant's work. _mar._ why then it seems i was not false in all: i told you, guise, if you left paris, i would go to court: you see i kept my promise. _gui._ still thy sex: once true in all thy life, and that for mischief. _mar._ have i said i loved you? _gui._ stab on, stab: 'tis plain you love the king. _mar._ nor him, nor you, in that unlawful way you seem to mean. my eyes had once so far betrayed my heart, as to distinguish you from common men; whate'er you said, or did, was charming all. _gui._ but yet, it seems, you found a king more charming. _mar._ i do not say more charming, but more noble, more truly royal, more a king in soul, than you are now in wishes. _gui._ may be so: but love has oiled your tongue to run so glib,-- curse on your eloquence! _mar._ curse not that eloquence that saved your life: for, when your wild ambition, which defied a royal mandate, hurried you to town; when over-weening pride of popular power had thrust you headlong in the louvre toils, then had you died: for know, my haughty lord, had i not been, offended majesty had doomed you to the death you well deserved. _gui._ then was't not henry's fear preserved my life? _mar._ you know him better, or you ought to know him: he's born to give you fear, not to receive it. _gui._ say this again; but add, you gave not up your honour as the ransom of my life; for, if you did, 'twere better i had died. _mar._ and so it were. _gui._ why said you, so it were? for though 'tis true, methinks 'tis much unkind. _mar._ my lord, we are not now to talk of kindness. if you acknowledge i have saved your life, be grateful in return, and do an act, your honour, though unasked by me, requires. _gui._ by heaven, and you, whom next to heaven i love, (if i said more, i fear i should not lie,) i'll do whate'er my honour will permit. _mar._ go, throw yourself at henry's royal feet, and rise not till approved a loyal subject. _gui._ a duteous loyal subject i was ever. _mar._ i'll put it short, my lord; depart from paris. _gui._ i cannot leave my country, friends, religion, all at stake. be wise, and be before-hand with your fortune; prevent the turn, forsake the ruined court; stay here, and make a merit of your love. _mar._ no; i'll return, and perish in those ruins. i find thee now, ambitious, faithless, guise. farewell, the basest and the last of men! _gui._ stay, or--o heaven!--i'll force you: stay-- _mar._ i do believe so ill of you, so villainously ill, that, if you durst, you would: honour you've little, honesty you've less; but conscience you have none: yet there's a thing called fame, and men's esteem, preserves me from your force. once more, farewell. look on me, guise; thou seest me now the last; though treason urge not thunder on thy head, this one departing glance shall flash thee dead. [_exit._ _gui._ ha, said she true? have i so little honour? why, then, a prize so easy and so fair had never 'scaped my gripe: but mine she is; for that's set down as sure as henry's fall. but my ambition, that she calls my crime;-- false, false, by fate! my right was born with me. and heaven confest it in my very frame; the fires, that would have formed ten thousand angels, were crammed together for my single soul. _enter_ malicorn. _mal._ my lord, you trifle precious hours away; the heavens look gaudily upon your greatness, and the crowned moments court you as they fly. brisac and fierce aumale have pent the swiss, and folded them like sheep in holy ground; where now, with ordered pikes, and colours furled, they wait the word that dooms them all to die: come forth, and bless the triumph of the day. _gui._ so slight a victory required not me: i but sat still, and nodded, like a god, my world into creation; now 'tis time to walk abroad, and carelessly survey how the dull matter does the form obey. [_exit with_ malicorn. scene iv. _enter citizens, and_ melanax, _in his fanatic habit, at the head them._ _mel._ hold, hold, a little, fellow citizens; and you, gentlemen of the rabble, a word of godly exhortation to strengthen your hands, ere you give the onset. _ cit._ is this a time to make sermons? i would not hear the devil now, though he should come in god's name, to preach peace to us. _ cit._ look you, gentlemen, sermons are not to be despised; we have all profited by godly sermons that promote sedition: let the precious man hold forth. _omn._ let him hold forth, let him hold forth. _mel._ to promote sedition is my business: it has been so before any of you were born, and will be so, when you are all dead and damned; i have led on the rabble in all ages. _ cit._ that's a lie, and a loud one. _ cit._ he has led the rabble both old and young, that's all ages: a heavenly sweet man, i warrant him; i have seen him somewhere in a pulpit. _mel._ i have sown rebellion every where. _ cit._ how, every where? that's another lie: how far have you travelled, friend? _mel._ over all the world. _ cit._ now, that's a rapper. _ cit._ i say no: for, look you, gentlemen, if he has been a traveller, he certainly says true, for he may lie by authority. _mel._ that the rabble may depose their prince, has in all times, and in all countries, been accounted lawful. _ cit._ that's the first true syllable he has uttered: but as how, and whereby, and when, may they depose him? _mel._ whenever they have more power to depose, than he has to oppose; and this they may do upon the least occasion. _ cit._ sirrah, you mince the matter; you should say, we may do it upon no occasion, for the less the better. _mel._ [_aside._] here's a rogue now, will out-shoot the devil in his own bow. _ cit._ some occasion, in my mind, were not amiss: for, look you, gentlemen, if we have no occasion, then whereby we have no occasion to depose him; and therefore, either religion or liberty, i stick to those occasions; for when they are gone, good night to godliness and freedom. _mel._ when the most are of one side, as that's our case, we are always in the right; for they, that are in power, will ever be the judges: so that if we say white is black, poor white must lose the cause, and put on mourning; for white is but a single syllable, and we are a whole sentence. therefore, go on boldly, and lay on resolutely for your solemn league and covenant; and if here be any squeamish conscience who fears to fight against the king,--though i, that have known you, citizens, these thousand years, suspect not any,--let such understand that his majesty's politic capacity is to be distinguished from his natural; and though you murder him in one, you may preserve him in the other; and so much for this time, because the enemy is at hand. _ cit._ [_looking out._] look you, gentlemen, 'tis grillon, the fierce colonel; he that devours our wives, and ravishes our children. _ cit._ he looks so grum, i don't care to have to do with him; would i were safe in my shop, behind the counter. _ cit._ and would i were under my wife's petticoats. look you, gentlemen. _mel._ you, neighbour, behind your counter, yesterday paid a bill of exchange in glass louis d'ors; and you, friend, that cry, look you, gentlemen, this very morning was under another woman's petticoats, and not your wife's. _ cit._ how the devil does he know this? _mel._ therefore, fight lustily for the cause of heaven, and to make even tallies for your sins; which, that you may do with a better conscience, i absolve you both, and all the rest of you: now, go on merrily; for those, that escape, shall avoid killing; and those, who do not escape, i will provide for in another world. [_cry within, on the other side of the stage,_ vive le roi, vive le roi! _enter_ grillon, _and his party._ _gril._ come on, fellow soldiers, _commilitones_; that's my word, as 'twas julius cæsar's, of pagan memory. 'fore god, i am no speech maker; but there are the rogues, and here's bilbo, that's a word and a blow; we must either cut their throats, or they cut ours, that's pure necessity, for your comfort: now, if any man can be so unkind to his own body,--for i meddle not with your souls,--as to stand still like a good christian, and offer his weasand to a butcher's whittle,--i say no more, but that he may be saved, and that's the best can come on him. [_cry on both sides,_ vive le roi, vive guise! _they fight._ _mel._ hey, for the duke of guise, and property! up with religion and the cause, and down with those arbitrary rogues there! stand to't, you associated cuckolds. [_citizens go back._] o rogues! o cowards!--damn these half-strained shopkeepers, got between gentlemen and city wives; how naturally they quake, and run away from their own fathers! twenty souls a penny were a dear bargain of them. [_they all run off,_ melanax _with them; the st and d citizens taken._ _gril._ possess yourselves of the place, maubert, and hang me up those two rogues, for an example. _ cit._ o spare me, sweet colonel; i am but a young beginner, and new set up. _gril._ i'll be your customer, and set you up a little better, sirrah;--go, hang him at the next sign-post:--what have you to say for yourself, scoundrel? why were you a rebel? _ cit._ look you, colonel, 'twas out of no ill meaning to the government; all that i did, was pure obedience to my wife. _gril._ nay, if thou hast a wife that wears the breeches, thou shalt be condemned to live: get thee home for a hen-pecked traitor.--what, are we encompassed? nay, then, faces this way; we'll sell our skins to the fairest chapmen. _enter_ aumale _and soldiers, on the one side, citizens on the other._ grillon, _and his party, are disarmed._ _ cit._ bear away that bloody-minded colonel, and hang him up at the next sign-post: nay, when i am in power, i can make examples too. _omn._ tear him piece-meal; tear him piece-meal. [_pull and haul him._ _gril._ rogues, villains, rebels, traitors, cuckolds! 'swounds, what do you make of a man? do you think legs and arms are strung upon a wire, like a jointed baby? carry me off quickly, you were best, and hang me decently, according to my first sentence. _ cit._ look you, colonel; you are too bulky to be carried off all at once; a leg or an arm is one man's burden: give me a little finger for a sample of him, whereby i'll carry it for a token to my sovereign lady. _gril._ 'tis too little, in all conscience, for her; take a bigger token, cuckold. _et tu, brute,_ whom i saved? o the conscience of a shopkeeper! _ cit._ look you, colonel, for your saving of me, i thank you heartily, whereby that debt's paid; but for speaking treason against my anointed wife, that's a new reckoning between us. _enter_ guise, _with a general's staff in his hand;_ mayenne, _cardinal, archbishop,_ malicorn, _and attendants._ _omn._ _vive_ guise! _gui._ [_bowing, and bareheaded._] i thank you, countrymen: the hand of heaven in all our safeties has appeared this day. stand on your guard, and double every watch, but stain your triumph with no christian blood; french we are all, and brothers of a land. _card._ what mean you, brother, by this godly talk, of sparing christian blood? why, these are dogs; now, by the sword that cut off malchus' ear, mere dogs, that neither can be saved nor damned. _arch._ where have you learnt to spare inveterate foes? _gui._ you know the book. _arch._ and can expound it too: but christian faith was in the nonage then, and roman heathens lorded o'er the world. what madness were it for the weak and few, to fight against the many and the strong? grillon must die, so must the tyrant's guards, lest, gathering head again, they make more work. _mal._ my lord, the people must be fleshed in blood, to teach them the true relish; dip them with you, or they'll perhaps repent. _gui._ you are fools; to kill them, were to shew i feared them; the court, disarmed, disheartened and besieged, are all as much within my power, as if i griped them in my fist. _may._ 'tis rightly judged: and, let me add, who heads a popular cause, must prosecute that cause by popular ways: so, whether you are merciful or no, you must affect to be. _gui._ dismiss those prisoners.--grillon, you are free; i do not ask your love, be still my foe. _gril._ i will be so: but let me tell you, guise, as this was greatly done, 'twas proudly too: i'll give you back your life when next we meet; 'till then i am your debtor. _gui._ that's till dooms-day. [grillon _and his party exeunt one way, rabble the other._ haste, brother, draw out fifteen thousand men, surround the louvre, lest the prey should 'scape. i know the king will send to treat; we'll set the dice on him in high demands, no less than all his offices of trust; he shall be pared, and cantoned out, and clipped so long, he shall not pass. _card._ what! do we talk of paring, clipping, and such tedious work, like those that hang their noses o'er a potion, and qualm, and keck, and take it down by sips! _arch._ best make advantage of this popular rage, let in the o'erwhelming tide on harry's head; in that promiscuous fury, who shall know, among a thousand swords, who killed the king? _mal._ o my dear lord, upon this only day depends the series of your following fate: think your good genius has assumed my shape, in this prophetic doom. _gui._ peace, croaking raven!-- i'll seize him first, then make him a led monarch; i'll be declared lieutenant-general amidst the three estates, that represent the glorious, full, majestic face of france, which, in his own despite, the king shall call: so let him reign my tenant during life, his brother of navarre shut out for ever, branded with heresy, and barred from sway; that, when valois consumed in ashes lies, the phoenix race of charlemain may rise. [_exeunt._ scene v.--_the louvre._ _enter king, queen-mother, abbot, and_ grillon. _king._ dismissed with such contempt? _gril._ yes, 'faith, we past like beaten romans underneath the fork. _king._ give me my arms. _gril._ for what? _king._ i'll lead you on. _gril._ you are a true lion, but my men are sheep; if you run first, i'll swear they'll follow you. _king._ what, all turned cowards? not a man in france dares set his foot by mine, and perish by me? _gril._ troth, i can't find them much inclined to perishing. _king._ what can be left in danger, but to dare? no matter for my arms, i'll go barefaced, and seize the first bold rebel that i meet. _abb._ there's something of divinity in kings, that sits between their eyes, and guards their life. _gril._ true, abbot; but the mischief is, you churchmen can see that something further than the crowd; these musket bullets have not read much logic, nor are they given to make your nice distinctions: [_one enters, and gives the queen a note, she reads--_ one of them possibly may hit the king in some one part of him that's not divine; and so that mortal part of his majesty would draw the divinity of it into another world, sweet abbot. _qu. m._ 'tis equal madness to go out or stay; the reverence due to kings is all transferred to haughty guise; and when new gods are made, the old must quit the temple; you must fly. _king._ death! had i wings, yet would i scorn to fly. _gril._ wings, or no wings, is not the question: if you won't fly for't, you must ride for't, and that comes much to one. _king._ forsake my regal town! _qu. m._ forsake a bedlam; this note informs me fifteen thousand men are marching to inclose the louvre round. _abb._ the business then admits no more dispute, you, madam, must be pleased to find the guise; seem easy, fearful, yielding, what you will; but still prolong the treaty all you can, to gain the king more time for his escape. _qu. m._ i'll undertake it.--nay, no thanks, my son. my blessing shall be given in your deliverance; that once performed, their web is all unravelled, and guise is to begin his work again. [_exit q.m._ _king._ i go this minute. _enter_ marmoutiere. nay, then another minute must be given.-- o how i blush, that thou shouldst see thy king do this low act, that lessens all his fame: death, must a rebel force me from my love! if it must be-- _mar._ it must not, cannot be. _gril._ no, nor shall not, wench, as long as my soul wears a body. _king._ secure in that, i'll trust thee;--shall i trust thee? for conquerors have charms, and women frailty:-- farewell thou mayst behold me king again; my soul's not yet deposed:--why then farewell!-- i'll say't as comfortably as i can: but o cursed guise, for pressing on my time, and cutting off ten thousand more adieus! _mar._ the moments that retard your flight are traitors. make haste, my royal master, to be safe, and save me with you, for i'll share your fate. _king._ wilt thou go too? then i am reconciled to heaven again: o welcome, thou good angel of my way, thou pledge and omen of my safe return! not greece, nor hostile juno could destroy the hero that abandoned burning troy; he 'scaped the dangers of the dreadful night, when, loaded with his gods, he took his flight. [_exuent, the king leading her._ act v. scene i.--_the castle of blois._ _enter_ grillon, _and_ alphonso corso. _gril._ welcome, colonel, welcome to blois. _alph._ since last we parted at the barricadoes, the world's turned upside down. _gril._ no, 'faith, 'tis better now, 'tis downside up: our part o'the wheel is rising, though but slowly. _alph._ who looked for an assembly of the states? _gril._ when the king was escaped from paris, and got out of the toils, 'twas time for the guise to take them down, and pitch others: that is, to treat for the calling of a parliament, where, being sure of the major part, he might get by law what he had missed by force. _alph._ but why should the king assemble the states, to satisfy the guise, after so many affronts? _gril._ for the same reason, that a man in a duel says he has received satisfaction, when he is first wounded, and afterwards disarmed. _alph._ but why this parliament at blois, and not at paris? _gril._ because no barricadoes have been made at blois. this blois is a very little town, and the king can draw it after him; but paris is a damned unwieldy bulk; and when the preachers draw against the king, a parson in a pulpit is a devilish fore-horse. besides, i found in that insurrection what dangerous beasts these townsmen are; i tell you, colonel, a man had better deal with ten of their wives, than with one zealous citizen: o your inspired cuckold is most implacable. _alph._ is there any seeming kindness between the king and the duke of guise? _gril._ yes, most wonderful: they are as dear to one another as an old usurer, and a rich young heir upon a mortgage. the king is very loyal to the guise, and the guise is very gracious to the king: then the cardinal of guise, and the archbishop of lyons, are the two pendants that are always hanging at the royal ear; they ease his majesty of all the spiritual business, and the guise of all the temporal; so that the king is certainly the happiest prince in christendom, without any care upon him; so yielding up every thing to his loyal subjects, that he's infallibly in the way of being the greatest and most glorious king in all the world. _alph._ yet i have heard he made a sharp reflecting speech upon their party at the opening of the parliament, admonished men of their duties, pardoned what was past, but seemed to threaten vengeance if they persisted for the future. _gril._ yes; and then they all took the sacrament together: he promising to unite himself to them, and they to obey him, according to the laws; yet the very next morning they went on, in pursuance of their old commonwealth designs, as violently as ever. _alph._ now, i am dull enough to think they have broken their oath. _gril._ ay, but you are but one private man, and they are the three states; and if they vote that they have not broken their oaths, who is to be judge? _alph._ there's one above. _gril._ i hope you mean in heaven; or else you are a bolder man than i am in parliament time[ ]; but here comes the master and my niece. _alph._ heaven preserve him! if a man may pray for him without treason. _gril._ o yes, you may pray for him; the preachers of the guise's side do that most formally; nay, you may be suffered civilly to drink his health; be of the court, and keep a place of profit under him: for, in short, 'tis a judged case of conscience, to make your best of the king, and to side against him. _enter_ king _and_ marmoutiere. _king._ grillon, be near me, there's something for my service to be done, your orders will be sudden; now, withdraw. _gril._ [_aside._] well, i dare trust my niece, even though she comes of my own family; but if she cuckolds my good opinion of her honesty, there's a whole sex fallen under a general rule, without one exception. [_exeunt_ gril. _and_ alph. _mar._ you bid my uncle wait you. _king._ yes. _mar._ this hour? _king._ i think it was. _mar._ something of moment hangs upon this hour. _king._ not more on this, than on the next, and next. my time is all ta'en up on usury; i never am beforehand with my hours, but every one has work before it comes. _mar._ "there's something for my service to be done;"-- those were your words. _king._ and you desire their meaning? _mar._ i dare not ask, and yet, perhaps, may guess. _king._ 'tis searching there where heaven can only pry, not man, who knows not man but by surmise; nor devils, nor angels of a purer mould, can trace the winding labyrinths of thought. i tell thee, marmoutiere, i never speak, not when alone, for fear some fiend should hear, and blab my secrets out. _mar._ you hate the guise. _king._ true, i did hate him. _mar._ and you hate him still. _king._ i am reconciled. _mar._ your spirit is too high, great souls forgive not injuries, till time has put their enemies into their power, that they may shew, forgiveness is their own; for else, 'tis fear to punish, that forgives; the coward, not the king. _king._ he has submitted. _mar._ in show; for in effect he still insults. _king._ well, kings must bear sometimes. _mar._ they must, till they can shake their burden off; and that's, i think, your aim. _king._ mistaken still: all favours, all preferments, pass through them; i'm pliant, and they mould me as they please. _mar._ these are your arts, to make them more secure; just so your brother used the admiral. brothers may think, and act like brothers too. _king._ what said you, ha! what mean you, marmoutiere? _mar._ nay, what mean you? that start betrayed you, sir. _king._ this is no vigil of st bartholomew, nor is blois paris. _mar._ 'tis an open town. _king._ what then? _mar._ where you are strongest. _king._ well, what then? _mar._ no more; but you have power, and are provoked. _king._ o, thou hast set thy foot upon a snake! get quickly off, or it will sting thee dead. _mar._ can i unknow it? _king._ no, but keep it secret. _mar._ think, sir, your thoughts are still as much your own, as when you kept the key of your own breast; but since you let me in, i find it filled with death and horror: you would murder guise. _king._ murder! what, murder! use a softer word, and call it sovereign justice. _mar._ would i could! but justice bears the godlike shape of law, and law requires defence, and equal plea betwixt the offender, and the righteous judge. _king._ yes, when the offender can be judged by laws: but when his greatness overturns the scales, then kings are justice in the last appeal, and, forced by strong necessity, may strike; in which, indeed, they assert the public good, and, like sworn surgeons, lop the gangrened limb: unpleasant, wholesome, work. _mar._ if this be needful. _king._ ha! didst not thou thyself, in fathoming the depth of my designs, drop there the plummet? didst thou not say--affronts so great, so public, i never could forgive? _mar._ i did; but yet-- _king._ what means, _but yet?_ 'tis evidence so full, if the last trumpet sounded in my ears, undaunted i should meet the saints half way, and in the face of heaven maintain the fact. _mar._ maintain it then to heaven, but not to me. do you love me? _king._ can you doubt it? _mar._ yes, i can doubt it, if you can deny; love begs once more this great offender's life. can you forgive the man you justly hate, that hazards both your life and crown to spare him? one, whom you may suspect i more than pity,-- for i would have you see, that what i ask, i know, is wondrous difficult to grant,-- can you be thus extravagantly good? _king._ what then? for i begin to fear my firmness, and doubt the soft destruction of your tongue. _mar._ then, in return, i swear to heaven and you, to give you all the preference of my soul; no rebel rival to disturb you there; let him but live, that he may be my convert! [_king walks awhile, then wipes his eyes, and speaks._ _king._ you've conquered; all that's past shall be forgiven. my lavish love has made a lavish grant; but know, this act of grace shall be my last. let him repent, yes, let him well repent; let him desist, and tempt revenge no further: for, by yon heaven, that's conscious of his crimes, i will no more by mercy be betrayed. _deputies appearing at the door._ the deputies are entering; you must leave me. thus, tyrant business all my hours usurps, and makes me live for others. _mar._ now heaven reward you with a prosperous reign, and grant, you never may be good in vain! [_exit._ _enter deputies of the three states: cardinal of_ guise, _and archbishop of_ lyons, _at the head of them._ _king._ well, my good lords, what matters of importance employed the states this morning? _arch._ one high point was warmly canvassed in the commons house, and will be soon resolved. _king._ what was't? _card._ succession. _king._ that's one high point indeed, but not to be so warmly canvassed, or so soon resolved. _card._ things necessary must sometimes be sudden. _king._ no sudden danger threatens you, my lord. _arch._ what may be sudden, must be counted so. we hope and wish your life; but yours and ours are in the hand of heaven. _king._ my lord, they are; yet, in a natural way, i may live long, if heaven, and you my loyal subjects, please. _arch._ but since good princes, like your majesty, take care of dangers merely possible, which may concern their subjects, whose they are, and for whom kings are made-- _king._ yes; we for them, and they for us; the benefits are mutual, and so the ties are too. _card._ to cut things short, the commons will decree, to exclude navarre from the succession of the realm of france. _king._ decree, my lord! what! one estate decree? where then are the other two, and what am i? the government is cast up somewhat short, the clergy and nobility cashiered, five hundred popular figures on a row, and i myself, that am, or should be, king, an o'ergrown cypher set before the sum: what reasons urge our sovereigns for the exclusion? _arch._ he stands suspected, sir, of heresy. _king._ has he been called to make his just defence? _card._ that needs not, for 'tis known. _king._ to whom? _card._ the commons. _king._ what is't those gods, the commons, do not know? but heresy, you churchmen teach us vulgar, supposes obstinate, and stiff persisting in errors proved, long admonitions made, and all rejected: has this course been used? _arch._ we grant it has not; but-- _king._ nay, give me leave,-- i urge, from your own grant, it has not been. if then, in process of a petty sum, both parties having not been fully heard, no sentence can be given; much less in the succession of a crown, which, after my decease, by right inherent, devolves upon my brother of navarre. _card._ the right of souls is still to be preferred; religion must not suffer for a claim. _king._ if kings may be excluded, or deposed, whene'er you cry religion to the crowd; that doctrine makes rebellion orthodox, and subjects must be traitors, to be saved. _arch._ then heresy's entailed upon the throne. _king._ you would entail confusion, wars, and slaughters: those ills are certain; what you name, contingent. i know my brother's nature; 'tis sincere, above deceit, no crookedness of thought; says what he means, and what he says performs; brave, but not rash; successful, but not proud; so much acknowledging, that he's uneasy, till every petty service be o'erpaid. _arch._ some say, revengeful. _king._ some then libel him; but that's what both of us have learned to bear. he can forgive, but you disdain forgiveness. your chiefs are they no libel must profane; honour's a sacred thing in all but kings; but when your rhymes assassinate our fame, you hug your nauseous, blundering ballad-wits, and pay them, as if nonsense were a merit, if it can mean but treason. _arch._ sir, we have many arguments to urge-- _king._ and i have more to answer: let them know, my royal brother of navarre shall stand secure by right, by merit, and my love. god, and good men, will never fail his cause, and all the bad shall be constrained by laws. _arch._ since gentle means to exclude navarre are vain, to-morrow, in the states, 'twill be proposed, to make the duke of guise lieutenant-general; which power, most graciously confirmed by you, will stop this headlong torrent of succession, that bears religion, laws, and all before it. in hope you'll not oppose what must be done, we wish you, sir, a long and prosperous reign. [_exeunt all but the king._ _king._ to-morrow guise is made lieutenant-general;-- why, then, to-morrow i no more am king. 'tis time to push my slackened vengeance home, to be a king, or not to be at all. the vow that manacled my rage is loosed; even heaven is wearied with repeated crimes, till lightning flashes round, to guard the throne, and the curbed thunder grumbles to be gone. _enter_ grillon _to him._ _gril._ 'tis just the appointed hour you bid me wait. _king._ so just, as if thou wert inspired to come; as if the guardian-angel of my throne, who had o'erslept himself so many years, just now was roused, and brought thee to my rescue. _gril._ i hear the guise will be lieutenant-general. _king._ and canst thou suffer it? _gril._ nay, if you will suffer it, then well may i. if kings will be so civil to their subjects, to give up all things tamely, they first turn rebels to themselves, and that's a fair example for their friends. 'slife, sir, 'tis a dangerous matter to be loyal on the wrong side, to serve my prince in spite of him; if you'll be a royalist yourself, there are millions of honest men will fight for you; but if you will not, there are few will hang for you. _king._ no more: i am resolved. the course of things can be with-held no longer from breaking forth to their appointed end: my vengeance, ripened in the womb of time, presses for birth, and longs to be disclosed. grillon, the guise is doomed to sudden death: the sword must end him:--has not thine an edge? _gril._ yes, and a point too; i'll challenge him. _king._ i bid thee kill him. [_walking._ _gril._ so i mean to do. _king._ without thy hazard. _gril._ now i understand you; i should murder him: i am your soldier, sir, but not your hangman. _king._ dost thou not hate him? _gril._ yes. _king._ hast thou not said, that he deserves it? _gril._ yes; but how have i deserved to do a murder? _king._ 'tis no murder; 'tis sovereign justice, urged from self-defence. _gril._ 'tis all confest, and yet i dare not do't. _king._ go; thou art a coward. _gril._ you are my king. _king._ thou say'st, thou dar'st not kill him. _gril._ were i a coward, i had been a villain, and then i durst have done't. _king._ thou hast done worse, in thy long course of arms. hast thou ne'er killed a man? _gril._ yes, when a man would have killed me. _king._ hast thou not plundered from the helpless poor? snatched from the sweating labourer his food? _gril._ sir, i have eaten and drank in my own defence, when i was hungry and thirsty; i have plundered, when you have not paid me; i have been content with a farmer's daughter, when a better whore was not to be had. as for cutting off a traitor, i'll execute him lawfully in my own function, when i meet him in the field; but for your chamber-practice, that's not my talent. _king._ is my revenge unjust, or tyrannous? heaven knows i love not blood. _gril._ no, for your mercy is your only vice. you may dispatch a rebel lawfully, but the mischief is, that rebel has given me my life at the barricadoes, and, till i have returned his bribe, i am not upon even terms with him. _king._ give me thy hand; i love thee not the worse: make much of honour, 'tis a soldier's conscience. thou shalt not do this act; thou art even too good; but keep my secret, for that's conscience too. _gril._ when i disclose it, think i am a coward. _king._ no more of that, i know thou art not one. call lognac hither straight, and st malin; bid larchant find some unsuspected means, to keep guards doubled at the council-door, that none pass in or out, but those i call: the rest i'll think on further; so farewell. _gril._ heaven bless your majesty! though i'll not kill him for you, i'll defend you when he's killed: for the honest part of the job let me alone[ ]. [_exeunt severally._ scene ii.--scene _opens, and discovers men and women at a banquet,_ malicorn _standing by._ _mal._ this is the solemn annual feast i keep, as this day twelve year, on this very hour, i signed the contract for my soul with hell. i bartered it for honours, wealth, and pleasure, three things which mortal men do covet most; and 'faith, i over-sold it to the fiend: what, one-and-twenty years, nine yet to come! how can a soul be worth so much to devils? o how i hug myself, to out-wit these fools of hell! and yet a sudden damp, i know not why, has seized my spirits, and, like a heavy weight, hangs on their active springs. i want a song to rouse me; my blood freezes.--music there. a song betwixt a shepherd and shepherdess. shepherdess. _tell me, thyrsis, tell your anguish, why you sigh, and why you languish; when the nymph whom you adore, grants the blessing of possessing, what can love and i do more?_ shepherd. _think it's love beyond all measure, makes me faint away with pleasure; strength of cordial may destroy. and the blessing of possessing, kills me with excess of joy._ shepherdess. _thyrsis, how can i believe you! but confess, and i'll forgive you; men are false, and so are you, never nature framed a creature to enjoy, and yet be true._ shepherd. _mine's a flame beyond expiring, still possessing, still desiring, fit for love's imperial crown; ever shining, and refining, still the more 'tis melted down._ chorus together. _mine's a flame beyond expiring. still possessing, still desiring, fit for love's imperial crown; ever shining, and refining, still the more 'tis melted down._ _after a song and dance, loud knocking at the door,_ _enter a servant._ _mal._ what noise is that? _serv._ an ill-looked surly man, with a hoarse voice, says he must speak with you. _mal._ tell him i dedicate this day to pleasure. i neither have, nor will have, business with him. [_exit_ serv. what, louder yet? what saucy slave is this? [_knock louder._ _re-enter servant._ _serv._ he says you have, and must have, business with him. come out, or he'll come in, and spoil your mirth. _mal._ i will not. _serv._ sir, i dare not tell him so; [_knocking again more fiercely._ my hair stands up in bristles when i see him; the dogs run into corners; the spay'd bitch bays at his back, and howls[ ]. _mal._ bid him enter, and go off thyself. [_exit serv._ scene _closes upon the company._ _enter_ melanax, _an hour-glass in his hand, almost empty._ how dar'st thou interrupt my softer hours? by heaven, i'll ram thee in some knotted oak, where thou shalt sigh, and groan to whistling winds, upon the lonely plain. or i'll confine thee deep in the red sea, groveling on the sands, ten thousand billows rolling o'er thy head. _mel._ hoh, hoh, hoh! _mal._ laughest thou, malicious fiend? i'll ope my book of bloody characters, shall rumple up thy tender airy limbs, like parchment in a flame. _mel._ thou can'st not do it. behold this hour-glass. _mal._ well, and what of that? _mel._ seest thou these ebbing sands? they run for thee, and when their race is run, thy lungs, the bellows of thy mortal breath, shall sink for ever down, and heave no more. _mal._ what, resty, fiend? nine years thou hast to serve. _mel._ not full nine minutes. _mal._ thou liest; look on thy bond, and view the date. _mel._ then, wilt thou stand to that without appeal? _mal.._ i will, so help me heaven! _mel._ so take thee hell. [_gives him the bond._ there, fool; behold who lies, the devil, or thou? _mal._ ha! one-and-twenty years are shrunk to twelve! do my eyes dazzle? _mel._ no, they see too true: they dazzled once, i cast a mist before them, so what was figured twelve, to thy dull sight appeared full twenty-one. _mal._ there's equity in heaven for this, a cheat. _mel._ fool, thou hast quitted thy appeal to heaven, to stand to this. _mal._ then i am lost for ever! _mel._ thou art. _mal._ o why was i not warned before? _mel._ yes, to repent; then thou hadst cheated me. _mal._ add but a day, but half a day, an hour: for sixty minutes, i'll forgive nine years. _mel._ no, not a moment's thought beyond my time. dispatch; 'tis much below me to attend for one poor single fare. _mal._ so pitiless? but yet i may command thee, and i will: i love the guise, even with my latest breath, beyond my soul, and my lost hopes of heaven: i charge thee, by my short-lived power, disclose what fate attends my master. _mel._ if he goes to council when he next is called, he dies. _mal._ who waits? _enter servant._ go, give my lord my last adieu; say, i shall never see his eyes again; but if he goes, when next he's called, to council, bid him believe my latest breath, he dies.-- [_exit serv._ the sands run yet.--o do not shake the glass!-- [_devil shakes the glass._ i shall be thine too soon!--could i repent!-- heaven's not confined to moments.--mercy, mercy! _mel._ i see thy prayers dispersed into the winds, and heaven has past them by. i was an angel once of foremost rank, stood next the shining throne, and winked but half; so almost gazed i glory in the face, that i could bear it, and stared farther in; 'twas but a moment's pride, and yet i fell, for ever fell; but man, base earth-born man, sins past a sum, and might be pardoned more: and yet 'tis just; for we were perfect light, and saw our crimes; man, in his body's mire, half soul, half clod, sinks blindfold into sin, betrayed by frauds without, and lusts within. _mel._ then i have hope. _mal._ not so; i preached on purpose to make thee lose this moment of thy prayer. thy sand creeps low; despair, despair, despair! _mal._ where am i now? upon the brink of life, the gulph before me, devils to push me on, and heaven behind me closing all its doors. a thousand years for every hour i've past, o could i 'scape so cheap! but ever, ever! still to begin an endless round of woes, to be renewed for pains, and last for hell! yet can pains last, when bodies cannot last? can earthy substance endless flames endure? or, when one body wears and flits away, do souls thrust forth another crust of clay, to fence and guard their tender forms from fire? i feel my heart-strings rend!--i'm here,--i'm gone! thus men, too careless of their future state, dispute, know nothing, and believe too late. [_a flash of lightning, they sink together._ scene iii.--_enter duke of_ guise; _cardinal, and_ aumale. _card._ a dreadful message from a dying man, a prophesy indeed! for souls, just quitting earth, peep into heaven, make swift acquaintance with their kindred forms, and partners of immortal secrets grow. _aum._ 'tis good to lean on the securer side: when life depends, the mighty stake is such, fools fear too little, and they dare too much. _enter arch-bishop._ _gui._ you have prevailed, i will not go to council. i have provoked my sovereign past a pardon, it but remains to doubt if he dare kill me: then if he dares but to be just, i die. 'tis too much odds against me; i'll depart, and finish greatness at some safer time. _arch._ by heaven, 'tis harry's plot to fright you hence, that, coward-like, you might forsake your friends. _gui._ the devil foretold it dying malicorn. _arch._ yes, some court-devil, no doubt: if you depart, consider, good my lord, you are the master-spring that moves our fabric, which once removed, our motion is no more. without your presence, which buoys up our hearts, the league will sink beneath a royal name; the inevitable yoke prepared for kings will soon be shaken off; things done, repealed; and things undone, past future means to do. _card._ i know not; i begin to taste his reasons. _arch._ nay, were the danger certain of your stay, an act so mean would lose you all your friends, and leave you single to the tyrant's rage: then better 'tis to hazard life alone, than life, and friends, and reputation too. _gui._ since more i am confirmed, i'll stand the shock. where'er he dares to call, i dare to go. my friends are many, faithful, and united; he will not venture on so rash a deed: and now, i wonder i should fear that force, which i have used to conquer and contemn. _enter_ marmoutiere. _arch._ your tempter comes, perhaps, to turn the scale, and warn you not to go. _gui._ o fear her not, i will be there. [_exeunt arch-bishop and cardinal._ what can she mean?--repent? or is it cast betwixt the king and her to sound me? come what will, it warms my heart with secret joy, which these my ominous statesmen left dead within me;--ha! she turns away. _mar._ do you not wonder at this visit, sir? _gui._ no, madam, i at last have gained the point of mightiest minds, to wonder now at nothing. _mar._ believe me, guise, 'twere gallantly resolved, if you could carry it on the inside too. why came that sigh uncalled? for love of me, partly, perhaps; but more for thirst of glory, which now again dilates itself in smiles, as if you scorned that i should know your purpose. _gui._ i change, 'tis true, because i love you still; love you, o heaven, even in my own despite; i tell you all, even at that very moment, i know you straight betray me to the king. _mar._ o guise, i never did; but, sir, i come to tell you, i must never see you more. _gui._ the king's at blois, and you have reason for it; therefore, what am i to expect from pity,-- from yours, i mean,--when you behold me slain? _mar._ first answer me, and then i'll speak my heart. have you, o guise, since your last solemn oath, stood firm to what you swore? be plain, my lord, or run it o'er a while, because again i tell you, i must never see you more. _gui._ never!--she's set on by the king to sift me. why, by that never then, all i have sworn is true, as that the king designs to end me. _mar._ keep your obedience,--by the saints, you live. _gui._ then mark; 'tis judged by heads grown white in council, this very day he means to cut me off. _mar._ by heaven, then you're forsworn; you've broke your vows. _gui._ by you, the justice of the earth, i have not. _mar._ by you, dissembler of the world, you have. i know the king. _gui._ i do believe you, madam. _mar._ i have tried you both. _gui._ not me, the king you mean. _mar._ do these o'erboiling answers suit the guise? but go to council, sir, there shew your truth; if you are innocent, you're safe; but o, if i should chance to see you stretched along, your love, o guise, and your ambition gone, that venerable aspect pale with death, i must conclude you merited your end. _gui._ you must, you will, and smile upon my murder. _mar._ therefore, if you are conscious of a breach, confess it to me. lead me to the king; he has promised me to conquer his revenge, and place you next him; therefore, if you're right, make me not fear it by asseverations, but speak your heart, and o resolve me truly! _gui._ madam, i've thought, and trust you with my soul. you saw but now my parting with my brother, the prelate too of lyons; it was debated warmly against me, that i should go on. _mar._ did i not tell you, sir? _gui._ true; but in spite of those imperial arguments they urged, i was not to be worked from second thought: there we broke off; and mark me, if i live, you are the saint that makes a convert of me. _mar._ go then:--o heaven! why must i still suspect you? why heaves my heart, and overflow my eyes? yet if you live, o guise,--there, there's the cause,-- i never shall converse, nor see you more. _gui._ o say not so, for once again i'll see you. were you this very night to lodge with angels, yet say not never; for i hope by virtue to merit heaven, and wed you late in glory. _mar._ this night, my lord, i'm a recluse for ever. _gui._ ha! stay till morning: tapers are too dim; stay till the sun rises to salute you; stay till i lead you to that dismal den of virgins buried quick, and stay for ever. _mar._ alas! your suit is vain, for i have vowed it: nor was there any other way to clear the imputed stains of my suspected honour. _gui._ hear me a word!--one sigh, one tear, at parting, and one last look; for, o my earthly saint, i see your face pale as the cherubins' at adam's fall. _mar._ o heaven! i now confess, my heart bleeds for thee, guise. _gui._ why, madam, why? _mar._ because by this disorder, and that sad fate that bodes upon your brow, i do believe you love me more than glory. _gui._ without an oath i do; therefore have mercy, and think not death could make me tremble thus; be pitiful to those infirmities which thus unman me; stay till the council's over; if you are pleased to grant an hour or two to my last prayer, i'll thank you as my saint: if you refuse me, madam, i'll not murmur. _mar._ alas, my guise!--o heaven, what did i say? but take it, take it; if it be too kind, honour may pardon it, since 'tis my last. _gui._ o let me crawl, vile as i am, and kiss your sacred robe.--is't possible! your hand! [_she gives him her hand._ o that it were my last expiring moment, for i shall never taste the like again. _mar._ farewell, my proselyte! your better genius watch your ambition. _gui._ i have none but you: must i ne'er see you more? _mar._ i have sworn you must not: which thought thus roots me here, melts my resolves, [_weeps._ and makes me loiter when the angels call me. _gui._ o ye celestial dews! o paradise! o heaven! o joys, ne'er to be tasted more! _mar._ nay, take a little more: cold marmoutiere, the temperate, devoted marmoutiere is gone,--a last embrace i must bequeath you. _gui._ and o let me return it with another! _mar._ farewell for ever; ah, guise, though now we part, in the bright orbs, prepared us by our fates, our souls shall meet,--farewell!--and io's sing above, where no ambition, nor state-crime, the happier spirits prove, but all are blest, and all enjoy an everlasting love. [_exit_ marmoutiere. guise _solus._ _gui._ glory, where art thou? fame, revenge, ambition, where are you fled? there's ice upon my nerves; my salt, my metal, and my spirits gone, palled as a slave, that's bed-rid with an ague, i wish my flesh were off. [_blood falls from his nose._ what now! thou bleed'st:-- three, and no more!--what then? and why, what then? but just three drops! and why not just three drops, as well as four or five, or five and twenty? _enter a page._ _page._ my lord, your brother and the arch-bishop wait you. _gui._ i come;--down, devil!--ha! must i stumble too? away, ye dreams! what if it thundered now, or if a raven crossed me in my way? or now it comes, because last night i dreamt the council-hall was hung with crimson round, and all the ceiling plaistered o'er with black. no more!--blue fires, and ye dull rolling lakes, fathomless caves, ye dungeons of old night, phantoms, be gone! if i must die, i'll fall true politician, and defy you all. [_exit._ scene ii.--_the court before the council-hall._ grillon, larchant, _soldiers placed, people crowding_ _gril._ are your guards doubled, captain? _larch._ sir, they are. _gril._ when the guise comes, remember your petition.-- make way there for his eminence; give back.-- your eminence comes late. _enter two cardinals, counsellors, the cardinal of_ guise, _arch-bishop of lyons, last the_ guise. _gui._ well, colonel, are we friends? _gril._ 'faith, i think not. _gui._ give me your hand. _gril._ no, for that gives a heart. _gui._ yet we shall clasp in heaven. _gril._ by heaven, we shall not, unless it be with gripes. _gui._ true grillon still. _larch._ my lord. _gui._ ha! captain, you are well attended: if i mistake not, sir, your number's doubled. _larch._ all these have served against the heretics; and therefore beg your grace you would remember their wounds and lost arrears[ ]. _gui._ it shall be done.-- again, my heart! there is a weight upon thee, but i will sigh it off.--captain, farewell. [_exeunt cardinal,_ guise, _&c._ _gril._ shut the hall-door, and bar the castle-gates: march, march there closer yet, captain, to the door. [_exeunt._ scene iii.--_the council-hall._ _gui._ i do not like myself to-day. _arch._ a qualm! he dares not. _card._ that's one man's thought; he dares, and that's another's. _enter_ grillon. _gui._ o marmoutiere! ha, never see thee more? peace, my tumultuous heart! why jolt my spirits in this unequal circling of my blood? i'll stand it while i may. o mighty nature! why this alarm? why dost thou call me on to fight, yet rob my limbs of all their use? [_swoons._ _card._ ha! he's fallen, chafe him. he comes again. _gui._ i beg your pardons; vapours, no more. _gril._ the effect of last night's lechery with some working whore[ ]. _enter_ revol. _rev._ my lord of guise, the king would speak with you. _gui._ o cardinal, o lyons!--but no more; yes, one word more: thou hast a privilege [_to the cardinal._ to speak with a recluse; o therefore tell her, if never thou behold'st me breathe again, tell her i sighed it last.--o marmoutiere! [_exit bowing._ _card._ you will have all things your own way, my lord. by heaven, i have strange horror on my soul. _arch._ i say again, that henry dares not do it. _card._ beware, your grace, of minds that bear like him. i know he scorns to stoop to mean revenge; but when some mightier mischief shocks his toure, he shoots at once with thunder on his wings, and makes it air.--but hark, my lord, 'tis doing! _guise within._] murderers, villains! _arch._ i hear your brother's voice; run to the door. card. _and_ arch. _run to the door._ _card._ help, help, the guise is murdered! _arch._ help, help! _gril._ cease your vain cries, you are the king's prisoners;-- take them, dugast, into your custody. _card._ we must obey, my lord, for heaven calls us. [_exeunt._ _the_ scene _draws, behind it a traverse._ _the_ guise _is assaulted by eight. they stab him in all parts, but most in the head._ _gui._ o villains! hell-hounds! hold. [_half draws his sword, is held._ murdered, o basely, and not draw my sword!-- dog, lognac,--but my own blood choaks me. down, villain, down!--i'm gone,--o marmoutiere! [_flings himself upon him, dies[ ]._ _the traverse is drawn._ _the king rises from his chair, comes forward with his cabinet-council._ _king._ open the closet, and let in the council; bid dugast execute the cardinal; seize all the factious leaders, as i ordered, and every one be answered, on your lives. _enter queen-mother followed by the counsellors._ o, madam, you are welcome; how goes your health? _qu. m._ a little mended, sir.--what have you done? _king._ that which has made me king of france; for there the king of paris at your feet lies dead. _qu. m._ you have cut out dangerous work, but make it up with speed and resolution[ ]. _king._ yes, i'll wear the fox no longer, but put on the lion; and since i could resolve to take the heads of this great insurrection, you, the members, look to it; beware, turn from your stubbornness, and learn to know me, for i will be king. _gril._ 'sdeath, how the traitors lower, and quake, and droop, and gather to the wing of his protection, as if they were his friends, and fought his cause! _king._ [_looking upon_ guise.] be witness, heaven, i gave him treble warning! he's gone--no more.--disperse, and think upon it. beware my sword, which, if i once unsheath, by all the reverence due to thrones and crowns, nought shall atone the vows of speedy justice, till fate to ruin every traitor brings, that dares the vengeance of indulgent kings. [_exuent._ footnotes: . the council of sixteen certainly offered to place twenty thousand disciplined citizens of paris at the devotion of the duke of guise; and here the intended parallel came close: for shaftesbury used to boast, that he could raise the like number of brisk boys in the city of london, by merely holding up his finger. . during the cabals of the council of sixteen, the duke of aumale approached paris with five hundred veteran horse, levied in the disaffected province of picardy. jean conti, one of the sheriffs (_echevins_) of paris, was tampered with to admit them by st martin's gate; but as he refused, the leaguers stigmatised him as a heretic and favourer of navarre. another of these officers consented to open to aumale the gate of st denis, of which the keys were intrusted to him. the conspirators had determined, as is here expressed, to seize the person of the king, when he should attend the procession of the flagellants, as he was wont to do in time of lent. but he was apprised of their purpose by poltrot, one of their number, and used the pretext of indisposition to excuse his absence from the penitential procession. _davila_, lib. viii. . in the year , an interview took place at bayonne between catharine of medicis, her son charles ix., and the queen of spain, attended by the famous duke of alva, and the count of benevento. many political discussions took place; and the opinion of alva, as expressed in the text, is almost literally versified from davila's account of the conference. "_il duca d'alva, uomo di veemente natura risolutamente diceva, che per distruggere la novità della fede, e le sollevazioni di stato, bisognava levare le teste de' papaveri, pescare i pesci grossi e non si curare di prendere le ranocchie: erano questi i concetti proferiti da lui; perchè cessati i venti, l'onde della plebe facilmente si sarebbono da se stesse composte e acquietate: aggiugneva, che un prencipe non può far cosa più vituperosa nè più dannosa a se stesso, quanto il permettere al popolo il vivere secondo la loro coscienza, ponendo tanta varietà di religioni in uno stato, quanto sono i capricci degli huomini e le fantasíe delle persone inquiete, aprendo la porta alla discordia e alla confusione: e dimostrava con lunga commemorazione di segnalati esempj, che la diversità della fede aveva sempre messo l'arme in mano ai sudditi, e sempre sollevate atroci perfidie e funeste rebellioni contra i superiori: onde conchiudeva nel fine, che siccome le controversie della fede avevan sempre servito di pretesto e di argumento alle sollevazioni de' mal contenti, così era necessario rimovere a primo tratto questa coperta, e poi con severi rimedj, e senza riguardo di ferro, nè di fuoco, purgare le radici di quel male, il quale colla dolcezza e con la sofferenza perniciosamente germogliando si dilatava sempre, e si accresceva._"--delle guerre civili di francia, lib. iii. . the popular arts of the duke of monmouth are here alluded to, which his fine person and courteous manners rendered so eminently, and for himself so unfortunately, successful. the lady, in whose mouth these remonstrances are placed, may be supposed to be the duchess, by whose prayers and tears he was more than once induced to suspend his career. . francis ii. of france, a prince of delicate health and mean talents, died of an imposthume in the head. . when poltrot had discovered the intentions of the council of sixteen against the king's person, it was warmly debated in the council of henry, whether the persons of the conspirators ought not to be seized at their next meeting. but, upon considering the numbers of the citizens, and their zeal for the league, together with the small number of the king's guards and adherents, this advice was rejected as too hazardous. it was upon this occasion that catherine quoted the tuscan proverb in the text,--"_bisogna copriersi bene il viso inanzi che struzzicare il vespaio;_" davila, lib. ix. . margaret of navarre, sister of henry ii., was suspected of an intrigue with the duke of guise. . henry ii., when duke of anjou, defeated the huguenots, commanded by the famous admiral coligni, with very great loss, taking all his artillery and baggage, with two hundred standards and colours, . . alluding to a celebrated battle fought near montargis, in , when guise, with very disproportioned forces, surprised and cut to pieces a large army of german auxiliaries, who had advanced into france to join the king of navarre, afterwards henry iv. upon that occasion, the duke of guise kept his resolution to fight a profound secret till the very day of the attack, when, after having dined, and remained thoughtful and silent for a few minutes, he suddenly ordered the trumpets to sound to horse, and, to the astonishment of the duke of mayenne, and his other generals, who had never suspected his intention, instantly moved forward against the enemy.--_davila_, lib. viii. . the king of navarre (henry iv.), by his manifesto, published in , after discussing sundry points of state with the leaguers, defied the duke of guise, their loader, to mortal combat, body to body, or two to two, or ten to ten, or twenty to twenty. to this romantic defiance the duke returned no direct answer; but his partizans alleged, that as the quarrel betwixt the king of navarre and their patron did not arise from private enmity, it could not become the subject of single combat. _davila_ lib. vii.] . this alludes to the defacing the duke of york's picture at guildhall; an outrage stigmatized in the epilogue to "venice preserved," where otway says, nothing shall daunt his pen, when truth does call; no, not the picture-mangler at guildhall. the rebel tribe, of which that vermin's one. have now set forward, and their course begun; and while that prince's figure they deface, as they before had massacred his name, durst their base fears but look him in the face, they'd use his person as they've used his fame; a face, in which such lineaments they read of that great martyr's, whose rich blood they shed. the picture-mangler is explained by a marginal note to be, "the rascal, that cut the duke of york's picture." the same circumstance is mentioned in "_musa præfica_, or the london poem, or a humble oblation on the sacred tomb of our late gracious monarch king charles ii., of ever blessed and eternal memory; by a loyal apprentice of the honourable city of london." the writer mentions the duke of york as --loaded with indignity, already martyred in effigy. o blast the arm, that dared that impious blow! let heaven reward him with a vengeance meet, who god's anointed dared to overthrow! his head had suffered, when they pierced his feet. explained to allude to the duke of york's "picture in guildhall, cut from the legs downward undiscovered." in another tory ballad, we have this stanza in the character of a fanatic: we'll smite the idol in guildhall, and then, as we are wont, we'll cry it was a popish plot, and swear these rogues have done't. . this speech depends on the gesticulation of the sorcerer: guise first desires him report the danger to the people,--then bids him halt, and express his judgment more fully. malicorn makes signs of assassination.--guise goes on-- --let him if he dare. but more, more, more;-- i.e. i have a further reason than state policy for my visit.--malicorn makes repeated signs of ignorance and discontent; and guise urges him to speak out on a subject, which he himself was unwilling to open. . the business of this scene is taken from the following passage. _"entrò il duca di guisa in parigi il lunedì nono giorno di maggio, ch' era gia vicino il mezzogiorno, non con maggior comitiva che di sette cavalli tra gentiluomini e servitori: ma come una piccolo palla di neve, che discende dall' erto si va tanto ingrossando, che nel fine diviene quasi una montagna eminente; così abandonando il popolo le case e le botteghe, con plauso e con allegrezza, per seguitarlo, non fu a mezzo la città, che aveva dietro più di trentamila persone, ed era tanta la calca, che a pena egli medesimo poteva seguitare la sua strada. andavan le grida del popolo insino al cielo, nè mai fu con tanto plauso gridato, "vita il re" con quanto ora si gridava "vita guisa." chi lo sulutava, chi lo ringraziava, chi se gl' inchinava, chi gli baciava le falde de' vestimenti, chi, non potendo accostarsi, con le mani e con i gesti di tutto il corpo dava segui profusi d' allegrezza; e furono veduti di quelli che, adorandolo come santo, lo toccavano con le corone, e le medesime poi o baciavano, o con esse si toccavano gli occhi e la fronte; e sino le donne dalle finestra, spargendo fiori e fronde, onoravano e benedicevano la sua venuta. egli all' incontro, con viso popolare e con faccia ridente, altri accarezzava con le parole, altri risalutava con i gesti, altri rallegrava con l' occhio, e traversando le caterve del popolo con la testa scoperta, non permetteva cosa alcuna, che fosse a proposito per finire a conciliarsi la benevolenza e l' applauso popolare. in questa maniera, senza fermarsi alla sua casa, andò a dirittura a smontare a sant' eustachio al palazzo della reina madre, la quale mezza attonita per il suo venire improvviso; perchè monsignor di bellieure arrivato tre ore innanzi aveva posto in dubbio la sua venuta; lo ricevè pallida nel volto, tutta tremante e contra l' ordinario costume della natura sua quasi smarrita. le dimostrazioni del duca di guisa furono piene d' affettuosa umiltà e di profonda sommissione: le parole della reina ambigue, dicendoli; che lo vedeva volentieri, ma che molto più volontieri l' arebbe veduto in altro tempo; alla quale egli rispose con sembiante modestissimo ma con parole altiere: ch' egli era buon servitore del re, e che avendo intese le calunnie date all' innocenza sua, e le cose che si trattavano contra la religione e contra gli uomini dabbene di quel popolo, era venuto, o per divertire il male, e espurgarese stesso, ovvero per lasciar la vita in servizio di santa chiesa e della salute universale. la reina, interrotto il ragionamento, mentre egli salutava, come è solito, le altre dame della corte, chiamò luigi davila suo gentiluomo d' onore, e gli commise, che facesse intendere al re, ch' era arrivato il duca di guisa, e ch' ella fra poco l' arebbe condotto al lovero personalmente. si commosse di maniera il re, ch' era nel suo gabinetto con monsignore di villaclera, con bellieure e con l' abbate del bene, che fu costretto appogiarsi col braccio, coprendosi la faccia, al tavolino, e interrogato il davila d' ogni particolare, gli commandò, che dicesse segretamente alla reina, che framettesse più tempo che fosse possibile alla venuta. l' abbate del bene e il colonello alfonso corso, il quale entrò in questo punto nel gabinetto, e era confidentissimo, servitore del re, e pieno di merito verso la corona, lo consigliavano, che ricevendo il duca di guisa nel medesimo gabinetto, lo facese uccidere subito nell' istesso luogo, dicendo l' abbate questo_ percutiam pastorem, et dispergentur oves_. ma villaclera, bellieure, e il gran cancelliere che sopravvenne, furono di contrario parere allegando esesr tanta la commozione del popolo, che in caso tale, sprezzando la maestà regia, e rompendo tutti i vincoli delle leggi, sarebbe corso a precipitosa vendetta, e che non essendo le cose ancora apparecchiate per la difesa propria, e per frenare il furore della città le forze de' parigini erano troppo poderose parole per stuzzicarle."_ lib. ix. . for this scene also, which gave great offence to the followers of monmouth, our author had the authority of davila in the continuation of the passage already quoted. _"mentre il re sta dubbioso nell' animo, sopraggiunse la reina, che conduceva il duca di guisa essendo venuta nella sua seggetta, e il duca accompagnatala sempre a piedi; ma con tanto seguito e frequenza di gente, che tutta la città pareva ridotta nel giro del cortile del lovero e nelle strade vicine. traversarono fra la spalliera de' soldati, essendo presente monsignor di griglione maestro di campo della guardia, il quale uomo libero e militare, e poco amico del duca di guisa, mentre egli s' inchina ad ogni privato soldato, fece pochissimo sembiante di riverirlo, il che da lui fu con qualche pallidezza del volto ben osservato, la quale continuò maggiormente, poichè vide gli suizzeri far spalliera con l'arme a piedi della scala, e nella sala gli arcieri, e nelle camere i gentiluomini tutti radunati per aspettarlo. entrarono nella camera del re, il quale mentre il duca di guisa con profonda riverenza se gl' inchinò, con viso scorrucciato gli disse; io v' avevo fatto intendere, che non veniste. a queste parole il duca con l' istessa sommissione, che aveva fatto alla reina, ma con parole più ritenute, rispose. ch' egli era venuto a mettersi nelle braccia della giustitia di sua maestà, per iscolparsi delle calunnie, che gli erano apposte da' suoi nemici, e che nondimeno non sarebbe venuto, quando gli fosse stato detto chiaramente, che sua maestà comandata, che non venisse. il re rivolto a bellieure, alteratamente lo domandò s' era vero, che gli avesse data commissione di dire al duca di guisa, che non venisse, se non voleva esser tenuto per autore delli scandali, e delle sollevazioni de' parigini. monseignor di bellieure si feceinnanzi, e volle render conto dell' ambasciata sua; ma nel principio del parlare, il re l' interruppe, dicendogli, che bastava, e rivolto al duca di guisa disse; che non sapeva, ch' egii fosse stato calunniato da persona alcuna, ma che la sua innocenza sarebbe apparsa chiara, quando dalla sua venuta non fosse nata alcuna novità, e interrotta la quiete del governo, come si prevedeva. la reina pratica della natura del re, conoscendolo dalla faccia inclinato a qualche gagliarda risoluzione, lo tirò da parte, e gli disse in sostanza quel che aveva veduto della concorrenza del popolo, e che non pensasse a deliberazioni precipitose, perchè non era tempo. il medesimo soggiunse la duchessa d' uzes, che gli era vicina, e il duca di guisa osservando attentamente ogni minuzia, come vide questa fluttazione, per non dar tempo al re di deliberare, si finse stracco dal viaggio, e licenziandosi brevemente da lui, accompagnato dall' istessa frequenza di popolo, ma da niuno di quelli della corte, si ritirò nella strada di sant' antonio alle sue case."_ lib. ix.] . see the speech of ashtaroth and his companions, on taking leave of rinaldo, whom they had transported to the field of roncisvalles: _noi ce n' andremo or, io e farfarello, tra le campane, e soneremo a festa, quando vedrem, che tu farai macello. in roncisvalle una certa chiesetta era in quel tempo, ch' avea due campane, quivi stetton coloro alla veletta, per ciuffar di quell' anime pagane, come sparvier tra ramo e ramo aspetta; e bisognò, che menassin le mane, e che e' batessin tutto il giorno l' ali, a presentarle a' guidici infernali._ il morgante maggiore, canto xxvi. st. , . . see the speech of ashtaroth to rinaldo, in the morgante maggiore. _noi abbiam come voi principe e duce giù nell' inferno, e 'l primo è belzebue, chi una cosa, e chi altra conduce, ognuno attende alle faccende sue; ma tutto a belzebù, poi si riduce perchè lucifer relegato fue ultimo a tutti, e nel centro più imo, poi ch' egli intese esser nel ciel su primo._ canto xv. st. . . this striking account of the entry of the guards is literally from davila. "_la mattina del giovedi duodecimo giorno dì maggio, un' ora innanzi giorno, si sentirono i pifferi e i tamburi degli suizzeri, che battendo l' ordinanza entrarono nella città per la porta di sant' onorato, precedendo il maresciallo di birone a cavallo, e conseguentamente sotto i loro capitani entrarono con le corde accese le compagníe de' francesi."--"all' entrare della milizia, nota a tutta la città per lo strepito de' tamburi, il popolo pieno di spavento, e già certo, che la fama divolgata dell' intenzione del re era più che sicura, cominciò a radunarsi, serrando le porte delle case, e chiudendo l'entrate delle botteghe, che conforme all' uso della città di lavorare innanzi giorno, già s' erano cominciare ad aprire, e ognuno si messe a preparare l'armi, apettando l'ordine di quello si dovesse operare._" lib. ix. . it was a frequent complaint of the tories at this period, that the commons, in zeal for their own privileges and immunities, were apt sometimes to infringe the personal liberties of the subject. this is set forth with some humour in a political pamphlet of the day, called, "a dialogue betwixt sam, the ferryman of datchet, will, a waterman of london, and tom, a bargeman of oxford;" upon the king's calling a parliament to meet at oxford, london, . "as to their own members, they turned them out, and took others in at their will and pleasure; and if they made any fault, they expelled them; and wherever any stood in competition for any town, him they knew would give his vote along with them was admitted, right or wrong. and then they terrified all the sheriffs, mayors, and bailiffs in the kingdom, besides abundance of gentlemen and other honest countrymen. for, on the least complaint of any man's misdemeanour, or information from any member, immediately a serjeant at arms was sent for them, and so much a mile and hour paid, and down on their marrowbones to their worships, and a sound scolding from mr speaker, or else to the tower or gatehouse they went. the king, god bless him, never took a quarter of that state on him they did ... it was brought to that pass, that two footboys, boxing one day in the palace-yard, he that was beaten proved to belong to a member, and told the other boy, if he knew his master, he would cause him to be sent for in custody, for keeping such a rogue as he was, that had committed a breach of privilege in beating a member's servant. the boy replied, if it would do him any kindness, he would beat him again, and tell him his master's name into the bargain; and would lay him a crown, that, though his master should bid the speaker, and all the house of commons, kiss, &c. they durst not send a serjeant at arms for him. the beaten boy, much nettled at his speech, laid down his money, as the other did: now, said the boy, my master is the king of france, and i am come over with some of his servants to fetch horses out of england; go, bid thy master and the house of commons send a serjeant at arms to fetch him over.--_sam._ before my heart it was a good answer; i hope he won his monies?--_will._ so he did; but it was put into a waterman's hands, and when it was demanded, says the beaten boy, sirrah, give it him, if you dare; if his master be the king of france, i'll make you answer it before the house of commons. the waterman durst do no other, but gave either their own monies. there's no contending with parliament men, or parliament men's men, nor boys." some occasion was given for these reproaches by the summary and arbitrary commitment of many individuals, who had addressed the king in terms expressing their abhorrence of the vehement petitions presented by the other party for the sitting of parliament, and were thence distinguished by the name of abhorrers. this course was ended by the sturdy resistance of one stowell, who had, as foreman of the grand jury at exeter, presented an _abhorring_ address to the king. a serjeant at arms having been sent to apprehend him, he refused to submit, and bid the officer take his course, adding, he knew no law which made him accountable for what he did as a grand juryman. the house were so much embarrassed by his obstinacy, that they hushed up the matter by voting that he was indisposed, and adjourning the debate _sine dic._ . this famous interview betwixt grillon and the king deserved to have been brought on the stage, in a nobler strain, and free from the buffoonery, by which the veteran's character is degraded. it is thus told by davila: _"trattandosi delle persone, che avessero da eseguire il fatto, il re elesse di fidarsene nel maestro di campo della sua guardia griglione, uomo feroce e ardito e per molte cagioni nemico del duca di guisa. fattolo perciò venire, gli espose con accomodate parole il suo pensiero, e gli significò aver disegnato, che egli fosse quello, che eseguisse l' impresa, nella quale consisteva tutta la sua salute. griglione rispose con brevi e significanti parole: sire, io sono ben servitore a vostra maestà di somma fedeltà e divozione, ma faccio professione di soldato, e di cavuliero; s' ella vuoles ch' io vada a sfidare il duca di guisa, e che mi ammazzi a corpo a corpo con lui, son pronto a farlo in questo istesso punto; ma ch' io serva di manigoldo, mentre la giustizia sua determina di farlo morire, questo non si conviene a par mio, nè sono per farlo giammai. il re non si stupì molto della libertà di griglione, noto a lui e a tutta la corte per uomo schietto, e che libramente diceva i suoi sensi senza timore alcuno, e però replicò; che gli bastava, che tenesse segreta questo pensiero, perchè non l' aveva communicato ad alcun altro, e divulgandosi egli sarebbe stato colpevole d' averlo palesato. a questo rispose griglione: essere servitore di fede, d' onore, nè dover mai ridire i segreti interessi del padrone, e partito lasciò il re grandemente dubbioso di quello dovesse operare."_ lib. ix. . a similar assemblage of terrific circumstances announces the arrival of a fiend upon a similar errand, in the old play, entitled, the "merry devil of edmonton." what means the trolling of this fatal chime? o what a trembling horror strikes my heart! my stiffened hair stands upright on my head, as do the bristles of a porcupine. * * * * * coreb, is't thou? i know thee well; i hear the watchful dogs, with hollow howling, tell of thy approach. the lights burn dim, affrighted with thy presence, and this distempered and tempestuous night tells me the air is troubled with some devil! dryden certainly appears to have had the old play in his memory though he has far excelled it. . on the evening previous to the assassination, the seigneur de larchant accosted the duke as he passed from his own lodging to the king's, accompanied by a body of soldiers, who, he pretended, were petitioners for the duke's interest, to obtain payment of their arrears, and would attend at the door of the council next day, to remind him of their case. this pretext was to account for the unusual number of guards, which might otherwise have excited g uise's suspicion. . _intanto il duca entrato nel consiglio, e pustosi in una sedia vicina al fuoco si sentì un poco di svenimento, o che allora, gli sovcenisse il pericolo, net quale si ritrovava, separato e diviso da tutti i suoi, o che natura, come bene spesso avviene, presaga del mal futuro da se medesima allora si risentizze, o come dissero i suoi malevoli, per essere stato la medesima notte con madama di marmoutiere amata grandemente da lui, e essersi soverchiamente debilitato._ davila, lib. ix.] . the murder of guise was perpetrated in the anti-chamber, before the door of the king's cabinet. lognac, a gentleman of the king's chamber, and a creature of the late duke de joyeuse, commanded the assassins, who were eight in number. the duke never was able to unsheath his sword, being slain with many wounds as he grappled with lognac. the king himself was in the cabinet, and listened to the murderous scuffle, till the noise of guise's fall announced its termination. the cardinal of guise, and the archbishop of lyons were also within hearing, and were arrested, while they were endeavouring to call their attendants to guise's assistance. the cardinal was next day murdered by da gast, to whose custody he had been commuted.] . literally from davila: _"ora comparse il re, le dimanda egli primo, come ella stava; al quale avendo risposto che si sentisse meglio, egli ripigliò: ancor io mi trovo ora molto meglio, perchè questa mattina son fatto re di francia avendo fatto morire il re di parigi. alle quali parole, replicò la reina: voi avete fatto morire il duca di guisa, ma dio voglia che non siate ora fatto re da niente; avete tagliato bene, non so, se cucirete così bene. avete voi preveduti i mali, che sono per succedere? provvedetevi diligentemente. due cose sono necessarie, prestezza e risoluzione."_ lib. ix.] epilogue. written by mr dryden[ ]. spoken by mrs cook. much time and trouble this poor play has cost; and, 'faith, i doubted once the cause was lost. yet no one man was meant, nor great, nor small; our poets, like frank gamesters, threw at all. they took no single aim:-- but, like bold boys, true to their prince, and hearty, huzza'd, and fired broadsides at the whole party. duels are crimes; but, when the cause is right, in battle every man is bound to fight. for what should hinder me to sell my skin, } dear as i could, if once my hand were in? } _se defendendo_ never was a sin. } 'tis a fine world, my masters! right or wrong, the whigs must talk, and tories hold their tongue. they must do all they can, but we, forsooth, must bear a christian mind; and fight, like boys, with one hand tied behind; nay, and when one boy's down, 'twere wond'rous wise, to cry,--box fair, and give him time to rise. when fortune favours, none but fools will dally; } would any of you sparks, if nan, or mally, } tip you the inviting wink, stand, shall i, shall i? } a trimmer cried, (that heard me tell this story) fie, mistress cook, 'faith you're too rank a tory! wish not whigs hanged, but pity their hard cases; you women love to see men make wry faces.-- pray, sir, said i, don't think me such a jew; i say no more, but give the devil his due.-- lenitives, says he, suit best with our condition.-- jack ketch, says i, is an excellent physician.-- i love no blood.--nor i, sir, as i breathe; but hanging is a fine dry kind of death.-- we trimmers are for holding all things even.-- yes; just like him that hung 'twixt hell and heaven.-- have we not had men's lives enough already?-- yes, sure: but you're for holding all things steady. now since the weight hangs all on one side, brother, you trimmers should, to poize it, hang on t'other. damned neuters, in their middle way of steering, are neither fish, nor flesh, nor good red-herring: not whigs, nor tories they; nor this, nor that; not birds, nor beasts; but just a kind of bat: a twilight animal, true to neither cause, with tory wings, but whigish teeth and claws[ ]. footnotes: . there is in mr bindley's collection another epilogue, which appears to have been originally subjoined to the "duke of guise." it is extremely coarse; and as the author himself suppressed it, the editor will not do his better judgment the injustice to revive it. . the trimmers, a body small and unpopular, as must always be the case with those, who in violent times declare for moderate and temporising measures, were headed by the ingenious and politic halifax. he had much of the confidence, at least of the countenance of charles, who was divided betwixt tenderness for monmouth, and love of ease, on the one hand, and, on the other, desire of arbitrary power, and something like fear of the duke of york. halifax repeatedly prevented each of these parties from subjugating the other, and his ambidexter services seem to have been rewarded by the sincere hatred of both. in was published a vindication of this party, entitled, "the character of a trimmer;" and his opinion of,--i. the laws of government. ii. protestant religion. iii. foreign affairs. by the hon. sir william coventry. the vindication: or, the parallel of the french holy league, and the english league and covenant, turned into a seditious libel against the king and his royal highness, by thomas hunt, and the authors of the reflections upon the pretended parallel in the play called the duke of guise. _turno tempus erit magno cum optaverit emptum intactum pallanta: et cum spolia ista, diemque oderit.--_ vindication of the duke of guise. it was easy to foresee, that a play, which professed to be a _broadside_ discharged at the whole popular party, would not long remain uncensured. the satire being derived from a historical parallel of some delicacy, offered certain facilities of attack to the critics. it was only stretching the resemblance beyond the bounds to which dryden had limited it, and the comparison became odious, if not dangerous. the whig writers did not neglect this obvious mode of attack, now rendered more popular by the encroachment lately attempted by the court upon the freedom of the city, whose magistrates had been exposed to ridicule in the play. our readers cannot but remember, that, in order to break the spirit of the city of london, a writ of _quo warranto_ was issued against the incorporation, by which was instituted a vexatious and captious inquiry into the validity of the charter of london. the purpose of this process was to compel the city to resign their freedom and immunities into the king's hands, and to receive a new grant of them, so limited, as might be consistent with the views of the crown, or otherwise to declare them forfeited. one thomas hunt, a lawyer of some eminence, who had been solicitor for the viscount stafford when that unfortunate nobleman was tried for high treason, and had written upon the side of the tories, but had now altered his principles, stepped forward upon this occasion as the champion of the immunities of the city of london[ ]. the ludicrous light in which the sheriffs are placed, during the scene with grillon in the third act, gave great offence to this active partizan; and he gives vent to his displeasure in the following attack upon the author, and the performance. "they have already condemned the charter and city, and have executed the magistrates in effigy upon the stage, in a play called "the duke of guise," frequently acted and applauded; intended most certainly, to provoke the rabble into tumults and disorder. the roman priest had no success, (god be thanked,) when he animated the people not to suffer the same sheriffs to be carried through the city to the tower, prisoners. now the poet hath undertaken, for their being kicked three or four times a-week about the stage to the gallows, infamously rogued and rascalled, to try what he can do towards making the charter forfeitable, by some extravagancy and disorder of the people, which the authority of the best governed cities have not been able to prevent, sometimes under far less provocations. "but this ought not to move the citizens, when he hath so maliciously and mischievously represented the king, and the king's son, nay, and his favourite the duke too, to whom he gives the worst strokes of his unlucky fancy. "he puts the king under the person of henry iii. of france, who appeared in the head of the _parisian_ massacre; the king's son under the person of the duke of guise, who concerted it with the queen-mother of france, and was slain in that very place, by the righteous judgment of god, where he and his mother had first contrived it. "the duke of guise ought to have represented a great prince, that had inserved to some most detestable villany, to please the rage, or lust, of a tyrant. "such great courtiers have been often sacrificed, to appease the furies of the tyrant's guilty conscience, to expiate for his sin, and to atone the people. "besides, that a tyrant naturally stands in fear of ministers of mighty wickedness; he is always obnoxious to them, he is a slave to them, as long as they live they remember him of his guilt, and awe him. these wicked slaves become most imperious masters: they drag him to greater evils for their own impunity, than they first perpetrated for his pleasure, and their own ambition. "but such are best given up to public justice, but by no means to be assassinated. until this age, never before was an assassination invited, commended, and encouraged upon a public theatre. "it is no wonder that _trimmers_ (so they call men of some moderation of that party) displease them; for they seem to have designs for which it behoves them to know their men; they must be perfectly wicked, or perfectly deceived; of the catiline make; bold, and without understanding; that can adhere to men that publicly profess murders, and applaud the design. "caius cæsar (to give unto cæsar the things that are cæsar's) was in the catiline conspiracy; and then the word was, _he that is not for us is against us;_ for the instruments of wickedness must be men that are resolute and forward, and without consideration; or they will deceive the design, and relent when they enterprize. "but when he was made dictator, and had some pretences, and a probability by means less wicked and mischievous to arrive at the government, his words were, _he that is not against us is with us._ but to pompey only it belonged, and to his cause, or the like cause, to the defenders of ancient established governments, of the english monarchy and liberties, to say, they that are not with us are against us. _in internecino bello,_ in attacks upon government, _medii pro hostibus habentur,_ neutral men are traitors, and assist, by their indifferency, to the destruction of the government. as many as applaud this play, ought to be put under sureties of the peace; and yet not one warrant, that we hear of yet, granted by the lord chief justice. "but it is not a duke of guise to be assassinated, a turbulent, wicked, and haughty courtier; but an innocent and gentle prince, as well as brave, and renowned for noble achievements: a prince, that hath no fault, but that he is the king's son; and the best too of all his sons; such a son, as would have made the best of emperors happy. "except it be, that the people honour him and love him, and every where publicly and loudly show it: but this they do, for that the best people of england have no other way left to show their loyalty to the king, and love to their religion and government, in long intervals of parliament, than by prosecuting his son, for the sake of the king and his own merit, with all the demonstrations of the highest esteem. "but he hath not used his patron duke much better; for he hath put him under a most dismal and unfortunate character of a successor, excluded from the crown by act of state for his religion, who fought his way to the crown, changed his religion, and died by the hand of a roman assassinate. "it is enough to make his great duke's courage quail, to find himself under such an unlucky and disastrous representation, and thus personated; besides, he hath offered a justification of an act of exclusion against a popish successor, in a protestant kingdom, by remembering what was done against the king of navarre. "the popish religion, in france, did, _de facto,_ by act of state, exclude a protestant prince, who is under no obligation, from his religion, to destroy his popish subjects. "though a popish prince is, to destroy his protestant subjects. "a popish prince, to a protestant kingdom, without more, must be the most insufferable tyrant, and exceed the character that any story can furnish for that sort of monster: and yet all the while to himself a religious and an applauded prince; discharged from the tortures that ordinarily tear and rend the hearts of the most cruel princes, and make them as uneasy to themselves as they are to their subjects, and sometimes prevail so far as to lay some restraints upon their wicked minds. "but this his patron will impute to his want of judgment; for this poet's heroes are commonly such monsters as theseus and hercules are, renowned throughout all ages for destroying. "but to excuse him, this man hath forsaken his post, and entered upon another province. to "the observator"[ ] it belongs to confound truth and falsehood; and, by his false colours and impostures, to put out the eyes of the people, and leave them without understanding. "but our poet hath not so much art left him as to frame any thing agreeable, or _verisimilar_, to amuse the people, or wherewith to deceive them. "his province is to corrupt the manners of the nation, and lay waste their morals; his understanding is clapt, and his brains are vitiated, and he is to rot the age. "his endeavours are more happily applied, to extinguish the little remains of the virtue of the age by bold impieties, and befooling religion by impious and inept rhymes, to confound virtue and vice, good and evil, and leave us without consciences. "and thus we are prepared for destruction. "but to give the world a taste of his atheism and impiety, i shall recite two of his verses, as recited upon the stage, viz. for conscience, and heaven's fear, religious rules, they are all state-bells to toll in pious fools; which i have done the rather, that some honest judge, or justice, may direct a process against this bold impious man; or some honest surrogate, or official, may find leisure to proceed, _ex officio,_ against him, notwithstanding at present they are so encumbered with the dissenters. "such public blasphemies against religion, never were unpunished in any country, or age, but this. "but i have made too long a digression, but that it carries with it some instructions towards the preserving of the honour of your august city, viz. "that you do not hereafter authorise the stage to expose and revile your great officers, and offices, by the indignities yourselves do them; whilst the papists clap their hands, and triumph at your public disgraces, and in the hopes they conceive thereby of the ruin of your government, as if that were as sure and certain to them, as it is to us, without doubt, that they once fired it. "and further, for that it was fit to set forth to the world, of what spirit our enemies are, how they intend to attack us; as also, how bold they are with his majesty, what false and dishonourable representations they make of him, and present to the world upon a public theatre; which, i must confess, hath moved me with some passion." this angry barrister was not the only adversary whom dryden had to encounter on this occasion. thomas shadwell, a man of some talents for comedy, and who professed to tread in the footsteps of ben jonson, had for some time been at variance with dryden and otway. he was probably the author of a poem, entitled, "a lenten prologue, refused by the players;" which is marked by mr luttrel, th april, , and contains the following direct attack on "the duke of guise," and the author: our prologue wit grows flat; the nap's worn off, and howsoe'er we turn and trim the stuff, the gloss is gone that looked at first so gaudy; 'tis now no jest to hear young girls talk bawdry. but plots and parties give new matters birth, and state distractions serve you here for mirth. at england's cost poets now purchase fame; while factious heats destroy us, without shame, these wanton neroes fiddle to the flame; the stage, like old rump-pulpits, is become the scene of news, a furious party's drum: here poets beat their brains for volunteers, and take fast hold of asses by their ears; their jingling rhimes for reason here you swallow, like orpheus' music, it makes beasts to follow. what an enlightening grace is want of bread! how it can change a libeller's heart, and clear a laureat's head; open his eyes, till the mad prophet see _plots working in a future power to be!_ (medal, p. .) traitors unformed to his second sight are clear. and squadrons here and squadrons there appear; rebellion is the burden of the seer. to bayes, in vision, were of late revealed, _whig armies, that at knightsbridge lay concealed;_ and though no mortal eye could see't before, _the battle just was entering at the door._ a dangerous association, signed by none, the joiner's plot to seize the king alone. stephen with college[ ] made this dire compact; the watchful irish took them in the fact. of riding armed; o traitorous overt act! with each of them an ancient pistol sided, against the statute in that case provided. but, why was such a host of swearers pressed? their succour was ill husbandry at best. bayes's crowned muse, by sovereign right of satire, without desert, can dub a man a traitor; and tories, without troubling law or reason, by loyal instinct can find plots and treason. a more formal attack was made in a pamphlet, entitled, "some reflections on the pretended parallel in the play called the duke of guise." this dryden, in the following vindication, supposes to have been sketched by shadwell, and finished by a gentleman of the temple[ ]. in these reflections, the obvious ground of attack, occupied by hunt, is again resumed. the general indecency of a theatrical exhibition, which alluded to state-transactions of a grave and most important nature; the indecorum of comparing the king to such a monarch as henry iii., infamous for treachery, cruelty, and vices of the most profligate nature; above all, the parallel betwixt the dukes of monmouth and guise, by which the former is exhibited as a traitor to his father, and recommended as no improper object for assassination--are topics insisted on at some length, and with great vehemence. our author was not insensible to these attacks, by which his loyalty to the king, and the decency of his conduct towards monmouth, the king's offending, but still beloved, son, and once dryden's own patron, stood painfully compromised. accordingly, shortly after these pamphlets had appeared, the following advertisement was annexed to "the duke of guise:" "there was a preface intended to this play in vindication of it, against two scurrilous libels lately printed; but it was judged, that a defence of this nature would require more room than a preface reasonably could allow. for this cause, and for the importunities of the stationers, who hastened their impression, it is deferred for some little time, and will be printed by itself. most men are already of opinion, that neither of the pamphlets deserve an answer, because they are stuffed with open falsities, and sometimes contradict each other; but, for once, they shall have a day or two thrown away upon them, though i break an old custom for their sakes, which was,--to scorn them." the resolution, thus announced, did not give universal satisfaction to our author's friends; one of whom published the following remonstrance, which contains some good sense, in very indifferent poetry: _an epode to his worthy friend_ john dryden, _to advise him not to answer two malicious pamphlets against his tragedy called_ "the duke of guise." (_marked by luttrel, march, / ._) can angry frowns rest on thy noble brow for trivial things; or, can a stream of muddy water flow from the muses' springs; or great apollo bend his vengeful bow 'gainst popular stings? desist thy passion then; do not engage thyself against the wittols of the age. should we by stiff tom thimble's faction fall, lord, with what noise the coffee throats would bellow, and the ball o' the change rejoice, and with the company of pinner's hall lift up their voice! once the head's gone, the good cause is secure; the members cannot long resist our power. crop not their humours; let the wits proceed till they have thrown their venom up; and made themselves indeed rare fops o'ergrown: let them on nasty garbage prey and feed, till all is done; and, by thy great resentment, think it fit to crush their hopes, as humble as their wit. consider the occasion, and you'll find yourself severe, and unto rashness much more here inclined, by far, than they're: consider them as in their proper kind, 'tween rage and fear, and then the reason will appear most plain,-- a worm that's trod on will turn back again. what if they censure without brain or sense, 'tis now the fashion; each giddy fop endeavours to commence a reformation. pardon them for their native ignorance, and brainsick passion; for, after all, true men of sense will say,-- their works can never parallel thy play. 'twere fond to pamper spleen, 'cause owls detest the light of day; or real nonsense, which endures no test, condemns thy play. lodge not such petty trifles in thy breast, but bar their sway; and let them know, that thy heroic bays can scorn their censure, as it doth their praise. think not thy answer will their nice reclaim, whose heads are proof against all reason, and in spite of shame will stand aloof; 'twould cherish further libels on thy fame, should these thee move. stand firm, my dryden, maugre all their plots, thy bays shall flourish when their ivy rots. but if you are resolved to break your use, and basely sin, in answer; i'll be sworn some haggard muse has you in her gin; or in a fit you venture to abuse your polyhymn', you may serve him so far: but if you do, all your true friends, sir, will reflect on you. the remonstrance of this friendly poet was unavailing; dryden having soon after published the following vindication. footnotes: . "a defence of the charter and municipal rights of the city of london, and the rights of other municipal cities and towns of england. directed to the citizens of london, by thomas hunt. _si populus vult decipi, decipiatur._ london, printed, and to be sold, by richard baldwin." to, pages . wood informs us, that thomas hunt, the author, was educated at queen's college, cambridge, and was esteemed a person of quick parts, and of a ready fluency in discourse, but withal too pert and forward. he was called to the bar, and esteemed a good lawyer. in he became clerk of the assizes at oxford circuit, but was ejected from the office at the restoration, to his great loss, to make room for the true owner. he wrote, "an argument for the bishops' right of judging in capital cases in parliament, &c.;" for which he expected (says anthony) no less than to be made lord chief baron of the exchequer in ireland. but falling short of that honourable office, which he too ambitiously catched at, and considering the loss of another place, which he unjustly possessed, he soon after appeared one of the worst and most inveterate enemies to church and state that was in his time, and the most malicious, and withal the most ignorant, scribbler of the whole herd; and was thereupon stiled, by a noted author, (dryden, in the following vindication,) _magni nominis umbra_. hunt also published, "great and weighty considerations on the duke of york, &c." in favour of the exclusion. he had also the boldness to republish his high church tract in favour of the bishops' jurisdiction, with a whig postscript tending to destroy his own arguments.--_ath. ox._ ii, p. . . a tory paper, then conducted with great zeal, and some controversial talent, by sir roger l'estrange. . alluding to the fate of stephen college, the protestant joiner; a meddling, pragmatical fellow, who put himself so far forward in the disputes at oxford, as to draw down the vengeance of the court. he was very harshly treated during his trial; and though in the toils, and deprived of all assistance, defended himself with right english manliness. he was charged with the ballad on page . and with coming to oxford armed to attack the guards. he said he did not deny he had pistols in his holsters at oxford; to which jefferies answered, indecently, but not unaptly, he "thought a chissel might have been more proper for a joiner." poor college was executed; a vengeance unworthy of the king, who might have apostrophised him as hamlet does polonius: thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell; i took thee for thy betters--take thy fortune. thou findst, to be too busy is some danger. . anthony wood is followed by mr malone in supposing, that hunt himself is the templar alluded to. but dryden seems obviously to talk of the author of the defence, and the two reflectors, as three separate persons. he calls them, "the sputtering triumvirate, mr hunt, and the two reflectors;" and again, "what says my lord chief baron (i.e. hunt) to the business? what says the livery-man templar? what says og, the king of basan (i.e. shadwell) to it?" the templar may be discovered, when we learn, who hired a livery-gown to give a vote among the electors. the vindication of the duke of guise. in the year of his majesty's happy restoration, the first play i undertook was the "duke of guise;" as the fairest way, which the act of indemnity had then left us, of setting forth the rise of the late rebellion; and by exploding the villainies of it upon the stage, to precaution posterity against the like errors. as this was my first essay, so it met with the fortune of an unfinished piece; that is to say, it was damned in private, by the advice of some friends to whom i shewed it; who freely told me, that it was an excellent subject; but not so artificially wrought, as they could have wished; and now let my enemies make their best of this confession. the scene of the duke of guise's return to paris, against the king's positive command, was then written. i have the copy of it still by me, almost the same which it now remains, being taken verbatim out of davila; for where the action is remarkable, and the very words related, the poet is not at liberty to change them much; and if he will be adding any thing for ornament, it ought to be wholly of a piece. this do i take for a sufficient justification of that scene, unless they will make the pretended parallel to be a prophecy, as well as a parallel of accidents, that were twenty years after to come.[ ] neither do i find, that they can suggest the least colour for it in any other part of the tragedy. but now comes the main objection,--why was it stopt then? to which i shall render this just account, with all due respects to those who were the occasion of it. upon a wandering rumour (which i will divide betwixt malice and mistake) that some great persons were represented, or personated in it, the matter was complained of to my lord chamberlain; who, thereupon, appointed the play to be brought to him, and prohibited the acting of it until further order; commanding me, after this, to wait upon his lordship; which i did, and humbly desired him to compare the play with the history, from whence the subject was taken, referring to the first scene of the fourth act, whereupon the exception was grounded, and leaving davila (the original) with his lordship. this was before midsummer; and about two months after, i received the play back again from his lordship, but without any positive order whether it should be acted or not; neither was mr lee, or myself, any way solicitous about it. but this indeed i ever said, that it was intended for the king's service; and his majesty was the best judge, whether it answered that end or no; and that i reckoned it my duty to submit, if his majesty, for any reason whatsoever, should deem it unfit for the stage. in the interim, a strict scrutiny was made, and no parallel of the great person designed, could be made out. but this push failing, there were immediately started some terrible insinuations, that the person of his majesty was represented under that of henry the third; which if they could have found out, would have concluded, perchance, not only in the stopping of the play, but in the hanging up of the poets. but so it was, that his majesty's wisdom and justice acquitted both the one, and the other; and when the play itself was almost forgotten, there were orders given for the acting of it. this is matter of fact; and i have the honour of so great witnesses to the truth of what i have delivered, that it will need no other appeal. as to the exposing of any person living, our innocency is so clear, that it is almost unnecessary to say, it was not in my thought; and, as far as any one man can vouch for another, i do believe it was as little in mr lee's. and now since some people have been so busy as to cast out false and scandalous surmises, how far we two agreed upon the writing of it, i must do a common right both to mr lee and myself, to declare publicly, that it was at his earnest desire, without any solicitation of mine, that this play was produced betwixt us. after the writing of oedipus, i passed a promise to join with him in another; and he happened to claim the performance of that promise, just upon the finishing of a poem,[ ] when i would have been glad of a little respite before the undertaking of a second task. the person, that passed betwixt us, knows this to be true; and mr lee himself, i am sure, will not disown it; so that i did not "seduce him to join with me," as the malicious authors of the reflections are pleased to call it; but mr lee's loyalty is above so ridiculous a slander. i know very well, that the town did ignorantly call and take this to be my play; but i shall not arrogate to myself the merits of my friend. two-thirds of it belonged to him; and to me only the first scene of the play; the whole fourth act, and the first half, or somewhat more, of the fifth. the pamphleteers, i know, do very boldly insinuate, that, "before the acting of it, i took the whole play to myself; but finding afterwards how ill success it had upon the stage, i threw as much of it as possibly i could upon my fellow." now here are three damned lies crowded together into a very little room; first, that i assumed any part of it to myself, which i had not written; wherein i appeal, not only to my particular acquaintance, but to the whole company of actors, who will witness for me, that, in all the rehearsals, i never pretended to any one scene of mr lee's, but did him all imaginable right, in his title to the greater part of it. i hope i may, without vanity, affirm to the world, that i never stood in need of borrowing another man's reputation; and i have been as little guilty of the injustice, of laying claim to any thing which was not my own. nay, i durst almost refer myself to some of the angry poets on the other side, whether i have not rather countenanced and assisted their beginnings, than hindered them from rising.[ ] the two other falsities are, the "ill success of the play," and "my disowning it." the former is manifestly without foundation; for it succeeded beyond my very hopes, having been frequently acted, and never without a considerable audience; and then it is a thousand to one, that, having no ground to disown it, i did not disown it; but the universe to a nutshell that i did not disown it for want of success, when it succeeded so much beyond my expectation. but my malignant adversaries are the more excusable for this coarse method of breaking in upon truth and good manners, because it is the only way they have to gratify the genius and the interest of the faction together; and never so much pains taken neither, to so very, very little purpose. they decry the play, but in such a manner, that it has the effect of a recommendation. they call it "a dull entertainment;" and that is a dangerous word, i must confess, from one of the greatest masters in human nature, of that faculty. now i can forgive them this reproach too, after all the rest; for this play does openly discover the original and root of the practices and principles, both of their party and cause; and they are so well acquainted with all the trains and mazes of rebellion, that there is nothing new to them in the whole history. or what if it were a little insipid, there was no conjuring that i remember in "pope joan;" and the "lancashire witches" were without doubt the most insipid jades that ever flew upon a stage; and even these, by the favour of a party, made a shift to hold up their heads.[ ] now, if we have out-done these plays in their own dull way, their authors have some sort of privilege to throw the first stone; but we shall rather chuse to yield the point of dulness, than contend for it, against so indisputable a claim. but "matters of state (it seems) are canvassed on the stage, and things of the gravest concernment there managed;" and who were the aggressors, i beseech you, but a few factious, popular hirelings, that by tampering the theatres, and by poisoning the people, made a play-house more seditious than a conventicle; so that the loyal party crave only the same freedom of defending the government, which the other took beforehand of exposing and defaming it. there was no complaint of any disorders of the stage, in the bustle that was made (even to the forming of a party) to uphold a farce of theirs.[ ] upon the first day, the whole faction (in a manner) appeared; but after one sight of it, they sent their proxies of serving-men and porters, to clap in the right of their patrons; and it was impossible ever to have gotten off the nonsense of three hours for half-a-crown, but for the providence of so congruous an audience. thus far, i presume, the reckoning is even, for bad plays on both sides, and for plays written for a party. i shall say nothing of their poets' affection to the government; unless upon an absolute and an odious necessity. but to return to the pretended parallel. i have said enough already to convince any man of common sense, that there neither was, nor could be, any parallel intended; and it will farther appear, from the nature of the subject; there being no relation betwixt henry the third and the duke of guise, except that of the king's marrying into the family of lorraine. if a comparison had been designed, how easy had it been either to have found a story, or to have invented one, where the ties of nature had been nearer? if we consider their actions, or their persons, a much less proportion will be yet found betwixt them; and if we bate the popularity, perhaps none at all. if we consider them in reference to their parties, the one was manifestly the leader; the other, at the worst, is but misled. the designs of the one tended openly to usurpation; those of the other may yet be interpreted more fairly; and i hope, from the natural candour and probity of his temper, that it will come to a perfect submission and reconcilement at last. but that which perfectly destroys this pretended parallel is, that our picture of the duke of guise is exactly according to the original in the history; his actions, his manners, nay, sometimes his very words, are so justly copied, that whoever has read him in davila, sees him the same here. there is no going out of the way, no dash of a pen to make any by-feature resemble him to any other man; and indeed, excepting his ambition, there was not in france, or perhaps in any other country, any man of his age vain enough to hope he could be mistaken for him.[ ] so that if you would have made a parallel, we could not. and yet i fancy, that where i make it my business to draw likeness, it will be no hard matter to judge who sate for the picture. for the duke of guise's return to paris contrary to the king's order, enough already has been said; it was too considerable in the story to be omitted, because it occasioned the mischiefs that ensued. but in this likeness, which was only casual, no danger followed. i am confident there was none intended; and am satisfied that none was feared. but the argument drawn from our evident design is yet, if possible, more convincing. the first words of the prologue spake the play to be a parallel, and then you are immediately informed how far that parallel extended, and of what it is so: "the holy league begot the covenant, guisards got the whig, &c." so then it is not, (as the snarling authors of the reflections tell you) a parallel of the men, but of the times; a parallel of the factions, and of the leaguers. and every one knows that this prologue was written before the stopping of the play. neither was the name altered on any such account as they insinuate, but laid aside long before, because a book called the parallel had been printed, resembling the french league to the english covenant; and therefore we thought it not convenient to make use of another man's title.[ ] the chief person in the tragedy, or he whose disasters are the subject of it, may in reason give the name; and so it was called the "duke of guise." our intention therefore was to make the play a parallel betwixt the holy league, plotted by the house of guise and its adherents, with the covenant plotted by the rebels in the time of king charles i. and those of the new association, which was the spawn of the old covenant. but this parallel is plain, that the exclusion of the lawful heir was the main design of both parties; and that the endeavours to get the lieutenancy of france established on the head of the league, is in effect the same with offering to get the militia out of the king's hand (as declared by parliament,) and consequently, that the power of peace and war should be wholly in the people. it is also true that the tumults in the city, in the choice of their officers, have had no small resemblance with a parisian rabble: and i am afraid that both their faction and ours had the same good lord. i believe also, that if julian had been written and calculated for the parisians, as it was for our sectaries, one of their sheriffs might have mistaken too, and called him julian the apostle.[ ] i suppose i need not push this point any further; where the parallel was intended, i am certain it will reach; but a larger account of the proceedings in the city may be expected from a better hand, and i have no reason to forestall it.[ ] in the mean time, because there has been no actual rebellion, the faction triumph in their loyalty; which if it were out of principle, all our divisions would soon be ended, and we the happy people, which god and the constitution of our government have put us in condition to be; but so long as they take it for a maxim, that the king is but an officer in trust, that the people, or their representatives, are superior to him, judges of miscarriages, and have power of revocation, it is a plain case, that whenever they please they may take up arms; and, according to their doctrine, lawfully too. let them jointly renounce this one opinion, as in conscience and law they are bound to do, because both scripture and acts of parliament oblige them to it, and we will then thank their obedience for our quiet, whereas now we are only beholden to them for their fear. the miseries of the last war are yet too fresh in all men's memory; and they are not rebels, only because they have been so too lately. an author of theirs has told us roundly the west-country proverb; _chud eat more cheese, and chad it;_ their stomach is as good as ever it was; but the mischief on't is, they are either muzzled, or want their teeth. if there were as many fanatics now in england, as there were christians in the empire, when julian reigned, i doubt we should not find them much inclined to passive obedience; and, "curse ye meroz"[ ] would be oftener preached upon, than "give to cæsar," except in the sense mr hunt means it. having clearly shewn wherein the parallel consisted, which no man can mistake, who does not wilfully, i need not justify myself, in what concerns the sacred person of his majesty. neither the french history, nor our own, could have supplied me, nor plutarch himself, were he now alive, could have found a greek or roman to have compared to him, in that eminent virtue of his clemency; even his enemies must acknowledge it to be superlative, because they live by it. far be it from flattery, if i say, that there is nothing under heaven, which can furnish me with a parallel; and that, in his mercy, he is of all men the truest image of his maker. henry iii. was a prince of a mixed character; he had, as an old historian says of another, _magnas virtutes, nec minora vitia;_ but amongst those virtues, i do not find his forgiving qualities to be much celebrated. that he was deeply engaged in the bloody massacre of st bartholomew, is notoriously known; and if the relation printed in the memoirs of villeroy be true, he confesses there that the admiral having brought him and the queen-mother into suspicion with his brother then reigning, for endeavouring to lessen his authority, and draw it to themselves, he first designed his accuser's death by maurevel, who shot him with a carbine, but failed to kill him; after which, he pushed on the king to that dreadful revenge, which immediately succeeded. it is true, the provocations were high; there had been reiterated rebellions, but a peace was now concluded; it was solemnly sworn to by both parties, and as great an assurance of safety given to the protestants, as the word of a king and public instruments could make it. therefore the punishment was execrable, and it pleased god, (if we may dare to judge of his secret providence,) to cut off that king in the very flower of his youth, to blast his successor in his undertakings, to raise against him the duke of guise, the complotter and executioner of that inhuman action, (who, by the divine justice, fell afterwards into the same snare which he had laid for others,) and, finally, to die a violent death himself, murdered by a priest, an enthusiast of his own religion.[ ] from these premises, let it be concluded, if reasonably it can, that we could draw a parallel, where the lines were so diametrically opposite. we were indeed obliged, by the laws of poetry, to cast into shadows the vices of this prince; for an excellent critic has lately told us, that when a king is named, a hero is supposed;[ ] it is a reverence due to majesty, to make the virtues as conspicuous, and the vices as obscure, as we can possibly; and this, we own, we have either performed, or at least endeavoured. but if we were more favourable to that character than the exactness of history would allow, we have been far from diminishing a greater, by drawing it into comparison. you may see, through the whole conduct of the play, a king naturally severe, and a resolution carried on to revenge himself to the uttermost on the rebellious conspirators. that this was sometimes shaken by reasons of policy and pity, is confessed; but it always returned with greater force, and ended at last in the ruin of his enemies. in the mean time we cannot but observe the wonderful loyalty on the other side; that the play was to be stopped, because the king was represented. may we have many such proofs of their duty and respect! but there was no occasion for them here. it is to be supposed, that his majesty himself was made acquainted with this objection; if he were so, he was the supreme and only judge of it; and then the event justifies us. if it were inspected only by those whom he commanded, it is hard if his own officers and servants should not see as much ill in it as other men, and be as willing to prevent it; especially when there was no solicitation used to have it acted. it is known that noble person,[ ] to whom it was referred, is a severe critic on good sense, decency, and morality; and i can assure the world, that the rules of horace are more familiar to him, than they are to me. he remembers too well that the _vetus comædia_ was banished from the athenian theatre for its too much licence in representing persons, and would never have pardoned it in this or any play. what opinion henry iii. had of his successor, is evident from the words he spoke upon his deathbed: "he exhorted the nobility," says davila, "to acknowledge the king of navarre, to whom the kingdom of right belonged; and that they should not stick at the difference of religion; for both the king of navarre, a man of a sincere noble nature, would in the end return into the bosom of the church, and the pope, being better informed, would receive him into his favour, to prevent the ruin of the whole kingdom." i hope i shall not need in this quotation to defend myself, as if it were my opinion, that the pope has any right to dispose of kingdoms; my meaning is evident, that the king's judgment of his brother-in-law, was the same which i have copied; and i must farther add from davila, that the arguments i have used in defence of that succession were chiefly drawn from the king's answer to the deputies, as they may be seen more at large in pages , and , of the first edition of that history in english. there the three estates, to the wonder of all men, jointly concurred in cutting off the succession; the clergy, who were managed by the archbishop of lyons and cardinal of guise, were the first who promoted it; and the commons and nobility afterwards consented, as referring themselves, says our author, to the clergy; so that there was only the king to stand in the gap; and he by artifice diverted that storm which was breaking upon posterity. the crown was then reduced to the lowest ebb of its authority; and the king, in a manner, stood single, and yet preserved his negative entire; but if the clergy and nobility had been on his part of the balance, it might reasonably be supposed, that the meeting of those estates at blois had healed the breaches of the nation, and not forced him to the _ratio ultima regum_, which is never to be praised, nor is it here, but only excused as the last result of his necessity. as for the parallel betwixt the king of navarre, and any other prince now living, what likeness the god of nature, and the descent of virtues in the same channel have produced, is evident; i have only to say, that the nation certainly is happy, where the royal virtues of the progenitors are derived on their descendants.[ ] in that scene, it is true, there is but one of the three estates mentioned; but the other two are virtually included; for the archbishop and cardinal are at the head of the deputies: and that the rest are mute persons every critic understands the reason, _ne quarta loqui persona laboret_. i am never willing to cumber the stage with many speakers, when i can reasonably avoid it, as here i might. and what if i had a mind to pass over the clergy and nobility of france in silence, and to excuse them from joining in so illegal, and so ungodly a decree? am i tied in poetry to the strict rules of history? i have followed it in this play more closely than suited with the laws of the drama, and a great victory they will have, who shall discover to the world this wonderful secret, that i have not observed the unities of place and time; but are they better kept in the farce of the "libertine destroyed?"[ ] it was our common business here to draw the parallel of the times, and not to make an exact tragedy. for this once we were resolved to err with honest shakespeare; neither can "catiline" or "sejanus," (written by the great master of our art,) stand excused, any more than we, from this exception; but if we must be criticised, some plays of our adversaries may be exposed, and let them reckon their gains when the dispute is ended. i am accused of ignorance, for speaking of the third estate, as not sitting in the same house with the other two. let not those gentlemen mistake themselves; there are many things in plays to be accommodated to the country in which we live; i spoke to the understanding of an english audience. our three estates now sit, and have long done so, in two houses; but our records bear witness, that they, according to the french custom, have sate in one; that is, the lords spiritual and temporal within the bar, and the commons without it. if that custom had been still continued here, it should have been so represented; but being otherwise, i was forced to write so as to be understood by our own countrymen. if these be errors, a bigger poet than either of us two has fallen into greater, and the proofs are ready, whenever the suit shall be recommenced. mr hunt, the jehu of the party, begins very furiously with me, and says, "i have already condemned the charter and city, and have executed the magistrates in effigy upon the stage, in a play called the duke of guise, frequently acted and applauded, &c.[ ]" compare the latter end of this sentence with what the two authors of the reflections, or perhaps the associating club of the devil-tavern[ ] write in the beginning of their libel:--"never was mountain delivered of such a mouse; the fiercest tories have been ashamed to defend this piece; they who have any sparks of wit among them are so true to their pleasure, that they will not suffer dulness to pass upon them for wit, nor tediousness for diversion; which is the reason that this piece has not met with the expected applause: i never saw a play more deficient in wit, good characters, or entertainment, than this is." for shame, gentlemen, pack your evidence a little better against another time. you see, my lord chief baron[ ] has delivered his opinion, that the play was frequently acted and applauded; but you of the jury have found _ignoramus_, on the wit and the success of it. oates, dugdale and turberville, never disagreed more than you do; let us know at last, which of the witnesses are true protestants, and which are irish[ ]. but it seems your authors had contrary designs: mr hunt thought fit to say, "it was frequently acted and applauded, because," says he, "it was intended to provoke the rabble into tumults and disorder." now, if it were not seen frequently, this argument would lose somewhat of its force. the reflector's business went another way; it was to be allowed no reputation, no success; but to be damned root and branch, to prevent the prejudice it might do their party: accordingly, as much as in them lay, they have drawn a bill of exclusion for it on the stage. but what rabble was it to provoke? are the audience of a play-house, which are generally persons of honour, noblemen, and ladies, or, at worst, as one of your authors calls his gallants, men of wit and pleasure about the town[ ],--are these the rabble of mr hunt? i have seen a rabble at sir edmundbury godfrey's night, and have heard of such a name as true protestant meeting-houses; but a rabble is not to be provoked, where it never comes. indeed, we had one in this tragedy, but it was upon the stage; and that's the reason why your reflectors would break the glass, which has shewed them their own faces. the business of the theatre is to expose vice and folly; to dissuade men by examples from one, and to shame them out of the other. and however you may pervert our good intentions, it was here particularly to reduce men to loyalty, by shewing the pernicious consequences of rebellion, and popular insurrections. i believe no man, who loves the government, would be glad to see the rabble in such a posture, as they were represented in our play; but if the tragedy had ended on your side, the play had been a loyal witty poem; the success of it should have been recorded by immortal og or doeg[ ], and the rabble scene should have been true protestant, though a whig-devil were at the head of it. in the mean time, pray, where lies the relation betwixt the "tragedy of the duke of guise," and the charter of london? mr hunt has found a rare connection, for he tacks them together, by the kicking of the sheriff's. that chain of thought was a little ominous, for something like a kicking has succeeded the printing of his book; and the charter of london was the quarrel. for my part, i have not law enough to state that question, much less decide it; let the charter shift for itself in westminster-hall the government is somewhat wiser than to employ my ignorance on such a subject. my promise to honest nat. lee, was the only bribe i had, to engage me in this trouble; for which he has the good fortune to escape scot-free, and i am left in pawn for the reckoning, who had the least share in the entertainment. but the rising, it seems, should have been on the true protestant side; "for he has tried," says ingenious mr hunt, "what he could do, towards making the charter forfeitable, by some extravagancy and disorder of the people." a wise man i had been, doubtless, for my pains, to raise the rabble to a tumult, where i had been certainly one of the first men whom they had limbed, or dragged to the next convenient sign-post. but on second thought, he says, this ought not to move the citizens. he is much in the right; for the rabble scene was written on purpose to keep his party of them in the bounds of duty. it is the business of factious men to stir up the populace: sir edmond on horseback, attended by a swinging pope in effigy, and forty thousand true protestants for his guard to execution, are a show more proper for that design, than a thousand stage-plays[ ]. well, he has fortified his opinion with a reason, however, why the people should not be moved; "because i have so maliciously and mischievously represented the king, and the king's son; nay, and his favourite," saith he, "the duke too; to whom i give the worst strokes of my unlucky fancy." this need not be answered; for it is already manifest that neither the king, nor the king's son, are represented; neither that son he means, nor any of the rest, god bless them all. what strokes of my unlucky fancy i have given to his royal highness, will be seen; and it will be seen also, who strikes him worst and most unluckily. "the duke of guise," he tells us, "ought to have represented a great prince, that had inserved to some most detestable villainy, to please the rage or lust of a tyrant; such great courtiers have been often sacrificed, to appease the furies of the tyrant's guilty conscience; to expiate for his sin, and to attone the people. for a tyrant naturally stands in fear of such wicked ministers, is obnoxious to them, awed by them, and they drag him to greater evils, for their own impunity, than they perpetrated for his pleasure, and their own ambition[ ]." sure, he said not all this for nothing. i would know of him, on what persons he would fix the sting of this sharp satire? what two they are, whom, to use his own words, he "so maliciously and mischievously would represent?" for my part, i dare not understand the villainy of his meaning; but somebody was to have been shown a tyrant, and some other "a great prince, inserving to some detestable villainy, and to that tyrant's rage and lust;" this great prince or courtier ought to be sacrificed, to atone the people, and the tyrant is persuaded, for his own interest, to give him up to public justice. i say no more, but that he has studied the law to good purpose. he is dancing on the rope without a metaphor; his knowledge of the law is the staff that poizes him, and saves his neck. the party, indeed, speaks out sometimes, for wickedness is not always so wise as to be secret, especially when it is driven to despair. by some of their discourses, we may guess at whom he points; but he has fenced himself in with so many evasions, that he is safe in his sacrilege; and he, who dares to answer him, may become obnoxious. it is true, he breaks a little out of the clouds, within two paragraphs; for there he tells you, that "caius cæsar (to give into cæsar the things that were cæsar's,) was in the catiline conspiracy;" a fine insinuation this, to be sneered at by his party, and yet not to be taken hold of by public justice. they would be glad now, that i, or any man, should bolt out their covert treason for them; for their loop-hole is ready, that the cæsar, here spoken of, was a private man. but the application of the text declares the author's to be another cæsar; which is so black and so infamous an aspersion, that nothing less than the highest clemency can leave it unpunished. i could reflect on his ignorance in this place, for attributing these words to cæsar, "he that is not with us, is against us:" he seems to have mistaken them out of the new-testament, and that is the best defence i can make for him; for if he did it knowingly, it was impiously done, to put our saviour's words into cæsar's mouth. but his law and our gospel are two things; this gentleman's knowledge is not of the bible, any more than his practice is according to it. he tells you, he will give the world a taste of my atheism and impiety; for which he quotes these following verses, in the second or third act of the "duke of guise." for conscience or heaven's fear, religious rules, are all state bells, to toll in pious fools. in the first place, he is mistaken in his man, for the verses are not mine, but mr lee's: i asked him concerning them, and have this account,--that they were spoken by the devil; now, what can either whig or devil say, more proper to their character, than that religion is only a name, a stalking-horse, as errant a property as godliness and property themselves are amongst their party? yet for these two lines, which, in the mouth that speaks them, are of no offence, he halloos on the whole pack against me: judge, justice, surrogate, and official are to be employed, at his suit, to direct process; and boring through the tongue for blasphemy, is the least punishment his charity will allow me. i find it is happy for me, that he was not made a judge, and yet i had as lieve have him my judge as my council, if my life were at stake. my poor lord stafford was well helped up with this gentleman for his solicitor: no doubt, he gave that unfortunate nobleman most admirable advice towards the saving of his life; and would have rejoiced exeedingly, to have seen him cleared[ ]. i think, i have disproved his instance of my atheism; it remains for him to justify his religion, in putting the words of christ into a heathen's mouth; and much more in his prophane allusion to the scripture, in the other text,--"give unto cæsar the things that are cæsar's;" which, if it be not a profanation of the bible, for the sake of a silly witticism, let all men, but his own party, judge. i am not malicious enough to return him the names which he has called me; but of all sins, i thank god, i have always abhorred atheism; and i had need be a better christian than mr hunt has shown himself, if i forgive him so infamous a slander. but as he has mistaken our saviour for julius cæsar, so he would pompey too, if he were let alone; to him, and to his cause, or to the like cause it belonged, he says, to use these words:--"he that is not for us is against us." i find he cares not whose the expression is, so it be not christ's. but how comes pompey the great to be a whig? he was, indeed, a defender of the ancient established roman government; but cæsar was the whig who took up arms unlawfully to subvert it. our liberties and our religion both are safe; they are secured to us by the laws; and those laws are executed under an established government, by a lawful king. the defender of our faith is the defender of our common freedom; to cabal, to write, to rail against this administration are all endeavours to destroy the government; and to oppose the succession, in any private man, is a treasonable practice against the foundation of it. pompey very honourably maintained the liberty of his country, which was governed by a common-wealth: so that there lies no parallel betwixt his cause and mr hunt's, except in the bare notion of a common-wealth, as it is opposed to monarchy; and that's the thing he would obliquely slur upon us. yet on these premises, he is for ordering my lord chief justice to grant out warrants against all those who have applauded the "duke of guise;" as if they committed a riot when they clapped. i suppose they paid for their places, as well as he and his party did, who hissed. if he were not half distracted, for not being lord chief baron, methinks he should be lawyer enough to advise my lord chief justice better. to clap and hiss are the privileges of a free-born subject in a playhouse: they buy them with their money, and their hands and mouths are their own property. it belongs to the master of the revels to see that no treason or immorality be in the play; but when it is acted, let every man like or dislike freely: not but that respect should be used too, in the presence of the king; for by his permission the actors are allowed: it is due to his person, as he is sacred; and to the successors, as being next related to him: there are opportunities enow for men to hiss, who are so disposed, in their absence; for when the king is in sight, though but by accident, a malefactor is reprieved from death. yet such is the duty, and good manners of these good subjects, that they forbore not some rudeness in his majesty's presence; but when his royal highness and his court were only there, they pushed it as far as their malice had power; and if their party had been more numerous, the affront had been greater. the next paragraph of our author's is a panegyric on the duke of monmouth, which concerns not me, who am very far from detracting from him. the obligations i have had to him, were those of his countenance, his favour, his good word, and his esteem; all which i have likewise had, in a greater measure, from his excellent duchess, the patroness of my poor unworthy poetry. if i had not greater, the fault was never in their want of goodness to me, but in my own backwardness to ask, which has always, and, i believe, will ever, keep me from rising in the world. let this be enough, with reasonable men, to clear me from the imputation of an ungrateful man, with which my enemies have most unjustly taxed me. if i am a mercenary scribbler, the lords commissioners of the treasury best know: i am sure, they have found me no importunate solicitor; for i know myself, i deserved little, and, therefore, have never desired much. i return that slander, with just disdain, on my accusers: it is for men who have ill consciences to suspect others; i am resolved to stand or fall with the cause of my god, my king, and country; never to trouble myself for any railing aspersions, which i have not deserved; and to leave it as a portion to my children,--that they had a father, who durst do his duty, and was neither covetous nor mercenary. as little am i concerned at that imputation of my back-friends, that i have confessed myself to be put on to write as i do. if they mean this play in particular, that is notoriously proved against them to be false; for the rest of my writings, my hatred of their practices and principles was cause enough to expose them as i have done, and will do more. i do not think as they do; for, if i did, i must think treason; but i must in conscience write as i do, because i know, which is more than thinking, that i write for a lawful established government, against anarchy, innovation, and sedition: but "these lies (as prince harry said to falstaff) are as gross as he that made them[ ]." more i need not say, for i am accused without witness. i fear not any of their evidences, not even him of salamanca; who though he has disowned his doctorship in spain, yet there are some allow him to have taken a certain degree in italy; a climate, they say, more proper for his masculine constitution[ ]. to conclude this ridiculous accusation against me, i know but four men, in their whole party, to whom i have spoken for above this year last past; and with them neither, but casually and cursorily. we have been acquaintance of a long standing, many years before this accursed plot divided men into several parties; i dare call them to witness, whether the most i have at any time said will amount to more than this, that "i hoped the time would come, when these names of whig and tory would cease among us; and that we might live together, as we had done formerly." i have, since this pamphlet, met accidentally with two of them; and i am sure, they are so far from being my accusers, that they have severally owned to me, that all men, who espouse a party, must expect to be blackened by the contrary side; that themselves knew nothing of it, nor of the authors of the "reflections." it remains, therefore, to be considered, whether, if i were as much a knave as they would make me, i am fool enough to be guilty of this charge; and whether they, who raised it, would have made it public, if they had thought i was theirs inwardly. for it is plain, they are glad of worse scribblers than i am, and maintain them too, as i could prove, if i envied them their miserable subsistence. i say no more, but let my actions speak for me: _spectemur agendo,_--that is the trial. much less am i concerned at the noble name of bayes; that is a brat so like his own father, that he cannot be mistaken for any other body[ ]. they might as reasonably have called tom sternhold, virgil, and the resemblance would have held as well. as for knave, and sycophant, and rascal, and impudent, and devil, and old serpent, and a thousand such good morrows, i take them to be only names of parties; and could return murderer, and cheat, and whig-napper, and sodomite; and, in short, the goodly number of the seven deadly sins, with all their kindred and relations, which are names of parties too; but saints will be saints, in spite of villainy. i believe they would pass themselves upon us for such a compound as mithridate, or venice-treacle; as if whiggism were an admirable cordial in the mass, though the several ingredients are rank poisons. but if i think either mr hunt a villain, or know any of my reflectors to be ungrateful rogues, i do not owe them so much kindness as to call them so; for i am satisfied that to prove them either, would but recommend them to their own party. yet if some will needs make a merit of their infamy, and provoke a legend of their sordid lives, i think they must be gratified at last; and though i will not take the scavenger's employment from him, yet i may be persuaded to point at some men's doors, who have heaps of filth before them. but this must be when they have a little angered me; for hitherto i am provoked no further than to smile at them. and indeed, to look upon the whole faction in a lump, never was a more pleasant sight than to behold these builders of a new babel, how ridiculously they are mixed, and what a rare confusion there is amongst them. one part of them is carrying stone and mortar for the building of a meeting-house; another sort understand not that language; they are for snatching away their work-fellows' materials to set up a bawdy-house: some of them blaspheme, and others pray; and both, i believe, with equal godliness at bottom: some of them are atheists, some sectaries, yet all true protestants. most of them love all whores, but her of babylon. in few words, any man may be what he will, so he be one of them. it is enough to despise the king, to hate the duke, and rail at the succession: after this it is no matter how a man lives; he is a saint by infection; he goes along with the party, has their mark upon him; his wickedness is no more than frailty; their righteousness is imputed to him: so that, as ignorant rogues go out doctors when a prince comes to an university, they hope, at the last day, to take their degree in a crowd of true protestants, and thrust unheeded into heaven[ ]. it is a credit to be railed at by such men as these. the charter-man, in the very title-page, where he hangs out the cloth of the city before his book, gives it for his motto, _si populus vult decipi, decipiatur_[ ]; as if he should have said, "you have a mind to be cozened, and the devil give you good on't." if i cry a sirreverence, and you take it for honey, make the best of your bargain. for shame, good christians, can you suffer such a man to starve, when you see his design is upon your purses? he is contented to expose the ears representative of your party on the pillory, and is in a way of doing you more service than a worn-out witness, who can hang nobody hereafter but himself. he tells you, "the papists clap their hands, in the hopes they conceive of the ruin of your government:" does not this single syllable _your_ deserve a pension, if he can prove the government to be yours, and that the king has nothing to do in your republic? he continues, as if that were as sure and certain to them, as it is to us, without doubt, that they (the papists) once fired the city, just as certain in your own consciences. i wish the papists had no more to answer for than that accusation. pray let it be put to the vote, and resolved upon the question, by your whole party, that the north-east wind is not only ill-affected to man and beast, but is also a tory or tantivy papist in masquerade[ ]. i am satisfied, not to have "so much art left me, as to frame any thing agreeable, or verisimilar;" but it is plain that he has, and therefore, as i ought in justice, i resign my laurel, and my bays too, to mr hunt; it is he sets up for the poet now, and has the only art to amuse and to deceive the people. you may see how profound his knowledge is in poetry; for he tells you just before, "that my heroes are commonly such monsters as theseus and hercules; renowned throughout all ages for destroying[ ]." now theseus and hercules, you know, have been the heroes of all poets, and have been renowned through all ages, for destroying monsters, for succouring the distressed, and for putting to death inhuman arbitrary tyrants. is this your oracle? if he were to write the acts and monuments of whig heroes, i find they should be quite contrary to mine: destroyers indeed,--but of a lawful government; murderers,--but of their fellow-subjects; lovers, as hercules was of hylas; with a journey at last to hell, like that of theseus. but mark the wise consequences of our author. "i have not," he says, "so much art left me to make any thing agreeable, or verisimilar, wherewith to amuse or deceive the people." and yet, in the very next paragraph, "my province is to corrupt the manners of the nation, and lay waste their morals, and my endeavours are more happily applied, to extinguish the little remainders of the virtue of the age." now, i am to perform all this, it seems, without making any thing verisimilar or agreeable! why, pharaoh never set the israelites such a task, to build pyramids without brick or straw. if the fool knows it not, verisimilitude and agreeableness are the very tools to do it; but i am willing to disclaim them both, rather than to use them to so ill purpose as he has done. yet even this their celebrated writer knows no more of stile and english than the northern dictator; as if dulness and clumsiness were fatal to the name of _tom_. it is true, he is a fool in three languages more than the poet; for, they say, "he understands latin, greek, and hebrew," from all which, to my certain knowledge, i acquit the other. og may write against the king, if he pleases, so long as he drinks for him, and his writings will never do the government so much harm, as his drinking does it good; for true subjects will not be much perverted by his libels; but the wine-duties rise considerably by his claret. he has often called me an atheist in print; i would believe more charitably of him, and that he only goes the broad way, because the other is too narrow for him. he may see, by this, i do not delight to meddle with his course of life, and his immoralities, though i have a long bead-roll of them. i have hitherto contented myself with the ridiculous part of him, which is enough, in all conscience, to employ one man; even without the story of his late fall at the old devil, where he broke no ribs, because the hardness of the stairs could reach no bones; and, for my part, i do not wonder how he came to fall, for i have always known him heavy: the miracle is, how he got up again. i have heard of a sea captain as fat as he, who, to escape arrests, would lay himself flat upon the ground, and let the bailiffs carry him to prison, if they could. if a messenger or two, nay, we may put in three or four, should come, he has friendly advertisement how to escape them. but to leave him, who is not worth any further consideration, now i have done laughing at him,--would every man knew his own talent, and that they, who are only born for drinking, would let both poetry and prose alone[ ]! i am weary with tracing the absurdities and mistakes of our great lawyer, some of which indeed are wilful; as where he calls the _trimmers_ the more moderate sort of tories. it seems those politicians are odious to both sides; for neither own them to be theirs. we know them, and so does he too in his conscience, to be secret whigs, if they are any thing; but now the designs of whiggism are openly discovered, they tack about to save a stake; that is, they will not be villains to their own ruin. while the government was to be destroyed, and there was probability of compassing it, no men were so violent as they; but since their fortunes are in hazard by the law, and their places at court by the king's displeasure, they pull in their horns, and talk more peaceably; in order, i suppose, to their vehemence on the right side, if they were to be believed. for in laying of colours, they observe a medium; black and white are too far distant to be placed directly by one another, without some shadowings to soften their contrarieties. it is mariana, i think, (but am not certain) that makes the following relation; and let the noble family of trimmers read their own fortune in it. "don pedro, king of castile, surnamed the cruel, who had been restored by the valour of our edward the black prince, was finally dispossessed by don henry, the bastard, and he enjoyed the kingdom quietly, till his death; which when he felt approaching, he called his son to him, and gave him this his last counsel. i have (said he,) gained this kingdom, which i leave you, by the sword; for the right of inheritance was in don pedro; but the favour of the people, who hated my brother for his tyranny, was to me instead of title. you are now to be the peaceable possessor of what i have unjustly gotten; and your subjects are composed of these three sorts of men. one party espoused my brother's quarrel, which was the undoubted lawful cause; those, though they were my enemies, were men of principle and honour: cherish them, and exalt them into places of trust about you, for in them you may confide safely, who prized their fidelity above their fortune. another sort, are they who fought my cause against don pedro; to those you are indeed obliged, because of the accidental good they did me; for they intended only their private benefit, and helped to raise me, that i might afterwards promote them: you may continue them in their offices, if you please; but trust them no farther than you are forced; for what they did was against their conscience. but there is a third sort, which, during the whole wars, were neuters; let them be crushed on all occasions, for their business was only their own security. they had neither courage enough to engage on my side, nor conscience enough to help their lawful sovereign: _therefore let them be made examples, as the worst sort of interested men, which certainly are enemies to both, and would be profitable to neither._" i have only a dark remembrance of this story, and have not the spanish author by me, but, i think, i am not much mistaken in the main of it; and whether true or false, the counsel given, i am sure, is such, as ought, in common prudence, to be practised against trimmers, whether the lawful or unlawful cause prevail. loyal men may justly be displeased with this party, not for their moderation, as mr hunt insinuates, but because, under that mask of seeming mildness, there lies hidden either a deep treachery, or, at best, an interested luke-warmness. but he runs riot into almost treasonable expressions, as if "trimmers were hated because they are not perfectly wicked, or perfectly deceived; of the catiline make, bold, and without understanding; that can adhere to men that publicly profess murders, and applaud the design:" by all which villainous names he opprobriously calls his majesty's most loyal subjects; as if men must be perfectly wicked, who endeavour to support a lawful government; or perfectly deceived, who on no occasion dare take up arms against their sovereign: as if acknowledging the right of succession, and resolving to maintain it in the line, were to be in a catiline conspiracy; and at last, (which is ridiculous enough, after so much serious treason) as if "to clap the duke of guise" were to adhere to men that publicly profess murders, and applaud the design of the assassinating poets. but together with his villainies, pray let his incoherences be observed. he commends the trimmers, (at least tacitly excuses them) for men of some moderation; and this in opposition to the instruments of wickedness of the catiline make, that are resolute and forward, and without consideration. but he forgets all this in the next twenty lines; for there he gives them their own, and tells them roundly, _in internecino bello, medii pro hostibus habentur._ neutral men are traitors, and assist by their indifferency to the destruction of the government. the plain english of his meaning is this; while matters are only in dispute, and in machination, he is contented they should be moderate; but when once the faction can bring about a civil war, then they are traitors, if they declare not openly for them. "but it is not," says he, "the duke of guise who is to be assassinated, a turbulent, wicked, and haughty courtier, but an innocent and gentle prince." by his favour, our duke of guise was neither innocent nor gentle, nor a prince of the blood royal, though he pretended to descend from charlemagne, and a genealogy was printed to that purpose, for which the author was punished, as he deserved; witness davila, and the journals of henry iii. where the story is at large related. well, who is it then? why, "it is a prince who has no fault, but that he is the king's son:" then he has no fault by consequence; for i am certain, that is no fault of his. the rest of the compliment is so silly, and so fulsome, as if he meant it all in ridicule; and to conclude the jest, he says, that "the best people of england have no other way left, to shew their loyalty to the king, their religion and government, in long intervals of parliament, than by prosecuting his son, for the sake of the king, and his own merit, with all the demonstrations of the highest esteem." yes, i can tell them one other way to express their loyalty, which is, to obey the king, and to respect his brother, as the next lawful successor; their religion commands them both, and the government is secured in so doing. but why in intervals of parliament? how are they more obliged to honour the king's son out of parliament, than in it? and why this prosecution of love for the king's sake? has he ordered more love to be shewn to one son, than to another? indeed, his own quality is cause sufficient for all men to respect him, and i am of their number, who truly honour him, and who wish him better than this miserable sycophant; for i wish him, from his father's royal kindness, what justice can make him, which is a greater honour than the rabble can confer upon him. but our author finds, that commendation is no more his talent, than flattery was that of Æsop's ass; and therefore falls immediately, from pawing with his fore-feet, and grinning upon one prince, to downright braying against another. he says, i have not used "my patron duke much better; for i have put him under a most dismal and unfortunate character of a successor, excluded from the crown by act of state, for his religion; who fought his way to the crown, changed his religion, and died by the hand of a roman assassinate." if it please his royal highness to be my patron, i have reason to be proud of it; because he never yet forsook any man, whom he has had the goodness to own for his. but how have i put him under an unfortunate character? the authors of the reflections, and our john-a-nokes, have not laid their noddles together about this accusation. for it is their business to prove the king of navarre to have been a most successful, magnanimous, gentle, and grateful prince; in which character they have followed the stream of all historians. how then happens this jarring amongst friends, that the same man is put under such dismal circumstances on one side, and so fortunate on the other, by the writers of the same party? the answer is very plain; that they take the cause by several handles. they, who will not have the duke resemble the king of navarre, have magnified the character of that prince, to debase his royal highness; and therein done what they can to shew the disparity. mr hunt, who will have it to be the duke's character, has blackened that king as much as he is able, to shew the likeness. now this would be ridiculous pleading at a bar, by lawyers retained for the same cause; and both sides would call each other fools, because the jury betwixt them would be confounded, and perhaps the judges too. but this it is to have a bad cause, which puts men of necessity upon knavery; and that knavery is commonly found out. well, mr hunt has in another place confessed himself to be in passion, and that is the reason he is so grosly mistaken in opening of the cause. for, first, the king of navarre was neither under dismal, nor unfortunate circumstances: before the end of that very sentence, our lawyer has confessed, that he fought his way to the crown; that is, he gloriously vanquished all his rebels, and happily possessed his inheritance many years after he had regained it. in the next place, he was never excluded from the crown by act of state. he changed his religion indeed, but not until he had almost weathered the storm, recovered the best part of his estate, and gained some glorious victories in pitched battles; so that his changing cannot without injustice be attributed to his fear. monsieur chiverny, in his memoirs of those times, plainly tells us, that he solemnly promised to his predecessor henry iii. then dying, that he would become a romanist; and davila, though he says not this directly, yet denies it not. by whose hands henry iv. died, is notoriously known; but it is invidiously urged, both by mr hunt and the reflectors: for we may, to our shame, remember, that a king of our own country was barbarously murdered by his subjects, who professed the same religion; though i believe, that neither jaques clement, nor ravaillac, were better papists, than the independents and presbyterians were protestants; so that their argument only proves, that there are rogues of all religions: _iliacos infra muros peccatur, et extra._ but mr hunt follows his blow again, that i have "offered a justification of an act of exclusion against a popish successor in a protestant kingdom, by remembering what was done against the king of navarre, who was _de facto_ excluded by an act of state." my gentleman, i perceive, is very willing to call that an act of exclusion, and an act of state, which is only, in our language, called a bill; for henry iii. could never be gained to pass it, though it was proposed by the three estates at blois. the reflectors are more modest; for they profess, (though i am afraid it is somewhat against the grain,) that a vote of the house of commons is not an act; but the times are turned upon them, and they dare speak no other language. mr hunt, indeed, is a bold republican, and tells you the bottom of their meaning. yet why should it make the "courage of his royal highness quail, to find himself under this representation," which; by our author's favour, is neither dismal, nor disastrous? henry iv. escaped this dreadful machine of the league; i say dreadful, for the three estates were at that time composed generally of guisards, factious, hot-headed, rebellious interested men. the king in possession was but his brother-in-law, and at the time publicly his enemy; for the king of navarre was then in arms against him; and yet the sense of common justice, and the good of his people so prevailed, that he withstood the project of the states, which he also knew was levelled at himself; for had the exclusion proceeded, he had been immediately laid by, and the lieutenancy of france conferred on guise; after which the rebel would certainly have put up his title for the crown. in the case of his royal highness, only one of the three estates have offered at the exclusion, and have been constantly opposed by the other two, and by his majesty. neither is it any way probable, that the like will ever be again attempted; for the fatal consequences, as well as the illegality of that design, are seen through already by the people; so that, instead of offering a justification of an act of exclusion, i have exposed a rebellious, impious, and fruitless contrivance tending to it. if we look on the parliament of paris, when they were in their right wits, before they were intoxicated by the league, (at least wholly) we shall find them addressing to king henry iii. in another key, concerning the king of navarre's succession, though he was at that time, as they called it, a relapsed heretic. and to this purpose i will quote a passage out of the journals of henry iii. so much magnified by my adversaries. towards the end of september, , there was published at paris a bull of excommunication against the king of navarre, and the prince of condé. the parliament of paris made their remonstrance to the king upon it, which was both grave, and worthy of the place they held, and of the authority they have in this kingdom; saying for conclusion, that "their court had found the stile of this bull so full of innovation, and so distant from the modesty of ancient popes, that they could not understand in it the voice of an apostle's successor; forasmuch, as they found not in their records, nor in the search of all antiquity, that the princes of france had ever been subject to the justice or jurisdiction of the pope, and they could not take it into consideration, until first he made appear the right which he pretended in the translation of kingdoms, established and ordained by almighty god, before the name of pope was heard of in the world." it is plain by this, that the parliament of paris acknowledged an inherent right of succession in the king of navarre, though of a contrary religion to their own. and though, after the duke of guise's murder at blois, the city of paris revolted from their obedience to their king, pretending, that he was fallen from the crown, by reason of that and other actions, with which they charged him; yet the sum of all their power to renounce him, and create the duke of mayenne lieutenant-general, depended ultimately on the pope's authority; which, as you see, but three years before, they had peremptorily denied. the college of sorbonne began the dance, by their determination, that the kingly right was forfeited; and, stripping him of all his dignities, they called him plain henry de valois: after this, says my author, "sixteen rascals (by which he means the council of that number) having administered the oath of government to the duke of mayenne, to take in quality of lieutenant-general of the estate and crown of france, the same ridiculous dignity was confirmed to him by an imaginary parliament, the true parliament being detained prisoners, in divers of the city gaols, and two new seals were ordered to be immediately made, with this inscription,--the seal of the kingdom of france." i need not enlarge on this relation: it is evident from hence, that the sorbonnists were the original, and our schismatics in england were the copiers of rebellion; that paris began, and london followed. the next lines of my author are, that "a gentleman of paris made the duke of mayenne's picture to be drawn, with a crown imperial on his head;" and i have heard of an english nobleman, who has at this day a picture of old oliver, with this motto underneath it,--_utinam vixeris._ all this while, this cannot be reckoned an act of state, for the deposing king henry iii., because it was an act of overt rebellion in the parisians; neither could the holding of the three estates at paris, afterwards, by the same duke of mayenne, devolve any right on him, in prejudice of king henry iv.; though those pretended states declared his title void, on the account of his religion; because those estates could neither be called nor holden, but by, and under the authority of, the lawful king. it would take more time than i have allowed for this vindication, or i could easily trace from the french history, what misfortunes attended france, and how near it was to ruin, by the endeavours to alter the succession. for first, it was actually dismembered, the duke of mercæur setting up a principality in the dutchy of bretagne, independent of the crown. the duke of mayenne had an evident design to be elected king, by the favour of the people and the pope: the young dukes of guise and of nemours aspired, with the interest of the spaniards, to be chosen, by their marriage with the infanta isabella. the duke of lorraine was for cantling out some part of france, which lay next his territories; and the duke of savoy had, before the death of henry iii., actually possessed himself of the marquisate of saluces. but above all, the spaniards fomented these civil wars, in hopes to reduce that flourishing kingdom under their own monarchy. to as many, and as great mischiefs, should we be evidently subject, if we should madly engage ourselves in the like practices of altering the succession, which our gracious king in his royal wisdom well foresaw, and has cut up that accursed project by the roots; which will render the memory of his justice and prudence immortal and sacred to future ages, for having not only preserved our present quiet, but secured the peace of our posterity. it is clearly manifest, that no act of state passed, to the exclusion of either the king of navarre, or of henry the fourth, consider him in either of the two circumstances; but oracle hunt, taking this for granted, would prove _à fortiori_, "that if a protestant prince were actually excluded from a popish kingdom, then a popish successor is more reasonably to be excluded from a protestant kingdom; because," says he, "a protestant prince is under no obligation to destroy his popish subjects, but a popish prince is to destroy his protestant subjects:" upon which bare supposition, without farther proof, he calls him insufferable tyrant, and the worst of monsters. now, i take the matter quite otherwise, and bind myself to maintain that there is not, nor can be any obligation, for a king to destroy his subjects of a contrary persuasion to the established religion of his country; for, _quatenus_ subjects, of what religion soever he is infallibly bound to preserve and cherish, and not to destroy them; and this is the first duty of a lawful sovereign, as such, antecedent to any tie or consideration of his religion. indeed, in those countries where the inquisition is introduced, it goes harder with protestants, and the reason is manifest; because the protestant religion has not gotten footing there, and severity is the means to keep it out; but to make this instance reach england, our religion must not only be changed, (which in itself is almost impossible to imagine,) but the council of trent received, and the inquisition admitted, which many popish countries have rejected. i forget not the cruelties, which were exercised in queen mary's time against the protestants; neither do i any way excuse them; but it follows not, that every popish successor should take example by them, for every one's conscience of the same religion is not guided by the same dictates in his government; neither does it follow, that if one be cruel, another must, especially when there is a stronger obligation, and greater interest to the contrary: for, if a popish king in england should be bound to destroy his protestant people, i would ask the question, over whom he meant to reign afterwards? and how many subjects would be left? in queen mary's time, the protestant religion had scarcely taken root; and it is reasonable to be supposed, that she found the number of papists equalling that of the protestants, at her entrance to the kingdom; especially if we reckon into the account those who were the trimmers of the times; i mean such, who privately were papists, though under her protestant predecessor they appeared otherwise; therefore her difficulties in persecuting her reformed subjects, were far from being so insuperable as ours now are, when the strength and number of the papists is so very inconsiderable. they, who cast in the church of england as ready to embrace popery, are either knaves enough to know they lie, or fools enough not to have considered the tenets of that church, which are diametrically opposite to popery; and more so than any of the sects. not to insist on the quiet and security, which protestant subjects at this day enjoy in some parts of germany, under popish princes; where i have been assured, that mass is said, and a lutheran sermon preached in different parts of the same church, on the same day, without disturbance on either side; nor on the privileges granted by henry the fourth of france to his party, after he had forsaken their opinions, which they quietly possessed for a long time after his death. the french histories are full of examples, manifestly proving, that the fiercest of their popish princes have not thought themselves bound to destroy their protestant subjects; and the several edicts, granted under them, in favour of the reformed religion, are pregnant instances of this truth. i am not much given to quotations, but davila lies open for every man to read. tolerations, and free exercise of religion, granted more amply in some, more restrainedly in others, are no sign that those princes held themselves obliged in conscience to destroy men of a different persuasion. it will be said, those tolerations were gained by force of arms. in the first place, it is no great credit to the protestant religion, that the protestants in france were actually rebels; but the truth is, they were only geneva protestants, and their opinions were far distant from those of the church of england, which teaches passive obedience to all her sons, and not to propagate religion by rebellion. but it is further to be considered, that those french kings, though papists, thought the preservation of their subjects, and the public peace, were to be considered, before the gratification of the court of rome; and though the number of the papists exceeded that of the protestants, in the proportion of three to one, though the protestants were always beaten when they fought, and though the pope pressed continually with exhortations and threatenings to extirpate calvinism, yet kings thought it enough to continue in their own religion themselves, without forcing it upon their subjects, much less destroying them who professed another. but it will be objected, those edicts of toleration were not kept on the papists' side: they would answer, because the protestants stretched their privileges further than was granted, and that they often relapsed into rebellion; but whether or no the protestants were in fault, i leave history to determine. it is matter of fact, that they were barbarously massacred, under the protection of the public faith; therefore, to argue fairly, either an oath from protestants is not to be taken by a popish prince; or, if taken, ought inviolably to be preserved. for, when we oblige ourselves to any one, it is not his person we so much consider, as that of the most high god, who is called to witness this our action; and it is to him we are to discharge our conscience. neither is there, or can be any tie on human society, when that of an oath is no more regarded; which being an appeal to god, he is immediate judge of it; and chronicles are not silent how often he has punished perjured kings. the instance of vladislaus king of hungary, breaking his faith with amurath the turk, at the instigation of julian the pope's legate, and his miserable death ensuing it, shews that even to infidels, much more to christians, that obligation ought to be accounted sacred[ ]. and i the rather urge this, because it is an argument taken almost _verbatim_ from a papist, who accuses catharine de medicis for violating her word given to the protestants during her regency of france. what securities in particular we have, that our own religion and liberties would be preserved though under a popish successor, any one may inform himself at large in a book lately written by the reverend and learned doctor hicks, called jovian, in answer to julian the apostate[ ]; in which that truly christian author has satisfied all scruples which reasonable men can make, and proved that we are in no danger of losing either; and wherein also, if those assurances should all fail, (which is almost morally impossible,) the doctrine of passive obedience is unanswerably demonstrated; a doctrine delivered with so much sincerity, and resignation of spirit, that it seems evident the assertor of it is ready, if there were occasion, to seal it with his blood. i have done with mannerly mr hunt, who is only _magni nominis umbra_; the most malicious, and withal, the most incoherent ignorant scribbler of the whole party. i insult not over his misfortunes, though he has himself occasioned them; and though i will not take his own excuse, that he is in passion, i will make a better for him, for i conclude him cracked; and if he should return to england, am charitable enough to wish his only prison might be bedlam. this apology is truer than that he makes for me; for writing a play, as i conceive, is not entering into the observator's province; neither is it the observator's manner to confound truth with falsehood, to put out the eyes of people, and leave them without understanding. the quarrel of the party to him is, that he has undeceived the ignorant, and laid open the shameful contrivances of the new vamped association; that though he is "on the wrong side of life," as he calls it, yet he pleads not his age to be _emeritus_; that, in short, he has left the faction as bare of arguments, as Æsop's bird of feathers; and plumed them of all those fallacies and evasions which they borrowed from jesuits and presbyterians. now for my templar and poet in association for a libel, like the conjunction of saturn and jupiter in a fiery sign. what the one wants in wit, the other must supply in law. as for malice, their quotas are indifferently well adjusted; the rough draught, i take for granted, is the poet's, the finishings the lawyer's. they begin,--that in order to one mr friend's commands, one of them went to see the play. this was not the poet, i am certain; for nobody saw him there, and he is not of a size to be concealed. but the mountain, they say, was delivered of a mouse. i have been gossip to many such labours of a dull fat scribbler, where the mountain has been bigger, and the mouse less. the next sally is on the city-elections, and a charge is brought against my lord mayor, and the two sheriffs, for excluding true electors. i have heard, that a whig gentleman of the temple hired a livery-gown, to give his voice among the companies at guild-hall; let the question be put, whether or no he were a true elector?--then their own juries are commended from several topics; they are the wisest, richest, and most conscientious: to which is answered, _ignoramus_. but our juries give most prodigious and unheard-of damages. hitherto there is nothing but boys-play in our authors: _my mill grinds pepper and spice, your mill grinds rats and mice._ they go on,--"if i may be allowed to judge;" (as men that do not poetize may be judges of wit, human nature, and common decencies;) so then the sentence is begun with _i_; there is but one of them puts in for a judge's place, that is, he in the grey; but presently it is--_men_; two more in buckram would be judges too. neither of them, it seems, poetize; that is true, but both of them are in at rhime doggrel; witness the song against the bishops, and the tunbridge ballad[ ]. by the way, i find all my scribbling enemies have a mind to be judges, and chief barons. proceed, gentlemen:--"this play, as i am informed by some, who have a nearer communication with the poets and the players, than i have,--". which of the two sosias is it that now speaks? if the lawyer, it is true he has but little communication with the players; if the poet, the players have but little communication with him; for it is not long ago, he said to somebody, "by g----, my lord, those tory rogues will act none of my plays." well, but the accusation,--that this play was once written by another, and then it was called the "parisian massacre." such a play i have heard indeed was written; but i never saw it[ ]. whether this be any of it or no, i can say no more than for my own part of it. but pray, who denies the unparalleled villainy of the papists in that bloody massacre? i have enquired, why it was not acted, and heard it was stopt by the interposition of an ambassador, who was willing to save the credit of his country, and not to have the memory of an action so barbarous revived; but that i tempted my friend to alter it, is a notorious whiggism, to save the broader word. the "sicilian vespers" i have had plotted by me above these seven years: the story of it i found under borrowed names in giraldo cinthio; but the rape in my tragedy of "amboyna" was so like it, that i forbore the writing. but what had this to do with protestants? for the massacrers and the massacred were all papists. but it is observable, they say, that "though the massacre could not be acted, as it was first written against papists, yet when it was turned upon protestants, it found reception." now all is come out; the scandal of the story turns at last upon the government: that patronizes popish plays, and forbids protestant[ ]. ours is to be a popish play; why? because it exposes the villainy of sectaries and rebels. prove them first to be protestants, and see what you will get by it when you have done. your party are certainly the men whom the play attacks, and so far i will help you; the designs and actions, represented in the play, are such as you have copied from the league; for though you have wickedness enough, yet you wanted the wit to make a new contrivance. but for shame, while you are carrying on such palpable villainy, do not assume the name of protestants. you will tell us, you are friends to the government, and the king's best subjects; but all the while you are aspersing both it and him. who shall be judges, whether you are friends or not? the government or you? have not all rebels always sung the same song? was ever thief or murderer fool enough to plead guilty? for your love and loyalty to the king, they, who mean him best among you, are no better subjects than duke trinculo; they would be content he should be viceroy, so they may be viceroys over him[ ]. the next accusation is particular to me,--"that i, the said bayes, would falsely and feloniously have robbed nat. lee of his share in the representation of oedipus." now i am culprit; i writ the first and third acts of oedipus, and drew the scenery of the whole play: whenever i have owned a farther proportion, let my accusers speak: this was meant mischievously, to set us two at variance. who is the old serpent and satan now? when my friends help my barren fancy, i am thankful for it: i do not use to receive assistance, and afterwards ungratefully disown it. not long after, "exemplary punishment" is due to me for this most "devilish parallel." it is a devilish one indeed; but who can help it? if i draw devils like one another, the fault is in themselves for being so: i neither made their horns nor claws, nor cloven feet. i know not what i should have done, unless i had drawn the devil a handsome proper gentleman, like the painter in the fable, to have made a friend of him[ ]; but i ought to be exemplarily punished for it: when the devil gets uppermost, i shall expect it. "in the mean time, let magistrates (that respect their oaths and office)"--which words, you see, are put into a parenthesis, as if (god help us) we had none such now,--let them put the law in execution against lewd scribblers; the mark will be too fair upon a pillory, for a turnip or a rotten egg to miss it. but, for my part, i have not malice enough to wish him so much harm,--not so much as to have a hair of his head perish, much less that one whole side of it should be dismantled. i am no informer, who writ such a song, or such a libel; if the dulness betrays him not, he is safe for me. and may the same dulness preserve him ever from public justice; it is a sufficient thick mud-wall betwixt him and law; it is his guardian angel, that protects him from punishment, because, in spite of him, he cannot deserve it. it is that which preserves him innocent when he means most mischief, and makes him a saint when he intends to be a devil. he can never offend enough, to need the mercy of government, for it is beholden to him, that he writes against it; and he never offers at a satire, but he converts his readers to a contrary opinion. some of the succeeding paragraphs are intended for very ciceronian: there the lawyer flourishes in the pulpit, and the poet stands in socks among the crowd to hear him. now for narration, resolution, calumniation, aggravation, and the whole artillery of tropes and figures, to defend the proceedings at guild-hall. the most minute circumstances of the elections are described so lively, that a man, who had not heard he was there in a livery-gown, might suspect there was a _quorum pars magna fui_ in the case; and multitudes of electors, just as well qualified as himself, might give their party the greater number: but throw back their gilt shillings, which were told for guineas, and their true sum was considerably less. well, there was no rebellion at this time; therefore, says my adversary, there was no parallel. it is true there was no rebellion; but who ever told him that i intended this parallel so far? if the likeness had been throughout, i may guess, by their good will to me, that i had never lived to write it. but, to show his mistake, which i believe wilful, the play was wholly written a month or two before the last election of the sheriffs. yet it seems there was some kind of prophecy in the case; and, till the faction gets clear of a riot, a part of the comparison will hold even there; yet, if he pleases to remember, there has been a king of england forced by the inhabitants from his imperial town. it is true, the son has had better fortune than the father; but the reason is, that he has now a stronger party in the city than his enemies; the government of it is secured in loyal and prudent hands, and the party is too weak to push their designs farther. "they rescued not their beloved sheriffs at a time (he tells you) when they had a most important use of them." what the importancy of the occasion was, i will not search: it is well if their own consciences will acquit them. but let them be never so much beloved, their adherents knew it was a lawful authority that sent them to the tower; and an authority which, to their sorrow, they were not able to resist: so that, if four men guarded them without disturbance, and, to the contempt of their strength, at broad noon-day and at full exchange-time, it was no more their honesty to stand looking on with their hands in their pockets, than it is of a small band of robbers to let a caravan go by, which is too strong for them to assault. after this, i am called, after the old rate, loose and infamous scribbler; and it is well i escape so cheap. bear your good fortune moderately, mr poet; for, as loose and infamous as i am, if i had written for your party, your pension would have been cut off as useless. but they must take up with settle, and such as they can get: bartholomew-fair writers[ ], and bartholemew-close printers; there is a famine of wit amongst them, they are forced to give unconscionable rates, and, after all, to have only carrion for their money. then, i am "an ignorant fellow for not knowing there were no juries in paris." i do not remember to have written any such thing; but whoever did, i am confident it was not his ignorance. perhaps he had a mind to bring the case a little nearer home: if they had not juries in paris, we had them from the normans, who were frenchmen; and, as you managed them, we had as good have had none in london. let it satisfy you we have them now; and some of your loose and infamous scribblers may come to understand it a little better. the next is, the justification of a noble peer deceased; the case is known, and i have no quarrel to his memory: let it sleep; he is now before another judge. immediately after, i am said to have intended an "abuse to the house of commons;" which is called by our authors "the most august assembly of europe." they are to prove i have abused that house; but it is manifest they have lessened the house of lords, by owning the commons to be the "more august assembly."--"it is an house chosen (they say) by every protestant who has a considerable inheritance in england;" which word _considerable_ signifies forty shillings _per annum_ of free land. for the interest of the loyal party, so much under-valued by our authors, they have long ago confessed in print, that the nobility and gentry have disowned them; and the yeomanry have at last considered, _queis hæc consevimus arva_? they have had enough of unlawful and arbitrary power; and know what an august assembly they had once without a king and house of peers. but now they have me in a burning scent, and run after me full cry: "was ever such licence connived at, in an impious libeller and scribbler, that the succession, so solemn a matter, that is not fit to be debated of but in parliament, should be profaned so far as to be played with on the stage?" hold a little, gentlemen, hold a little; (as one of your fellow citizens says in "the duke of guise,") is it so unlawful for me to argue for the succession in the right line upon the stage; and is it so very lawful for mr hunt, and the scribblers of your party, to oppose it in their libels off the stage? is it so sacred, that a parliament only is suffered to debate it, and dare you run it down both in your discourses, and pamphlets out of parliament? in conscience, what can you urge against me, which i cannot return an hundred times heavier on you? and by the way, you tell me, that to affirm the contrary to this, is a _præmunire_ against the statute of the th of elizabeth. if such _præmunire_ be, pray, answer me, who has most incurred it? in the mean time, do me the favour to look into the statute-book, and see if you can find the statute; you know yourselves, or you have been told it, that this statute is virtually repealed, by that of the st of king james, acknowledging his immediate lawful and undoubted right to this imperial crown, as the next lineal heir; those last words are an implicit anti-declaration to the statute in queen elizabeth, which, for that reason, is now omitted in our books. the lawful authority of an house of commons i acknowledge; but without fear and trembling, as my reflectors would have it. for why should i fear my representatives? they are summoned to consult about the public good, and not to frighten those who chose them. it is for you to tremble, who libel the supreme authority of the nation. but we knavish coxcombs and villains are to know, say my authors, that "a vote is the opinion of that house." lord help our understandings, that know not this without their telling! what englishman, do you think, does not honour his representatives, and wish a parliament void of heat and animosities, to secure the quiet of the nation? you cite his majesty's declaration against those that dare trifle with parliaments; a declaration, by the way, which you endeavoured not to have read publicly in churches, with a threatening to those that did it. "but we still declare (says his majesty) that no irregularities of parliament shall make us out of love with them." are not you unfortunate quoters? why now should you rub up the remembrance of those irregularities mentioned in that declaration, which caused, as the king informs us, its dissolution? the next paragraph is already answered; it is only a clumsy commendation of the duke of monmouth, copied after mr hunt, and a proof that he is unlike the duke of guise. after having done my drudgery for me, and having most officiously proved, that the english duke is no parallel for the french, which i am sure he is not, they are next to do their own business, which is, that i meant a parallel betwixt henry iii. and our most gracious sovereign. but, as fallacies are always couched in general propositions, they plead the whole course of the drama, which, they say, seems to insinuate my intentions. one may see to what a miserable shift they are driven, when, for want of any one instance, to which i challenge them, they have only to allege, that the play seems to insinuate it. i answer, it does not seem; which is a bare negative to a bare affirmative; and then we are just where we were before. fat falstaff was never set harder by the prince for a reason, when he answered, "that, if reasons grew as thick as blackberries, he would not give one." well, after long pumping, lest the lie should appear quite barefaced, they have found i said, that, at king henry's birth, there shone a regal star; so there did at king charles the second's; therefore i have made a parallel betwixt henry iii. and charles ii. a very concluding syllogism, if i should answer it no farther. now, let us look upon the play; the words are in the fourth act. the conjurer there is asking his devil, "what fortune attended his master, the guise, and what the king?" the familiar answers concerning the king,--"he cannot be deposed, he may be killed; a violent fate attends him; but, at his birth, there shone a regal star."--_conj._ "my master had a stronger."--_devil._ "no, not a stronger, but more popular." let the whole scene, (which is one of the best in the tragedy, though murdered in the acting) be read together, and it will be as clear as day light, that the devil gave an astrological account of the french king's _horoscope_; that the regal star, then culminating, was the sun in the tenth house, or mid-heaven; which, _cæteris paribus,_ is a regal nativity in that art. the rest of the scene confirms what i have said; for the devil has taken the position of the heavens, or scheme of the world, at the point of the sun's entrance into aries. i dispute not here the truth or lawfulness of that art; but it is usual with poets, especially the italians, to mix astrology in their poems. chaucer, amongst us, is frequent in it: but this revolution particularly i have taken out of luigi pulci; and there is one almost the same in boiardo's "_orlando inamorato._" now, if these poets knew, that a star were to appear at our king's birth, they were better prophets than nostradamus, who has told us nothing of it. yet this they say "is treason with a witness," and one of the crimes for which they condemned me to be hanged, drawn and quartered. i find they do not believe me to be one of their party at the bottom, by their charitable wishes to me; and am proud enough to think, i have done them some little mischief, because they are so desirous to be rid of me. but if jack ketch must needs have the handling of us poets, let him begin first where he may take the deepest say[ ]; let me be hanged, but in my turn; for i am sure i am neither the fattest scribbler, nor the worst; i'll be judged by their own party. but, for all our comforts, the days of hanging are a little out of date; and i hope there will be no more treason with a witness or witnesses; for now there is no more to be got by swearing, and the market is overstocked besides. but are you in earnest when you say, i have made henry iii. "fearful, weak, bloody, perfidious, hypocritical, and fawning, in the play?" i am sure an unbiassed reader will find a more favourable image of him in the tragedy, whatever he was out of it. you would not have told a lie so shameless, but that you were resolved to second it with a worse--that i made a parallel of that prince. and now it comes to my turn, pray let me ask you,--why you spend three pages and a half in heaping up all the villainies, true or false, which you can rake together, to blast his memory? why is all this pains taken to expose the person of king henry iii.? are you leaguers, or covenanters, or associators? what has the poor dead man done to nettle you? were his rebels your friends or your relations? were your norman ancestors of any of those families, which were conspirators in the play? i smell a rat in this business; henry iii. is not taken thus to task for nothing. let me tell you, this is little better than an implicit confession of the parallel i intended. this gentleman of valois sticks in your stomachs; and, though i do not defend his proceedings in the states, any otherwise than by the inevitable necessity which caused them, yet acknowledging his crime does not extenuate their guilt that forced him to it. it was bad on both sides, but the revenge was not so wicked as the treason; for it was a voluntary act of theirs, and a compelled one of his. the short on't is, he took a violent course to cut up the covenant by the roots; and there is your quarrel to him. now for a long-winded panegyric of the king of navarre; and here i am sure they are in earnest, when they take such overpains to prove there is no likeness where they say i intended it. the hero, at whom their malice is levelled, does but laugh at it, i believe; and, amongst the other virtues of that predecessor, wants neither his justice nor his clemency, to forgive all the heads of the league, as fast as they submit. as for obliging them, (which our author would fain hook in for an ingredient) let them be satisfied, that no more enemies are to be bought off with places and preferments; the trial which has been made in two kings reigns, will warn the family from so fruitless and dangerous an expedient. the rest is already answered, in what i have said to mr hunt; but i thank them, by the way, for their instance of the fellow whom the king of navarre had pardoned and done good to, "yet he would not love him;" for that story reaches home somewhere. i must make haste to get out of hearing from this billingsgate oratory; and, indeed, to make an end with these authors, except i could call rogue and rascal as fast as they. let us examine the little reason they produce concerning the exclusion. "did the pope, the clergy, the nobility and commonalty of france think it reasonable to exclude a prince for professing a different religion; and will the papists be angry if the protestants be of the same opinion? no, sure, they cannot have the impudence." first, here is the difference of religion taken for granted, which was never proved on one side, though in the king of navarre it was openly professed. then the pope, and the three estates of france had no power to alter the succession, neither did the king in being consent to it: or afterwards, did the greater part of the nobility, clergy, and gentry adhere to the exclusion, but maintained the lawful king successfully against it; as we are bound to do in england, by the oaths of allegiance and supremacy, made for the benefit of our kings, and their successors? the objections concerning which oath are fully answered by dr hicks, in his preface to jovian; and thither i refer the reader. they tell us, that what it concerns protestants to do in that case, enough has been heard by us in parliament debates. i answer, that debates coming not by an act to any issue, conclude, that there is nothing to be done against a law established, and fundamental of the monarchy. they dare not infer a right of taking up arms, by virtue of a debate or vote, and yet they tacitly insinuate this. i ask them, what it does concern protestants to do in this case, and whether they mean anything by that expression? they have hampered themselves before they were aware; for they proceed in the very next lines to tell us, they believe "the crown of england being hereditary, the next in blood have an undoubted right to succeed, unless god make them, or they make themselves uncapable of reigning." so that according to them, if either of those two impediments shall happen, then it concerns the protestants of england to do that something, which, if they had spoken out, had been direct treason. here is fine legerdemain amongst them: they have acknowledged a vote to be no more than the opinion of an house, and yet from a debate, which was abortive before it quickened into a vote, they argue after the old song, "that there is something more to be done, which you cannot chuse but guess." in the next place, there is no such thing as incapacity to be supposed, in the immediate successor of the crown. that is, the rightful heir cannot be made uncapable on any account whatsoever to succeed. it may please god, that he may be _inhabilis_, or _inidoneus ad gerendam rempublicam_,--unfit or unable to govern the kingdom; but this is no impediment to his right of reigning: he cannot either be excluded or deposed for such imperfection; for the laws which have provided for private men in this case, have also made provision for the sovereign, and for the public; and the council of state, or the next of blood, is to administer the kingdom for him. charles the sixth of france, (for i think we have no english examples which will reach it) forfeited not his kingdom by his lunacy, though a victorious king of england was then knocking at his gates; but all things under his name, and by his authority were managed. the case is the same, betwixt a king _non compos mentis_, and one who is _nondum compos mentis_; a distracted or an infant-king. then the people cannot incapacitate the king, because he derives not his right from them, but from god only; neither can any action, much less opinion of a sovereign, render him uncapable, for the same reason; excepting only a voluntary resignation to his immediate heir, as in the case of charles the fifth: for that of our richard the second was invalid, because forced, and not made to the next successor. neither does it follow, as our authors urge, that an unalterable succession supposes england to be the king's estate, and the people his goods and chattels on it. for the preservation of his right destroys not our propriety, but maintains us in it. he has tied himself by law, not to invade our possessions; and we have obliged ourselves as subjects to him, and all his lawful successors: by which irrevocable act of ours, both for ourselves and our posterity, we can no more exclude the successor, than we can depose the present king. the estate of england is indeed the king's; and i may safely grant their supposition, as to the government of england: but it follows not, that the people are his goods and chattels on it; for then he might sell, alienate, or destroy them as he pleased: from all which he has tied himself by the liberties and privileges which he has granted us by laws. there is little else material in this pamphlet: for to say, "i would insinuate into the king a hatred to his capital city," is to say, he should hate his best friends, the last, and the present lord mayor, our two honourable sheriffs, the court of aldermen, the worthy and loyal mr common serjeant, with the rest of the officers, who are generally well affected and who have kept out their factious members from its government. to say, i would insinuate a scorn of authority in the city, is, in effect, to grant the parallel in the play: for the authority of tumults and seditions is only scorned in it,--an authority which they derived not from the crown, but exercised against it. and for them to confess i exposed this, is to confess, that london was like paris. they conclude with a prayer to almighty god, in which i therefore believe, the poet did not club. to libel the king through all the pamphlet, and to pray for him in the conclusion, is an action of more prudence in them than of piety. perhaps they might hope to be forgiven, as one of their predecessors was by king james; who, after he had railed at him abundantly, ended his lampoon with these two verses: now god preserve our king, queen, prince and peers, and grant the author long may wear his ears[ ]. to take a short review of the whole.--it is manifest, that there is no such parallel in the play, as the faction have pretended; that the story would not bear one where they have placed it; and that i could not reasonably intend one, so contrary to the nature of the play, and so repugnant to the principles of the loyal party. on the other side, it is clear that the principles and practices of the public enemies, have both formerly resembled those of the league, and continue to hold the same resemblance. it appears by the outcry of the party before the play was acted, that they dreaded and foresaw the bringing of the faction upon the stage: and by the hasty printing of mr hunt's libel, and the reflections, before the tragedy was published, that they were infinitely concerned to prevent any farther operation of it. it appears from the general consent of the audiences, that their party were known to be represented; and themselves owned openly, by their hissings, that they were incensed at it, as an object which they could not bear. it is evident by their endeavours to shift off this parallel from their side, that their principles are too shameful to be maintained. it is notorious, that they, and they only, have made the parallel betwixt the duke of guise and the duke of monmouth, and that in revenge for the manifest likeness they find in the parties themselves, they have carried up the parallel to the heads of the parties, where there is no resemblance at all; under which colour, while they pretend to advert upon one libel, they set up another. for what resemblance could they suggest betwixt two persons so unlike in their descent, the qualities of their minds, and the disparity of their warlike actions, if they grant not, that there is a faction here, which is like that other which was in france? so that if they do not first acknowledge one common cause, there is no foundation for a parallel. the dilemma therefore lies strong upon them; and let them avoid it if they can,--that either they must avow the wickedness of their designs, or disown the likeness of those two persons. i do further charge those audacious authors, that they themselves have made the parallel which they call mine, and that under the covert of this parallel they have odiously compared our present king with king henry the third; and farther, that they have forced this parallel expressly to wound his majesty in the comparison: for, since there is a parallel (as they would have it) it must be either theirs or mine. i have proved that it cannot possibly be mine: and in so doing, that it must be theirs by consequence. under this shadow all the vices of the french king are charged by those libellers (by a side-wind) upon ours; and it is indeed the bottom of their design to make the king cheap, his royal brother odious, and to alter the course of the succession. now, after the malice of this sputtering triumvirate (mr hunt, and the two reflectors), against the person and dignity of the king, and against all that endeavour to serve him (which makes their hatred to his cause apparent), the very charging of our play to be a libel, and such a parallel as these ignoramuses would render it, is almost as great an affront to his majesty, as the libellous picture itself, by which they have exposed him to his subjects. for it is no longer our parallel, but the king's, by whose order it was acted, without any shuffling or importunity from the poets. the tragedy (cried the faction) is a libel against such and such illustrious persons. upon this the play was stopt, examined, acquitted, and ordered to be brought upon the stage: not one stroke in it of a resemblance, to answer the scope and intent of the complaint. there were some features, indeed, that the illustrious mr hunt and his brace of beagles (the reflectors) might see resembling theirs; and no other parallel either found or meant, but betwixt the french leaguers and ours: and so far the agreement held from point to point, as true as a couple of tallies. but when neither the king, nor my lord chamberlain, with other honourable persons of eminent faith, integrity, and understanding, upon a strict perusal of the papers, could find one syllable to countenance the calumny; up starts the defender of the charter, &c. opens his mouth, and says, "what do ye talk of the king? he's abused, he's imposed upon. is my lord chamberlain, and the scrutineers that succeed him, to tell us, when the king and the duke of york are abused?" what says my lord chief baron of ireland to the business? what says the livery-man templer? what says og the king of basan to it? "we are men that stand up for the king's supremacy in all causes, and over all persons, as well ecclesiastical as civil, next and immediately under god and the people. we are for easing his royal highness of his title to the crown, and the cares that attend any such prospect; and we shall see the king and the royal family paralleled at this rate, and not reflect upon it?" but to draw to an end. upon the laying of matters fairly together, what a king have these balderdash scribblers given us, under the resemblance of henry the third! how scandalous a character again, of his majesty, in telling the world that he is libelled, and affronted to his face, told on't, pointed to it; and yet neither he, nor those about him, can be brought to see or understand it. there needs no more to expound the meaning of these people, than to compare them with themselves: when it will evidently appear, that their lives and conversations, their writings and their practices, do all take the same bias; and when they dare not any longer revile his majesty or his government point blank, they have an intention to play the libellers in masquerade, and do the same thing in a way of mystery and parable. this is truly the case of the pretended parallel. they lay their heads together, and compose the lewdest character of a prince that can be imagined, and then exhibit that monster to the people, as the picture of the king in the "duke of guise." so that the libel passes for current in the multitude, whoever was the author of it; and it will be but common justice to give the devil his due. but the truth is, their contrivances are now so manifest, that their party moulders both in town and country; for i will not suspect that there are any of them left in court. deluded well-meaners come over out of honesty, and small offenders out of common discretion or fear. none will shortly remain with them, but men of desperate fortunes or enthusiasts: those who dare not ask pardon, because they have transgressed beyond it, and those who gain by confusion, as thieves do by fires: to whom forgiveness were as vain, as a reprieve to condemned beggars; who must hang without it, or starve with it. footnotes: . as the whole passage from davila is subjoined to the text in the play, the reader may easily satisfy himself of the accuracy of what is here stated. but, although the scene may have been written in , we must be allowed to believe, that its extreme resemblance to the late events occasioned its being revived and re-presented in . . the poem, alluded to, was probably the _religio laici_, first published in november l . . dryden and shadwell had once been friends. in the preface to "the humourists," acted, according to mr malone, in , shadwell thus mentions his great contemporary: "and here i must make a little digression, and take liberty to dissent from my particular friend, for whom i have a very great respect, and whose writings i extremely admire; and, though i will not say, his is the best way of writing, yet, i am sure his manner of writing is much the best that ever was. and i may say of him, as was said of a celebrated poet, _cui unquam poetarum magis proprium fuit subito astro incalescere? quis ubi incaluit, fortius et fæclicius debacchatur_? his verse is smoother and deeper, his thoughts more quick and surprising, his raptures more mettled and higher, and he has more of that in his writings, which plato calls _sôphrona manian_ than any other heroic poet. and those who shall go about to imitate him, will be found to flutter and make a noise, but never to rise." such a compliment, from a rival dramatist, could only have been extracted by previous good offices and kindly countenance. accordingly we find, that dryden, in - , wrote a prologue to shadwell's play, of "the true widow." . "the female prelate, or pope joan," is a bombast, silly performance of elkanah settle; the catastrophe of which consists in the accouchement of the pope in the streets of rome. the aid necessary in the conclusion of an english tragedy, (usually loudly called for, but never brought) is of a surgical nature; but here lucina was the deity to be implored, and the midwife's assistance most requisite. shadwell's comedy of "the lancashire witches," was popular for many years after the revolution, chiefly, because the papists were reflected upon in the character of teague o'divelly, an irish priest, the high-church clergy ridiculed under that of smerk, and the whole tory faction generally abused through the play. it is by no means one of shadwell's happiest efforts. the introduction of the witches celebrating their satanical sabbath on the stage, besides that the scene is very poorly and lamely written, is at variance with the author's sentiments, as delivered through sir edward hartfort, "a worthy, hospitable, true english gentleman, of good understanding and honest principles," who ridicules the belief in witches at all. a different and totally inconsistent doctrine is thus to be collected from the action of the piece and the sentiments expressed by those, whose sentiments are alone marked as worthy of being attended to. this obvious fault, with many others, is pointed out in a criticism on the "lancashire witches," published in the spectator. the paper is said to have been written by hughes, but considerably softened by addison. . half-a-crown was then the box price. you visit our plays and merit the stocks, for paying half-crowns of brass to our box; nay, often you swear when places are shewn ye, that your hearing is thick, and so by a love trick, you pass through our scenes up to the balcony. _epilogue to_ "the man's the master." the farce, alluded to, seems to have been "the lancashire witches." see shadwell's account of the reception of that piece, from which it appears, that the charge of forming a party in the theatre was a subject of mutual reproach betwixt the dramatists of the contending parties. . this single remark is amply sufficient to exculpate dryden from having intended any general parallel between monmouth and the duke of guise. to have produced such a parallel, it would have been necessary to unite, in one individual, the daring political courage of shaftesbury, his capacity of seizing the means to attain his object, and his unprincipled carelessness of their nature, with the fine person, chivalrous gallantry, military fame, and courteous manners of the duke of monmouth. had these talents, as they were employed in the same cause, been vested in the same person, the duke of guise must have yielded the palm. the partial resemblance, in one point of their conduct, is stated by our poet, not to have been introduced as an _intended_ likeness, betwixt the duke of guise, and the protestant duke. we may observe, in the words of bertran, the dial spoke not--but it made shrewd signs. _spanish friar._ . alluding to a book, called "the parallel," published by j. northleigh l.l.b. the same who afterwards wrote "the triumph of the monarchy," and was honoured by a copy of verses from our author. . "julian the apostate, with a short account of his life, and a parallel betwixt popery and paganism," was a treatise, written by the rev. samuel johnson, chaplain to lord russell, for the purpose of forwarding the bill of exclusion, by shewing the consequences to christianity of a pagan emperor attaining the throne. it would seem, that one of the sheriffs had mistaken so grossly, as to talk of julian the apostle; or, more probably, such a blunder was circulated as true, by some tory wit. wood surmises, that hunt had some share in composing julian. _ath. ox._ ii. p. .] . this probably alludes to l'estrange, who answered hunt in the "lawyer outlawed." . "curse ye meroz," was a text much in vogue among the fanatic preachers in the civil wars. it was preached upon in guildhall, before the lord mayor, th may, , by edmund hickeringill, rector of all saints, in colchester: there's colchester hickeringil, the fanatic's delight, who gregory greybeard and meroz did write, you may see who are saints in a pharisee's sight. _the assembly of the moderate divines, stanza ._ gregory greybeard was probably some ballad, alluding to the execution of charles i, who was beheaded by a person disguised by a visor and greybeard. the name of the common hangman, at that time, was gregory. . jaques clement, a jacobin monk, stabbed henry iii. on the st of august, . he expired the following day. . "all crowned heads by poetical right are heroes. this character is a flower, a prerogative so certain, so inseparably annexed to the crown as by no poet, no parliament of poets, ever to be invaded." _rymer's remarks on the tragedies of the last age_, p. l. this critical dogma, although here and else-where honoured by our author's sanction, fell into disuse with the doctrines of passive obedience, and indefeasible right. . the earl of arlington, lord chamberlain. . charles ii. and his brother the duke of york, were grandchildren of henry iv. of france, by their mother henrietta maria. . a very poor imitation of moliere's "festin de pierre;" with the story of which the admirers of mute-shew have since been entertained, under the title of don juan. in the preface, shadwell, after railing abundantly at settle, is at the pains to assure us, there is no act in the piece which cost him above four days writing, and the last two (the play-house having great occasion for a play) were both written in four days. the libertine, and his companions, travel by sea and land over the whole kingdom of spain. . see the full passage prefixed to the vindication. . the club alluded to seems to be the same which originally met at the king's-head tavern, of which north gives the following lively account. "the gentlemen of that worthy society held their evening session continually at the king's-head tavern, over against the inner temple gate. but upon occasion of the signal of a green ribbon, agreed to be worn in their hats in the days of secret engagements, like the coats of arms of valiant knights of old, whereby all the warriors of the society might be distinguished, and not mistake friends for enemies, they were called also the green ribbon club. their seat was in a sort of carrefour, at chancery-lane end, a centre of business and company, most proper for such anglers of fools. the house was double-balconied in front, as may be yet seen, for the clubsters to issue forth, in fresco, with hats and no peruques, pipes in their mouths, merry faces, and diluted throats, for vocal encouragement of the canaglia below, at bonfires, on usual and unusual occasions. they admitted all strangers that were confidingly introduced; for, it was a main end of their institution to make proselytes, especially of the raw estated youths newly come to town. this copious society were, to the faction in and about london, a sort of executive power, and by correspondence all over england. the resolves of the more retired councils and ministry of the faction, were brought in here, and orally insinuated to the company, whether it were lies, defamations, commendations, projects, &c. and so, like water diffused, spread over all the town; whereby that which was digested at the club over night, was, like nourishment, at every assembly, male and female, the next day. and thus the younglings tasted of political administration, and took themselves for notable counsellors." _examen_, p. . the place of meeting is altered by dryden, from the king's-head, to the devil-tavern, either because he thought the name more appropriate, or wished slightly to disguise what he plainly insinuated. . our author never omits an opportunity of twitting hunt with his expected preferment of lord chief baron of exchequer in ireland; l'estrange, whose ready pen was often drawn for the court, answered hunt's defence of the charter by a pamphlet entitled "the lawyer outlawed," in which he fails not to twit his antagonist with the same disappointment. . the foul practice of taking away lives by false witness, casts an indelible disgrace on this period. oates, dugdale, and turberville, were the perjured evidences of the popish plot. to meet them with equal arms, counter-plots were sworn against shaftesbury and others, by haines, macnamara, and other irishmen. but the true protestant juries would only swallow the perjuries which made for their own opinions; nay, although they believed dugdale, when he zealously forswore himself for the cause of the protestant faith, they refused him credit when he bore false witness for the crown. "thus," says hume, "the two parties, actuated by mutual rage, but cooped up within the narrow limits of the law, levelled with poisoned daggers the most deadly blows against each other's breast, and buried in their factious divisions all regard to truth, honour, and humanity."-- . in the dramatis personæ to shadwell's play of epsom-wells, we have rains, bevil, woodly, described as "men of wit and pleasure." . dryden had already distinguished shadwell and settle by those names, which were destined to consign the poor wights to a painful immortality, in the second part of absalom and achitophel, published in . . see note on p. . vol. vi. describing this famous procession. . this passage, in hunt's defence of the charter, obviously alludes to the duke of york, whom he elsewhere treats with little ceremony, and to the king, whose affection for his brother was not without a mixture of fear, inspired by his more stubborn and resolved temper. . william viscount stafford, the last who suffered for the popish plot, was tried and executed in . it appears, that his life was foully sworn away by dugdale and turberville. the manly and patient deportment of the noble sufferer went far to remove the woful delusion which then pervaded the people. it would seem that hunt had acted as his solicitor. . a quip at his corpulent adversary shadwell. . the infamous titus oates pretended, amongst other more abominable falsehoods, to have taken a doctor's degree at salamanca. in , there was an attempt to bring him to trial for unnatural practices, but the grand jury threw out the bill. these were frequent subjects of reproach among the tory authors. in the luttrel collection, there is "an address from salamanca to her unknown offspring dr t.o. concerning the present state of affairs in england." also a coarse ballad, entitled, "the venison doctor, with his brace of alderman stags;" showing how a doctor had defiled two aldermen, and got them both with child, who longed for venison, but were beguiled. . our author has elsewhere expressed, in the same terms, his contempt for the satire of "the rehearsal." "i answered not the rehearsal, because i knew the author sat to himself when he drew the picture, and was the very bayes of his own farce." _dedication to juvenal._--the same idea occurs in a copy of verses on the duke of buckingham sometimes ascribed to dryden: but when his poet, john bayes, did appear, 'twas known to more than one-half that were there, that the great'st part was his grace's character; for he many years plagued his friends for their crimes, repeating his verses in other men's rhymes, to the very same person ten thousand times. _state poems_, vol. ii, p. . . besides those who were alarmed for civil liberty, and those who dreaded encroachment on their religion, the whig party, like every one which promises to effect a great political change, was embraced by many equally careless of the one motive or the other; but who hoped to indulge their licentious passions, repair their broken fortunes, or gratify their inordinate ambition amidst a revolutionary convulsion. . the motto to hunt's pamphlet. . _tantivi_ was a cant phrase for furious tories and high-flyers. in one of college's unlucky strokes of humour, he had invented a print called _mac ninny_, in which the duke of york was represented half-jesuit half-devil; and a parcel of tories, mounted on the church of england, were driving it at full gallop, _tantivy_, to rome. hickeringill's poem, called "the mushroom," written against our author's "hind and panther," is prefaced by an epistle to the tories and tantivies. . this passage is inaccurately quoted. mr hunt wrote, "such monsters as theseus and hercules _are_, renowned throughout all ages for destroying." the learned gentleman obviously meant that dryden's heroes (whom he accounted tyrants) resembled not the demi-gods, but the monsters whom they destroyed. but the comma is so unhappily placed after _are_, as to leave the sense capable of the malicious interpretation which dryden has put upon it. . shadwell, as he resembled ben jonson in extreme corpulence, and proposed him for the model of dramatic writing, seems to have affected the coarse and inelegant debauchery of his prototype. he lived chiefly in taverns, was a gross sensualist in his habits, and brutal in his conversation. his fine gentlemen all partake of their parent's grossness and vulgarity; they usually open their dialogue, by complaining of the effects of last night's debauch. he is probably the only author, who ever chose for his heroes a set of riotous bloods, or _scowerers_, as they were then termed, and expected the public should sympathise in their brutal orgies. true it is, that the heroes are _whig_ scowerers; and, whilst breaking windows, stabbing watchmen, and beating passengers, do not fail to express a due zeal for the protestant religion, and the liberty of the subject. much of the interest also turns, it must be allowed, upon the protestant scowerers aforesaid baffling and beating, without the least provocation, a set of inferior scowerers, who were jacobites at least, if not papists. shadwell is thus described in the "sessions of the poets:" next into the crowd tom shadwell does wallow, and swears by his guts, his paunch, and his tallow, 'tis he that alone best pleases the age, himself and his wife have supported the stage. apollo, well pleased with so bonny a lad, to oblige him, he told him he should be huge glad, had he half so much wit as he fancied he had. however, to please so jovial a wit, and to keep him in humour, apollo thought fit to bid him drink on, and keep his old trick of railing at poets-- those, who consult the full passage, will see good reason to think dryden's censure on shadwell's brutality by no means too severe. . in , ladislaus king of hungary, in breach of a treaty solemnly sworn upon the gospel, invaded bulgaria, at the instigation of the cardinal legate. he was slain, and his army totally routed in the bloody battle of warna, where ten thousand christians fell before the janissaries of amurath ii. it is said, that while the battle remained undecided, the sultan displayed the solemn treaty, and invoked the god of truth, and the blessed name of jesus, to revenge the impious infidelity of the hungarian. this battle would have laid hungary under the turkish yoke, had it not been for the exploits of john corvinus huniades, the white knight of walachia, and the more dubious prowess of the famous john castriot, king of epirus. . in the preface to which the author alleges, that hunt contributed no small share towards the composition of "julian the apostate." see wood's _ath. oxon._ v. ii. p. . . the song against the bishops is probably a ballad, upon their share in throwing out the bill of exclusion, beginning thus: the grave house of commons, by hook, or by crook, resolved to root out both the pope and the duke; let them vote, let them move, let them do what they will; the bishops, the bishops, have thrown out the bill. it concludes with the following stanza: the best of expedients, the law can propose, our church to preserve, and to quiet our foes, is not to let lawn sleeves our parliament fill, but throw out the bishops, that threw out the bill. _state poems_, vol. iii. p. . the tunbridge ballad, which our author also ascribes to shadwell or his assistant, i have not found among the numerous libels of the time. . the "massacre of paris" appears to have been written by lee, during the time of the popish plot, and if then brought out, the subject might have been extravagantly popular. it would appear it was suppressed at the request of the french ambassador. several speeches, and even a whole scene seem to have been transplanted to the "duke of guise," which were afterwards replaced, when the revolution rendered the "massacre of paris," again a popular topic. there were, among others, the description of the meeting of alva and the queen mother at bayonne; the sentiments expressed concerning the assassination of cæsar, and especially the whole quarrelling scene between guise and grillon, which, in the "massacre of paris," passes between guise and the admiral chastillon. in the preface to the "princess of cleves," which was acted in , lee gives the following account of the transposition of these passages. "the duke of guise, who was notorious for a bolder fault, has wrested two whole scenes from the original, (the massacre just before mentioned,) which, after the vacation, he will be forced to pay. i was, i confess, through indignation, forced to limb my own child, which time, the true cure for all maladies and injustice, has set together again. the play cost me much pains, the story is true, and, i hope, the object will display treachery in its own colours. but this farce, comedy, tragedy, or mere play, was a revenge for the refusal of the other." this last sentence alludes to the suppression of the "massacre of paris," which, according to the author's promise, appeared with all its appurtenances restored in , the year following.] . when the days of whiggish prosperity shone forth, shadwell did his best to retort upon our poet. in the prologue to "bury fair," we find the following lines of exultation, on his having regained possession of the stage: those wretched poetitos, who got praise, by writing most _confounded loyal plays_, with viler coarser jests, than at bear-garden, and silly grub-street songs, worse than tom farthing; if any noble patriot did excel, his own and country's rights defending well, these yelping curs were straight 'looed on to bark, on the deserving man to set a mark; those abject fawning parasites and knaves. since they were such, would have all others slaves. 'twas precious _loyalty_, that was thought fit to atone for want of honesty and wit; no wonder common sense was all cried down, and noise and nonsense swaggered through the town; our author then opprest would have you know it. was silenced for a non-conformist poet; now, sirs, since common sence has won the day, be kind to this as to his last year's play; his friends stood firmly to him, when distressed, he hopes the number is not now decreast. he found esteem from those he valued most; proud of his friends, he of his foes could boast. . "know then, to prevent the farther shedding of christian blood, we are all content ventoso shall be viceroy, upon condition i may be viceroy over him." tempest, as altered by dryden, vol. iii. p. . . the fable alluded to occurs in the _pia hilaria_ of gazæus, and in le grand's _fabliaux_; it makes the subject of a humorous tale by mr robert southey. . alluding to the well-known catastrophe of poor settle acting in bartholomew fair: "reduced at last to hiss in his own dragon." . the _say_, or _assay_, is the first cut made on the stag when he is killed. the hunter begins at the brisket, and draws the knife downwards. the purpose is, to ascertain how fat he is: "at the assay kitle him, that lends may se anon fat or lene whether that he be." _boke of st alban's._ the allusion in the text is to the cruel punishment of high treason by quartering. . "and so thou shalt for me," said james, when he came to the passage; "thou art a biting knave, but a witty one." * * * * * albion and albanius: an opera _discite justitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos._ virg. albion and albanius. this opera, like the play which precedes it, had an avowed political object. it was intended to celebrate the victory of the crown over its opponents, or, as our author would have expressed it, of loyalty over sedition and insurrection. the events, which followed the restoration, are rapidly, but obviously and distinctly, traced down to the death of charles, and the quiet accession of his brother, who, after all the storms which had threatened to blast his prospects, found himself enabled to mount the throne, with ease sufficient to encourage him to the measures which precipitated him from that elevation. the leading incidents of the busy and intriguing reign of charles ii. are successively introduced in the following order. the city of london is discovered occupied by the republicans and fanatics, depicted under the allegorical personages democracy and zeal. general monk, as archon, charms the factions to sleep, and the restoration is emblematized by the arrival of charles, and the duke of york, under the names of albion and albanius. the second act opens with a council of the fiends, where the popish plot is hatched, and democracy and zeal are dismissed, to propagate it upon earth, with oates, the famous witness, in their train. the next entry presents augusta, or london, stung by a snake, to intimate the revival of the popular faction in the metropolis. democracy and zeal, under the disguise of patriotism and religion, insinuate themselves into the confidence of the city, and are supposed to foment the parliamentary opposition, which, ending on the bill of exclusion, rendered it necessary, that the duke of york should leave the kingdom. we have then, in allegorical representation, the internal feuds of the parties, which, from different causes, opposed the crown. the adherents of monmouth, and the favourers of republican tenets, are represented as disputing with each other, until the latter, by the flight of shaftesbury, obtains a final ascendancy. in the mean while, charles, or albion, has recourse to the advice of proteus; under which emblem an evil minded whig might suppose halifax, and the party of trimmers, to be represented; actuated by whose versatile, and time-serving politics, charles gave way to each wave, but remained buoyant amid the tempest. the rye-house plot is then presented in allegory,--an unfit subject for exultation, since the dark intrigues of the interior conspirators were made the instruments of the fall of sidney and russell. the return of the duke of york, with his beautiful princess, and the rejoicings which were supposed to take place, in heaven and earth, upon charles' attaining the pinnacle of uncontrolled power, was originally the intended termination of the opera; which, as first written, consisted of only one act, introductory to the drama of "king arthur." but the eye and the ear of charles were never to be regaled by this flattering representation: he died while the opera was in rehearsal. a slight addition, as the author has himself informed us, adapted the conclusion of his piece to this new and unexpected event. the apotheosis of albion, and the succession of albanius to the uncontrouled domination of a willing people, debased by circumstances expressing an unworthy triumph over deceased foes, was substituted as the closing scene. altered as it was, to suit the full-blown fortune of james, an ominous fatality attended these sugared scenes, which were to present the exulting recapitulation of his difficulties and triumph. while the opera was performing, for the sixth time only, news arrived that monmouth had landed in the west, the audience dispersed, and the players never attempted to revive a play, which seemed to be of evil augury to the crown. our author appears to have found it difficult to assign a name for this performance, which was at once to address itself to the eye, the ear, and the understanding. the ballad-opera, since invented, in which part is sung, part acted and spoken, comes nearest to its description. the plot of the piece contains nothing brilliantly ingenious: the deities of greece and rome had been long hacknied machines in the masks and operas of the sixteenth century; and it required little invention to paint the duchess of york as venus, or to represent her husband protected by neptune, and charles consulting with proteus. but though the device be trite, the lyrical diction of the opera is most beautifully sweet and flowing. the reader finds none of these harsh inversions, and awkward constructions, by which ordinary poets are obliged to screw their verses into the fetters of musical time. notwithstanding the obstacles stated by dryden himself, every line seems to flow in its natural and most simple order; and where the music required repetition of a line, or a word, the iteration seems to improve the sense and poetical effect. neither is the piece deficient in the higher requisites of lyric poetry. when music is to be "married to immortal verse," the poet too commonly cares little with how indifferent a yoke-mate he provides her. but dryden, probably less from a superior degree of care, than from that divine impulse which he could not resist, has hurried along in the full stream of real poetry. the description of the desolation of london, at the opening of the piece, the speech of augusta, in act second, and many other passages, fully justify this encomium. the music of the piece was entrusted to louis grabut, or grabu, the master of the king's band, whom charles, french in his politics, his manners, and his taste, preferred to the celebrated purcell. "purcell, however," says an admirable judge, "having infinitely more fancy, and, indeed, harmonical resources, than the frenchified tuscan, his predecessor, now offered far greater pleasure and amusement to a liberal lover of music, than can be found, not only in the productions of cambert and grabu, whom charles ii., and, to flatter his majesty, dryden, patronised in preference to purcell, but in all the noisy monotony of the rhapsodist of quinault."--_burney's history of music_, vol. iii. p. . it seems to be generally admitted, that the music of "albion and albanius" was very indifferent. from the preface, as well as the stage directions, it appears that a vast expence was incurred, in shew, dress, and machinery. downes informs us, that, owing to the interruption of the run of the piece in the manner already mentioned, the half of the expence was never recovered, and the theatre was involved considerably in debt.--_rosc. anglic._ p. . the whigs, against whom the satire was levelled, the rival dramatists of the day, and the favourers of the english school of music, united in triumphing in its downfall[ ]. mr luttrell's manuscript note has fixed the first representation of "albion and albanius" to the d of june, ; and the laudable accuracy of mr malone has traced its sixth night to saturday the th of the same month, when an express brought the news of monmouth's landing. the opera was shortly after published. in grabut published the music, with a dedication to james ii.[ ] footnotes: . the following verses are rather better worthy of preservation than most which have been written against dryden. from father hopkins, whose vein did inspire him, bayes sends this raree-show to public view; prentices, fops, and their footmen admire him, thanks patron, painter, and monsieur grabu. each actor on the stage his luck bewailing, finds that his loss is infallibly true; smith, nokes, and leigh, in a fever with railing, curse poet, painter, and monsieur grabu. betterton, betterton, thy decorations, and the machines, were well written, we knew; but, all the words were such stuff, we want patience, and little better is monsieur grabu. damme, says underhill, i'm out of two hundred, hoping that rainbows and peacocks would do; who thought infallible tom[a] could have blundered? a plague upon him and monsieur grabu! lane, thou hast no applause for thy capers, though all, without thee, would make a man spew; and a month hence will not pay for the tapers, spite of jack laureat, and monsieur grabu. bayes, thou wouldst have thy skill thought universal, though thy dull ear be to music untrue; then, whilst we strive to confute the rehearsal, prithee leave thrashing of monsieur grabu. with thy dull prefaces still thou wouldst treat us, striving to make thy dull bauble look fair; so the horned herd of the city do cheat us, still most commending the worst of their ware. leave making operas and writing of lyricks, till thou hast ears, and can alter thy strain; stick to thy talent of bold panegyricks, and still remember--_breathing the vein_[b]. yet, if thou thinkest the town will extoll them, print thy dull notes; but be thrifty and wise: instead of angels subscribed for the volume, take a round shilling, and thank my advice. in imitating thee, this may be charming, gleaning from laureats is no shame at all; and let this song be sung next performing, else, ten to one that the prices will fall. footnotes: a. thomas betterton. b. an expression in dryden's poem on the death of cromwell, which his libeller insisted on applying to the death of charles i. . langbaine has preserved another jest upon our author's preference of grabut to the english musicians. grabut, his yokemate, ne'er shall be forgot. whom th' god of tunes upon a muse begot; bayes on a double score to him belongs, as well for writing, as for setting songs; for some have sworn the intrigue so odd is laid, that bayes and he mistook each other's trade, grabut the lines, and he the music made. the preface. if wit has truly been defined, "a propriety of thoughts and words,[ ]" then that definition will extend to all sorts of poetry; and, among the rest, to this present entertainment of an opera. propriety of thought is that fancy which arises naturally from the subject, or which the poet adapts to it; propriety of words is the clothing of those thoughts with such expressions as are naturally proper to them; and from both these, if they are judiciously performed, the delight of poetry results. an opera is a poetical tale, or fiction, represented by vocal and instrumental music, adorned with scenes, machines, and dancing. the supposed persons of this musical drama are generally supernatural, as gods, and goddesses, and heroes, which at least are descended from them, and are in due time to be adopted into their number. the subject, therefore, being extended beyond the limits of human nature, admits of that sort of marvellous and surprising conduct, which is rejected in other plays. human impossibilities are to be received as they are in faith; because, where gods are introduced, a supreme power is to be understood, and second causes are out of doors; yet propriety is to be observed even here. the gods are all to manage their peculiar provinces; and what was attributed by the heathens to one power, ought not to be performed by any other. phoebus must foretel, mercury must charm with his caduceus, and juno must reconcile the quarrels of the marriage-bed; to conclude, they must all act according to their distinct and peculiar characters. if the persons represented were to speak upon the stage, it would follow, of necessity, that the expressions should be lofty, figurative, and majestical: but the nature of an opera denies the frequent use of these poetical ornaments; for vocal music, though it often admits a loftiness of sound, yet always exacts an harmonious sweetness; or, to distinguish yet more justly, the recitative part of the opera requires a more masculine beauty of expression and sound. the other, which, for want of a proper english word, i must call the _songish part_, must abound in the softness and variety of numbers; its principal intention being to please the hearing, rather than to gratify the understanding. it appears, indeed, preposterous at first sight, that rhyme, on any consideration, should take place of reason; but, in order to resolve the problem, this fundamental proposition must be settled, that the first inventors of any art or science, provided they have brought it to perfection, are, in reason, to give laws to it; and, according to their model, all after-undertakers are to build. thus, in epic poetry, no man ought to dispute the authority of homer, who gave the first being to that masterpiece of art, and endued it with that form of perfection in all its parts, that nothing was wanting to its excellency. virgil therefore, and those very few who have succeeded him, endeavoured not to introduce, or innovate, any thing in a design already perfected, but imitated the plan of the inventor; and are only so far true heroic poets, as they have built on the foundations of homer. thus, pindar, the author of those odes, which are so admirably restored by mr cowley in our language, ought for ever to be the standard of them; and we are bound, according to the practice of horace and mr cowley, to copy him. now, to apply this axiom to our present purpose, whosoever undertakes the writing of an opera, which is a modern invention, though built indeed on the foundation of ethnic worship, is obliged to imitate the design of the italians, who have not only invented, but brought to perfection, this sort of dramatic musical entertainment. i have not been able, by any search, to get any light, either of the time when it began, or of the first author; but i have probable reasons, which induce me to believe, that some italians, having curiously observed the gallantries of the spanish moors at their zambras, or royal feasts, where music, songs, and dancing, were in perfection, together with their machines, which are usual at their _sortija_, or running at the ring, and other solemnities, may possibly have refined upon those moresque divertisements, and produced this delightful entertainment, by leaving out the warlike part of the carousals, and forming a poetical design for the use of the machines, the songs, and dances. but however it began, (for this is only conjectural,) we know, that, for some centuries, the knowledge of music has flourished principally in italy, the mother of learning and of arts[ ]; that poetry and painting have been there restored, and so cultivated by italian masters, that all europe has been enriched out of their treasury; and the other parts of it, in relation to those delightful arts, are still as much provincial to italy, as they were in the time of the roman empire. their first operas seem to have been intended for the celebration of the marriages of their princes, or for the magnificence of some general time of joy; accordingly, the expences of them were from the purse of the sovereign, or of the republic, as they are still practised at venice, rome, and at other places, at their carnivals. savoy and florence have often used them in their courts, at the weddings of their dukes; and at turin particularly, was performed the "pastor fido," written by the famous guarini, which is a pastoral opera made to solemnise the marriage of a duke of savoy. the prologue of it has given the design to all the french; which is a compliment to the sovereign power by some god or goddess; so that it looks no less than a kind of embassy from heaven to earth. i said in the beginning of this preface, that the persons represented in operas are generally gods, goddesses, and heroes descended from them, who are supposed to be their peculiar care; which hinders not, but that meaner persons may sometimes gracefully be introduced, especially if they have relation to those first times, which poets call the golden age; wherein, by reason of their innocence, those happy mortals were supposed to have had a more familiar intercourse with superior beings; and therefore shepherds might reasonably be admitted, as of all callings the most innocent, the most happy, and who, by reason of the spare time they had, in their almost idle employment, had most leisure to make verses, and to be in love; without somewhat of which passion, no opera can possibly subsist. it is almost needless to speak any thing of that noble language, in which this musical drama was first invented and performed. all, who are conversant in the italian, cannot but observe, that it is the softest, the sweetest, the most harmonious, not only of any modern tongue, but even beyond any of the learned. it seems indeed to have been invented for the sake of poetry and music; the vowels are so abounding in all words, especially in terminations of them, that, excepting some few monosyllables, the whole language ends in them. then the pronunciation is so manly, and so sonorous, that their very speaking has more of music in it than dutch poetry and song. it has withal derived, so much copiousness and eloquence from the greek and latin, in the composition of words, and the formation of them, that if, after all, we must call it barbarous, it is the most beautiful and most learned of any barbarism in modern tongues; and we may, at least, as justly praise it, as pyrrhus did the roman discipline and martial order, that it was of barbarians, (for so the greeks called all other nations,) but had nothing in it of barbarity. this language has in a manner been refined and purified from the gothic ever since the time of dante, which is above four hundred years ago; and the french, who now cast a longing eye to their country, are not less ambitious to possess their elegance in poetry and music; in both which they labour at impossibilities. it is true, indeed, they have reformed their tongue, and brought both their prose and poetry to a standard; the sweetness, as well as the purity, is much improved, by throwing off the unnecessary consonants, which made their spelling tedious and their pronunciation harsh: but, after all, as nothing can be improved beyond its own _species_, or farther than its original nature will allow; as an ill voice, though ever so thoroughly instructed in the rules of music, can never be brought to sing harmoniously, nor many an honest critic ever arrive to be a good poet; so neither can the natural harshness of the french, or their perpetual ill accent, be ever refined into perfect harmony like the italian. the english has yet more natural disadvantages than the french; our original teutonic, consisting most in monosyllables, and those incumbered with consonants, cannot possibly be freed from those inconveniencies. the rest of our words, which are derived from the latin chiefly, and the french, with some small sprinklings of greek, italian, and spanish, are some relief in poetry, and help us to soften our uncouth numbers; which, together with our english genius, incomparably beyond the trifling of the french, in all the nobler parts of verse, will justly give us the pre-eminence. but, on the other hand, the effeminacy of our pronunciation, (a defect common to us and to the danes,) and our scarcity of female rhymes, have left the advantage of musical composition for songs, though not for recitative, to our neighbours. through these difficulties i have made a shift to struggle in my part of the performance of this opera; which, as mean as it is, deserves at least a pardon, because it has attempted a discovery beyond any former undertaker of our nation; only remember, that if there be no north-east passage to be found, the fault is in nature, and not in me; or, as ben jonson tells us in "the alchymist," when projection had failed, and the glasses were all broken, there was enough, however, in the bottoms of them, to cure the itch; so i may thus be positive, that if i have not succeeded as i desire, yet there is somewhat still remaining to satisfy the curiosity, or itch of sight and hearing. yet i have no great reason to despair; for i may, without vanity, own some advantages, which are not common to every writer; such as are the knowledge of the italian and french language, and the being conversant with some of their best performances in this kind; which have furnished me with such variety of measures as have given the composer, monsieur grabut, what occasions he could wish, to shew his extraordinary talent in diversifying the recitative, the lyrical part, and the chorus; in all which, not to attribute any thing to my own opinion, the best judges and those too of the best quality, who have honoured his rehearsals with their presence, have no less commended the happiness of his genius than his skill. and let me have the liberty to add one thing, that he has so exactly expressed my sense in all places where i intended to move the passions, that he seems to have entered into my thoughts, and to have been the poet as well as the composer. this i say, not to flatter him, but to do him right; because amongst some english musicians, and their scholars, who are sure to judge after them, the imputation of being a frenchman is enough to make a party, who maliciously endeavour to decry him. but the knowledge of latin and italian poets, both which he possesses, besides his skill in music, and his being acquainted with all the performances of the french operas, adding to these the good sense to which he is born, have raised him to a degree above any man, who shall pretend to be his rival on our stage. when any of our countrymen excel him, i shall be glad, for the sake of old england, to be shewn my error; in the mean time, let virtue be commended, though in the person of a stranger[ ]. if i thought it convenient, i could here discover some rules which i have given to myself in writing of an opera in general, and of this opera in particular; but i consider, that the effect would only be, to have my own performance measured by the laws i gave; and, consequently, to set up some little judges, who, not understanding thoroughly, would be sure to fall upon the faults, and not to acknowledge any of the beauties; an hard measure, which i have often found from false critics. here, therefore, if they will criticise, they shall do it out of their own _fond_; but let them first be assured that their ears are nice; for there is neither writing nor judgment on this subject without that good quality. it is no easy matter, in our language, to make words so smooth, and numbers so harmonious, that they shall almost set themselves. and yet there are rules for this in nature, and as great a certainty of quantity in our syllables, as either in the greek or latin: but let poets and judges understand those first, and then let them begin to study english. when they have chewed a while upon these preliminaries, it may be they will scarce adventure to tax me with want of thought and elevation of fancy in this work; for they will soon be satisfied, that those are not of the nature of this sort of writing. the necessity of double rhimes, and ordering of the words and numbers for the sweetness of the voice, are the main hinges on which an opera must move; and both of these are without the compass of any art to teach another to perform, unless nature, in the first place, has done her part, by enduing the poet with that nicety of hearing, that the discord of sounds in words shall as much offend him, as a seventh in music would a good composer. i have therefore no need to make excuses for meanness of thought in many places: the italians, with all the advantages of their language, are continually forced upon it, or, rather, affect it. the chief secret is the choice of words; and, by this choice, i do not here mean elegancy of expression, but propriety of sound, to be varied according to the nature of the subject. perhaps a time may come when i may treat of this more largely, out of some observations which i have made from homer and virgil, who, amongst all the poets, only understood the art of numbers, and of that which was properly called _rhythmus_ by the ancients. the same reasons, which depress thought in an opera, have a stronger effect upon the words, especially in our language; for there is no maintaining the purity of english in short measures, where the rhime returns so quick, and is so often female, or double rhime, which is not natural to our tongue, because it consists too much of monosyllables, and those, too, most commonly clogged with consonants; for which reason i am often forced to coin new words, revive some that are antiquated, and botch others; as if i had not served out my time in poetry, but was bound apprentice to some doggrel rhimer, who makes songs to tunes, and sings them for a livelihood. it is true, i have not been often put to this drudgery; but where i have, the words will sufficiently shew, that i was then a slave to the composition, which i will never be again: it is my part to invent, and the musician's to humour that invention. i may be counselled, and will always follow my friend's advice where i find it reasonable, but will never part with the power of the militia[ ]. i am now to acquaint my reader with somewhat more particular concerning this opera, after having begged his pardon for so long a preface to so short a work. it was originally intended only for a prologue to a play of the nature of "the tempest;" which is a tragedy mixed with opera, or a drama, written in blank verse, adorned with scenes, machines, songs, and dances, so that the fable of it is all spoken and acted by the best of the comedians; the other part of the entertainment to be performed by the same singers and dancers who were introduced in this present opera. it cannot properly be called a play, because the action of it is supposed to be conducted sometimes by supernatural means, or magic; nor an opera, because the story of it is not sung.--but more of this at its proper time.--but some intervening accidents having hitherto deferred the performance of the main design, i proposed to the actors, to turn the intended prologue into an entertainment by itself, as you now see it, by adding two acts more to what i had already written. the subject of it is wholly allegorical; and the allegory itself so very obvious, that it will no sooner be read than understood. it is divided, according to the plain and natural method of every action, into three parts. for even aristotle himself is contented to say simply, that in all actions there is a beginning, a middle, and an end; after which model all the spanish plays are built. the descriptions of the scenes, and other decorations of the stage, i had from mr betterton, who has spared neither for industry, nor cost, to make this entertainment perfect, nor for invention of the ornaments to beautify it. to conclude, though the enemies of the composer are not few, and that there is a party formed against him of his own profession, i hope, and am persuaded, that this prejudice will turn in the end to his advantage. for the greatest part of an audience is always uninterested, though seldom knowing; and if the music be well composed, and well performed, they, who find themselves pleased, will be so wise as not to be imposed upon, and fooled out of their satisfaction. the newness of the undertaking is all the hazard. when operas were first set up in france, they were not followed over eagerly; but they gained daily upon their hearers, till they grew to that height of reputation, which they now enjoy. the english, i confess, are not altogether so musical as the french; and yet they have been pleased already with "the tempest," and some pieces that followed, which were neither much better written, nor so well composed as this. if it finds encouragement, i dare promise myself to mend my hand, by making a more pleasing fable. in the mean time, every loyal englishman cannot but be satisfied with the moral of this, which so plainly represents the double restoration of his sacred majesty. postscript. this preface being wholly written before the death of my late royal master, (_quem semper acerbum, semper honoratum, sic dii voluistis, habebo_) i have now lately reviewed it, as supposing i should find many notions in it, that would require correction on cooler thoughts. after four months lying by me, i looked on it as no longer mine, because i had wholly forgotten it; but i confess with some satisfaction, and perhaps a little vanity, that i found myself entertained by it; my own judgment was new to me, and pleased me when i looked on it as another man's. i see no opinion that i would retract or alter, unless it be, that possibly the italians went not so far as spain, for the invention of their operas. they might have it in their own country; and that by gathering up the shipwrecks of the athenian and roman theatres, which we know were adorned with scenes, music, dances, and machines, especially the grecian. but of this the learned monsieur vossius, who has made our nation his second country, is the best, and perhaps the only judge now living. as for the opera itself, it was all composed, and was just ready to have been performed, when he, in honour of whom it was principally made, was taken from us. he had been pleased twice or thrice to command, that it should be practised before him, especially the first and third acts of it; and publicly declared more than once, that the composition and choruses were more just, and more beautiful, than any he had heard in england. how nice an ear he had in music, is sufficiently known; his praise therefore has established the reputation of it above censure, and made it in a manner sacred. it is therefore humbly and religiously dedicated to his memory. it might reasonably have been expected that his death must have changed the whole fabric of the opera, or at least a great part of it. but the design of it originally was so happy, that it needed no alteration, properly so called; for the addition of twenty or thirty lines in the apotheosis of albion, has made it entirely of a piece, this was the only way which could have been invented, to save it from botched ending; and it fell luckily into my imagination; as if there were a kind of fatality even in the most trivial things concerning the succession: a change was made, and not for the worse, without the least confusion or disturbance; and those very causes, which seemed to threaten us with troubles, conspired to produce our lasting happiness. footnotes: . this definition occurs in the preface to the "state of innocence;" but although given by dryden, and sanctioned by pope, it has a very limited resemblance to that which is defined. mr addison has, however, mistaken dryden, in supposing that he applied this definition exclusively to what we now properly call _wit_. from the context it is plain, that he meant to include all poetical composition.--_spectator_, no. . the word once comprehended human knowledge in general. we still talk of the wit of man, to signify all that man can devise. . the first italian opera is said to have been that of "dafne," performed at florence in .--_see_ burney's _history of music_, vol. iv. p. . . this passage gave great offence, being supposed to contain an oblique reflection on purcell and the other english composers. . alluding to the disputes betwixt the king and parliament, on the important point of the command of the militia.] prologue full twenty years, and more, our labouring stage has lost, on this incorrigible age: our poets, the john ketches of the nation, have seemed to lash ye, even to excoriation; but still no sign remains; which plainly notes, you bore like heroes, or you bribed like oates.-- what can we do, when mimicking a fop, like beating nut-trees, makes a larger crop? 'faith, we'll e'en spare our pains! and, to content you, will fairly leave you what your maker meant you. satire was once your physic, wit your food; one nourished not, and t'other drew no blood: we now prescribe, like doctors in despair, the diet your weak appetites can bear. since hearty beef and mutton will not do, here's julep-dance, ptisan of song and show: give you strong sense, the liquor is too heady; you're come to farce,--that's asses milk,--already. some hopeful youths there are, of callow wit, who one day may be men, if heaven think fit; sound may serve such, ere they to sense are grown, like leading-strings, till they can walk alone.-- but yet, to keep our friends in countenance, know, the wise italians first invented show; thence into france the noble pageant past: 'tis england's credit to be cozened last. freedom and zeal have choused you o'er and o'er; } pray give us leave to bubble you once more; } you never were so cheaply fooled before: } we bring you change, to humour your disease; change for the worse has ever used to please: then, 'tis the mode of france; without whose rules, none must presume to set up here for fools. in france, the oldest man is always young, sees operas daily, learns the tunes so long, till foot, hand, head, keep time with every song: each sings his part, echoing from pit and box, with his hoarse voice, half harmony, half pox[ ]. _le plus grand roi du monde_ is always ringing, they show themselves good subjects by their singing: on that condition, set up every throat; you whigs may sing, for you have changed your note. cits and citesses, raise a joyful strain, 'tis a good omen to begin a reign; voices may help your charter to restoring, and get by singing, what you lost by roaring. footnote: . this practice continued at the opera of paris in the time of gay. it could hardly have obtained any where else. "but, hark! the full orchestra strikes the strings, the hero struts, and the whole audience sings; my jarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound. hoarse and confused, like babel's mingled sound. hard chance had placed me near a noisy throat, that, in rough quavers, bellowed every note: "pray, sir," said i, "suspend awhile your song, the opera's drowned, your lungs are wondrous strong; i wish to hear your roland's ranting strain, when he with rooted forests strews the plain."-- "_monsieur assurement n'aime pas la musique._" then turning round, he joined the ungrateful noise, and the loud chorus thundered with his voice." _epistle to the right hon. william pulteney._ names of the persons, represented in the same order as they appear first upon the stage. mercury. augusta. _london._ thamesis. democracy. zelota. _feigned zeal._ archon. _the general._ juno. iris. albion. albanius. pluto. alecto. apollo. neptune. nereids. acacia. _innocence._ tyranny. asebia. _atheism,_ or _ungodliness._ proteus. venus. fame. _a chorus of cities._ _a chorus of rivers._ _a chorus of the people._ _a chorus of furies._ _a chorus of nereids and tritons._ _a grand chorus of heroes, loves, and graces._ the frontispiece. the curtain rises, and a new frontispiece is seen, joined to the great pilasters, which are seen on each side of the stage: on the flat of each basis is a shield, adorned with gold; in the middle of the shield, on one side, are two hearts, a small scroll of gold over them, and an imperial crown over the scroll; on the other hand, in the shield, are two quivers full of arrows saltyre, &c.; upon each basis stands a figure bigger than the life; one represents peace, with a palm in one, and an olive branch in the other hand; the other plenty, holding a cornucopia, and resting on a pillar. behind these figures are large columns of the corinthian order, adorned with fruit and flowers: over one of the figures on the trees is the king's cypher; over the other, the queen's: over the capitals, on the cornice, sits a figure on each side; one represents poetry, crowned with laurel, holding a scroll in one hand, the other with a pen in it, and resting on a book; the other, painting, with a pallet and pencils, &c.: on the sweep of the arch lies one of the muses, playing on a bass-viol; another of the muses, on the other side, holding a trumpet in one hand, and the other on a harp. between these figures, in the middle of the sweep of the arch, is a very large pannel in a frame of gold; in this pannel is painted, on one side, a woman, representing the city of london, leaning her head on her hand in a dejected posture, showing her sorrow and penitence for her offences; the other hand holds the arms of the city, and a mace lying under it: on the other side is a figure of the thames, with his legs shackled, and leaning on an empty urn: behind these are two imperial figures; one representing his present majesty; and the other the queen: by the king stands pallas, (or wisdom and valour,) holding a charter for the city, the king extending his hand, as raising her drooping head, and restoring her to her ancient honour and glory: over the city are the envious devouring harpies flying from the face of his majesty: by the queen stand the three graces, holding garlands of flowers, and at her feet cupids bound, with their bows and arrows broken, the queen pointing with her sceptre to the river, and commanding the graces to take off their fetters. over the king, in a scroll, is this verse of virgil, _discite justitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos._ over the queen, this of the same author, _non ignara mali, miscris succurrere disco._ albion and albanius. an opera. decorations of the stage in the first act. _the curtain rises, and there appears on either side of the stage, next to the frontispiece, a statue on horseback of gold, on pedestals of marble, enriched with gold, and bearing the imperial arms of england. one of these statues is taken from that of the late king at charing-cross; the other from that figure of his present majesty (done by that noble artist, mr. gibbons) at windsor._ _the scene is a street of palaces, which lead to the front of the royal-exchange; the great arch is open, and the view is continued through the open part of the exchange, to the arch on the other side, and thence to as much of the street beyond, as could possibly be taken._ mercury descends in a chariot drawn by ravens. _he comes to augusta and thamesis. they lie on couches at a distance from each other in dejected postures; she attended by cities, he by rivers._ _on the side of augusta's couch are painted towers falling, a scarlet gown, and a gold chain, a cap of maintenance thrown down, and a sword in a velvet scabbard thrust through it, the city arms, a mace with an old useless charter, and all in disorder. before thamesis are broken reeds, bull-rushes, sedge, &c. with his urn reverst._ act i. mercury _descends._ _mer._ thou glorious fabric! stand, for ever stand: well worthy thou to entertain the god of traffic, and of gain, to draw the concourse of the land, and wealth of all the main. but where the shoals of merchants meeting? welcome to their friends repeating, busy bargains' deafer sound? tongue confused of every nation? nothing here but desolation, mournful silence reigns around. _aug._ o hermes! pity me! i was, while heaven did smile, the queen of all this isle, europe's pride, and albion's bride; but gone my plighted lord! ah, gone is he! o hermes! pity me! _tham._ and i the noble flood, whose tributary tide does on her silver margent smoothly glide; but heaven grew jealous of our happy state, and bid revolving fate our doom decree; no more the king of floods am i, no more the queen of albion, she! [_these two lines are sung by reprises betwixt_ augusta _and_ thamesis. _aug._ o hermes! pity me! } _sung by_ aug. _and_ } tham. _together._ _tham._ o hermes! pity me! } _aug._ behold! _tham._ behold! _aug._ my turrets on the ground, that once my temples crowned! _tham._ the sedgy honours of my brows dispersed! my urn reversed! _merc._ rise, rise, augusta, rise! and wipe thy weeping eyes: augusta!--for i call thee so: 'tis lawful for the gods to know thy future name, and growing fame. rise, rise, augusta, rise. _aug._ o never, never will i rise, never will i cease my mourning, never wipe my weeping eyes, till my plighted lord's returning! never, never will i rise! _merc._ what brought thee, wretch, to this despair? the cause of thy misfortune show. _aug._ it seems the gods take little care of human things below, when even our sufferings here they do not know. _merc._ not unknowing came i down, disloyal town! speak! didst not thou forsake thy faith, and break thy nuptial vow? _aug._ ah, 'tis too true! too true! but what could i, unthinking city, do? faction swayed me, zeal allured me, both assured me. both betrayed me! _merc._ suppose me sent thy albion to restore,-- can'st thou repent? _aug._ my falsehood i deplore! _tham._ thou seest her mourn, and i with all my waters will her tears supply. _merc._ then by some loyal deed regain thy long-lost reputation, to wash away the stain that blots a noble nation, and free thy famous town again from force of usurpation. _chorus of all._ we'll wash away the stain that blots a noble nation, and free this famous town again from force of usurpation. [_dance of the followers of_ mercury. _aug._ behold democracy and zeal appear; she, that allured my heart away, and he, that after made a prey. _merc._ resist, and do not fear! _chorus of all._ resist, and do not fear! _enter_ democracy _and_ zeal _attended by_ archon. _democ._ nymph of the city! bring thy treasures, bring me more to waste in pleasures. _aug._ thou hast exhausted all my store, and i can give no more. _zeal._ thou horny flood, for zeal provide a new supply; and swell thy moony tide, that on thy buxom back the floating gold may glide. _tham._ not all the gold the southern sun produces, or treasures of the famed levant, suffice for pious uses, to feed the sacred hunger of a saint! _democ._ woe to the vanquished, woe! slave as thou art, thy wealth impart, and me thy victor know! _zeal._ and me thy victor know. resistless arms are in my hand, thy bars shall burst at my command, thy tory head lie low. woe to the vanquished, woe! _aug._ were i not bound by fate for ever, ever here, my walls i would translate to some more happy sphere, removed from servile fear. _tham._ removed from servile fear. would i could disappear, and sink below the main; for commonwealth's a load, my old imperial flood shall never, never bear again. a commonwealth's a load, } thames. _and_ our old imperial flood, } aug. _together._ shall never, never, never, bear again. } _dem._ pull down her gates, expose her bare; i must enjoy the proud disdainful fair. haste, archon, haste to lay her waste[ ]! _zeal._ i'll hold her fast to be embraced! _dem._ and she shall see a thousand tyrants are in thee, a thousand thousand more in me! _archon._ to _aug._ from the caledonian shore hither am i come to save thee, not to force or to enslave thee, but thy albion to restore: hark! the peals the people ring, peace, and freedom, and a king. _chorus._ hark! the peals the people ring, peace, and freedom, and a king. _aug._ and _tham._ to arms! to arms! _archon._ i lead the way! _merc._ cease your alarms! and stay, brave archon, stay! 'tis doomed by fate's decree, 'tis doomed that albion's dwelling, all other isles excelling, by peace shall happy be. _archon._ what then remains for me? _merc._ take my caduceus! take this awful wand, with this the infernal ghosts i can command, and strike a terror through the stygian land. commonwealth will want pretences, sleep will creep on all his senses; zeal that lent him her assistance, stand amazed without resistance. [archon _touches_ democracy _with a wand._ _dem._ i feel a lazy slumber lays me down: let albion, let him take the crown. happy let him reign, till i wake again. [_falls asleep._ _zeal._ in vain i rage, in vain i rouse my powers; but i shall wake again, i shall, to better hours. even in slumber will i vex him; still perplex him, still incumber: know, you that have adored him, and sovereign power afford him, we'll reap the gains of all your pains, and seem to have restored him. [zeal _falls asleep._ _aug._ and _tham._ a stupifying sadness leaves her without motion; but sleep will cure her madness, and cool her to devotion. _a double pedestal rises: on the front of it is painted, in stone-colour, two women; one holding a double-faced vizor; the other a book, representing_ hypocrisy _and_ fanaticism; _when_ archon _has charmed_ democracy _and_ zeal _with the caduceus of_ mercury, _they fall asleep on the pedestal, and it sinks with them._ _merc._ cease, augusta! cease thy mourning, happy days appear; god-like albion is returning loyal hearts to chear. every grace his youth adorning, glorious as the star of morning, or the planet of the year. _chor._ godlike albion is returning, &c. _merc._ to _arch._ haste away, loyal chief, haste away, no delay, but obey; to receive thy loved lord, haste away. [_ex._ arch. _tham._ medway and isis, you that augment me, tides that increase my watery store, and you that are friends to peace and plenty, send my merry boys all ashore; seamen skipping, mariners leaping, shouting, tripping, send my merry boys all ashore! _a dance of watermen in the king's and duke's liveries._ _the clouds divide, and_ juno _appears in a machine drawn by peacocks; while a symphony is playing, it moves gently forward, and as it descends, it opens and discovers the tail of the peacock, which is so large, that it almost fills the opening of the stage between scene and scene._ _merc._ the clouds divide; what wonders, what wonders do i see! the wife of jove! 'tis she, that thunders, more than thundering he! _juno._ no, hermes, no; 'tis peace above as 'tis below; for jove has left his wand'ring love. _tham._ great queen of gathering clouds, whose moisture fills our floods, see, we fall before thee, prostrate we adore thee! _aug._ great queen of nuptial rites, whose power the souls unites, and fills the genial bed with chaste delights, see, we fall before thee, prostrate we adore thee! _juno._ 'tis ratified above by every god, and jove has firmed it with an awful nod, that albion shall his love renew: but oh, ungrateful fair, repeated crimes beware, and to his bed be true! iris _appears on a very large machine. this was really seen the th of march, , by captain_ christopher gunman, _on board his r.h. yacht, then in calais pierre: he drew it as it then appeared, and gave a draught of it to us. we have only added the cloud where the person of_ iris _sits._ _juno._ speak, iris, from batavia, speak the news! has he performed my dread command, returning albion to his longing land, or dare the nymph refuse? _iris._ albion, by the nymph attended, was to neptune recommended; peace and plenty spread the sails, venus, in her shell before him, from the sands in safety bore him, and supplied etesian gales. [_retornella._ archon, on the shore commanding, lowly met him at his landing, crowds of people swarmed around; welcome rang like peals of thunder; welcome, rent the skies asunder; welcome, heaven and earth resound. _juno._ why stay we then on earth, when mortals laugh and love? 'tis time to mount above, and send astræa down, the ruler of his birth, and guardian of his crown. 'tis time to mount above, and send astræa down. _mer. jun. ir._ 'tis time to mount above, and send astræa down. [mer. ju. _and_ ir. _ascend._ _aug._ and _tham._ the royal squadron marches, erect triumphal arches, for albion and albanius; rejoice at their returning, the passages adorning: the royal squadron marches, erect triumphal arches for albion and albanius. _part of the scene disappears, and the four triumphal arches, erected on his majesty's coronation, are seen._ albion _appears,_ albanius _by his side, preceded by_ archon, _followed by a train, &c._ _full chorus._ hail, royal albion, hail! _aug._ hail, royal albion, hail to thee, thy longing people's expectation! _tham._ sent from the gods to set us free from bondage and from usurpation! _aug._ to pardon and to pity me, and to forgive a guilty nation! _tham._ behold the differing climes agree, rejoicing in thy restoration. entry. _representing the four parts of the world, rejoicing at the restoration of_ albion. act ii. _the scene is a poetical hell. the change is total; the upper part of the house, as well as the side-scenes. there is the figure of_ prometheus _chained to a rock, the vulture gnawing his liver;_ sisyphus _rolling the stone; the_ belides, _&c. beyond, abundance of figures in various torments. then a great arch of fire. behind this, three pyramids of flames in perpetual agitation. beyond this, glowing fire, which terminates the prospect._ pluto, _and the_ furies; _with_ alecto, democracy, _and_ zelota. _plu._ infernal offspring of the night, debarred of heaven your native right, and from the glorious fields of light, condemned in shades to drag the chain, and fill with groans the gloomy plain; since, pleasures here are none below, be ill our good, our joy be woe; our work to embroil the worlds above, disturb their union, disunite their love, and blast the beauteous frame of our victorious foe. _dem._ and _zel._ o thou, for whom those worlds are made, thou sire of all things, and their end, from hence they spring, and when they fade, in shuffled heaps they hither tend; here human souls receive their breath, and wait for bodies after death. _dem._ hear our complaint, and grant our prayer. _plu._ speak what you are, and whence you fell? _dem._ i am thy first-begotten care, conceived in heaven, but born in hell. when thou didst bravely undertake in fight yon arbitrary power, that rules by sovereign might, to set thy heaven-born fellows free, and leave no difference in degree, in that auspicious hour was i begot by thee. _zel._ one mother bore us at a birth, her name was zeal before she fell; no fairer nymph in heaven or earth, 'till saintship taught her to rebel: but losing fame, and changing name, she's now the good old cause in hell. _plu._ dear pledges of a flame not yet forgot, say, what on earth has been your lot? _dem._ and _zel._ the wealth of albion's isle was ours, augusta stooped with all her stately towers. _dem._ democracy kept nobles under. _zel._ zeal from the pulpit roared like thunder. _dem._ i trampled on the state. _zel._ i lorded o'er the gown. _dem._ and _zel._ we both in triumph sate, usurpers of the crown. but oh, prodigious turn of fate! heaven controuling, sent us rolling, rolling down. _plu._ i wondered how of late our acherontic shore grew thin, and hell unpeopled of her store; charon, for want of use, forgot his oar. the souls of bodies dead flew all sublime, and hither none returned to purge a crime: but now i see, since albion is restored, death has no business, nor the vengeful sword. 'tis too, too much that here i lie from glorious empire hurled; by jove excluded from the sky; by albion from the world. _dem._ were common-wealth restored again, thou shouldst have millions of the slain to fill thy dark abode. _zel._ for he a race of rebels sends, and zeal the path of heaven pretends, but still mistakes the road. _plu._ my labouring thought at length hath wrought a bravely bold design, in which you both shall join. in borrowed shapes to earth return; thou, common-wealth, a patriot seem, thou, zeal, like true religion burn, to gain the giddy crowd's esteem.-- alecto, thou to fair augusta go, and all thy snakes into her bosom throw. _dem._ spare some, to fling where they may sting the breast of albion's king. _zel._ let jealousies so well be mixed, that great albanius be unfixed. _plu._ forbear your vain attempts, forbear: hell can have no admittance there; the people's fear will serve as well, make him suspected, them rebel. _zel._ you've all forgot to forge a plot, in seeming care of albion's life; inspire the crowd with clamours loud, to involve his brother and his wife. _alec._ take, of a thousand souls at thy command, the basest, blackest of the stygian band, one, that will swear to all they can invent, so thoroughly damned, that he can ne'er repent: one, often sent to earth, and still at every birth he took a deeper stain: one, that in adam's time was cain; one, that was burnt in sodom's flame, for crimes even here too black to name: one, who through every form of ill has run: one, who in naboth's days was belial's son; one, who has gained a body fit for sin; where all his crimes of former times lie crowded in a skin[ ]. _plu._ take him, make him what you please; for he can be a rogue with ease. one for mighty mischief born; he can swear, and be forsworn. _plu._ and _alect._ take him, make him what you please; for he can be a rogue with ease. _plu._ let us laugh, let us laugh, let us laugh at our woes, the wretch that is damned has nothing to lose.-- ye furies, advance with the ghosts in a dance. 'tis a jubilee when the world is in trouble; when people rebel, we frolic in hell; but when the king falls, the pleasure is double. [_a single entry of a devil, followed by an entry of twelve devils._ _chorus._ let us laugh, let us laugh, let us laugh at our woes, the wretch that is damned hath nothing to lose. _the scene changes to a prospect taken from the middle of the thames; one side of it begins at york-stairs, thence to white-hall, and the mill-bank, &c. the other from the saw-mill, thence to the bishop's palace, and on as far as can be seen in a clear day._ _enter_ augusta: _she has a snake in her bosom hanging down._ _aug._ o jealousy, thou raging ill, why hast thou found a room in lovers' hearts, afflicting what thou canst not kill, and poisoning love himself, with his own darts? i find my albion's heart is gone, my first offences yet remain, nor can repentance love regain; one writ in sand, alas, in marble one. i rave, i rave! my spirits boil like flames increased, and mounting high with pouring oil; disdain and love succeed by turns; one freezes me, and t'other burns; it burns. away, soft love, thou foe to rest! give hate the full possession of my breast. hate is the nobler passion far, when love is ill repaid; for at one blow it ends the war, and cures the love-sick maid. _enter_ democracy _and_ zelota; _one represents a patriot, the other, religion._ _dem._ let not thy generous passion waste its rage, but once again restore our golden age; still to weep and to complain, does but more provoke disdain. let public good inflame thy blood; with crowds of warlike people thou art stored. and heaps of gold; reject thy old, and to thy bed receive another lord. _zel._ religion shall thy bonds release, for heaven can loose, as well as tie all; and when 'tis for the nation's peace, a king is but a king on trial; when love is lost, let marriage end, and leave a husband for a friend. _dem._ with jealousy swarming, the people are arming, the frights of oppression invade them. _zel._ if they fall to relenting, for fear of repenting, religion shall help to persuade them. _aug._ no more, no more temptations use to bend my will; how hard a task 'tis to refuse a pleasing ill! _dem._ maintain the seeming duty of a wife, a modest show with jealous eyes deceive; affect a fear for hated albion's life, and for imaginary dangers grieve. _zel._ his foes already stand protected, his friends by public fame suspected, albanius must forsake his isle; a plot, contrived in happy hour, bereaves him of his royal power, for heaven to mourn, and hell to smile. _the former scene continues._ _enter_ albion _and_ albanius _with a train._ _alb._ then zeal and common-wealth infest my land again; the fumes of madness, that possest the people's giddy brain, once more disturb the nation's rest, and dye rebellion in a deeper stain. ii. will they at length awake the sleeping sword, and force revenge from their offended lord? how long, ye gods, how long can royal patience bear the insults and wrong of madmen's jealousies, and causeless fear? iii. i thought their love by mildness might be gained, by peace i was restored, in peace i reigned; but tumults, seditions, and haughty petitions, are all the effects of a merciful nature; forgiving and granting, ere mortals are wanting, but leads to rebelling against their creator. mercury _descends._ _mer._ with pity jove beholds thy state, but jove is circumscribed by fate; the o'erwhelming tide rolls on so fast, it gains upon this island's waste; and is opposed too late! too late! _alb._ what then must helpless albion do? _mer._ delude the fury of the foe, and, to preserve albanius, let him go; for 'tis decreed, thy land must bleed, for crimes not thine, by wrathful jove; a sacred flood of royal blood cries vengeance, vengeance, loud above. [mercury _ascends._ _alb._ shall i, to assuage their brutal rage, the regal stem destroy? or must i lose, to please my foes, my sole remaining joy? ye gods, what worse, what greater curse, can all your wrath employ! _alban._ oh albion! hear the gods and me! well am i lost, in saving thee. not exile or danger can fright a brave spirit, with innocence guarded, with virtue rewarded; i make of my sufferings a merit. _alb._ since then the gods and thou will have it so, go; (can i live once more to bid thee?) go, where thy misfortunes call thee, and thy fate; go, guiltless victim of a guilty state! in war, my champion to defend, in peaceful hours, when souls unbend, my brother, and, what's more, my friend! borne where the foamy billows roar, on seas less dangerous than the shore; go, where the gods thy refuge have assigned, go from my sight; but never from my mind. _alban._ whatever hospitable ground shall be for me, unhappy exile, found, 'till heaven vouchsafe to smile; what land soe'er,-- though none so dear as this ungrateful isle,-- o think! o think! no distance can remove my vowed allegiance, and my loyal love. _alb._ and _alban._ the rosy-fingered morn appears, and from her mantle shakes her tears, in promise of a glorious day; the sun, returning, mortals chears, and drives the rising mists away, in promise of a glorious day. [_ritornelle._ _the farther part of the heaven opens, and discovers a machine; as it moves forward, the clouds which are before it divide, and shew the person of_ apollo, _holding the reins in his hand. as they fall lower, the horses appear with the rays, and a great glory about_ apollo. _apol._ all hail, ye royal pair, the gods' peculiar care! fear not the malice of your foes; their dark designing, and combining, time and truth shall once expose: fear not the malice of your foes. ii. my sacred oracles assure, the tempest shall not long endure; but when the nation's crimes are purged away, then shall you both in glory shine; propitious both, and both divine; in lustre equal to the god of day. [apollo _goes forward out of sight._ neptune _rises out of the water, and a train of rivers, tritons, and sea-nymphs attend him._ _tham._ old father ocean calls my tide; come away, come away; the barks upon the billows ride, the master will not stay; the merry boatswain from his side his whistle takes, to check and chide the lingering lads' delay, and all the crew aloud have cried, come away, come away. see, the god of seas attends thee, nymphs divine, a beauteous train; all the calmer gales befriend thee, in thy passage o'er the main; every maid her locks is binding, every triton's horn is winding; welcome to the watry plain! chacon[ ]. _two nymphs and tritons sing._ ye nymphs, the charge is royal, which you must convey; your hearts and hands employ all, hasten to obey; when earth is grown disloyal, shew there's honour in the sea. _the_ chacon _continues._ _the chorus of nymphs and tritons repeat the same verses._ _the_ chacon _continues._ _two nymphs and tritons._ sports and pleasures shall attend you through all the watry plains, where neptune reigns; venus ready to defend you, and her nymphs to ease your pains, no storm shall offend you, passing the main; nor billow threat in vain so sacred a train, 'till the gods, that defend you, restore you again. _the_ chacon _continues._ _the chorus repeat the same verses,_ sports and pleasures _&c._ _the_ chacon _continues._ _the two nymphs and tritons sing._ see, at your blest returning, rage disappears; the widowed isle in mourning dries up her tears; with flowers the meads adorning, pleasure appears, and love dispels the nation's causeless fears. _the_ chacon _continues._ _the chorus of nymphs and tritons repeat the same verses,_ see at your blest returning, _&c._ _the_ chacon _continues._ _then the chorus repeat,_ see the god of seas, _&c. and this chorus concludes the act._ act iii. _the scene is a view of dover, taken from the sea. a row of cliffs fill up each side of the stage, and the sea the middle of it, which runs into the pier; beyond the pier, is the town of dover; on each side of the town, is seen a very high hill; on one of which is the castle of dover; on the other, the great stone which they call the devil's-drop. behind the town several hills are seen at a great distance, which finish the view._ _enter_ albion _bare-headed;_ acacia _or_ innocence _with him._ _alb._ behold, ye powers! from whom i own a birth immortal, and a throne; see a sacred king uncrowned, see your offspring, albion, bound; the gifts, you gave with lavish hand, are all bestowed in vain; extended empire on the land, unbounded o'er the main. _aca._ empire o'er the land and main, heaven, that gave, can take again; but a mind, that's truly brave, stands despising storms arising, and can ne'er be made a slave. _alb._ unhelped i am, who pitied the distressed, and, none oppressing, am by all oppressed; betrayed, forsaken, and of hope bereft. _aca._ yet still the gods, and innocence are left. _alb._ ah! what canst thou avail, against rebellion armed with zeal, and faced with public good? o monarchs, see your fate in me! to rule by love, to shed no blood, may be extolled above; but here below, let princes know, 'tis fatal to be good. _chorus of both._ to rule by love, _&c._ _aca._ your father neptune, from the seas, has nereids and blue tritons sent, to charm your discontent. _nereids rise out of the sea, and sing; tritons dance._ from the low palace of old father ocean, come we in pity your cares to deplore; sea-racing dolphins are trained for our motion, moony tides swelling to roll us ashore. ii. every nymph of the flood, her tresses rending, throws off her armlet of pearl in the main; neptune in anguish his charge unattending, vessels are foundering, and vows are in vain. _enter_ tyranny, democracy, _represented by men, attended by_ asebia _and_ zelota, women._ _tyr._ ha, ha! 'tis what so long i wished and vowed: our plots and delusions have wrought such confusions, that the monarch's a slave to the crowd. _dem._ a design we fomented,-- _tyr._ by hell it was new! _dem._ a false plot invented,-- _tyr._ to cover a true. _dem._ first with promised faith we flattered. _tyr._ then jealousies and fears we scattered. _aseb._ we never valued right and wrong, but as they served our cause. _zel._ our business was to please the throng, and court their wild applause; _aseb._ for this we bribed the lawyer's tongue. and then destroyed the laws. _cho._ for this, &c. _tyr._ to make him safe, we made his friends our prey; _dem._ to make him great, we scorned his royal sway,-- _tyr._ and to confirm his crown, we took his heir away. _dem._ to encrease his store, we kept him poor; _tyr._ and when to wants we had betrayed him, to keep him low, pronounced a foe, whoe'er presumed to aid him. _aseb._ but you forget the noblest part, and master piece of all your art,-- you told him he was sick at heart. _zel._ and when you could not work belief in albion of the imagined grief; your perjured vouchers, in a breath, made oath, that he was sick to death; and then five hundred quacks of skill resolved, 'twas fit he should be ill. _aseb._ now hey for a common-wealth, we merrily drink and sing! 'tis to the nation's health, for every man's a king. _zel._ then let the mask begin, the saints advance, to fill the dance, and the property boys come in. _the boys in white begin a fantastic dance[ ]._ _cho._ let the saints ascend the throne. _dem._ saints have wives, and wives have preachers, gifted men, and able teachers; these to get, and those to own. _cho._ let the saints ascend the throne. _aseb._ freedom is a bait alluring; them betraying, us securing, while to sovereign power we soar. _zel._ old delusions, new repeated, shews them born but to be cheated, as their fathers were before. _six sectaries begin a formal affected dance; the two gravest whisper the other four, and draw them into the plot; they pull out and deliver libels to them, which they receive._ _dem._ see friendless albion there alone, without defence but innocence; albanius now is gone. _tyr._ say then, what must be done? _dem._ the gods have put him in our hand[ ]. _zel._ he must be slain. _tyr._ but who shall then command? _dem._ the people; for the right returns to those. who did the trust impose. _tyr._ 'tis fit another sun should rise, to cheer the world, and light the skies. _dem._ but when the sun his race has run, and neither cheers the world, nor lights the skies, 'tis fit a common-wealth of stars should rise. _aseb._ each noble vice shall bear a price, and virtue shall a drug become; an empty name was all her fame, but now she shall be dumb. _zel._ if open vice be what you drive at, a name so broad we'll ne'er connive at. saints love vice, but, more refinedly, keep her close, and use her kindly. _tyr._ fall on. _dem._ fall on; e'er albion's death, we'll try, if one or many shall his room supply. _the white boys dance about the saints; the saints draw out the association, and offer it to them; they refuse it, and quarrel about it; then the white boys and saints fall into a confused dance, imitating fighting. the white boys, at the end of the dance, being driven out by the sectaries, with protestant flails.[ ]_ _alb._ see the gods my cause defending, when all human help was past! _acac._ factions mutually contending, by each other fall at last. _alb._ but is not yonder proteus' cave, below that steep, which rising billows brave? _acac._ it is; and in it lies the god asleep; and snorting by, we may descry the monsters of the deep. _alb._ he knows the past, and can resolve the future too. _acac._ 'tis true! but hold him fast, for he can change his hue.[ ] _the cave of_ proteus _rises out of the sea; it consists of several arches of rock-work adorned with mother-of-pearl, coral, and abundance of shells of various kinds. through the arches is seen the sea, and parts of dover-pier; in the middle of the cave is_ proteus _asleep on a rock adorned with shells, &c. like the cave._ albion _and_ acacia _seize on him; and while a symphony is playing, he sinks as they are bringing him forward, and changes himself into a lion, a crocodile, a dragon, and then to his own shape again; he comes forward to the front of the stage, and sings._ symphony. _pro._ albion, loved of gods and men, prince of peace, too mildly reigning, cease thy sorrow and complaining; thou shall be restored again: albion, loved of gods and men. ii. still thou art the care of heaven, in thy youth to exile driven; heaven thy ruin then prevented, 'till the guilty land repented. in thy age, when none could aid thee, foes conspired, and friends betrayed thee; to the brink of danger driven, still thou art the care of heaven. _alb._ to whom shall i my preservation owe? _pro._ ask me no more; for 'tis by neptune's foe.[ ] proteus _descends._ democracy _and_ zelota _return with their faction._ _dem._ our seeming friends, who joined alone, to pull down one, and build another throne, are all dispersed and gone; we brave republic souls remain. _zel._ and 'tis by us that albion must be slain; say, whom shall we employ the tyrant to destroy? _dem._ that archer is by fate designed, with one eye clear, and t'other blind. _zel._ he comes inspired to do't. _omnes._ shoot, holy cyclop, shoot. _the one-eyed archer advances, the rest follow. a fire arises betwixt them and_ albion.[ ] [_ritornel._ _dem._ lo! heaven and earth combine to blast our bold design. what miracles are shewn! nature's alarmed, and fires are armed, to guard the sacred throne. _zel._ what help, when jarring elements conspire, to punish our audacious crimes? retreat betimes, to shun the avenging fire. _chor._ to shun the avenging fire. [_ritor._ _as they are going back, a fire arises from behind; they all sink together._[ ] _alb._ let our tuneful accents upwards move, till they reach the vaulted arch of those above; let us adore them; let us fall before them. _acac._ kings they made, and kings they love. when they protect a rightful monarch's reign, the gods in heaven, the gods on earth maintain. _both._ when they protect, &c. _alb._ but see, what glories gild the main! _acac._ bright venus brings albanius back again, with all the loves and graces in her train. _a machine rises out of the sea; it opens, and discovers_ venus _and_ albanius _sitting in a great scallop-shell, richly adorned._ venus _is attended by the loves and graces,_ albanius _by heroes; the shell is drawn by dolphins; it moves forward, while a symphony of flutes-doux, &c. is playing, till it lands them on the stage, and then it closes and sinks._ venus _sings._ albion, hail! the gods present thee all the richest of their treasures, peace and pleasures, to content thee, dancing their eternal measures. [_graces and loves dance an entry._ _venus._ but, above all human blessing, take a warlike loyal brother, never prince had such another; conduct, courage, truth expressing, all heroic worth possessing. [_here the heroes' dance is performed._ _chor. of all._ but above all, &c. [_ritor._ _whilst a symphony is playing, a very large, and a very glorious machine descends; the figure of it oval, all the clouds shining with gold, abundance of angels and cherubins flying about them, and playing in them; in the midst of it sits_ apollo _on a throne of gold; he comes from the machine to_ albion. _phoeb._ from jove's imperial court, where all the gods resort, in awful counsel met, surprising news i bear; albion the great must change his seat, for he is adopted there. _venus._ what stars above shall we displace? where shall he fill a room divine? _nept._ descended from the sea-gods' race, let him by my orion shine. _phoeb._ no, not by that tempestuous sign; betwixt the balance and the maid, the just, august, and peaceful shade, shall shine in heaven with beams displayed, while great albanius is on earth obeyed. _venus._ albanius, lord of land and main, shall with fraternal virtues reign; and add his own, to fill the throne; adored and feared, and loved no less; in war victorious, mild in peace, the joy of man, and jove's increase. _acac._ o thou! who mountest the æthereal throne, be kind and happy to thy own; now albion is come, the people of the sky run gazing, and cry,--make room, make room, make room, make room for our new deity! _here_ albion _mounts the machine, which moves upward slowly._ _a full chorus of all that_ acacia _sung._ _ven._ behold what triumphs are prepared to grace thy glorious race, where love and honour claim an equal place; already they are fixed by fate, and only ripening ages wait. _the scene changes to a walk of very high trees; at the end of the walk is a view of that part of windsor, which faces eton; in the midst of it is a row of small trees, which lead to the castle-hill. in the first scene, part of the town and part of the hill. in the next, the terrace walk, the king's lodgings, and the upper part of st george's chapel, then the keep; and, lastly, that part of the castle beyond the keep._ _in the air is a vision of the honours of the garter; the knights in procession, and the king under a canopy; beyond this, the upper end of st george's hall._ fame _rises out of the middle of the stage, standing on a globe, on which is the arms of england: the globe rests on a pedestal; on the front of the pedestal in drawn a man with a long, lean, pale face, with fiends' wings, and snakes twisted round his body; he is encompassed by several fanatical rebellious heads, who suck poison from him, which runs out of a tap in his side._[ ] _fame._ renown, assume thy trumpet! from pole to pole resounding great albion's name; great albion's name shall be the theme of fame, shall be great albion's name, great albion's name, great albion's name. record the garter's glory; a badge for heroes, and for kings to bear; for kings to bear! and swell the immortal story, with songs of gods, and fit for gods to hear; and swell the immortal story, with songs of gods, and fit for gods to hear; for gods to hear. _a full chorus of all the voices and instruments; trumpets and hautboys make ritornello's of all_ fame _sings; and twenty-four dancers, all the time in a chorus, and dance to the end of the opera._ footnotes: . the reader must recollect the orders of the rump parliament to general monk, to destroy the gates and portcullises of the city of london; which commission, by the bye, he actually executed, with all the forms of contempt, although, in a day or two after, he took up his quarters in the city, apologized for what had passed, and declared against the parliament. . dr. titus oates, the principal witness to the popish plot, was accused of unnatural and infamous crimes. he was certainly a most ineffably impudent, perjured villain. . the chacon is supposed by sir john hawkins to be of moorish or saracenic origin. "the characteristic of the chacone is a bass, or ground, consisting of four measures, wherein three crotchets make the bar, and the repetition thereof with variations in the several parts, from the beginning to the end of the air, which in respect of its length, has no limit but the discretion of the composer. the whole of the twelfth sonata of the second opera of corelli is a chacone." _hist. of music_, vol. iv. p. . there is also, i am informed, a very celebrated chacon composed by jomelli. . by the _white boys_ or _property boys_, are meant the adherents of the duke of monmouth, who affected great zeal for liberty and property, and assumed white badges, as marks of the innocence of their intentions. when the duke came to the famous parliament held at oxford, "he was met by about batchellors all in white, except black velvet caps, with white wands in their hands, who divided themselves, and marched as a guard to his person." _account of the life of the duke of monmouth_, p. . in the duke's tour through the west of england, he was met at exeter, by "a brave company of brisk stout young men, all cloathed in linen waistcoats and drawers, _white and harmless,_ having not so much as a stick in their hands; they were in number about or ." _ibid._ p. . see the notes on absalom and achitophel. the saints, on the other hand, mean the ancient republican zealots and fanatics, who, though they would willingly have joined in the destruction of charles, did not wish that monmouth should succeed him, but aimed at the restoration of the commonwealth. hence the following dispute betwixt tyranny and democracy. . the atrocious and blasphemous sentiment in the text was actually used by the fanatics who murdered sharpe, the archbishop of st andrews. when they unexpectedly met him during their search for another person, they exclaimed, that "the lord had delivered him into their hands." . it is easy to believe, that, whatever was the, nature of the schemes nourished by monmouth, russel, and essex, they could have no concern with the low and sanguinary cabal of ramsay, walcot, and rumbold, who were all of them old republican officers and commonwealth's men. the flight of shaftesbury, whose bustling and politic brain had rendered him the sole channel of communication betwixt these parties, as well as the means of uniting them in one common design, threw loose all connection between them; so that each, after his retreat, seems to have acted independantly of, and often in contradiction to the other. . the reader may judge, whether some distant and obscure allusion to the trimming politics of halifax, to whom the duke of york, our author's patron, was hostile, may not be here insinuated. during the stormy session of his two last parliaments, charles was much guided by his temporising and camelion-like policy. . that is by fire. see next note. . the allegory of the one-eyed archer, and the fire arising betwixt him and albion, will be made evident by the following extracts from sprat's history of the conspiracy. in enumerating the persons engaged in the rye-house plot, he mentions "richard rumbold, maltster, an old army officer, a desperate and bloody ravaillac." after agitating several schemes for assassinating charles, the rye-house was fixed upon as a spot which the king must necessarily pass in his journey trom newmarket, and which, being a solitary moated house, in the actual occupation of rumbold, afforded the conspirators facility of previous concealment and subsequent defence. "all other propositions, as subject to far more casualties and hazards, soon gave place to that of the rye, in herefordshire, a house then inhabited by the foresaid richard rumbold, who proposed that to be the seat of the action, offering himself to command the party, that was to do the work. him, therefore, as the most daring captain, and by reason of a blemish in one of his eyes, they were afterwards wont, in common discourse, to call hannibal; often drinking healths to _hannibal and his boys_, meaning rumbold and his _hellish crew_. "immediately upon the coaches coming within the gates and hedges about the house, the conspirators were to divide into several parties; some before, in the habit of labourers, were to overthrow a cart in the narrowest passage, so as to prevent all possibility of escape: others were to fight the guards, walcot chusing that part upon a punctilio of honour; others were to shoot at the coachman, postillion, and horses; others to aim only at his majesty's coach, which party was to be under the particular direction of rumbold himself; the villain declaring beforehand, that, upon that occasion, he would make use of a very good blunderbuss, which was in west's possession, and blasphemously adding, that ferguson should first consecrate it." ... "but whilst they were thus wholly intent on this barbarous work, and proceeded securely in its contrivance without any the least doubt of a prosperous success, behold! on a sudden, god miraculously disappointed all their hopes and designs, by the terrible conflagration unexpectedly breaking out at newmarket. in which extraordinary event there was one remarkable passage, that is not so generally taken notice of, as, for the glory of god, and the confusion of his majesty's enemies, it ought to be. "for, after that the approaching fury of the flames had driven the king out of his own palace, his majesty, at first, removed into another quarter of the town, remote from the fire, and, as yet, free from any annoyance of smoke and ashes. there his majesty, finding he might be tolerably well accommodated, had resolved to stay, and continue his recreations as before, till the day first named for his journey back to london. but his majesty had no sooner made that resolution, when the wind, as conducted by an invisible power from above, presently changed about, and blew the smoke and cinders directly on his new lodging, making them in a moment as untenable as the other. upon this, his majesty being put to a new shift, and not finding the like conveniency elsewhere, immediately declared, he would speedily return to whitehall, as he did; which happening to be several days before the assassins expected him, or their preparations for the rye were in readiness, it may justly give occasion to all the world to acknowledge, what one of the very conspirators could not but do, _that it was a providential fire._"--pages _ et seq._ the proprietor of the rye-house (for rumbold was but a tenant) shocked at the intended purpose, for which it was to have been used, is said to have fired it with his own hand. this is the subject of a poem, called the loyal incendiary, or the generous _boute-feu_. . the total ruin of those, who were directly involved in the rye-house, was little to be regretted, had it not involved the fate of those who were pursuing reform, by means more manly and constitutional,--the fate of russel, essex, and sidney. rumbold, "the one-eyed archer," fled to holland, and came to scotland with argyle, on his ill-concerted expedition. he was singled out and pursued, after the dispersion of his companions in a skirmish. he defended himself with desperate resolution against two armed peasants, till a third, coming behind him with a pitch-fork, turned off his head-piece, when he was cut down and made prisoner, exclaiming, "cruel countryman, to use me thus, while my face was to mine enemy." he suffered the doom of a traitor at edinburgh, and maintained on the scaffold, with inflexible firmness, the principles in which he had lived. he could never believe, he said, that the many of human kind came into the world bridled and saddled, and the few with whips and spurs to ride them. "his rooted ingrained opinion, says fountainhall, was for a republic against monarchy, to pull down which he thought a duty, and no sin." at his death, he declared, that were every hair of his head a man, he would venture them all in the good old cause. . "i must not," says langbaine, "take the pains to acquaint my reader, that by the man on the pedestal, &c. is meant the late lord shaftesbury. i shall not pretend to pass my censure, whether he deserved this usage from our author or no, but leave it to the judgments of statesmen and politicians." shaftesbury having been overturned in a carriage, received some internal injury which required a constant discharge by an issue in his side. hence he was ridiculed under the name of _tapski_. in a mock account of an apparition, stated to have appeared to lady gray, it says, "bid lord shaftesbury have a care to his spigot--if he is tapt, all the plot will run out." _ralph's history_, vol. i. p. . from a pamphlet in lord somers' collection. there are various allusions to this circumstance in the lampoons of the time. a satire called "the hypocrite," written by carryl, concludes thus: his body thus and soul together vie. in vice's empire for the sovereignty; in ulcers shut this does abound in sin, lazar without and lucifer within. the silver pipe is no sufficient drain for the corruption of this little man; who, though he ulcers have in every part, is no where so corrupt as in his heart. at length, in prosecution of this coarse and unhandsome jest, a sort of vessel with a turn-cock was constructed for holding wine, which was called a shaftesbury, and used in the taverns of the royal party. epilogue after our Æsop's fable shown to-day, i come to give the moral of the play. feigned zeal, you saw, set out the speedier pace; but the last heat, plain dealing won the race: plain dealing for a jewel has been known; but ne'er till now the jewel of a crown. when heaven made man, to show the work divine, truth was his image, stamped upon the coin: and when a king is to a god refined, on all he says and does he stamps his mind: this proves a soul without alloy, and pure; kings, like their gold, should every touch endure. to dare in fields is valour; but how few dare be so throughly valiant,--to be true! the name of great, let other kings affect: he's great indeed, the prince that is direct. his subjects know him now, and trust him more than all their kings, and all their laws before. what safety could their public acts afford? those he can break; but cannot break his word. so great a trust to him alone was due; well have they trusted whom so well they knew. the saint, who walked on waves, securely trod, while he believed the beck'ning of his god; but when his faith no longer bore him out, began to sink, as he began to doubt. let us our native character maintain; 'tis of our growth, to be sincerely plain. to excel in truth we loyally may strive, set privilege against prerogative: he plights his faith, and we believe him just; his honour is to promise, ours to trust. thus britain's basis on a word is laid, as by a word the world itself was made[ ]. footnote: . from this epilogue we learn, what is confirmed by many proofs elsewhere, that the attribute for which james desired to be distinguished and praised, was that of openness of purpose, and stern undeviating inflexibility of conduct. he scorned to disguise his designs, either upon the religion or the constitution of his country. he forgot that it was only the temporising concessions of his brother which secured his way to the throne, when his exclusion, or a civil war, seemed the only alternatives. his brother was the reed, which bent before the whirlwind, and recovered its erect posture when it had passed away; and james, the inflexible oak, which the first tempest rooted up for ever. * * * * * don sebastian. a tragedy. _--nec tarda senectus debilitat vires animi, mutatque vigorem._ virg. don sebastian. the following tragedy is founded upon the adventures supposed to have befallen sebastian, king of portugal, after the fatal battle of alcazar. the reader may be briefly reminded of the memorable expedition of that gallant monarch to africa, to signalize, against the moors, his chivalry as a warrior, and his faith as a christian. the ostensible pretext of invasion was the cause of muly mahomet, son of abdalla, emperor of morocco; upon whose death, his brother, muly moluch, had seized the crown, and driven his nephew into exile. the armies joined battle near alcazar. the portuguese, far inferior in number to the moors, displayed the most desperate valour, and had nearly won the day, when muly moluch, who, though almost dying, was present on the field in a litter, fired with shame and indignation, threw himself on horseback, rallied his troops, renewed the combat, and, being carried back to his litter, immediately expired, with his finger placed on his lips, to impress on the chiefs, who surrounded him, the necessity of concealing his death. the moors, rallied by their sovereign's dying exertion, surrounded, and totally routed, the army of sebastian. mahomet, the competitor for the throne of morocco, was drowned in passing a river in his flight, and sebastian, as his body was never found, probably perished in the same manner. but where the region of historical certainty ends, that of romantic tradition commences. the portuguese, to whom the memory of their warlike sovereign was deservedly dear, grasped at the feeble hope which the uncertainty of his fate afforded, and long, with vain fondness, expected the return of sebastian, to free them from the yoke of spain. this mysterious termination of a hero's career, as it gave rise to various political intrigues, (for several persons assumed the name and character of sebastian,) early afforded a subject for exercising the fancy of the dramatist and romance writer. "the battle of alcazar[ ]" is known to the collectors of old plays; a ballad on the same subject is reprinted in evans's collection; and our author mentions a french novel on the adventures of don sebastian, to which langbaine also refers. the situation of dryden, after the revolution, was so delicate as to require great caution and attention, both in his choice of a subject, and his mode of treating it. his distressed circumstances and lessened income compelled him to come before the public as an author; while the odium attached to the proselyte of a hated religion, and the partizan of a depressed faction, was likely, upon the slightest pretext, to transfer itself from the person of the poet to the labours on which his support depended. he was, therefore, not only obliged to chuse a theme, which had no offence in it, and to treat it in a manner which could not admit of misconstruction, but also so to exert the full force of his talents, as, by the conspicuous pre-eminence of his genius, to bribe prejudice and silence calumny. an observing reader will accordingly discover, throughout the following tragedy, symptoms of minute finishing, and marks of accurate attention, which, in our author's better days, he deigned not to bestow upon productions, to which his name alone was then sufficient to give weight and privilege. his choice of a subject was singularly happy: the name of sebastian awaked historical recollections and associations, favourable to the character of his hero; while the dark uncertainty of his fate removed all possibility of shocking the audience by glaring offence against the majesty of historical truth. the subject has, therefore, all the advantages of a historical play, without the detects, which either a rigid coincidence with history, or a violent contradiction of known truth, seldom fail to bring along with them. dryden appears from his preface to have been fully sensible of this; and he has not lost the advantage of a happy subject by treating it with the carelessness he sometimes allowed himself to indulge. the characters in "don sebastian" are contrasted with singular ability and judgment. sebastian, high-spirited and fiery; the soul of royal and military honour; the soldier and the king; almost embodies the idea which the reader forms at the first mention of his name. dorax, to whom he is so admirable a contrast, is one of those characters whom the strong hand of adversity has wrested from their natural bias; and perhaps no equally vivid picture can be found, of a subject so awfully interesting. born with a strong tendency to all that was honourable and virtuous, the very excess of his virtues became vice, when his own ill fate, and sebastian's injustice, had driven him into exile. by comparing, as dryden has requested, the character of dorax, in the fifth act, with that he maintains in the former part of the play, the difference may be traced betwixt his natural virtues, and the vices engrafted on them by headlong passion and embittering calamity. there is no inconsistence in the change which takes place after his scene with sebastian; as was objected by those, whom the poet justly terms, "the more ignorant sort of creatures." it is the same picture in a new light; the same ocean in tempest and in calm; the same traveller, whom sunshine has induced to abandon his cloak, which the storm only forced him to wrap more closely around him. the principal failing of dorax is the excess of pride, which renders each supposed wound to his honour more venomously acute; yet he is not devoid of gentler affections, though even in indulging these the hardness of his character is conspicuous. he loves violante, but that is a far subordinate feeling to his affection for sebastian. indeed, his love appears so inferior to his loyal devotion to his king, that, unless to gratify the taste of the age, i see little reason for its being introduced at all. it is obvious he was much more jealous of the regard of his sovereign, than of his mistress; he never mentions violante till the scene of explanation with sebastian; and he appears hardly to have retained a more painful recollection of his disappointment in that particular, than of the general neglect and disgrace he had sustained at the court of lisbon. the last stage of a virtuous heart, corroded into evil by wounded pride, has been never more forcibly displayed than in the character of dorax. when once induced to take the fatal step which degraded him in his own eyes, all his good affections seem to be converted into poison. the religion, which displays itself in the fifth act in his arguments against suicide, had, in his efforts to justify his apostacy, or at least to render it a matter of no moment, been exchanged for sentiments approaching, perhaps to atheism, certainly to total scepticism. his passion for violante is changed into contempt and hatred for her sex, which he expresses in the coarsest terms. his feelings of generosity, and even of humanity, are drowned in the gloomy and stern misanthropy, which has its source in the self-discontent that endeavours to wreak itself upon others. this may be illustrated by his unfeeling behaviour, while alvarez and antonio, well known to him in former days, approach, and draw the deadly lot, which ratifies their fate. no yielding of compassion, no recollection of former friendship, has power to alter the cold and sardonic sarcasm with which he sketches their characters, and marks their deportment in that awful moment. finally, the zealous attachment of alonzo for his king, which, in its original expression, partakes of absolute devotion, is changed, by the circumstances of dorax, into an irritated and frantic jealousy, which he mistakes for hatred; and which, in pursuing the destruction of its object, is almost more inveterate than hatred itself. nothing has survived of the original alonzo at the opening of the piece, except the gigantic passion which has caused his ruin. this character is drawn on a large scale, and in a heroic proportion; but it is so true to nature, that many readers must have lamented, even within the circle of domestic acquaintance, instances of feelings hardened, and virtues perverted, where a high spirit has sustained severe and unjust neglect and disgrace. the whole demeanour of this exquisite character suits the original sketch. from "the long stride and sullen port," by which benducar distinguishes him at a distance, to the sullen stubbornness with which he obeys, or the haughty contempt with which he resists, the commands of the peremptory tyrant under whom he had taken service, all announce the untamed pride which had robbed dorax of virtue, and which yet, when benducar would seduce him into a conspiracy, and in his conduct towards sebastian, assumes the port and dignity of virtue herself. in all his conduct and bearing, there is that mixed feeling and impulse, which constitutes the real spring of human action. the true motive of alonzo in saving sebastian, is not purely that of honourable hatred, which he proposes to himself; for to himself every man endeavours to appear consistent, and readily find arguments to prove to himself that he is so. neither is his conduct to be ascribed altogether to the gentler feelings of loyal and friendly affection, relenting at the sight of his sovereign's ruin, and impending death. it is the result of a mixture of these opposite sensations, clashing against each other like two rivers at their conflux, yet urging their united course down the same channel. actuated by a mixture of these feelings, dorax meets sebastian; and the art of the poet is displayed in that admirable scene, by suggesting a natural motive to justify to the injured subject himself the change of the course of his feelings. as his jealousy of sebastian's favour, and resentment of his unjust neglect, was chiefly founded on the avowed preference which the king had given to henriquez, the opportune mention of his rival's death, by removing the cause of that jealousy, gives the renegade an apology to his own pride, for throwing himself at the feet of that very sovereign, whom a moment before he was determined to force to combat. they are little acquainted with human passions, at least have only witnessed their operations among men of common minds, who doubt, that at the height of their very spring-tide, they are often most susceptible of sudden changes; revolutions, which seem to those who have not remarked how nearly the most opposite feelings are allied and united, the most extravagant and unaccountable. muly moluch is an admirable specimen of that very frequent theatrical character,--a stage tyrant. he is fierce and boisterous enough to be sufficiently terrible and odious, and that without much rant, considering he is an infidel soldan, who, from the ancient deportment of mahomed and termagaunt, as they appeared in the old mysteries, might claim a prescriptive right to tear a passion to tatters. besides, the moorish emperor has fine glances of savage generosity, and that free, unconstrained, and almost noble openness, the only good quality, perhaps, which a consciousness of unbounded power may encourage in a mind so firm as not to be totally depraved by it. the character of muly moluch, like that of morat, in "aureng-zebe," to which it bears a strong resemblance, was admirably represented by kynaston; who had, says cibber, "a fierce lion-like majesty in his port and utterance, that gave the spectator a kind of trembling admiration." it is enough to say of benducar, that the cool, fawning, intriguing, and unprincipled statesman, is fully developed in his whole conduct; and of alvarez, that the little he has to say and do, is so said and done, as not to disgrace his common-place character of the possessor of the secret on which the plot depends; for it may be casually observed, that the depositary of such a clew to the catastrophe, though of the last importance to the plot, is seldom himself of any interest whatever. the haughty and high-spirited almeyda is designed by the author as the counterpart of sebastian. she breaks out with the same violence, i had almost said fury, and frequently discovers a sort of kindred sentiment, intended to prepare the reader for the unfortunate discovery, that she is the sister of the portuguese monarch. of the diction, dr johnson has said, with meagre commendation, that it has "some sentiments which leave a strong impression," and "others of excellence, universally acknowledged." this, even when the admiration of the scene betwixt dorax and sebastian has been sanctioned by that great critic, seems scanty applause for the _chef d'oeuvre_ of dryden's dramatic works. the reader will be disposed to look for more unqualified praise, when such a poet was induced, by every pressing consideration, to combine, in one effort, the powers of his mighty genius, and the fruits of his long theatrical experience: accordingly, shakespeare laid aside, it will be perhaps difficult to point out a play containing more animatory incident, impassioned language, and beautiful description, than "don sebastian." of the former, the scene betwixt dorax and the king, had it been the only one ever dryden wrote, would have been sufficient to insure his immortality. there is not,--no, perhaps, not even in shakespeare,--an instance where the chord, which the poet designed should vibrate, is more happily struck; strains there are of a higher mood, but not more correctly true; in evidence of which, we have known those, whom distresses of a gentler nature were unable to move, feel their stubborn feelings roused and melted by the injured pride and deep repentance of dorax. the burst of anguish with which he answers the stern taunt of sebastian, is one of those rare, but natural instances, in which high-toned passion assumes a figurative language, because all that is familiar seems inadequate to express its feelings: _dor._ thou hast dared to tell me, what i durst not tell myself: i durst not think that i was spurned, and live; and live to hear it boasted to my face. all my long avarice of honour lost, heaped up in youth, and hoarded up for age! has honour's fountain then sucked back the stream? he has; and hooting boys may dry-shod pass, and gather pebbles from the naked ford. give me my love, my honour; give them back-- give me revenge, while i have breath to ask it! but i will not dwell on the beauties of this scene. if any one is incapable of relishing it, he may safely conclude, that nature has not merely denied him that rare gift, poetical taste, but common powers of comprehending the ordinary feelings of humanity. the love scene, betwixt sebastian and almeyda, is more purely conceived, and expressed with more reference to sentiment, than is common with our author. the description which dorax gives of sebastian, before his appearance, coming from a mortal enemy, at least from one whose altered love was as envenomed as hatred, is a grand preparation for the appearance of the hero. in many of the slighter descriptive passages, we recognize the poet by those minute touches, which a mind susceptible of poetic feeling is alone capable of bringing out. the approach of the emperor, while the conspirators are caballing, is announced by orchan, with these picturesque circumstances: i see the blaze of torches from afar, and hear the trampling of thick-beating feet-- this way they move.-- the following account, given by the slave sent to observe what passed in the castle of dorax, believed to be dead, or dying, is equally striking: _haly._ two hours i warily have watched his palace: all doors are shut, no servant peeps abroad; some officers, with striding haste, past in; while others outward went on quick dispatch. sometimes hushed silence seemed to reign within; then cries confused, and a joint clamour followed; then lights went gliding by, from room to room, and shot like thwarting meteors cross the house. not daring further to inquire, i came with speed to bring you this imperfect news. the description of the midnight insurrection of the rabble is not less impressive: _ham._ what you wish: the streets are thicker in this noon of night, than at the mid-day sun: a drouzy horror sits on their eyes, like fear, not well awake: all crowd in heaps, as, at a night alarm, the bees drive out upon each others backs, t'imboss their hives in clusters; all ask news: their busy captain runs the weary round to whisper orders; and, commanding silence, makes not noise cease, but deafens it to murmurs. these illustrations are designedly selected from the parts of the lower characters, because they at once evince the diligence and success with which dryden has laboured even the subordinate points of this tragedy. "don sebastian" has been weighed, with reference to its tragic merits, against "love for love;" and one or other is universally allowed to be the first of dryden's dramatic performances. to the youth of both sexes the latter presents the most pleasing subject of emotion; but to those whom age has rendered incredulous upon the romantic effects of love, and who do not fear to look into the recesses of the human heart, when agitated by darker and more stubborn passions, "don sebastian" offers a far superior source of gratification. to point out the blemishes of so beautiful a tragedy, is a painful, though a necessary, task. the style, here and there, exhibits marks of a reviving taste for those frantic bursts of passion, which our author has himself termed the "dalilahs of the theatre." the first speech of sebastian has been often noticed as an extravagant rant, more worthy of maximin, or almanzor, than of a character drawn by our author in his advanced years, and chastened taste: i beg no pity for this mouldering clay; for if you give it burial, there it takes possession of your earth: if burnt and scatter'd in the air, the winds, that strew my dust, diffuse my royalty, and spread me o'er your clime; for where one atom of mine shall light, know, there sebastian reigns. the reader's discernment will discover some similar extravagancies in the language of almeyda and the emperor. it is a separate objection, that the manners of the age and country are not adhered to. sebastian, by disposition a crusading knight-errant, devoted to religion and chivalry, becomes, in the hands of dryden, merely a gallant soldier and high-spirited prince, such as existed in the poet's own days. but, what is worse, the manners of mahometans are shockingly violated. who ever heard of human sacrifices, or of any sacrifices, being offered up to mahomet[ ]; and when were his followers able to use the classical and learned allusions which occur throughout the dialogue! on this last topic addison makes the following observations, in the "guardian," no. . "i have now mr dryden's "don sebastian" before me, in which i find frequent allusions to ancient poetry, and the old mythology of the heathens. it is not very natural to suppose a king of portugal would be borrowing thoughts out of ovid's "metamorphoses," when he talked even to those of his own court; but to allude to these roman fables, when he talks to an emperor of barbary, seems very extraordinary. but observe how he defies him out of the classics in the following lines: why didst not thou engage me man to man, and try the virtue of that gorgon face, to stare me into statue? "almeyda, at the same time, is more book-learned than don sebastian. she plays an hydra upon the emperor, that is full as good as the gorgon: o that i had the fruitful heads of hydra, that one might bourgeon where another fell! still would i give thee work, still, still, thou tyrant, and hiss thee with the last. "she afterwards, in allusion to hercules, bids him 'lay down the lion's skin, and take the distaff;' and, in the following speech, utters her passion still more learnedly: no; were we joined, even though it were in death, our bodies burning in one funeral pile, the prodigy of thebes would be renewed, and my divided flame should break from thine. "the emperor of barbary shews himself acquainted with the roman poets as well as either of his prisoners, and answers the foregoing speech in the same classic strain: serpent, i will engender poison with thee: our offspring, like the seed of dragon's teeth, shall issue armed, and fight themselves to death. "ovid seems to have been muley-moloch's favourite author; witness the lines that follow: she, still inexorable, still imperious, and loud, as if, like bacchus, born in thunder. "i shall conclude my remarks on his part with that poetical complaint of his being in love; and leave my reader to consider, how prettily it would sound in the mouth of an emperor of morocco: the god of love once more has shot his fires into my soul, and my whole heart receives him. "muley zeydan is as ingenious a man as his brother muley moloch; as where he hints at the story of castor and pollux: may we ne'er meet; for, like the twins of leda, when i mount, he gallops down the skies. "as for the mufti, we will suppose that he was bred up a scholar, and not only versed in the law of mahomet, but acquainted with all kinds of polite learning. for this reason he is not at all surprised when dorax calls him a phæton in one place, and in another tells him he is like archimedes. "the mufti afterwards mentions ximenes, albornoz, and cardinal wolsey, by name. the poet seems to think, he may make every person, in his play, know as much as himself, and talk as well as he could have done on the same occasion. at least, i believe, every reader will agree with me, that the above-mentioned sentiments, to which i might have added several others, would have been better suited to the court of augustus than that of muley moloch. i grant they are beautiful in themselves, and much more so in that noble language, which was peculiar to this great poet. i only observe, that they are improper for the persons who make use of them." the catastrophe of the tragedy may be also censured, not only on the grounds objected to that of "oedipus," but because it does not naturally flow from the preceding events, and opens, in the fifth act, a new set of persons, and a train of circumstances, unconnected with the preceding action. in the concluding scene, it was remarked, by the critics, that there is a want of pure taste in the lovers dwelling more upon the pleasures than the horrors of their incestuous connection. of the lighter scenes, which were intended for comic, dr johnson has said, "they are such as that age did not probably commend, and as the present would not endure." dryden has remarked, with self-complacency, the art with which they are made to depend upon the serious business. this has not, however, the merit of novelty; being not unlike the connection between the tragic and comic scenes of the "spanish friar." the persons introduced have also some resemblance; though the gaiety of antonio is far more gross than that of lorenzo, and morayma is a very poor copy of elvira. it is rather surprising, that when a gay libertine was to be introduced, dryden did not avail himself of a real character, the english stukely; a wild gallant, who, after spending a noble fortune, became the leader of a band of italian condottieri, engaged in the service of sebastian, and actually fell in the battle of alcazar. collier complains, and with very good reason, that, in the character of the mufti, dryden has seized an opportunity to deride and calumniate the priesthood of every religion; an opportunity which, i am sorry to say, he seldom fails to use with unjustifiable inveteracy. the rabble scenes were probably given, as our author himself says of that in cleomenes, "to gratify the more barbarous part of the audience." indeed, to judge from the practice of the drama at this time, the representation of a riot upon the stage seems to have had the same charms for the popular part of the english audience, which its reality always possesses in the streets. notwithstanding the excellence of this tragedy, it appears to have been endured, rather than applauded, at its first representation; although, being judiciously curtailed, it soon became a great favourite with the public[ ]; and, omitting the comic scenes, may be again brought forward with advantage, when the public shall be tired of children and of show. the tragedy of "don sebastian" was acted and printed in . footnotes: . "the battle of alcazar, with captain stukely's death, acted by the lord high admiral's servants, ," to. baker thinks dryden might have taken the hint of "don sebastian" from this old play. shakespeare drew from it some of the bouncing rants of pistol, as, "feed, and be fat; my fair callipolis," &c. . in a zambra dance, introduced in the "conquest of granada," our author had previously introduced the moors bowing to the image of jupiter; a gross solecism, hardly more pardonable, as langbaine remarks, than the introduction of a pistol in the hand of demetrius, a successor of alexander the great, which dryden has justly censured. . langbaine says, it was acted "with great applause;" but this must refer to its reception after the first night; for the author's own expressions, that "the audience endured it with much patience, and were weary with much good nature and silence," exclude the idea of a brilliant reception on the first representation. see the beginning of the preface. to the right honourable philip, earl of leicester, &c.[ ] far be it from me, my most noble lord, to think, that any thing which my meanness can produce, should be worthy to be offered to your patronage; or that aught which i can say of you should recommend you farther to the esteem of good men in this present age, or to the veneration which will certainly be paid you by posterity. on the other side, i must acknowledge it a great presumption in me, to make you this address; and so much the greater, because by the common suffrage even of contrary parties, you have been always regarded as one of the first persons of the age, and yet not one writer has dared to tell you so; whether we have been all conscious to ourselves that it was a needless labour to give this notice to mankind, as all men are ashamed to tell stale news; or that we were justly diffident of our own performances, as even cicero is observed to be in awe when he writes to atticus; where, knowing himself over-matched in good sense, and truth of knowledge, he drops the gaudy train of words, and is no longer the vain-glorious orator. from whatever reason it may be, i am the first bold offender of this kind: i have broken down the fence, and ventured into the holy grove. how i may be punished for my profane attempt, i know not; but i wish it may not be of ill omen to your lordship: and that a crowd of bad writers do not rush into the quiet of your recesses after me. every man in all changes of government, which have been, or may possibly arrive, will agree, that i could not have offered my incense, where it could be so well deserved. for you, my lord, are secure in your own merit; and all parties, as they rise uppermost, are sure to court you in their turns; it is a tribute which has ever been paid your virtue. the leading men still bring their bullion to your mint, to receive the stamp of their intrinsic value, that they may afterwards hope to pass with human kind. they rise and fall in the variety of revolutions, and are sometimes great, and therefore wise in men's opinions, who must court them for their interest. but the reputation of their parts most commonly follows their success; few of them are wise, but as they are in power; because indeed, they have no sphere of their own, but, like the moon in the copernican system of the world, are whirled about by the motion of a greater planet. this it is to be ever busy; neither to give rest to their fellow-creatures, nor, which is more wretchedly ridiculous, to themselves; though, truly, the latter is a kind of justice, and giving mankind a due revenge, that they will not permit their own hearts to be at quiet, who disturb the repose of all beside them. ambitious meteors! how willing they are to set themselves upon the wing, and taking every occasion of drawing upward to the sun, not considering that they have no more time allowed them for their mounting, than the short revolution of a day; and that when the light goes from them, they are of necessity to fall. how much happier is he, (and who he is i need not say, for there is but one phoenix in an age) who, centering on himself, remains immoveable, and smiles at the madness of the dance about him? he possesses the midst, which is the portion of safety and content. he will not be higher, because he needs it not; but by the prudence of that choice, he puts it out of fortune's power to throw him down. it is confest, that if he had not so been born, he might have been too high for happiness; but not endeavouring to ascend, he secures the native height of his station from envy, and cannot descend from what he is, because he depends not on another. what a glorious character was this once in rome! i should say, in athens; when, in the disturbances of a state as mad as ours, the wise pomponius transported all the remaining wisdom and virtue of his country into the sanctuary of peace and learning. but i would ask the world, (for you, my lord, are too nearly concerned to judge this cause) whether there may not yet be found a character of a noble englishman, equally shining with that illustrious roman? whether i need to name a second atticus? or whether the world has not already prevented me, and fixed it there, without my naming? not a second, with a _longo sed proximus intervallo_; not a young marcellus, flattered by a poet into the resemblance of the first, with a _frons læta parum, et dejecto lumina vultu_, and the rest that follows, _si qua fata aspera rumpas, tu marcellus eris_; but a person of the same stamp and magnitude, who owes nothing to the former, besides the word roman, and the superstition of reverence, devolving on him by the precedency of eighteen hundred years; one who walks by him with equal paces, and shares the eyes of beholders with him; one who had been first, had he first lived; and, in spite of doating veneration, is still his equal: both of them born of noble families, in unhappy ages of change and tumult; both of them retiring from affairs of state; yet not leaving the commonwealth, till it had left itself; but never returning to public business, when they had once quitted it, though courted by the heads of either party. but who would trust the quiet of their lives with the extravagancies of their countrymen, when they are just in the giddiness of their turning; when the ground was tottering under them at every moment; and none could guess whether the next heave of the earthquake would settle them on the first foundation, or swallow it? both of them knew mankind exactly well, for both of them began that study in themselves, and there they found the best part of human composition; the worst they learned by long experience of the folly, ignorance, and immorality of most beside them. their philosophy, on both sides, was not wholly speculative, for that is barren, and produces nothing but vain ideas of things which cannot possibly be known, or, if they could, yet would only terminate in the understanding; but it was a noble, vigorous and practical philosophy, which exerted itself in all the offices of pity, to those who were unfortunate, and deserved not so to be. the friend was always more considered by them than the cause; and an octavius, or an antony in distress, were relieved by them, as well as a brutus or a cassius; for the lowermost party, to a noble mind, is ever the fittest object of good-will. the eldest of them, i will suppose, for his honour, to have been of the academic sect, neither dogmatist nor stoick; if he were not, i am sure he ought, in common justice, to yield the precedency to his younger brother. for stiffness of opinion is the effect of pride, and not of philosophy; it is a miserable presumption of that knowledge which human nature is too narrow to contain; and the ruggedness of a stoick is only a silly affectation of being a god,--to wind himself up by pullies to an insensibility of suffering, and, at the same time, to give the lie to his own experience, by saying he suffers not, what he knows he feels. true philosophy is certainly of a more pliant nature, and more accommodated to human use; _homo sum, humani à me nihil alienum puto._ a wise man will never attempt an impossibility; and such it is to strain himself beyond the nature of his being, either to become a deity, by being above suffering, or to debase himself into a stock or stone, by pretending not to feel it. to find in ourselves the weaknesses and imperfections of our wretched kind, is surely the most reasonable step we can make towards the compassion of our fellow-creatures. i could give examples of this kind in the second atticus. in every turn of state, without meddling on either side, he has always been favourable and assisting to opprest merit. the praises which were given by a great poet to the late queen-mother, on her rebuilding somerset palace, one part of which was fronting to the mean houses on the other side of the water, are as justly his: for the distrest and the afflicted lie most in his thoughts, and always in his eye[ ]. neither has he so far forgotten a poor inhabitant of his suburbs, whose best prospect is on the garden of leicester house, but that more than once he has been offering him his patronage, to reconcile him to a world, of which his misfortunes have made him weary[ ]. there is another sidney still remaining, though there can never be another spenser to deserve the favour. but one sidney gave his patronage to the applications of a poet; the other offered it unasked. thus, whether as a second atticus, or a second sir philip sidney, the latter in all respects will not have the worse of the comparison; and if he will take up with the second place, the world will not so far flatter his modesty, as to seat him there, unless it be out of a deference of manners, that he may place himself where he pleases at his own table. i may therefore safely conclude, that he, who, by the consent of all men, bears so eminent a character, will out of his inborn nobleness forgive the presumption of this address. it is an unfinished picture, i confess, but the lines and features are so like, that it cannot be mistaken for any other; and without writing any name under it, every beholder must cry out, at first sight,--this was designed for atticus; but the bad artist has cast too much of him into shades. but i have this excuse, that even the greatest masters commonly fall short of the best faces. they may flatter an indifferent beauty; but the excellencies of nature can have no right done to them; for there both the pencil and pen are overcome by the dignity of the subject; as our admirable waller has expressed it, the heroe's race transcends the poet's thought. there are few in any age who can bear the load of a dedication; for where praise is undeserved, it is satire; though satire on folly is now no longer a scandal to any one person, where a whole age is dipt together. yet i had rather undertake a multitude one way, than a single atticus the other; for it is easier to descend than it is to climb. i should have gone ashamed out of the world, if i had not at least attempted this address, which i have long thought owing: and if i had never attempted, i might have been vain enough to think i might have succeeded in it. now i have made the experiment, and have failed through my unworthiness, i may rest satisfied, that either the adventure is not to be atchieved, or that it is reserved for some other hand. be pleased, therefore, since the family of the attici is and ought to be above the common forms of concluding letters, that i may take my leave in the words of cicero to the first of them: _me, o pomponi, valdè pænitet vivere: tantùm te oro, ut quoniam me ipse semper amàsti, ut eodem amore sis; ego nimirum idem sum. inimici mei mea mihi non meipsum ademerunt. cura, attice, ut valeas._ dabam. cal. jan. . footnotes: . in order to escape as far as possible the odium, which after the revolution was attached to dryden's politics and religion, he seems occasionally to have sought for patrons amongst those nobles of opposite principles, whom moderation, or love of literature, rendered superior to the suggestions of party rancour; or, as he himself has expressed it in the dedication of "amphitryon," who, though of a contrary opinion themselves, blamed him not for adhering to a lost cause, and judging for himself what he could not chuse but judge. philip sidney, the third earl of leicester, had taken an active part against the king in the civil wars, had been named one of his judges, though he never look his seat among the regicides, and had been one of cromwell's council of state. he was brother of the famous algernon sidney, and although retired from party strife, during the violent contests betwixt the whigs and tories in - , there can be no doubt which way his inclinations leaned. he died th march, - , aged more than eighty years. mr malone has strongly censured the strain of this dedication, because it represents leicester as abstracted from parties and public affairs, notwithstanding his active share in the civil wars. yet dryden was not obliged to draw the portrait of his patron from his conduct thirty years before; and if leicester's character was to be taken from the latter part of his life, surely the praise of moderation is due to him, who, during the factious contests of charles ii's. reign, in which his own brother made so conspicuous a figure, maintained the neutrality of pomponius atticus. . when henrietta maria, widow of charles i. and queen-dowager of england, visited her son after the restoration, she chose somerset-house for her residence, and added all the buildings fronting the river. cowley, whom she had long patronised, composed a poem on the "queen's repairing somerset-house," to which our author refers. mr malone's accuracy has detected a slight alteration in the verses, as quoted by dryden, and as written by cowley: if any prouder virtuoso's sense at that part of my prospect take offence, by which the meaner cabanes are descried of my imperial river's humbler side; if they call that a blemish, let them know, god and my godlike mistress think not so; for the distressed and the afflicted lie most in _their care_, and always in _their_ eye. . our poet's house was in gerard-street, looking upon the gardens of leicester-house. the preface. whether it happened through a long disuse of writing, that i forgot the usual compass of a play, or that, by crowding it with characters and incidents, i put a necessity upon myself of lengthening the main action, i know not; but the first day's audience sufficiently convinced me of my error, and that the poem was insupportably too long. it is an ill ambition of us poets, to please an audience with more than they can bear; and supposing that we wrote as well as vainly we imagine ourselves to write, yet we ought to consider, that no man can bear to be long tickled. there is a nauseousness in a city-feast, when we are to sit four hours after we are cloyed. i am therefore, in the first place, to acknowledge, with all manner of gratitude, their civility, who were pleased to endure it with so much patience; to be weary with so much good-nature and silence; and not to explode an entertainment which was designed to please them, or discourage an author, whose misfortunes have once more brought him, against his will, upon the stage. while i continue in these bad circumstances, (and, truly, i see very little probability of coming out) i must be obliged to write; and if i may still hope for the same kind usage, i shall the less repent of that hard necessity. i write not this out of any expectation to be pitied, for i have enemies enow to wish me yet in a worse condition; but give me leave to say, that if i can please by writing, as i shall endeavour it, the town may be somewhat obliged to my misfortunes for a part of their diversion. having been longer acquainted with the stage than any poet now living, and having observed how difficult it was to please; that the humours of comedy were almost spent; that love and honour (the mistaken topics of tragedy) were quite worn out; that the theatres could not support their charges; that the audience forsook them; that young men, without learning, set up for judges, and that they talked loudest, who understood the least; all these discouragements had not only weaned me from the stage, but had also given me a loathing of it. but enough of this: the difficulties continue; they increase; and i am still condemned to dig in those exhausted mines. whatever fault i next commit, rest assured it shall not be that of too much length: above twelve hundred lines have been cut off from this tragedy since it was first delivered to the actors. they were indeed so judiciously lopped by mr betterton, to whose care and excellent action i am equally obliged, that the connection of the story was not lost; but, on the other side, it was impossible to prevent some part of the action from being precipitated, and coming on without that due preparation which is required to all great events: as, in particular, that of raising the mobile, in the beginning of the fourth act, which a man of benducar's cool character could not naturally attempt, without taking all those precautions, which he foresaw would be necessary to render his design successful. on this consideration, i have replaced those lines through the whole poem, and thereby restored it to that clearness of conception, and (if i may dare to say it) that lustre and masculine vigour, in which it was first written. it is obvious to every understanding reader, that the most poetical parts, which are descriptions, images, similitudes, and moral sentences, are those which of necessity were to be pared away, when the body was swollen into too large a bulk for the representation of the stage. but there is a vast difference betwixt a public entertainment on the theatre, and a private reading in the closet: in the first, we are confined to time; and though we talk not by the hour-glass, yet the watch often drawn out of the pocket warns the actors that their audience is weary; in the last, every reader is judge of his own convenience; he can take up the book and lay it down at his pleasure, and find out those beauties of propriety in thought and writing, which escaped him in the tumult and hurry of representing. and i dare boldly promise for this play, that in the roughness of the numbers and cadences, (which i assure was not casual, but so designed) you will see somewhat more masterly arising to your view, than in most, if not any, of my former tragedies. there is a more noble daring in the figures, and more suitable to the loftiness of the subject; and, besides this, some newnesses of english, translated from the beauties of modern tongues, as well as from the elegancies of the latin; and here and there some old words are sprinkled, which, for their significance and sound, deserved not to be antiquated; such as we often find in sallust amongst the roman authors, and in milton's "paradise" amongst ours; though perhaps the latter, instead of sprinkling, has dealt them with too free a hand, even sometimes to the obscuring of his sense. as for the story, or plot, of the tragedy, it is purely fiction; for i take it up where the history has laid it down. we are assured by all writers of those times, that sebastian, a young prince of great courage and expectation, undertook that war, partly upon a religious account, partly at the solicitation of muley mahomet, who had been driven out of his dominions by abdelmelech, or, as others call him, muley moluch, his nigh kinsman, who descended from the same family of xeriffs, whose fathers, hamet and mahomet, had conquered that empire with joint forces, and shared it betwixt them after their victory; that the body of don sebastian was never found in the field of battle, which gave occasion for many to believe, that he was not slain[ ]; that some years after, when the spaniards, with a pretended title, by force of arms, had usurped the crown of portugal from the house of braganza, a certain person, who called himself don sebastian, and had all the marks of his body and features of his face, appeared at venice, where he was owned by some of his countrymen; but being seized by the spaniards, was first imprisoned, then sent to the gallies, and at last put to death in private. it is most certain, that the portuguese expected his return for almost an age together after that battle, which is at least a proof of their extreme love to his memory; and the usage they had from their new conquerors, might possibly make them so extravagant in their hopes and wishes for their old master[ ]. this ground-work the history afforded me, and i desire no better to build a play upon; for where the event of a great action is left doubtful, there the poet is left master. he may raise what he pleases on that foundation, provided he makes it of a piece, and according to the rule of probability. from hence i was only obliged, that sebastian should return to portugal no more; but at the same time i had him at my own disposal, whether to bestow him in afric, or in any other corner of the world, or to have closed the tragedy with his death; and the last of these was certainly the most easy, but for the same reason the least artful; because, as i have somewhere said, the poison and the dagger are still at hand to butcher a hero, when a poet wants the brains to save him. it being therefore only necessary, according to the laws of the drama, that sebastian should no more be seen upon the throne, i leave it for the world to judge, whether or no i have disposed of him according to art, or have bungled up the conclusion of his adventure. in the drawing of his character, i forgot not piety, which any one may observe to be one principal ingredient of it, even so far as to be a habit in him; though i shew him once to be transported from it by the violence of a sudden passion, to endeavour a self-murder. this being presupposed, that he was religious, the horror of his incest, though innocently committed, was the best reason which the stage could give for hindering his return. it is true, i have no right to blast his memory with such a crime; but declaring it to be fiction, i desire my audience to think it no longer true, than while they are seeing it represented; for that once ended, he may be a saint, for aught i know, and we have reason to presume he is. on this supposition, it was unreasonable to have killed him; for the learned mr rymer has well observed, that in all punishments we are to regulate ourselves by poetical justice; and according to those measures, an involuntary sin deserves not death; from whence it follows, that to divorce himself from the beloved object, to retire into a desert, and deprive himself of a throne, was the utmost punishment which a poet could inflict, as it was also the utmost reparation which sebastian could make. for what relates to almeyda, her part is wholly fictitious. i know it is the surname of a noble family in portugal, which was very instrumental in the restoration of don john de braganza, father to the most illustrious and most pious princess, our queen-dowager. the french author of a novel, called "don sebastian," has given that name to an african lady of his own invention, and makes her sister to muley mahomet; but i have wholly changed the accidents, and borrowed nothing but the supposition, that she was beloved by the king of portugal. though, if i had taken the whole story, and wrought it up into a play, i might have done it exactly according to the practice of almost all the ancients, who were never accused of being plagiaries for building their tragedies on known fables. thus, augustus cæsar wrote an "ajax," which was not the less his own, because euripides had written a play before him on that subject. thus, of late years, corneille writ an "oedipus" after sophocles; and i have designed one after him, which i wrote with mr lee; yet neither the french poet stole from the greek, nor we from the frenchman. it is the contrivance, the new turn, and new characters, which alter the property, and make it ours. the _materia poetica_ is as common to all writers, as the _materia medica_ to all physicians. thus, in our chronicles, daniel's history is still his own, though matthew paris, stow, and hollingshed writ before him; otherwise we must have been content with their dull relations, if a better pen had not been allowed to come after them, and writ his own account after a new and better manner. i must further declare freely, that i have not exactly kept to the three mechanic rules of unity. i knew them, and had them in my eye, but followed them only at a distance; for the genius of the english cannot bear too regular a play: we are given to variety, even to a debauchery of pleasure. my scenes are therefore sometimes broken, because my underplot required them so to be, though the general scene remains,--of the same castle; and i have taken the time of two days, because the variety of accidents, which are here represented, could not naturally be supposed to arrive in one: but to gain a greater beauty, it is lawful for a poet to supersede a less. i must likewise own, that i have somewhat deviated from the known history, in the death of muley moluch, who, by all relations, died of a fever in the battle, before his army had wholly won the field; but if i have allowed him another day of life, it was because i stood in need of so shining a character of brutality as i have given him; which is indeed the same with that of the present emperor muley-ishmael, as some of our english officers, who have been in his court, have credibly informed me. i have been listening--what objections had been made against the conduct of the play; but found them all so trivial, that if i should name them, a true critic would imagine that i played booty, and only raised up phantoms for myself to conquer. some are pleased to say--the writing is dull; but, _ætatem habet, de se loquatur._ others, that the double poison is unnatural: let the common received opinion, and ausonius his famous epigram, answer that[ ]. lastly, a more ignorant sort of creatures than either of the former maintain, that the character of dorax is not only unnatural, but inconsistent with itself: let them read the play, and think again; and if yet they are not satisfied, cast their eyes on that chapter of the wise montaigne, which is intitled, _de l'inconstance des actions humaines_. a longer reply is what those cavillers deserve not; but i will give them and their fellows to understand, that the earl of dorset was pleased to read the tragedy twice over before it was acted, and did me the favour to send me word, that i had written beyond any of my former plays, and that he was displeased any thing should be cut away. if i have not reason to prefer his single judgment to a whole faction, let the world be judge; for the opposition is the same with that of lucan's hero against an army; _concurrere bellum, atque virum_. i think i may modestly conclude, that whatever errors there may be, either in the design, or writing of this play, they are not those which have been objected to it. i think also, that i am not yet arrived to the age of doting; and that i have given so much application to this poem, that i could not probably let it run into many gross absurdities; which may caution my enemies from too rash a censure, and may also encourage my friends, who are many more than i could reasonably have expected, to believe their kindness has not been very undeservedly bestowed on me. this is not a play that was huddled up in haste; and, to shew it was not, i will own, that, besides the general moral of it, which is given in the four last lines, there is also another moral, couched under every one of the principal parts and characters, which a judicious critic will observe, though i point not to it in this preface. and there may be also some secret beauties in the decorum of parts, and uniformity of design, which my puny judges will not easily find out: let them consider in the last scene of the fourth act, whether i have not preserved the rule of decency, in giving all the advantage to the royal character, and in making dorax first submit. perhaps too they may have thought, that it was through indigence of characters that i have given the same to sebastian and almeyda, and consequently made them alike in all things but their sex. but let them look a little deeper into the matter, and they will find, that this identity of character in the greatness of their souls was intended for a preparation of the final discovery, and that the likeness of their nature was a fair hint to the proximity of their blood. to avoid the imputation of too much vanity, (for all writers, and especially poets, will have some,) i will give but one other instance, in relation to the uniformity of the design. i have observed, that the english will not bear a thorough tragedy; but are pleased, that it should be lightened with underparts of mirth. it had been easy for me to have given my audience a better course of comedy, i mean a more diverting, than that of antonio and morayma; but i dare appeal, even to my enemies, if i, or any man, could have invented one, which had been more of a piece, and more depending on the serious part of the design. for what could be more uniform, than to draw from out of the members of a captive court, the subject of a comical entertainment? to prepare this episode, you see dorax giving the character of antonio, in the beginning of the play, upon his first sight of him at the lottery; and to make the dependence, antonio is engaged, in the fourth act, for the deliverance of almeyda; which is also prepared, by his being first made a slave to the captain of the rabble. i should beg pardon for these instances; but perhaps they may be of use to future poets, in the conduct of their plays; at least, if i appear too positive, i am growing old, and thereby in possession of some experience, which men in years will always assume for a right of talking. certainly if a man can ever have reason to set a value on himself, it is when his ungenerous enemies are taking the advantage of the times upon him, to ruin him in his reputation. and therefore, for once, i will make bold to take the counsel of my old master virgil, _tu ne cede mails, sed contrà audentior ito._ footnotes: . there was a portuguese prophecy to this purpose, which they applied to the expected return of sebastian: _vendra et incubierto, vendra cierto; entrera en el huerto, per el puerto, questa mas a ca del muro; y'lo que paresce escuro, se vra claro e abierto._ two false sebastians, both hermits, laid claim to the throne of portugal. one was hanged, and the other died in the galleys. vide _le quien's histoire generale de portugal_.--there are two tracts which appear to regard the last of these impostors, and which may have furnished our author with some slight hints; namely, "the true history of the late and lamentable adventures of don sebastian, king of portugal, after his imprisonment at naples until this present day, being now in spain, at san lucar de barrameda.-- ;" and, "a continuation of the lamentable and admirable adventures of don sebastian, king of portugal, with a declaration of all his time employed since the battle in africk against the infidels, , until this present year . london, ." both pieces are reprinted in the harleian miscellany, vols iv. and v. . the uncertainty of his fate is alluded to by fletcher: _wittypate._ in what service have ye been, sir? _ruinous._ the first that fleshed me a soldier, sir, was that great battle at alcazar, in barbary, where the noble english stukely fell, and where the royal portugal sebastian ended his untimely days. _wittypate._ are you sure sebastian died there? _ruinous._ faith, sir, there was some other rumour hoped amongst us, that he, wounded, escaped, and touched on his native shore again, where finding his country at home more distressed by the invasion of the spaniard than his loss abroad, forsook it, still supporting a miserable and unfortunate life, which where he ended is yet uncertain. _wit at several weapons._ i have printed this quotation as i find it in the edition of ; though i am unable to discover what pretensions it claims to be arranged as blank verse. . _toxica zelotypo dedit uxor mæcha marito, nec satis ad mortem credidit esse datum. micuit argenti letalia pondera vivi; cogeret ut celerem vis geminata necem. dividat hæc si quis, faciunt discreta venenum: antidotum sumet, qui sociata bibet. ergo inter sese dum noxia pocula certant, cessit letalis noxa salutiferæ. protinus et vacuos alvi petiere recessus lubrica dejectis quà via nota cibis. quàm pia cura déum! prodest crudelior uxor, et quum fata volunt, bina venena juvant._ prologue sent to the author by an unknown hand, and proposed to be spoken by mrs mountford, dressed like an officer[ ]. bright beauties, who in awful circle sit, and you, grave synod of the dreadful pit, and you the upper-tire of pop-gun wit, pray ease me of my wonder, if you may; is all this crowd barely to see the play; or is't the poet's execution-day? his breath is in your hands i will presume, but i advise you to defer his doom, till you have got a better in his room; and don't maliciously combine together, as if in spite and spleen you were come hither; for he has kept the pen, tho' lost the feather[ ]. and, on my honour, ladies, i avow, this play was writ in charity to you; for such a dearth of wit who ever knew? sure 'tis a judgment on this sinful nation, for the abuse of so great dispensation; and, therefore, i resolve to change vocation. for want of petticoat, i've put on buff, to try what may be got by lying rough: how think you, sirs? is it not well enough? of bully-critics i a troop would lead; but, one replied,--thank you, there's no such need, i at groom-porter's, sir, can safer bleed. another, who the name of danger loaths, vow'd he would go, and swore me forty oaths, but that his horses were in body-clothes. a third cried,--damn my blood, i'll be content to push my fortune, if the parliament would but recal claret from banishment. a fourth (and i have done) made this excuse-- i'd draw my sword in ireland, sir, to chuse; had not their women gouty legs, and wore no shoes. well, i may march, thought i, and fight, and trudge, but, of these blades, the devil a man will budge; they there would fight, e'en just as here they judge. here they will pay for leave to find a fault; but, when their honour calls, they can't be bought; honour in danger, blood, and wounds is sought. lost virtue, whither fled? or where's thy dwelling who can reveal? at least, 'tis past my telling, unless thou art embarked for inniskilling. on carrion-tits those sparks denounce their rage, in boot of wisp and leinster frise engage; what would you do in such an equipage[ ]? the siege of derry does you gallants threaten; not out of errant shame of being beaten, as fear of wanting meat, or being eaten. were wit like honour, to be won by fighting, how few just judges would there be of writing! then you would leave this villainous back-biting. your talents lie how to express your spite; but, where is he who knows to praise aright? you praise like cowards, but like critics fight. ladies, be wise, and wean these yearling calves, who, in your service too, are meer faux braves; they judge, and write, and fight, and love--by halves. footnotes: . the humour of this intended prologue turns upon the unwillingness displayed to attend king william into ireland by many of the nobility and gentry, who had taken arms at the revolution. the truth is, that, though invited to go as volunteers, they could not but consider themselves as hostages, of whom william did not chuse to lose sight, lest, while he was conquering ireland, he might, perchance, lose england, by means of the very men by whom he had won it. the disbanding of the royal regiment had furnished a subject for the satirical wit of buckingham, at least, such a piece is printed in his miscellanies; and for that of shadwell, in his epilogue to bury-fair. but shadwell was now poet-laureat, and his satire was privileged, like the wit of the ancient royal jester. our author was suspected of disaffection, and liable to misconstruction: for which reason, probably, he declined this sarcastic prologue, and substituted that which follows, the tone of which is submissive, and conciliatory towards the government. contrary to custom, it was spoken by a woman. . in allusion to his being deprived of the office of poet laureat. . the inniskilling horse, who behaved with great courage against king james, joined schomberg and king william's forces at dundalk, in , rather resembled a foreign frey-corps, than regular troops. "they were followed by multitudes of their women; they were uncouth in their appearance; they rode on small horses, called _garrons_; their pistols were not fixed in holsters, but dangled about their persons, being slung to their sword-belts; they offered, with spirit, to make always the forlorn of the army; but, upon the first order they received, they cried out, 'they could thrive no longer, since they were now put under orders.'--_memoirs_, vol. ii. p. . the allusion in the next verse is to the dreadful siege of londonderry, when the besieged suffered the last extremities of famine. the account of this memorable leaguer, by the author just quoted, is a most spirited piece of historical painting. prologue, spoken by a woman. the judge removed, though he's no more my lord, may plead at bar, or at the council-board: so may cast poets write; there's no pretension to argue loss of wit, from loss of pension. your looks are chearful; and in all this place i see not one that wears a damning face. the british nation is too brave, to show ignoble vengeance on a vanquished foe. at last be civil to the wretch imploring; and lay your paws upon him, without roaring. suppose our poet was your foe before, yet now, the business of the field is o'er; 'tis time to let your civil wars alone, when troops are into winter-quarters gone. jove was alike to latian and to phrygian; and you well know, a play's of no religion. take good advice, and please yourselves this day; no matter from what hands you have the play. among good fellows every health will pass, that serves to carry round another glass: when with full bowls of burgundy you dine, } though at the mighty monarch you repine, } you grant him still most christian in his wine. } thus far the poet; but his brains grow addle, and all the rest is purely from this noddle. you have seen young ladies at the senate-door, prefer petitions, and your grace implore; however grave the legislators were, their cause went ne'er the worse for being fair. reasons as weak as theirs, perhaps, i bring; but i could bribe you with as good a thing. i heard him make advances of good nature; that he, for once, would sheath his cutting satire. sign but his peace, he vows he'll ne'er again the sacred names of fops and beaus profane. strike up the bargain quickly; for i swear, as times go now, he offers very fair. be not too hard on him with statutes neither; } be kind; and do not set your teeth together, } to stretch the laws, as coblers do their leather. } horses by papists are not to be ridden, but sure the muses' horse was ne'er forbidden; for in no rate-book it was ever found that pegasus was valued at five pound[ ]: fine him to daily drudging and inditing: and let him pay his taxes out in writing. footnote: . alluding to the act for disarming the catholics, by which, _inter alia_, it is enacted, "that no papist, or reputed papist, so refusing, or making default, as aforesaid, at any time after the th of may, , shall, or may have, and keep in his own possession, or in the possession of any other person for his use, or at his disposition, any horse or horses, which shall be above the value of l. ."-- st william and mary, c. . dramatis personÆ. _don_ sebastian, _king of portugal._ muley-moluch, _emperor of barbary._ dorax, _a noble portuguese, now a renegade; formerly don_ alonzo de sylvera, _alcade, or governor of alcazar._ benducar, _chief minister, and favourite to the emperor._ _the mufti_ abdalla. muley-zeydan, _brother to the emperor._ _don_ antonio, _a young, noble, amorous portuguese; now a slave._ _don_ alvarez, _an old counsellor to don_ sebastian; _now a slave also._ mustapha, _captain of the rabble._ _two merchants._ _rabble._ _a servant to_ benducar. _a servant to the mufti._ almeyda, _a captive queen of barbary._ morayma, _daughter to the mufti._ johayma, _chief wife to the mufti._ scene,--_in the castle of alcazar._ don sebastian, king of portugal. act i. scene i. _the scene at alcazar, representing a market-place under the castle._ _enter_ muley-zeydan _and_ benducar. _m. zey._ now africa's long wars are at an end, and our parched earth is drenched in christian blood; my conquering brother will have slaves enow, to pay his cruel vows for victory.-- what hear you of sebastian, king of portugal? _bend._ he fell among a heap of slaughtered moors, though yet his mangled carcase is not found. the rival of our threatened empire, mahomet, was hot pursued; and, in the general rout, mistook a swelling current for a ford, and in mucazar's flood was seen to rise: thrice was he seen: at length his courser plunged, and threw him off; the waves whelmed over him, and, helpless, in his heavy arms he drowned. _m. zey._ thus, then, a doubtful title is extinguished; thus moluch, still the favourite of fate, swims in a sanguine torrent to the throne, as if our prophet only worked for him: the heavens, and all the stars, are his hired servants; as muley-zeydan were not worth their care, and younger brothers but the draff of nature. _bend._ be still, and learn the soothing arts of court: adore his fortune, mix with flattering crowds; and, when they praise him most, be you the loudest. your brother is luxurious, close, and cruel; generous by fits, but permanent in mischief. the shadow of a discontent would ruin us; we must be safe, before we can be great. these things observed, leave me to shape the rest. _m. zey._ you have the key; he opens inward to you. _bend._ so often tried, and ever found so true, has given me trust; and trust has given me means once to be false for all. i trust not him; for, now his ends are served, and he grown absolute, how am i sure to stand, who served those ends? i know your nature open, mild, and grateful: in such a prince the people may be blest, and i be safe. _m. zey._ my father! [_embracing him._ _bend._ my future king, auspicious muley-zeydan! shall i adore you?--no, the place is public: i worship you within; the outward act shall be reserved till nations follow me, and heaven shall envy you the kneeling world.-- you know the alcade of alcazar, dorax? _m. zey._ the gallant renegade you mean? _bend._ the same. that gloomy outside, like a rusty chest, contains the shining treasure, of a soul resolved and brave: he has the soldiers' hearts, and time shall make him ours. _m. zey._ he's just upon us. _bend._ i know him from afar, by the long stride, and by the sullen port.-- retire, my lord. wait on your brother's triumph; yours is next: his growth is but a wild and fruitless plant; i'll cut his barren branches to the stock, and graft you on to bear. _m. zey._ my oracle! [_exit_ m. zey. _bend._ yes, to delude your hopes.--poor credulous fool! to think that i would give away the fruit of so much toil, such guilt, and such damnation! if i am damned, it shall be for myself. this easy fool must be my stale, set up to catch the people's eyes: he's tame and merciful; him i can manage, till i make him odious by some unpopular act; and then dethrone him. _enter_ dorax. now, dorax. _dor._ well, benducar. _bend._ bare benducar! _dor._ thou would'st have titles; take them then,--chief minister, first hangman of the state. _bend._ some call me, favourite. _dor._ what's that?--his minion?-- thou art too old to be a catamite!-- now pr'ythee tell me, and abate thy pride, is not benducar, bare, a better name in a friend's mouth, than all those gaudy titles, which i disdain to give the man i love? _bend._ but always out of humour,-- _dor._ i have cause: though all mankind is cause enough for satire. _bend._ why, then, thou hast revenged thee on mankind. they say, in fight, thou hadst a thirsty sword, and well 'twas glutted there. _dor._ i spitted frogs; i crushed a heap of emmets; a hundred of them to a single soul, and that but scanty weight too. the great devil scarce thanked me for my pains; he swallows vulgar like whipped cream,--feels them not in going down. _bend._ brave renegade!--could'st thou not meet sebastian? thy master had been worthy of thy sword. _dor._ my master!--by what title? because i happened to be born where he happened to be king?--and yet i served him; nay, i was fool enough to love him too.-- you know my story, how i was rewarded for fifteen hard campaigns, still hooped in iron, and why i turned mahometan. i'm grateful; but whosoever dares to injure me, let that man know, i dare to be revenged. _bend._ still you run off from bias:--say, what moves your present spleen? _dor._ you marked not what i told you. i killed not one that was his maker's image; i met with none but vulgar two-legged brutes: sebastian was my aim; he was a man: nay,--though he hated me, and i hate him, yet i must do him right,--he was a man, above man's height, even towering to divinity: brave, pious, generous, great, and liberal; just as the scales of heaven, that weigh the seasons. he loved his people; him they idolized; and thence proceeds my mortal hatred to him; that, thus unblameable to all besides, he erred to me alone: his goodness was diffused to human kind, and all his cruelty confined to me. _bend._ you could not meet him then? _dor._ no, though i sought where ranks fell thickest.--'twas indeed the place to seek sebastian.--through a track of death i followed him, by groans of dying foes; but still i came too late; for he was flown, like lightning, swift before me to new slaughters. i mowed across, and made irregular harvest, defaced the pomp of battle, but in vain; for he was still supplying death elsewhere. this mads me, that perhaps ignoble hands have overlaid him,--for they could not conquer: murdered by multitudes, whom i alone had right to slay. i too would have been slain; that, catching hold upon his flitting ghost, i might have robbed him of his opening heaven, and dragged him down with me, spite of predestination. _bend._ 'tis of as much import as africk's worth, to know what came of him, and of almeyda, the sister of the vanquished mahomet, whose fatal beauty to her brother drew the land's third part, as lucifer did heaven's. _dor._ i hope she died in her own female calling, choked up with man, and gorged with circumcision. as for sebastian, we must search the field; and, where we see a mountain of the slain, send one to climb, and, looking down below, there he shall find him at his manly length, with his face up to heaven, in the red monument, which his true sword has digged. _bend._ yet we may possibly hear farther news; for, while our africans pursued the chace, the captain of the rabble issued out, with a black shirtless train, to spoil the dead, and seize the living. _dor._ each of them an host, a million strong of vermin every villain: no part of government, but lords of anarchy, chaos of power, and privileged destruction. _bend._ yet i must tell you, friend, the great must use them sometimes, as necessary tools of tumult. _dor._ i would use them like dogs in times of plague; outlaws of nature, fit to be shot and brained, without a process, to stop infection; that's their proper death. _bend._ no more;-- behold the emperor coming to survey the slaves, in order to perform his vow. _enter_ muley-moluch _the emperor, with attendants; the mufti, and_ muley-zeydan. _m. mol._ our armours now may rust; our idle scymiters hang by our sides for ornament, not use: children shall beat our atabals and drums, and all the noisy trades of war no more shall wake the peaceful morn; the xeriff's blood no longer in divided channels runs, the younger house took end in mahomet: nor shall sebastian's formidable name be longer used to lull the crying babe. _muf._ for this victorious day, our mighty prophet expects your gratitude, the sacrifice of christian slaves, devoted, if you won. _m. mol._ the purple present shall be richly paid; that vow performed, fasting shall be abolished; none e'er served heaven well with a starved face: preach abstinence no more; i tell thee, mufti, good feasting is devout; and thou, our head, hast a religious, ruddy countenance. we will have learned luxury; our lean faith gives scandal to the christians; they feed high: then look for shoals of converts, when thou hast reformed us into feasting. _muf._ fasting is but the letter of the law, yet it shews well to preach it to the vulgar; wine is against our law; that's literal too, but not denied to kings and to their guides; wine is a holy liquor for the great. _dor._ [_aside._] this mufti, in my conscience, is some english renegado, he talks so savourily of toping. _m. mol._ bring forth the unhappy relicks of the war. _enter_ mustapha, _captain of the rabble, with his followers of the black guard, &c. and other moors; with them a company of portuguese slaves, without any of the chief persons._ _m. mol._ these are not fit to pay an emperor's vow; our bulls and rams had been more noble victims: these are but garbage, not a sacrifice. _muf._ the prophet must not pick and chuse his offerings; now he has given the day, 'tis past recalling, and he must be content with such as these. _m. mol._ but are these all? speak you, that are their masters. _must._ all, upon my honour; if you will take them as their fathers got them, so; if not, you must stay till they get a better generation. these christians are mere bunglers; they procreate nothing but out of their own wives, and these have all the looks of eldest sons. _m. mol._ pain of your lives, let none conceal a slave. _must._ let every man look to his own conscience; i am sure mine shall never hang me. _bend._ thou speak'st as if thou wert privy to concealments; then thou art an accomplice. _must._ nay, if accomplices must suffer, it may go hard with me: but here's the devil on't, there's a great man, and a holy man too, concerned with me; now, if i confess, he'll be sure to escape between his greatness and his holiness, and i shall be murdered, because of my poverty and rascality. _muf._ [_winking at him._] then, if thy silence save the great and holy, 'tis sure thou shalt go straight to paradise. _must._ 'tis a fine place, they say; but, doctor, i am not worthy on't. i am contented with this homely world; 'tis good enough for such a poor, rascally mussulman, as i am; besides, i have learnt so much good manners, doctor, as to let my betters be served before me. _m. mol._ thou talk'st as if the mufti were concerned. _must._ your majesty may lay your soul on't. but, for my part, though i am a plain fellow, yet i scorn to be tricked into paradise; i would he should know it. the truth on't is, an't like you, his reverence bought of me the flower of all the market: these--these are but dogs-meat to them; and a round price he paid me, too, i'll say that for him; but not enough for me to venture my neck for. if i get paradise when my time comes, i can't help myself; but i'll venture nothing before-hand, upon a blind bargain. _m. mol._ where are those slaves? produce them. _muf._ they are not what he says. _m. mol._ no more excuses. [_one goes out to fetch them._ know, thou may'st better dally with a dead prophet, than a living king. _muf._ i but reserved them to present thy greatness an offering worthy thee. _must._ by the same token there was a dainty virgin, (virgin, said i! but i wont be too positive of that, neither) with a roguish leering eye! he paid me down for her upon the nail a thousand golden sultanins, or he had never had her, i can tell him that; now, is it very likely he would pay so dear for such a delicious morsel, and give it away out of his own mouth, when it had such a farewell with it too? _enter_ sebastian, _conducted in mean habit, with_ alvarez, antonio, _and_ almeyda, _her face veiled with a barnus._ _m. mol._ ay; these look like the workmanship of heaven; this is the porcelain clay of human kind, and therefore cast into these noble moulds. _dor._ by all my wrongs, [_aside, while the emperor whispers benducar._ 'tis he! damnation seize me, but 'tis he! my heart heaves up and swells; he's poison to me; my injured honour, and my ravished love, bleed at their murderer's sight. _ben._ [_aside to dor._] the emperor would learn these prisoners' names; you know them? _dor._ tell him, no; and trouble me no more--i will not know them. shall i trust heaven, that heaven which i renounced, with my revenge? then, where's my satisfaction? no; it must be my own, i scorn a proxy. [_aside._ _m. mol._ 'tis decreed; these of a better aspect, with the rest, shall share one common doom, and lots decide it. for every numbered captive, put a ball into an urn; three only black be there, the rest, all white, are safe. _muf._ hold, sir; the woman must not draw. _m. mol_ o mufti, we know your reason; let her share the danger. _muf._ our law says plainly, women have no souls. _m, mol._ 'tis true; their souls are mortal, set her by; yet, were almeyda here, though fame reports her the fairest of her sex, so much, unseen, i hate the sister of our rival-house, ten thousand such dry notions of our alcoran should not protect her life, if not immortal; die as she could, all of a piece, the better that none of her remain. [_here an urn is brought in; the prisoners approach with great concernment, and among the rest,_ sebastian, alvarez, _and_ antonio, _who come more chearfully._ _dor._ poor abject creatures, how they fear to die! these never knew one happy hour in life, yet shake to lay it down. is load so pleasant? or has heaven hid the happiness of death, that men may dare to live?--now for our heroes. [_the three approach._ o, these come up with spirits more resolved. old venerable alvarez;--well i know him, the favourite once of this sebastian's father; now minister, (too honest for his trade) religion bears him out; a thing taught young, in age ill practised, yet his prop in death. o, he has drawn a black; and smiles upon't, as who should say,--my faith and soul are white, though my lot swarthy: now, if there be hereafter, he's blest; if not, well cheated, and dies pleased. _anton._ [_holding his lot in his clenched hand._] here i have thee; be what thou wilt, i will not look too soon: thou hast a colour; if thou prov'st not right, i have a minute good ere i behold thee. now, let me roll and grubble thee: blind men say, white feels smooth, and black feels rough; thou hast a rugged skin, i do not like thee. _dor._ there's the amorous airy spark, antonio, the wittiest woman's toy in portugal: lord, what a loss of treats and serenades! the whole she-nation will be in mourning for him. _anton._ i've a moist sweaty palm; the more's my sin: if it be black, yet only dyed, not odious damned natural ebony, there's hope, in rubbing, to wash this ethiop white.--[_looks._] pox o'the proverb! as black as hell;--another lucky saying! i think the devil's in me;--good again! i cannot speak one syllable, but tends to death or to damnation. [_holds up his ball._ _dor._ he looks uneasy at his future journey, [_aside._ and wishes his boots off again, for fear of a bad road, and a worse inn at night. go to bed, fool, and take secure repose, for thou shalt wake no more. [sebastian _comes up to draw._ _m. mol._ [_to ben._] mark him, who now approaches to the lottery: he looks secure of death, superior greatness, like jove, when he made fate, and said, thou art the slave of my creation.--i admire him. _bend._ he looks as man was made; with face erect, that scorns his brittle corpse, and seems ashamed he's not all spirit; his eyes, with a dumb pride, accusing fortune that he fell not warm; yet now disdains to live. [sebast. _draws a black._ _m. mol._ he has his wish; and i have failed of mine. _dor._ robbed of my vengeance, by a trivial chance! [_aside._ fine work above, that their anointed care should die such little death! or did his genius know mine the stronger dæmon, feared the grapple, and looking round him, found this nook of fate, to skulk behind my sword?--shall i discover him?-- still he would not die mine; no thanks to my revenge; reserved but to more royal shambles. 'twere base, too, and below those vulgar souls, that shared his danger, yet not one disclosed him, but, struck with reverence, kept an awful silence. i'll see no more of this;--dog of a prophet! [_exit_ dorax. _m. mol._ one of these three is a whole hecatomb, and therefore only one of them shall die: the rest are but mute cattle; and when death comes like a rushing lion, couch like spaniels, with lolling tongues, and tremble at the paw: let lots again decide it. [_the three draw again; and the lot falls on_ sebastian. _sebast._ then there's no more to manage: if i fall, it shall be like myself; a setting sun should leave a track of glory in the skies.-- behold sebastian, king of portugal. _m. mol._ sebastian! ha! it must be he; no other could represent such suffering majesty. i saw him, as he terms himself, a sun struggling in dark eclipse, and shooting day on either side of the black orb that veiled him. _sebast._ not less even in this despicable now, than when my name filled afric with affright, and froze your hearts beneath your torrid zone. _bend._ [_to m. mol._] extravagantly brave! even to an impudence of greatness. _sebast._ here satiate all your fury: let fortune empty her whole quiver on me; i have a soul, that, like an ample shield, can take in all, and verge enough for more. i would have conquered you; and ventured only a narrow neck of land for a third world, to give my loosened subjects room to play. fate was not mine, nor am i fate's. now i have pleased my longing, and trod the ground which i beheld from far, i beg no pity for this mouldering clay; for, if you give it burial, there it takes possession of your earth; if burnt and scattered in the air, the winds, that strow my dust, diffuse my royalty, and spread me o'er your clime: for where one atom of mine shall light, know, there sebastian reigns. _m. mol._ what shall i do to conquer thee? _sebast._ impossible! souls know no conquerors. _m. mol._ i'll shew thee for a monster through my afric. _sebast._ no, thou canst only shew me for a man: afric is stored with monsters; man's a prodigy, thy subjects have not seen. _m. mol._ thou talk'st as if still at the head of battle. _sebast._ thou mistakest, for then i would not talk. _bend._ sure he would sleep. _sebast._ till doomsday, when the trumpet sounds to rise; for that's a soldier's call. _m. mol._ thou'rt brave too late; thou shouldst have died in battle, like a soldier. _sebast._ i fought and fell like one, but death deceived me; i wanted weight of feeble moors upon me, to crush my soul out. _m. mol._ still untameable! in what a ruin has thy head-strong pride, and boundless thirst of empire, plunged thy people! _sebast._ what sayst thou? ha! no more of that. _m. mol._ behold, what carcases of thine thy crimes have strewed, and left our afric vultures to devour. _bend._ those souls were those thy god intrusted with thee, to cherish, not destroy. _sebast._ witness, o heaven, how much this sight concerns me! would i had a soul for each of these; how gladly would i pay the ransom down! but since i have but one, 'tis a king's life, and freely 'tis bestowed. not your false prophet, but eternal justice has destined me the lot, to die for these: 'tis fit a sovereign so should pay such subjects; for subjects such as they are seldom seen, who not forsook me at my greatest need; nor for base lucre sold their loyalty, but shared my dangers to the last event, and fenced them with their own. these thanks i pay you; [_wipes his eyes._ and know, that, when sebastian weeps, his tears come harder than his blood. _m. mol._ they plead too strongly to be withstood. my clouds are gathering too, in kindly mixture with his royal shower. be safe; and owe thy life, not to my gift, but to the greatness of thy mind, sebastian. thy subjects too shall live; a due reward for their untainted faith, in thy concealment. _muf._ remember, sir, your vow. [_a general shout._ _m. mol._ do thou remember thy function, mercy, and provoke not blood. _mul. zeyd._ one of his generous fits, too strong to last. [_aside to_ benducar. _bend._ the mufti reddens; mark that holy cheek. [_to him._ he frets within, froths treason at his mouth, and churns it thro' his teeth; leave me to work him. _seb._ a mercy unexpected, undesired, surprises more: you've learnt the art to vanquish. you could not,--give me leave to tell you, sir,-- have given me life but in my subjects' safety: kings, who are fathers, live but in their people. _m. mol._ still great, and grateful; that's thy character.-- unveil the woman; i would view the face, that warmed our mufti's zeal: these pious parrots peck the fairest fruit: such tasters are for kings. [_officers go to_ almeyda _to unveil her._ _alm._ stand off, ye slaves! i will not be unveiled. _m. mol_ slave is thy title:--force her. _sebast._ on your lives, approach her not. _m. mol._ how's this! _sebast._ sir, pardon me, and hear me speak.-- _aim._ hear me; i will be heard. i am no slave; the noblest blood of afric runs in my veins; a purer stream than thine: for, though derived from the same source, thy current is puddled and defiled with tyranny. _m. mol._ what female fury have we here! _aim._ i should be one, because of kin to thee. wouldst thou be touched by the presuming hands of saucy grooms? the same respect, nay more, is due to me: more for my sex; the same for my descent. these hands are only fit to draw the curtain. now, if thou dar'st, behold almeyda's face. [_unveils herself._ _bend._ would i had never seen it! [_aside._ _alm._ she whom thy mufti taxed to have no soul; let afric now be judge. perhaps thou think'st i meanly hope to 'scape, as did sebastian, when he owned his greatness. but to remove that scruple, know, base man, my murdered father, and my brother's ghost, still haunt this breast, and prompt it to revenge. think not i could forgive, nor dar'st thou pardon. _m. mol._ wouldst thou revenge thee, trait'ress, hadst thou power? _alm._ traitor, i would; the name's more justly thine; thy father was not, more than mine, the heir of this large empire: but with arms united they fought their way, and seized the crown by force; and equal as their danger was their share: for where was eldership, where none had right but that which conquest gave? 'twas thy ambition pulled from my peaceful father what his sword helped thine to gain; surprised him and his kingdom, no provocation given, no war declared. _m. mol._ i'll hear no more. _alm._ this is the living coal, that, burning in me, would flame to vengeance, could it find a vent; my brother too, that lies yet scarcely cold in his deep watery bed;--my wandering mother, who in exile died-- o that i had the fruitful heads of hydra, that one might bourgeon where another fell! still would i give thee work; still, still, thou tyrant, and hiss thee with the last. _m. mol._ something, i know not what, comes over me: whether the toils of battle, unrepaired with due repose, or other sudden qualm.-- benducar, do the rest. [_goes off, the court follows him._ _bend._ strange! in full health! this pang is of the soul; the body's unconcerned: i'll think hereafter.-- conduct these royal captives to the castle; bid dorax use them well, till further order. [_going off, stops._ the inferior captives their first owners take, to sell, or to dispose.--you mustapha, set ope the market for the sale of slaves. [_exit_ bend. [_the masters and slaves come forward, and buyers of several qualities come in, and chaffer about the several owners, who make their slaves do tricks[ ]._ _must._ my chattels are come into my hands again, and my conscience will serve me to sell them twice over; any price now, before the mufti come to claim them. _ st mer._ [_to_ must.] what dost hold that old fellow at?--[_pointing to_ alvar.] he's tough, and has no service in his limbs. _must._ i confess he's somewhat tough; but i suppose you would not boil him, i ask for him a thousand crowns. _ st mer._ thou mean'st a thousand marvedis. _must._ pr'ythee, friend, give me leave to know my own meaning. _ st mer._ what virtues has he to deserve that price? _must._ marry come up, sir! virtues, quotha! i took him in the king's company; he's of a great family, and rich; what other virtues wouldst thou have in a nobleman? _ st mer._ i buy him with another man's purse, that's my comfort. my lord dorax, the governor, will have him at any rate:--there's hansel. come, old fellow, to the castle. _alvar._ to what is miserable age reserved! [_aside._ but oh the king! and oh the fatal secret! which i have kept thus long to time it better, and now i would disclose, 'tis past my power. [_exit with his master._ _must._ something of a secret, and of the king, i heard him mutter: a pimp, i warrant him, for i am sure he is an old courtier. now, to put off t'other remnant of my merchandize.--stir up, sirrah! [_to_ ant. _ant._ dog, what wouldst thou have? _must._ learn better manners, or i shall serve you a dog-trick; come down upon all-four immediately; i'll make you know your rider. _ant._ thou wilt not make a horse of me? _must._ horse or ass, that's as thy mother made thee: but take earnest, in the first place, for thy sauciness.--[_lashes him with his whip._]--be advised, friend, and buckle to thy geers: behold my ensign of royalty displayed over thee. _ant._ i hope one day to use thee worse in portugal. _must._ ay, and good reason, friend; if thou catchest me a-conquering on thy side of the water, lay on me lustily; i will take it as kindly as thou dost this.-- [_holds up his whip._ _ant._ [_lying down._] hold, my dear thrum-cap: i obey thee cheerfully.--i see the doctrine of non-resistance is never practised thoroughly, but when a man can't help himself. _enter a second merchant._ _ d mer._ you, friend, i would see that fellow do his postures. _must._ [_bridling_ ant.] now, sirrah, follow, for you have rope enough: to your paces, villain, amble trot, and gallop:--quick about, there.--yeap! the more money's bidden for you, the more your credit. [antonio _follows, at the end of the bridle, on his hands and feet, and does all his postures._ _ d mer._ he is well chined, and has a tolerable good back; that is half in half.--[_to_ must.]--i would see him strip; has he no diseases about him? _must._ he is the best piece of man's flesh in the market, not an eye-sore in his whole body. feel his legs, master; neither splint, spavin, nor wind-gall. [_claps him on the shoulder._ _mer._ [_feeling about him, and then putting his hand on his side._] out upon him, how his flank heaves! the whore-son is broken-winded. _must._ thick-breathed a little; nothing but a sorry cold with lying out a-nights in trenches; but sound, wind and limb, i warrant him.--try him at a loose trot a little. [_puts the bridle into his hand, he strokes him._ _ant._ for heaven's sake, owner, spare me: you know i am but new broken. _ d mer._ 'tis but a washy jade, i see: what do you ask for this bauble? _must._ bauble, do you call him? he is a substantial true-bred beast; bravely forehanded. mark but the cleanness of his shapes too: his dam may be a spanish gennet, but a true barb by the sire, or i have no skill in horseflesh:--marry, i ask six hundred xeriffs for him. _enter_ mufti. _mufti._ what is that you are asking, sirrah? _must._ marry, i ask your reverence six hundred pardons; i was doing you a small piece of service here, putting off your cattle for you. _mufti._ and putting the money into your own pocket. _must._ upon vulgar reputation, no, my lord; it was for your profit and emolument. what! wrong the head of my religion? i was sensible you would have damned me, or any man, that should have injured you in a single farthing; for i knew that was sacrifice. _mufti._ sacrilege, you mean, sirrah,--and damning shall be the least part of your punishment: i have taken you in the manner, and will have the law upon you. _must._ good my lord, take pity upon a poor man in this world, and damn me in the next. _mufti._ no, sirrah, so you may repent and escape punishment: did not you sell this very slave amongst the rest to me, and take money for him? _must._ right, my lord. _mufti._ and selling him again? take money twice for the same commodity? oh, villain! but did you not know him to be my slave, sirrah? _must._ why should i lie to your honour? i did know him; and thereupon, seeing him wander about, took him up for a stray, and impounded him, with intention to restore him to the right owner. _mufti._ and yet at the same time was selling him to another: how rarely the story hangs together! _must._ patience, my lord. i took him up, as your herriot, with intention to have made the best of him, and then have brought the whole product of him in a purse to you; for i know you would have spent half of it upon your pious pleasures, have hoarded up the other half, and given the remainder in charities to the poor. _mufti._ and what's become of my other slave? thou hast sold him too, i have a villainous suspicion. _must._ i know you have, my lord; but while i was managing this young robustious fellow, that old spark, who was nothing but skin and bone, and by consequence very nimble, slipt through my fingers like an eel, for there was no hold-fast of him, and ran away to buy himself a new master. _muft._ [_to_ ant.] follow me home, sirrah:--[_to_ must.] i shall remember you some other time. [_exit_ mufti _with_ ant. _must._ i never doubted your lordship's memory for an ill turn: and i shall remember him too in the next rising of the mobile for this act of resumption; and more especially for the ghostly counsel he gave me before the emperor, to have hanged myself in silence to have saved his reverence. the best on't is, i am beforehand with him for selling one of his slaves twice over; and if he had not come just in the nick, i might have pocketed up the other; for what should a poor man do that gets his living by hard labour, but pray for bad times when he may get it easily? o for some incomparable tumult! then should i naturally wish that the beaten party might prevail; because we have plundered the other side already, and there is nothing more to get of them. both rich and poor for their own interest pray, 'tis ours to make our fortune while we may; for kingdoms are not conquered every day. [_exit._ act ii. scene i.--_supposed to be a terrace walk, on the side of the castle of alcazar._ _enter_ emperor _and_ benducar. _emp._ and thinkst thou not, it was discovered? _bend._ no: the thoughts of kings are like religious groves, the walks of muffled gods: sacred retreat, where none, but whom they please to admit, approach. _emp._ did not my conscious eye flash out a flame, to lighten those brown horrors, and disclose the secret path i trod? _bend._ i could not find it, till you lent a clue to that close labyrinth; how then should they? _emp._ i would be loth they should: it breeds contempt for herds to listen, or presume to pry, when the hurt lion groans within his den: but is't not strange? _bend._ to love? not more than 'tis to live; a tax imposed on all by nature, paid in kind, familiar as our being. _emp._ still 'tis strange to me: i know my soul as wild as winds, that sweep the desarts of our moving plains; love might as well be sowed upon our sands, as in a breast so barren. to love an enemy, the only one remaining too, whom yester sun beheld mustering her charms, and rolling, as she past by every squadron, her alluring eyes, to edge her champions' swords, and urge my ruin. the shouts of soldiers, and the burst of cannon, maintain even still a deaf and murmuring noise; nor is heaven yet recovered of the sound, her battle roused: yet, spite of me, i love. _bend._ what then controuls you? her person is as prostrate as her party. _emp._ a thousand things controul this conqueror: my native pride to own the unworthy passion, hazard of interest, and my people's love. to what a storm of fate am i exposed!-- what if i had her murdered!--'tis but what my subjects all expect, and she deserves,-- would not the impossibility of ever, ever seeing, or possessing, calm all this rage, this hurricane of soul? _bend._ that _ever, ever,_-- i marked the double,--shows extreme reluctance to part with her for ever. _emp._ right, thou hast me. i would, but cannot kill: i must enjoy her: i must, and what i must, be sure i will. what's royalty, but power to please myself? and if i dare not, then am i the slave, and my own slaves the sovereigns:--'tis resolved. weak princes flatter, when they want the power to curb their people; tender plants must bend: but when a government is grown to strength, like some old oak, rough with its armed bark, it yields not to the tug, but only nods, and turns to sullen state. _bend._ then you resolve to implore her pity, and to beg relief? _emp._ death! must i beg the pity of my slave? must a king beg?--yes; love's a greater king; a tyrant, nay, a devil, that possesses me: he tunes the organs of my voice, and speaks, unknown to me, within me; pushes me, and drives me on by force.-- say i should wed her, would not my wise subjects take check, and think it strange? perhaps revolt? _bend._ i hope they would not. _emp._ then thou doubtst they would? _bend._ to whom? _emp._ to her perhaps,--or to my brother,--or to thee. _bend._ [_in disorder._] to me! me, did you mention? how i tremble! the name of treason shakes my honest soul. if i am doubted, sir, secure yourself this moment, take my life. _emp._ no more: if i suspected thee--i would. _bend._ i thank your kindness.--guilt had almost lost me. [_aside._ _emp._ but clear my doubts:--thinkst thou they may rebel? _bend._ this goes as i would wish.-- [_aside._ 'tis possible: a secret party still remains, that lurks like embers raked in ashes,--wanting but a breath to blow aside the involving dust, and then they blaze abroad. _emp._ they must be trampled out. _bend._ but first be known. _emp._ torture shall force it from them. _bend._ you would not put a nation to the rack? _emp._ yes, the whole world; so i be safe, i care not. _bend._ our limbs and lives are yours; but mixing friends with foes is hard. _emp._ all may be foes; or how to be distinguished, if some be friends? _bend._ they may with ease be winnowed. suppose some one, who has deserved your trust, some one, who knows mankind, should be employed to mix among them, seem a malcontent, and dive into their breasts, to try how far they dare oppose your love? _emp._ i like this well; 'tis wholesome wickedness. _bend._ whomever he suspects, he fastens there, and leaves no cranny of his soul unsearched; then like a bee bag'd with his honeyed venom, he brings it to your hive;--if such a man, so able and so honest, may be found; if not, my project dies. _emp._ by all my hopes, thou hast described thyself: thou, thou alone, art fit to play that engine, thou only couldst contrive. _bend._ sure i could serve you: i think i could:--but here's the difficulty; i am so entirely yours, that i should scurvily dissemble hate; the cheat would be too gross. _emp._ art thou a statesman, and canst not be a hypocrite? impossible! do not distrust thy virtues. _bend._ if i must personate this seeming villain, remember 'tis to serve you. _emp._ no more words: love goads me to almeyda, all affairs are troublesome but that; and yet that most. [_going._ bid dorax treat sebastian like a king; i had forgot him;--but this love mars all, and takes up my whole breast. [_exit_ emperor. _bend._ [_to the_ emp.] be sure i'll tell him-- with all the aggravating circumstances [_alone._ i can, to make him swell at that command. the tyrant first suspected me; then with a sudden gust he whirled about, and trusted me too far:--madness of power! now, by his own consent, i ruin him. for, should some feeble soul, for fear or gain. bolt out to accuse me, even the king is cozened, and thinks he's in the secret. how sweet is treason, when the traitor's safe! _sees the_ mufti _and_ dorax _entering, and seeming to confer._ the mufti, and with him my sullen dorax. that first is mine already: 'twas easy work to gain a covetous mind, whom rage to lose his prisoners had prepared: now caught himself, he would seduce another. i must help him: for churchmen, though they itch to govern all, are silly, woeful, aukward politicians: they make lame mischief, though they mean it well: their interest is not finely drawn, and hid, but seams are coarsely bungled up, and seen. _muf._ he'll tell you more. _dor._ i have heard enough already, to make me loath thy morals. _bend._ [_to_ dor.] you seem warm; the good man's zeal perhaps has gone too far. _dor._ not very far; not farther than zeal goes; of course a small day's journey short of treason. _muf._ by all that's holy, treason was not named: i spared the emperor's broken vows, to save the slaves from death, though it was cheating heaven; but i forgave him that. _dor._ and slighted o'er the wrongs himself sustained in property; when his bought slaves were seized by force, no loss of his considered, and no cost repaid. [_scornfully._ _muf._ not wholly slighted o'er, not absolutely.-- some modest hints of private wrongs i urged. _dor._ two-thirds of all he said: there he began to shew the fulness of his heart; there ended. some short excursions of a broken vow he made indeed, but flat insipid stuff; but, when he made his loss the theme, he flourished, relieved his fainting rhetoric with new figures, and thundered at oppressing tyranny. _muf._ why not, when sacrilegious power would seize my property? 'tis an affront to heaven, whose person, though unworthy, i sustain. _dor._ you've made such strong alliances above, that 'twere profaneness in us laity to offer earthly aid. i tell thee, mufti, if the world were wise, they would not wag one finger in your quarrels. your heaven you promise, but our earth you covet; the phætons of mankind, who fire that world, which you were sent by preaching but to warm. _bend._ this goes beyond the mark. _muf._ no, let him rail; his prophet works within him; he's a rare convert. _dor._ now his zeal yearns to see me burned; he damns me from his church, because i would restrain him to his duty.-- is not the care of souls a load sufficient? are not your holy stipends paid for this? were you not bred apart from worldly noise, to study souls, their cures and their diseases? if this be so, we ask you but our own: give us your whole employment, all your care. the province of the soul is large enough to fill up every cranny of your time, and leave you much to answer, if one wretch be damned by your neglect. _bend._ [_to the_ mufti.] he speaks but reason. _dor._ why, then, these foreign thoughts of state-employments, abhorrent to your function and your breedings? poor droning truants of unpractised cells, bred in the fellowship of bearded boys, what wonder is it if you know not men? yet there you live demure, with down-cast eyes, and humble as your discipline requires; but, when let loose from thence to live at large, your little tincture of devotion dies: then luxury succeeds, and, set agog with a new scene of yet untasted joys, you fall with greedy hunger to the feast. of all your college virtues, nothing now but your original ignorance remains; bloated with pride, ambition, avarice, you swell to counsel kings, and govern kingdoms. _muf._ he prates as if kings had not consciences, and none required directors but the crowd. _dor._ as private men they want you, not as kings; nor would you care to inspect their public conscience, but that it draws dependencies of power and earthly interest, which you long to sway; content you with monopolizing heaven, and let this little hanging ball alone: for, give you but a foot of conscience there, and you, like archimedes, toss the globe. we know your thoughts of us that laymen are, lag souls, and rubbish of remaining clay, which heaven, grown weary of more perfect work, set upright with a little puff of breath, and bid us pass for men. _muf._ i will not answer, base foul-mouthed renegade; but i'll pray for thee, to shew my charity. [_exit_ mufti. _dor._ do; but forget not him who needs it most: allow thyself some share.--he's gone too soon; i had to tell him of his holy jugglings; things that would startle faith, and make us deem not this, or that, but all religions false. _bend._ our holy orator has lost the cause. [_aside._ but i shall yet redeem it.--[_to_ dorax.] let him go; for i have secret orders from the emperor, which none but you must hear: i must confess, i could have wished some other hand had brought them. when did you see your prisoner, great sebastian? _dor._ you might as well have asked me, when i saw a crested dragon, or a basilisk; both are less poison to my eyes and nature, he knows not i am i; nor shall he see me, till time has perfected a labouring thought, that rolls within my breast. _bend._ 'twas my mistake. i guessed indeed that time, and his misfortunes, and your returning duty, had effaced the memory of past wrongs; they would in me, and i judged you as tame, and as forgiving. _dor._ forgive him! no: i left my foolish faith, because it would oblige me to forgiveness. _bend._ i can't but grieve to find you obstinate, for you must see him; 'tis our emperor's will, and strict command. _dor._ i laugh at that command. _bend._ you must do more than see; serve, and respect him. _dor._ see, serve him, and respect! and after all my yet uncancelled wrongs, i must do this!-- but i forget myself. _bend._ indeed you do. _dor._ the emperor is a stranger to my wrongs; i need but tell my story, to revoke this hard commission. _bend._ can you call me friend, and think i could neglect to speak, at full, the affronts you had from your ungrateful master? _dor._ and yet enjoined my service and attendance! _bend._ and yet enjoined them both: would that were all! he screwed his face into a hardened smile, and said, sebastian knew to govern slaves. _dor._ slaves are the growth of africk, not of europe.-- by heaven! i will not lay down my commission; not at his foot, i will not stoop so low: but if there be a part in all his face more sacred than the rest, i'll throw it there. _bend._ you may; but then you lose all future means of vengeance on sebastian, when no more alcayde of this fort. _dor._ that thought escaped me. _bend._ keep your command, and be revenged on both: nor sooth yourself; you have no power to affront him; the emperor's love protects him from insults; and he, who spoke that proud, ill-natured word, following the bent of his impetuous temper, may force your reconcilement to sebastian; nay, bid you kneel, and kiss the offending foot, that kicked you from his presence.-- but think not to divide their punishment; you cannot touch a hair of loathed sebastian, while muley-moluch lives. _dor._ what means this riddle? _bend._ 'tis out;--there needs no oedipus to solve it. our emperor is a tyrant, feared and hated; i scarce remember, in his reign, one day pass guiltless o'er his execrable head. he thinks the sun is lost, that sees not blood: when none is shed, we count it holiday. we, who are most in favour, cannot call this hour our own.--you know the younger brother, mild muley-zeydan? _dor._ hold, and let me think. _bend._ the soldiers idolize you; he trusts you with the castle, the key of all his kingdom. _dor._ well; and he trusts you too. _bend._ else i were mad, to hazard such a daring enterprize. _dor._ he trusts us both; mark that!--shall we betray him; a master, who reposes life and empire on our fidelity:--i grant he is a tyrant, that hated name my nature most abhors: more,--as you say,--has loaded me with scorn, even with the last contempt, to serve sebastian; yet more, i know he vacates my revenge, which, but by this revolt, i cannot compass: but, while he trusts me, 'twere so base a part, to fawn, and yet betray,--i should be hissed, and whooped in hell for that ingratitude. _bend._ consider well what i have done for you. _dor._ consider thou, what thou wouldst have me do. _bend._ you've too much honour for a renegade. _dor._ and thou too little faith to be a favourite. is not the bread thou eat'st, the robe thou wear'st, thy wealth, and honours, all the pure indulgence of him thou would'st destroy? and would his creature, nay, his friend, betray him? why then no bond is left on human kind! distrusts, debates, immortal strifes ensue; children may murder parents, wives their husbands; all must be rapine, wars, and desolation, when trust and gratitude no longer bind. _bend._ well have you argued in your own defence; you, who have burst asunder all those bonds, and turned a rebel to your native prince. _dor._ true, i rebelled: but when did i betray?-- indignities, which man could not support, provoked my vengeance to this noble crime; but he had stripped me first of my command, dismissed my service, and absolved my faith; and, with disdainful language, dared my worst: i but accepted war, which he denounced. else had you seen, not dorax, but alonzo, with his couched lance, against your foremost moors; perhaps, too, turned the fortune of the day, made africk mourn and portugal triumph. _bend._ let me embrace thee! _dor._ stand off, sycophant, and keep infection distant. _bend._ brave and honest! _dor._ in spite of thy temptations. _bend._ call them, trials; they were no more. thy faith was held in balance, and nicely weighed by jealousy of power. vast was the trust of such a royal charge: and our wise emperor might justly fear, sebastian might be freed and reconciled, by new obligements, to thy former love. _dor._ i doubt thee still: thy reasons were too strong, and driven too near the head, to be but artifice: and, after all, i know thou art a statesman, where truth is rarely found. _bend._ behold the emperor:-- _enter emperor,_ sebastian, _and_ almeyda. ask him, i beg thee,--to be justified,-- if he employed me not to ford thy soul, and try the footing, whether false or firm. _dor._ death to my eyes, i see sebastian with him! must he be served?--avoid him: if we meet, it must be like the crush of heaven and earth, to involve us both in ruin. [_exit._ _bend._ 'twas a bare saving game i made with dorax; but better so than lost. he cannot hurt me; that i precautioned: i must ruin him.-- but now this love; ay, there's the gathering storm! the tyrant must not wed almeyda: no! that ruins all the fabric i am raising. yet, seeming to approve, it gave me time; and gaining time gains all. [_aside._ [benducar _goes and waits behind the emperor. the emperor,_ sebastian, _and_ almeyda, _advance to the front of the stage: guards and attendants._ _emp._ to _seb._ i bade them serve you; and, if they obey not, i keep my lions keen within their dens, to stop their maws with disobedient slaves. _seb._ if i had conquered, they could not have with more observance waited: their eyes, hands, feet, are all so quick, they seem to have but one motion, to catch my flying words. only the alcayde shuns me; and, with a grim civility, bows, and declines my walks. _emp._ a renegade: i know not more of him, but that he's brave, and hates your christian sect. if you can frame a farther wish, give wing to your desires, and name the thing you want. _seb._ my liberty; for were even paradise itself my prison, still i should long to leap the crystal walls. _emp._ sure our two souls have somewhere been acquainted in former beings; or, struck out together, one spark to afric flew, and one to portugal. expect a quick deliverance: here's a third, [_turning to_ almeyda. of kindred sold to both: pity our stars have made us foes! i should not wish her death. _alm._ i ask no pity; if i thought my soul of kin to thine, soon would i rend my heart-strings, and tear out that alliance; but thou, viper, hast cancelled kindred, made a rent in nature, and through her holy bowels gnawed thy way, through thy own blood, to empire. _emp._ this again! and yet she lives, and only lives to upbraid me! _seb._ what honour is there in a woman's death! wronged, as she says, but helpless to revenge; strong in her passion, impotent of reason, too weak to hurt, too fair to be destroyed. mark her majestic fabric; she's a temple sacred by birth, and built by hands divine; her souls the deity that lodges there; nor is the pile unworthy of the god. _emp._ she's all that thou canst say, or i can think; but the perverseness of her clamourous tongue strikes pity deaf. _seb._ then only hear her eyes! though they are mute, they plead; nay, more, command; for beauteous eyes have arbitrary power. all females have prerogative of sex; the she's even of the savage herd are safe; and when they snarl or bite, have no return but courtship from the male. _emp._ were she not she, and i not muley-moluch, she's mistress of inevitable charms, for all but me; nor am i so exempt, but that--i know not what i was to say-- but i am too obnoxious to my friends, and swayed by your advice. _seb._ sir, i advised not; by heaven, i never counselled love, but pity. _emp._ by heaven thou didst; deny it not, thou didst: for what was all that prodigality of praise, but to inflame me? _seb._ sir-- _emp._ no more; thou hast convinced me that she's worth my love. _seb._ was ever man so ruined by himself? [_aside._ _alm._ thy love! that odious mouth was never framed to speak a word so soft: name death again, for that thou canst pronounce with horrid grace, becoming of a tyrant. love is for human hearts, and not for thine, where the brute beast extinguishes the man. _emp._ such if i were, yet rugged lions love, and grapple, and compel their savage dames.-- mark my sebastian, how that sullen frown, [_she frowns._ like flashing lightning, opens angry heaven, and, while it kills, delights!--but yet, insult not too soon, proud beauty! i confess no love. _seb._ no, sir; i said so, and i witness for you, not love, but noble pity, moved your mind: interest might urge you too to save her life; for those, who wish her party lost, might murmur at shedding royal blood. _emp._ right, thou instruct'st me; interest of state requires not death, but marriage, to unite the jarring titles of our line. _seb._ let me be dumb for ever; all i plead, [_aside._ like wildfire thrown against the winds, returns with double force to burn me. _emp._ could i but bend, to make my beauteous foe the partner of my throne, and of my bed-- _alm._ still thou dissemblest; but, i read thy heart, and know the power of my own charms; thou lov'st, and i am pleased, for my revenge, thou dost. _emp._ and thou hast cause. _alm._ i have, for i have power to make thee wretched. be sure i will, and yet despair of freedom. _emp._ well then, i love; and 'tis below my greatness to disown it; love thee implacably, yet hate thee too; would hunt thee barefoot, in the mid-day sun, through the parched desarts and the scorching sands, to enjoy thy love, and, once enjoyed, to kill thee. _alm._ 'tis a false courage, when thou threaten'st me; thou canst not stir a hand to touch my life: do not i see thee tremble, while thou speak'st? lay by the lion's hide, vain conqueror, and take the distaff; for thy soul's my slave. _emp._ confusion! how thou view'st my very heart! i could as soon stop a spring-tide, blown in, with my bare hand, as this impetuous love:--yes, i will wed thee; in spite of thee, and of myself, i will. _alm._ for what? to people africa with monsters, which that unnatural mixture must produce? no, were we joined, even though it were in death, our bodies burning in one funeral pile, the prodigy of thebes would be renewed, and my divided flame should break from thine. _emp._ serpent, i will engender poison with thee; join hate with hate, add venom to the birth: our offspring, like the seed of dragons' teeth, shall issue armed, and fight themselves to death. _alm._ i'm calm again; thou canst not marry me. _emp._ as gleams of sunshine soften storms to showers, so, if you smile, the loudness of my rage in gentle whispers shall return but this-- that nothing can divert my love but death. _alm._ see how thou art deceived; i am a christian: 'tis true, unpractised in my new belief, wrongs i resent, nor pardon yet with ease; those fruits come late, and are of slow increase in haughty hearts, like mine: now, tell thyself if this one word destroy not thy designs: thy law permits thee not to marry me. _emp._ 'tis but a specious tale, to blast my hopes, and baffle my pretensions.--speak, sebastian, and, as a king, speak true. _seb._ then, thus adjured, on a king's word 'tis truth, but truth ill-timed; for her dear life is now exposed anew, unless you wholly can put on divinity, and graciously forgive. _alm._ now learn, by this, the little value i have left for life, and trouble me no more. _emp._ i thank thee, woman; thou hast restored me to my native rage, and i will seize my happiness by force. _seb._ know, muley moluch, when thou darest attempt-- _emp._ beware! i would not be provoked to use a conqueror's right, and therefore charge thy silence. if thou wouldst merit to be thought my friend, i leave thee to persuade her to compliance: if not, there's a new gust in ravishment, which i have never tried. _bend._ they must be watched; [_aside._ for something i observed creates a doubt. [_exeunt emp. and_ bend. _seb._ i've been too tame, have basely borne my wrongs, and not exerted all the king within me: i heard him, o sweet heavens! he threatened rape; nay, insolently urged me to persuade thee, even thee, thou idol of my soul and eyes, for whom i suffer life, and drag this being. _alm._ you turn my prison to a paradise; but i have turned your empire to a prison: in all your wars good fortune flew before you; sublime you sat in triumph on her wheel, till in my fatal cause your sword was drawn; the weight of my misfortunes dragged you down. _seb._ and is't not strange, that heaven should bless my arms in common causes, and desert the best? now in your greatest, last extremity, when i would aid you most, and most desire it, i bring but sighs, the succours of a slave. _alm._ leave then the luggage of your fate behind; to make your flight more easy leave almeyda: nor think me left a base, ignoble prey, exposed to this inhuman tyrant's lust; my virtue is a guard beyond my strength, and death, my last defence, within my call. _seb._ death may be called in vain, and cannot come; tyrants can tie him up from your relief; nor has a christian privilege to die. alas, thou art too young in thy new faith: brutus and cato might discharge their souls, and give them furloughs for another world; but we, like sentries, are obliged to stand in starless nights, and wait the appointed hour[ ]. _alm._ if shunning ill be good to those, who cannot shun it but by death, divines but peep on undiscovered worlds, and draw the distant landscape as they please; but who has e'er returned from those bright regions, to tell their manners, and relate their laws? i'll venture landing on that happy shore with an unsullied body and white mind; if i have erred, some kind inhabitant will pity a strayed soul, and take me home. _seb._ beware of death! thou canst not die unperjured, and leave an unaccomplished love behind. thy vows are mine; nor will i quit my claim: the ties of minds are but imperfect bonds, unless the bodies join to seal the contract. _alm._ what joys can you possess, or can i give, where groans of death succeed the sighs of love? our hymen has not on his saffron robe; but, muffled up in mourning, downward holds his drooping torch, extinguished with his tears. _seb._ the god of love stands ready to revive it, with his etherial breath. _alm._ 'tis late to join, when we must part so soon. _seb._ nay, rather let us haste it, ere we part; our souls, for want of that acquaintance here, may wander in the starry walks above, and, forced on worse companions, miss ourselves. _alm._ the tyrant will not long be absent hence; and soon i shall be ravished from your arms. _seb._ wilt thou thyself become the greater tyrant, and give not love, while thou hast love to give? in dangerous days, when riches are a crime, the wise betimes make over their estates: make o'er thy honour, by a deed of trust, and give me seizure of the mighty wealth. _alm._ what shall i do? o teach me to refuse! i would,--and yet i tremble at the grant; for dire presages fright my soul by day, and boding visions haunt my nightly dreams; sometimes, methinks, i hear the groans of ghosts, thin, hollow sounds, and lamentable screams; then, like a dying echo, from afar, my mother's voice, that cries,--wed not, almeyda! forewarned, almeyda, marriage is thy crime. _seb._ some envious demon to delude our joys; love is not sin, but where 'tis sinful love. _alm._ mine is a flame so holy and so clear, that the white taper leaves no soot behind; no smoke of lust; but chaste as sisters' love, when coldly they return a brother's kiss, without the zeal that meets at lovers' mouths[ ]. _seb._ laugh then at fond presages. i had some;-- famed nostradamus, when he took my horoscope, foretold my father, i should wed with incest. ere this unhappy war my mother died, and sisters i had none;--vain augury! a long religious life, a holy age, my stars assigned me too;--impossible! for how can incest suit with holiness, or priestly orders with a princely state? _alm._ old venerable alvarez-- [_sighing._ _seb._ but why that sigh in naming that good man? _alm._ your father's counsellor and confident-- _seb._ he was; and, if he lives, my second father. _alm._ marked our farewell, when, going to the fight, you gave almeyda for the word of battle. 'twas in that fatal moment, he discovered the love, that long we laboured to conceal. i know it; though my eyes stood full of tears, yet through the mist i saw him stedfast gaze; then knocked his aged breast, and inward groaned, like some sad prophet, that foresaw the doom of those whom best he loved, and could not save. _seb._ it startles me! and brings to my remembrance, that, when the shock of battle was begun, he would have much complained (but had not time) of our hid passion: then, with lifted hands, he begged me, by my father's sacred soul, not to espouse you, if he died in fight; for, if he lived, and we were conquerors, he had such things to urge against our marriage, as, now declared, would blunt my sword in battle, and dastardize my courage. _alm._ my blood curdles, and cakes about my heart. _seb._ i'll breathe a sigh so warm into thy bosom, shall make it flow again. my love, he knows not thou art a christian: that produced his fear, lest thou shouldst sooth my soul with charms so strong, that heaven might prove too weak. _alm._ there must be more: this could not blunt your sword. _seb._ yes, if i drew it, with a curst intent, to take a misbeliever to my bed: it must be so. _alm._ yet-- _seb._ no, thou shalt not plead, with that fair mouth, against the cause of love. within this castle is a captive priest, my holy confessor, whose free access not even the barbarous victors have refused; this hour his hands shall make us one. _alm._ i go, with love and fortune, two blind guides, to lead my way, half loth, and half consenting. if, as my soul forebodes, some dire event pursue this union, or some crime unknown, forgive me, heaven! and, all ye blest above, excuse the frailty of unbounded love! [_exeunt._ scene ii.--_supposed a garden, with lodging rooms behind it, or on the sides._ _enter_ mufti, antonio _as a slave, and_ johayma _the_ mufti's _wife._ _muf._ and how do you like him? look upon him well; he is a personable fellow of a christian dog. now, i think you are fitted for a gardener. ha, what sayest thou, johayma? _joh._ he may make a shift to sow lettuce, raise melons, and water a garden-plat; but otherwise, a very filthy fellow: how odiously he smells of his country garlick! fugh, how he stinks of spain. _muf._ why honey bird, i bought him on purpose for thee: didst thou not say, thou longedst for a christian slave? _joh._ ay, but the sight of that loathsome creature has almost cured me; and how can i tell that he is a christian? an he were well searched, he may prove a jew, for aught i know. and, besides, i have always longed for an eunuch; for they say that's a civil creature, and almost as harmless as yourself, husband.--speak, fellow, are not you such a kind of peaceable thing? _ant._ i was never taken for one in my own country; and not very peaceable neither, when i am well provoked. _muf._ to your occupation, dog; bind up the jessamines in yonder arbour, and handle your pruning-knife with dexterity: tightly i say, go tightly to your business; you have cost me much, and must earn it in your work. here's plentiful provision for you, rascal; salading in the garden, and water in the tank, and on holidays the licking of a platter of rice, when you deserve it. _joh._ what have you been bred up to, sirrah? and what can you perform, to recommend you to my service? _ant._ [_making legs._] why, madam, i can perform as much as any man, in a fair lady's service. i can play upon the flute, and sing; i can carry your umbrella, and fan your ladyship, and cool you when you are too hot; in fine, no service, either by day or by night, shall come amiss to me; and, besides i am of so quick an apprehension, that you need but wink upon me at any time to make me understand my duty. [_she winks at him._]--very fine, she has tipt the wink already. [_aside._ _joh._ the whelp may come to something in time, when i have entered him into his business. _muf._ a very malapert cur, i can tell him that; i do not like his fawning--you must be taught your distance, sirrah. [_strikes him._ _joh._ hold, hold. he has deserved it, i confess; but, for once, let his ignorance plead his pardon; we must not discourage a beginner. your reverence has taught us charity, even to birds and beasts:--here, you filthy brute, you, take this little alms to buy you plasters. [_gives him a piece of money._ _ant._ money, and a love-pinch in the inside of my palm into the bargain. [_aside._ _enter a servant._ _serv._ sir, my lord benducar is coming to wait on you, and is already at the palace gate. _muf._ come in, johayma; regulate the rest of my wives and concubines, and leave the fellow to his work. _joh._ how stupidly he stares about him, like a calf new come into the world! i shall teach you, sirrah, to know your business a little better. this way, you awkward rascal; here lies the arbour; must i be shewing you eternally? [_turning him about._ _muf._ come away, minion; you shall shew him nothing. _joh._ i'll but bring him into the arbour, where a rose-tree and a myrtle-tree are just falling for want of a prop; if they were bound together, they would help to keep up one another. he's a raw gardener, and 'tis but charity to teach him. _muf._ no more deeds of charity to-day; come in, or i shall think you a little better disposed than i could wish you. _joh._ well, go before, i will follow my pastor. _muf._ so you may cast a sheep's eye behind you? in before me;--and you, sauciness, mind your pruning-knife, or i may chance to use it for you. [_exeunt mufti and_ johayma. _ant._ [_alone._] thank you for that, but i am in no such haste to be made a mussulman. for his wedlock, for all her haughtiness, i find her coming. how far a christian should resist, i partly know; but how far a lewd young christian can resist, is another question. she's tolerable, and i am a poor stranger, far from better friends, and in a bodily necessity. now have i a strange temptation to try what other females are belonging to this family: i am not far from the women's apartment, i am sure; and if these birds are within distance, here's that will chuckle them together. [_pulls out his flute._] if there be variety of moors' flesh in this holy market, 'twere madness to lay out all my money upon the first bargain. [_he plays. a grate opens, and_ morayma, _the mufti's daughter, appears at it._]--ay, there's an apparition! this is a morsel worthy of a mufti; this is the relishing bit in secret; this is the mystery of his alcoran, that must be reserved from the knowledge of the prophane vulgar; this is his holiday devotion.--see, she beckons too. [_she beckons to him._ _mor._ come a little nearer, and speak softly. _ant._ i come. i come, i warrant thee; the least twinkle had brought me to thee; such another kind syllable or two would turn me to a meteor, and draw me up to thee. _mor._ i dare not speak, for fear of being overheard; but if you think my person worth your hazard, and can deserve my love, the rest this note shall tell you. [_throws down a handkerchief._] no more, my heart goes with you. [_exit from the grate._ _ant._ o thou pretty little heart, art thou flown hither? i'll keep it warm, i warrant it, and brood upon it in the new nest.--but now for my treasure trove, that's wrapt up in the handkerchief; no peeping here, though i long to be spelling her arabic scrawls and pot-hooks. but i must carry off my prize as robbers do, and not think of sharing the booty before i am free from danger, and out of eye-shot from the other windows. if her wit be as poignant as her eyes, i am a double slave. our northern beauties are mere dough to these; insipid white earth, mere tobacco pipe clay, with no more soul and motion in them than a fly in winter. here the warm planet ripens and sublimes the well-baked beauties of the southern climes. our cupid's but a bungler in his trade; his keenest arrows are in africk made. [_exit._ act iii. scene i.--_a terrace walk; or some other public place in the castle of alcazar._ _enter emperor_ muley-moluch, _and_ benducar. _emp._ married! i'll not believe it; 'tis imposture; improbable they should presume to attempt, impossible they should effect their wish. _bend._ have patience, till i clear it. _emp._ i have none: go bid our moving plains of sand lie still, and stir not, when the stormy south blows high: from top to bottom thou hast tossed my soul, and now 'tis in the madness of the whirl, requir'st a sudden stop? unsay thy lie; that may in time do somewhat. _bend._ i have done: for, since it pleases you it should be forged, 'tis fit it should: far be it from your slave to raise disturbance in your sacred breast. _emp._ sebastian is my slave as well as thou; nor durst offend my love by that presumption. _bend._ most sure he ought not. _emp._ then all means were wanting: no priest, no ceremonies of their sect; or, grant we these defects could be supplied, how could our prophet do an act so base, so to resume his gifts, and curse my conquests, by making me unhappy? no, the slave, that told thee so absurd a story, lied. _bend._ yet till this moment i have found him faithful: he said he saw it too. _emp._ dispatch; what saw he? _bend._ truth is, considering with what earnestness sebastian pleaded for almeyda's life, enhanced her beauty, dwelt upon her praise-- _emp._ o stupid, and unthinking as i was! i might have marked it too; 'twas gross and palpable. _bend._ methought i traced a lover ill disguised, and sent my spy, a sharp observing slave, to inform me better, if i guessed aright. he told me, that he saw sebastian's page run cross the marble square, who soon returned, and after him there lagged a puffing friar; close wrapt he bore some secret instrument of christian superstition in his hand: my servant followed fast, and through a chink perceived the royal captives hand in hand; and heard the hooded father mumbling charms, that make those misbelievers man and wife; which done, the spouses kissed with such a fervour, and gave such furious earnest of their flames, that their eyes sparkled, and their mantling blood flew flushing o'er their faces. _emp._ hell confound them! _bend._ the reverend father, with a holy leer, saw he might well be spared, and soon withdrew: this forced my servant to a quick retreat, for fear to be discovered.--guess the rest. _emp._ i do: my fancy is too exquisite, and tortures me with their imagined bliss. some earthquake should have risen and rent the ground, have swallowed him, and left the longing bride in agony of unaccomplished love. [_walks disorderly._ _enter the mufti._ _bend._ in an unlucky hour that fool intrudes, raw in this great affair, and uninstructed how to stem the tide.-- [_aside._ [_coming up the mufti,--aside._] the emperor must not marry, nor enjoy:-- keep to that point: stand firm, for all's at stake. _emp._ [_seeing him._] you druggerman[ ] of heaven, must i attend your droning prayers? why came ye not before? dost thou not know the captive king has dared to wed almeyda? cancel me that marriage, and make her mine: about the business, quick!-- expound thy mahomet; make him speak my sense, or he's no prophet here, and thou no mufti; unless thou know'st the trick of thy vocation, to wrest and rend the law, to please thy prince. _muf._ why, verily, the law is monstrous plain: there's not one doubtful text in all the alcoran, which can be wrenched in favour to your project. _emp._ forge one, and foist it into some bye-place of some old rotten roll: do't, i command thee! must i teach thee thy trade? _muf._ it cannot be; for matrimony being the dearest point of law, the people have it all by heart: a cheat on procreation will not pass. besides, [_in a higher tone._] the offence is so exorbitant, to mingle with a misbelieving race, that speedy vengeance would pursue your crime, and holy mahomet launch himself from heaven, before the unready thunderbolts were formed. [_emperor, taking him by the throat with one hand, snatches out his sword with the other, and points it to his breast._ _emp._ slave, have i raised thee to this pomp and power, to preach against my will?--know, i am law; and thou, not mahomet's messenger but mine!-- make it, i charge thee, make my pleasure lawful; or, first, i strip thee of thy ghostly greatness, then send thee post to tell thy tale above. and bring thy vain memorials to thy prophet, of justice done below for disobedience. _muf._ for heaven's sake hold!--the respite of a moment!-- to think for you-- _emp._ and for thyself. _muf._ for both. _bend._ disgrace, and death, and avarice, have lost him! [_aside._ _muf._ 'tis true, our law forbids to wed a christian; but it forbids you not to ravish her. you have a conqueror's right upon your slave; and then the more despite you do a christian, you serve the prophet more, who loathes that sect. _emp._ o, now it mends; and you talk reason, mufti.-- but, stay! i promised freedom to sebastian; now, should i grant it, his revengeful soul would ne'er forgive his violated bed. _muf._ kill him; for then you give him liberty: his soul is from his earthly prison freed. _emp._ how happy is the prince who has a churchman, so learned and pliant, to expound his laws! _bend._ two things i humbly offer to your prudence. _emp._ be brief, but let not either thwart my love. _bend._ first, since our holy man has made rape lawful, fright her with that; proceed not yet to force: why should you pluck the green distasteful fruit from the unwilling bough, when it may ripen of itself, and fall? _emp._ grant her a day; though that's too much to give out of a life which i devote to love. _bend._ then, next, to bar all future hopes of her desired sebastian, let dorax be enjoined to bring his head. _emp._ [_to the mufti._] go, mufti, call him to receive his orders.-- [_exit mufti._ i taste thy counsel; her desires new roused, and yet unslaked, will kindle in her fancy, and make her eager to renew the feast. _bend._ [_aside._] dorax, i know before, will disobey: there's a foe's head well cropped.-- but this hot love precipitates my plot, and brings it to projection ere its time. _enter_ sebastian _and_ almeyda, _hand in hand; upon sight of the emperor, they separate, and seem disturbed._ _alm._ he breaks at unawares upon our walks, and, like a midnight wolf, invades the fold. make speedy preparation of your soul, and bid it arm apace: he comes for answer, and brutal mischief sits upon his brow. _seb._ not the last sounding could surprise me more, that summons drowsy mortals to their doom, when called in haste to fumble for their limbs, and tremble, unprovided for their charge: my sense has been so deeply plunged in joys, the soul out-slept her hour; and, scarce awake, would think too late, but cannot: but brave minds, at worst, can dare their fate. [_aside._ _emp._ [_coming up to them._] have you performed your embassy, and treated with success? _seb._ i had no time. _emp._ no, not for my affairs; but, for your own, too much. _seb._ you talk in clouds; explain your meaning, sir. _emp._ explain yours first.--what meant you, hand in hand? and, when you saw me, with a guilty start, you loosed your hold, affrighted at my presence. _seb._ affrighted! _emp._ yes, astonished and confounded. _seb._ what mak'st thou of thyself, and what of me? art thou some ghost, some demon, or some god, that i should stand astonished at thy sight? if thou could'st deem so meanly of my courage, why didst thou not engage me man for man, and try the virtue of that gorgon face, to stare me into statue? _emp._ oh, thou art now recovered; but, by heaven, thou wert amazed at first, as if surprised at unexpected baseness brought to light. for know, ungrateful man, that kings, like gods, are every where; walk in the abyss of minds, and view the dark recesses of the soul. _seb._ base and ungrateful never was i thought; nor, till this turn of fate, durst thou have called me: but, since thou boast'st the omniscience of a god, say in what cranny of sebastian's soul, unknown to me, so loathed a crime is lodged? _emp._ thou hast not broke my trust, reposed in thee! _seb._ imposed, but not received.--take back that falsehood. _emp._ thou art not married to almeyda? _seb._ yes. _emp._ and own'st the usurpation of my love? _seb._ i own it, in the face of heaven and thee; no usurpation, but a lawful claim, of which i stand possessed. _emp._ she has chosen well, betwixt a captive and a conqueror. _alm._ betwixt a monster, and the best of men!-- he was the envy of his neighbouring kings; for him their sighing queens despised their lords; and virgin daughters blushed when he was named. to share his noble chains is more to me, than all the savage greatness of thy throne. _seb._ were i to chuse again, and knew my fate, for such a night i would be what i am. the joys i have possessed are ever mine; out of thy reach; behind eternity; hid in the sacred treasure of the past: but blest remembrance brings them hourly back. _emp._ hourly indeed, who hast but hours to live. o, mighty purchase of a boasted bliss! to dream of what thou hadst one fugitive night, and never shalt have more! _seb._ barbarian, thou canst part us but a moment! we shall be one again in thy despite. life is but air, that yields a passage to the whistling sword, and closes when 'tis gone. _alm._ how can we better die than close embraced, sucking each other's souls while we expire? which, so transfused, and mounting both at once, the saints, deceived, shall, by a sweet mistake, hand up thy soul for mine, and mine for thine. _emp._ no, i'll untwist you: i have occasion for your stay on earth. let him mount first, and beat upon the wing, and wait an age for what i here detain; or sicken at immortal joys above, and languish for the heaven he left below. _alm._ thou wilt not dare to break what heaven has joined? _emp._ not break the chain; but change a rotten link, and rivet one to last. think'st thou i come to argue right and wrong?-- why lingers dorax thus? where are my guards, [benducar _goes out for the guards, and returns._ to drag that slave to death?-- [_pointing to_ seb. now storm and rage; call vainly on thy prophet, then defy him for wanting power to save thee. _seb._ that were to gratify thy pride. i'll shew thee how a man should, and how a king dare die! so even, that my soul shall walk with ease out of its flesh, and shut out life as calmly as it does words; without a sign to note one struggle, in the smooth dissolving frame. _alm._ [_to the emp._] expect revenge from heaven, inhuman wretch! nor hope to ascend sebastian's holy bed. flames, daggers, poisons, guard the sacred steps: those are the promised pleasures of my love. _emp._ and these might fright another, but not me; or me, if i designed to give you pleasure. i seek my own; and while that lasts, you live.-- _enter two of the guards._ go, bear the captive to a speedy death, and set my soul at ease. _alm._ i charge you hold, ye ministers of death!-- speak my sebastian; plead for thy life; oh, ask it of the tyrant: 'tis no dishonour; trust me, love, 'tis none. i would die for thee, but i cannot plead; my haughty heart disdains it, even for thee.-- still silent! will the king of portugal go to his death like a dumb sacrifice? beg him to save my life in saving thine. _seb._ farewell; my life's not worth another word. _emp._ [_to the guards._] perform your orders. _alm._ stay, take my farewell too! farewell the greatness of almeyda's soul!-- look, tyrant, what excess of love can do; it pulls me down thus low as to thy feet; [_kneels to him._ nay, to embrace thy knees with loathing hands, which blister when they touch thee: yet even thus, thus far i can, to save sebastian's life. _emp._ a secret pleasure trickles through my veins: it works about the inlets of my soul, to feel thy touch, and pity tempts the pass: but the tough metal of my heart resists; 'tis warmed with the soft fire, not melted down. _alm._ a flood of scalding tears will make it run. spare him, oh spare! can you pretend to love, and have no pity? love and that are twins. here will i grow; thus compass you with these supplanting cords, and pull so long till the proud fabrick falls. _emp._ still kneel, and still embrace: 'tis double pleasure, so to be hugged, and see sebastian die. _alm._ look, tyrant, when thou nam'st sebastian's death, thy very executioners turn pale. rough as they are, and hardened in their trade of death, they start at an anointed head, and tremble to approach.--he hears me not, nor minds the impression of a god on kings; because no stamp of heaven was on his soul, but the resisting mass drove back the seal.-- say, though thy heart be rock of adamant, yet rocks are not impregnable to bribes: instruct me how to bribe thee; name thy price; lo, i resign my title to the crown; send me to exile with the man i love, and banishment is empire. _emp._ here's my claim, [_clapping his hand to his sword._ and this extinguished thine; thou giv'st me nothing. _alm._ my father's, mother's, brother's death, i pardon; that's somewhat sure; a mighty sum of murder, of innocent and kindred blood struck off. my prayers and penance shall discount for these, and beg of heaven to charge the bill on me: behold what price i offer, and how dear, to buy sebastian's life! _emp._ let after-reckonings trouble fearful fools; i'll stand the trial of those trivial crimes: but, since thou begg'st me to prescribe my terms, the only i can offer are thy love, and this one day of respite to resolve. grant, or deny; for thy next word is fate, and fate is deaf to prayer. _alm._ may heaven be so, [_rising up._ at thy last breath, to thine! i curse thee not; for, who can better curse the plague, or devil, than to be what they are? that curse be thine.-- now, do not speak, sebastian, for you need not; but die, for i resign your life.--look, heaven, almeyda dooms her dear sebastian's death! but is there heaven? for i begin to doubt; the skies are hushed, no grumbling thunders roll.-- now take your swing, ye impious; sin unpunished; eternal providence seems overwatched, and with a slumbering nod assents to murder. _enter_ dorax, _attended by three soldiers._ _emp._ thou mov'st a tortoise-pace to my relief. take hence that once a king; that sullen pride, that swells to dumbness: lay him in the dungeon, and sink him deep with irons, that, when he would, he shall not groan to hearing; when i send, the next commands are death. _alm._ then prayers are vain as curses. _emp._ much at one in a slave's mouth, against a monarch's power. this day thou hast to think; at night, if thou wilt curse, thou shalt curse kindly; then i'll provoke thy lips, lay siege so close, that all thy sallying breath shall turn to blessings.-- make haste, seize, force her, bear her hence. _alm._ farewell, my last sebastian! i do not beg, i challenge justice now.-- o powers, if kings be your peculiar care, why plays this wretch with your prerogative? now flash him dead, now crumble him to ashes, or henceforth live confined in your own palace; and look not idly out upon a world, that is no longer yours. [_she is carried off struggling; emperor and_ benducar _follow._ sebastian _struggles in his guards' arms, and shakes off one of them; but two others come in, and hold him; he speaks not all the while._ _dor._ i find i'm but a half-strained villain yet; but mongrel-mischievous; for my blood boiled, to view this brutal act; and my stern soul tugged at my arm, to draw in her defence. [_aside._ down, thou rebelling christian in my heart! redeem thy fame on this sebastian first; [_walks a turn._ then think on other wrongs, when thine are righted. but how to right them? on a slave disarmed, defenceless, and submitted to my rage? a base revenge is vengeance on myself:-- [_walks again._ i have it, and i thank thee, honest head, thus present to me at my great necessity.-- [_comes up to_ sebastian. you know me not? _seb._ i hear men call thee dorax. _dor._ 'tis well; you know enough for once:--you speak too; you were struck mute before. _seb._ silence became me then. _dor._ yet we may talk hereafter. _seb._ hereafter is not mine: dispatch thy work, good executioner. _dor._ none of my blood were hangmen; add that falsehood to a long bill, that yet remains unreckoned. _seb._ a king and thou can never have a reckoning. _dor._ a greater sum, perhaps, than you can pay. meantime, i shall make bold to increase your debt; [_gives him his sword._ take this, and use it at your greatest need. _seb._ this hand and this have been acquainted well: [_looks on it._ it should have come before into my grasp, to kill the ravisher. _dor._ thou heard'st the tyrant's orders; guard thy life when 'tis attacked, and guard it like a man. _seb._ i'm still without thy meaning, but i thank thee. _dor._ thank me when i ask thanks; thank me with that. _seb._ such surly kindness did i never see. _dor._ [_to the captain of his guards._] musa, draw out a file; pick man by man. such who dare die, and dear will sell their death. guard him to the utmost; now conduct him hence, and treat him as my person. _seb._ something like that voice, methinks, i should have somewhere heard; but floods of woes have hurried it far off, beyond my ken of soul. [_exit_ sebastian, _with the soldiers._ _dor._ but i shall bring him back, ungrateful man! i shall, and set him full before thy sight, when i shall front thee, like some staring ghost, with all my wrongs about me.--what, so soon returned? this haste is boding. _enter to him emperor,_ benducar, _and_ mufti. _emp._ she's still inexorable, still imperious, and loud, as if, like bacchus, born in thunder. be quick, ye false physicians of my mind; bring speedy death, or cure. _bend._ what can be counselled, while sebastian lives? the vine will cling, while the tall poplar stands; but, that cut down, creeps to the next support, and twines as closely there. _emp._ that's done with ease; i speak him dead:--proceed. _muf._ proclaim your marriage with almeyda next, that civil wars may cease; this gains the crowd: then you may safely force her to your will; for people side with violence and injustice, when done for public good. _emp._ preach thou that doctrine. _bend._ the unreasonable fool has broached a truth, that blasts my hopes; but, since 'tis gone so far, he shall divulge almeyda is a christian; if that produce no tumult, i despair. [_aside._ _emp_ why speaks not dorax? _dor._ because my soul abhors to mix with him. sir, let me bluntly say, you went too far, to trust the preaching power on state-affairs to him, or any heavenly demagogue: 'tis a limb lopt from your prerogative, and so much of heaven's image blotted from you. _muf._ sure thou hast never heard of holy men, (so christians call them) famed in state affairs! such as in spain, ximenes, albornoz; in england, wolsey; match me these with laymen. _dor._ how you triumph in one or two of these, born to be statesmen, happening to be churchmen! thou call'st them holy; so their function was: but tell me, mufti, which of them were saints?-- next sir, to you: the sum of all is this,-- since he claims power from heaven, and not from kings, when 'tis his interest, he can interest heaven to preach you down; and ages oft depend on hours, uninterrupted, in the chair. _emp._ i'll trust his preaching, while i rule his pay; and i dare trust my africans to hear whatever he dare preach. _dor._ you know them not. the genius of your moors is mutiny; they scarcely want a guide to move their madness; prompt to rebel on every weak pretence; blustering when courted, crouching when opprest; wise to themselves, and fools to all the world; restless in change, and perjured to a proverb. they love religion sweetened to the sense; a good, luxurious, palatable faith. thus vice and godliness,--preposterous pair!-- ride cheek by jowl, but churchmen hold the reins: and whene'er kings would lower clergy-greatness, they learn too late what power the preachers have, and whose the subjects are; the mufti knows it, nor dares deny what passed betwixt us two. _emp._ no more; whate'er he said was my command. _dor._ why, then, no more, since you will hear no more; some kings are resolute to their own ruin. _emp._ without your meddling where you are not asked, obey your orders, and dispatch sebastian. _dor._ trust my revenge; be sure i wish him dead. _emp._ what mean'st thou? what's thy wishing to my will? dispatch him; rid me of the man i loath. _dor_ i hear you, sir; i'll take my time, and do't. _emp._ thy time! what's all thy time? what's thy whole life to my one hour of ease? no more replies, but see thou dost it; or-- _dor._ choke in that threat; i can say _or_ as loud. _emp._ 'tis well; i see my words have no effect, but i may send a message to dispose you. [_is going off._ _dor._ expect an answer worthy of that message. _muf._ the prophet owed him this; and, thanked be heaven, he has it. [_aside._ _bend._ by holy alla, i conjure you stay, and judge not rashly of so brave a man. [_draws the emperor aside, and whispers him._ i'll give you reasons why he cannot execute your orders now, and why he will hereafter. _muf._ benducar is a fool, to bring him off; i'll work my own revenge, and speedily. [_aside._ _bend._ the fort is his, the soldiers' hearts are his; a thousand christian slaves are in the castle, which he can free to reinforce his power; your troops far off, beleaguering larache, yet in the christians' hands. _emp._ i grant all this; but grant me he must die. _bend._ he shall, by poison; 'tis here, the deadly drug, prepared in powder, hot as hell fire: then, to prevent his soldiers from rising to revenge their general's death, while he is struggling with his mortal pangs, the rabble on the sudden may be raised to seize the castle. _emp._ do't;--'tis left to thee. _bend._ yet more;--but clear your brow, for he observes. [_they whisper again._ _dor._ what, will the favourite prop my falling fortunes? o prodigy of court! [_aside_ [_emp. and_ bend. _return to_ dor. _emp._ your friend has fully cleared your innocence; i was too hasty to condemn unheard, and you, perhaps, too prompt in your replies. as far as fits the majesty of kings, i ask excuse. _dor._ i'm sure i meant it well. _emp._ i know you did:--this to our love renewed.-- [_emp. drinks._ benducar, fill to dorax. [bend. _turns, and mixes a powder in it._ _dor._ let it go round, for all of us have need to quench our heats: 'tis the king's health, benducar, [_he drinks._ and i would pledge it, though i knew 'twere poison. _bend._ another bowl; for what the king has touched, and you have pledged, is sacred to your loves. [_drinks out of another bowl._ _muf._ since charity becomes my calling, thus let me provoke your friendship; and heaven bless it, as i intend it well. [_drinks; and, turning aside, pours some drops out of a little vial into the bowl; then presents it to_ dorax. _dor._ heaven make thee honest; on that condition we shall soon be friends. [_drinks._ _muf._ yes, at our meeting in another world; for thou hast drunk thy passport out of this. not the nonacrian font, nor lethe's lake, could sooner numb thy nimble faculties, than this, to sleep eternal. [_aside._ _emp._ now farewell, dorax; this was our first quarrel, and, i dare prophecy, will prove our last. [_exeunt emp._ bend. _and the mufti._ _dor._ it may be so.--i'm strangely discomposed; quick shootings thro' my limbs, and pricking pains, qualms at my heart, convulsions in my nerves, shiverings of cold, and burnings of my entrails, within my little world make medley war, lose and regain, beat, and are beaten back, as momentary victors quit their ground.-- can it be poison! poison's of one tenor, or hot, or cold; this neither, and yet both. some deadly draught, some enemy of life, boils in my bowels, and works out my soul. ingratitude's the growth of every clime; africk, the scene removed, is portugal. of all court service, learn the common lot,-- to-day 'tis done, to-morrow 'tis forgot. oh, were that all! my honest corpse must lie exposed to scorn, and public infamy; my shameful death will be divulged alone; the worth and honour of my soul unknown. [_exit._ scene ii.--_a night-scene of the mufti's garden, where an arbour is discovered._ _enter_ antonio. _ant._ she names herself morayma; the mufti's only daughter, and a virgin! this is the time and place that she appointed in her letter, yet she comes not. why, thou sweet delicious creature, why torture me with thy delay! dar'st thou be false to thy assignation? what, in the cool and silence of the night, and to a new lover?--pox on the hypocrite, thy father, for instructing thee so little in the sweetest point of his religion.--hark, i hear the rustling of her silk mantle. now she comes, now she comes:--no, hang it, that was but the whistling of the wind through the orange-trees.--now, again, i hear the pit-a-pat of a pretty foot through the dark alley:--no, 'tis the son of a mare, that's broken loose, and munching upon the melons.--oh, the misery of an expecting lover! well, i'll e'en despair, go into my arbour, and try to sleep; in a dream i shall enjoy her, in despite of her. [_goes into the arbour, and lies down._ _enter_ johayma, _wrapt up in a moorish mantle._ _joh._ thus far my love has carried me, almost without my knowledge whither i was going. shall i go on? shall i discover myself?--what an injury am i doing to my old husband! yet what injury, since he's old, and has three wives, and six concubines, besides me! 'tis but stealing my own tithe from him. [_she comes a little nearer the arbour._ _ant._ [_raising himself a little, and looking._] at last 'tis she; this is no illusion, i am sure; 'tis a true she-devil of flesh and blood, and she could never have taken a fitter time to tempt me. _joh._ he's young and handsome-- _ant._ yes, well enough, i thank nature. [_aside._ _joh._ and i am yet neither old nor ugly: sure he will not refuse me. _ant._ no; thou may'st pawn thy maidenhead upon't, he wont. [_aside._ _joh._ the mufti would feast himself upon other women, and keep me fasting. _ant._ o, the holy curmudgeon! [_aside._ _joh._ would preach abstinence, and practise luxury! but, i thank my stars, i have edified more by his example than his precept. _ant._ [_aside._] most divinely argued; she's the best casuist in all africk. [_he rushes out, and embraces her._] i can hold no longer from embracing thee, my dear morayma; the old unconscionable whoreson, thy father, could he expect cold chastity from a child of his begetting? _joh._ what nonsense do you talk? do you take me for the mufti's daughter? _ant._ why, are you not, madam? [_throwing off her barnus._ _joh._ i find you had an appointment with morayma. _ant._ by all that's good, the nauseous wife! [_aside._ _joh._ what! you are confounded, and stand mute? _ant._ somewhat nonplust, i confess, to hear you deny your name so positively. why, are not you morayma, the mufti's daughter? did not i see you with him: did not he present me to you? were you not so charitable as to give me money? ay, and to tread upon my foot, and squeeze my hand too, if i may be so bold to remember you of past favours? _joh._ and you see i am come to make them good; but i am neither morayma, nor the mufti's daughter. _ant._ nay, i know not that: but i am sure he is old enough to be your father; and either father, or reverend father, i heard you call him. _joh._ once again, how came you to name morayma? _ant._ another damned mistake of mine: for, asking one of my fellow-slaves, who were the chief ladies about the house, he answered me, morayma and johayma; but she, it seems, is his daughter, with a pox to her, and you are his beloved wife. _joh._ say your beloved mistress, if you please; for that's the title i desire. this moonshine grows offensive to my eyes; come, shall we walk into the arbour? there we may rectify all mistakes. _ant._ that's close and dark. _joh._ and are those faults to lovers? _ant._ but there i cannot please myself with the sight of your beauty. _joh._ perhaps you may do better. _ant._ but there's not a breath of air stirring. _joh._ the breath of lovers is the sweetest air; but you are fearful. _ant._ i am considering indeed, that, if i am taken with you-- _joh._ the best way to avoid it is to retire, where we may not be discovered. _ant._ where lodges your husband? _joh._ just against the face of this open walk. _ant._ then he has seen us already, for aught i know. _joh._ you make so many difficulties, i fear i am displeasing to you. _ant._ [_aside._] if morayma comes, and takes me in the arbour with her, i have made a fine exchange of that diamond for this pebble. _joh._ you are much fallen off, let me tell you, from the fury of your first embrace. _ant._ i confess i was somewhat too furious at first, but you will forgive the transport of my passion; now i have considered it better, i have a qualm of conscience. _joh._ of conscience! why, what has conscience to do with two young lovers that have opportunity? _ant._ why, truly, conscience is something to blame for interposing in our matters: but how can i help it, if i have a scruple to betray my master? _joh._ there must be something more in't; for your conscience was very quiet when you took me for morayma. _ant._ i grant you, madam, when i took you for his daughter; for then i might have made you an honourable amends by marriage. _joh._ you christians are such peeking sinners! you tremble at a shadow in the moonshine. _ant._ and you africans are such termagants, you stop at nothing. i must be plain with you,--you are married, and to a holy man, the head of your religion: go back to your chamber; go back, i say, and consider of it for this night, as i will do on my part: i will be true to you, and invent all the arguments i can to comply with you; and who knows but at our next meeting the sweet devil may have more power over me? i am true flesh and blood, i can tell you that for your comfort. _joh._ flesh without blood, i think thou art; or, if any, it is as cold as that of fishes. but i'll teach thee, to thy cost, what vengeance is in store for refusing a lady who has offered thee her love.--help, help, there! will nobody come to my assistance? _ant._ what do you mean, madam? for heaven's sake, peace; your husband will hear you; think of your own danger, if you will not think of mine. _joh._ ungrateful wretch, thou deservest no pity!--help, help, husband, or i shall be ravished! the villain will be too strong for me! help, help, for pity of a poor distressed creature! _ant._ then i have nothing but impudence to assist me: i must drown her clamour, whatever comes on't. [_he takes out his flute, and plays as loud as he can possibly, and she continues crying out._ _enter the_ mufti, _in his night-gown, and two servants._ _muf._ o thou villain, what horrible impiety art thou committing! what, ravishing the wife of my bosom!--take him away; ganch him[ ], impale him, rid the world of such a monster! [_servants seize him._ _ant._ mercy, dear master, mercy! hear me first, and after, if i have deserved hanging, spare me not. what have you seen to provoke you to this cruelty? _muf._ i have heard the outcries of my wife; the bleatings of the poor innocent lamb.--seen nothing, sayst thou? if i see the lamb lie bleeding, and the butcher by her with his knife drawn, and bloody, is not that evidence sufficient of the murder? i come too late, and the execution is already done. _ant._ pray think in reason, sir; is a man to be put to death for a similitude? no violence has been committed; none intended; the lamb's alive: and, if i durst tell you so, no more a lamb than i am a butcher. _joh._ how's that, villain, dar'st thou accuse me? _ant._ be patient, madam, and speak but truth, and i'll do any thing to serve you: i say again, and swear it too, i'll do any thing to serve you. [_aside._ _joh._ [_aside._] i understand him; but i fear it is now too late to save him:--pray, hear him speak, husband; perhaps he may say something for himself; i know not. _muf._ speak thou, has he not violated my bed, and thy honour? _joh._ i forgive him freely, for he has done nothing. what he will do hereafter to make me satisfaction, himself best knows. _ant._ any thing, any thing, sweet madam: i shall refuse no drudgery. _muf._ but did he mean no mischief? was he endeavouring nothing? _joh._ in my conscience, i begin to doubt he did not. _muf._ it's impossible:--then what meant all those outcries? _joh._ i heard music in the garden, and at an unseasonable time of night; and i stole softly out of my bed, as imagining it might be he. _muf._ how's that, johayma? imagining it was he, and yet you went? _joh._ why not, my lord? am not i the mistress of the family? and is it not my place to see good order kept in it? i thought he might have allured some of the she-slaves to him, and was resolved to prevent what might have been betwixt him and them; when, on the sudden, he rushed out upon me, caught me in his arms with such a fury-- _muf._ i have heard enough.--away with him! _joh._ mistaking me, no doubt, for one of his fellow-slaves: with that, affrighted as i was, i discovered myself, and cried aloud; but as soon as ever he knew me, the villain let me go; and i must needs say, he started back as if i were some serpent; and was more afraid of me than i of him. _muf._ o thou corrupter of my family, that's cause enough of death!--once again, away with him. _joh._ what, for an intended trespass? no harm has been done, whatever may be. he cost you five hundred crowns, i take it. _muf._ thou say'st true, a very considerable sum: he shall not die, though he had committed folly with a slave; it is too much to lose by him. _ant._ my only fault has ever been to love playing in the dark; and the more she cried, the more i played, that it might be seen i intended nothing to her. _muf._ to your kennel, sirrah; mortify your flesh, and consider in whose family you are. _joh._ and one thing more,--remember from henceforth to obey better. _muf._ [_aside._] for all her smoothness, i am not quite cured of my jealousy; but i have thought of a way that will clear my doubts. [_exit_ muf. _with_ joh. _and servants._ _ant._ i am mortified sufficiently already, without the help of his ghostly counsel. fear of death has gone farther with me in two minutes, than my conscience would have gone in two months. i find myself in a very dejected condition, all over me; poor sin lies dormant; concupiscence is retired to his winter-quarters; and if morayma should now appear,--i say no more; but, alas for her and me! [morayma _comes out of the arbour, she steals behind him, and claps him on the back._ _mor._ and if morayma should appear, as she does appear,--alas! you say, for her and you. _ant._ art thou there, my sweet temptation! my eyes, my life, my soul, my all! _mor._ a mighty compliment! when all these, by your own confession, are just nothing. _ant._ nothing, till thou camest to new create me; thou dost not know the power of thy own charms: let me embrace thee, and thou shalt see how quickly i can turn wicked. _mor._ [_stepping back._] nay, if you are so dangerous, it is best keeping you at a distance, i have no mind to warm a frozen snake in my bosom; he may chance to recover, and sting me for my pains. _ant._ consider what i have suffered for thy sake already, and make me some amends; two disappointments in a night: o cruel creature! _mor._ and you may thank yourself for both. i came eagerly to the charge before my time, through the back-walk behind the arbour; and you, like a fresh-water soldier, stood guarding the pass before. if you missed the enemy, you may thank your own dulness. _ant._ nay, if you will be using stratagems, you shall give me leave to make use of my advantages, now i have you in my power: we are fairly met; i'll try it out, and give no quarter. _mor._ by your favour, sir, we meet upon treaty now, and not upon defiance. _ant._ if that be all, you shall have _carte blanche_ immediately; for i long to be ratifying. _mor._ no; now i think on't, you are already entered into articles with my enemy johayma:--"any thing to serve you, madam; i shall refuse no drudgery:"--whose words were those, gentleman? was that like a cavalier of honour? _ant._ not very heroic; but self-preservation is a point above honour and religion too. antonio was a rogue, i must confess; but you must give me leave to love him. _mor._ to beg your life so basely, and to present your sword to your enemy; oh, recreant! _ant._ if i had died honourably, my fame indeed would have sounded loud, but i should never have heard the blast:--come, don't make yourself worse-natured than you are; to save my life, you would be content i should promise any thing. _mor._ yes, if i were sure you would perform nothing. _ant._ can you suspect i would leave you for johayma? _mor._ no; but i can expect you would have both of us. love is covetous; i must have all of you; heart for heart is an equal trick. in short, i am younger, i think handsomer, and am sure i love you better. she has been my stepmother these fifteen years: you think that is her face you see, but it is only a daubed vizard; she wears an armour of proof upon it; an inch thick of paint, besides the wash. her face is so fortified, that you can make no approaches to it without a shovel; but, for her constancy, i can tell you for your comfort, she will love till death, i mean till yours; for when she has worn you out, she will certainly dispatch you to another world, for fear of telling tales, as she has already served three slaves, your predecessors, of happy memory, in her favours. she has made my pious father a three-piled cuckold to my knowledge; and now she would be robbing me of my single sheep too. _ant._ pr'ythee, prevent her then; and at least take the shearing of me first. _mor._ no; i'll have a butcher's pennyworth of you; first secure the carcase, and then take the fleece into the bargain. _ant._ why, sure, you did not put yourself and me to all this trouble for a dry come-off; by this hand-- [_taking it._ _mor._ which you shall never touch, but upon better assurances than you imagine. [_pulling her hand away._ _ant._ i'll marry thee, and make a christian of thee, thou pretty damned infidel. _mor._ i mean you shall; but no earnest till the bargain be made before witness: there is love enough to be had, and as much as you can turn you to, never doubt; but all upon honourable terms. _ant._ i vow and swear by love; and he's a deity in all religions. _mor._ but never to be trusted in any: he has another name too, of a worse sound. shall i trust an oath, when i see your eyes languishing, your cheeks flushing, and can hear your heart throbbing? no, i'll not come near you: he's a foolish physician, who will feel the pulse of a patient, that has the plague-spots upon him. _ant._ did one ever hear a little moppet argue so perversely against so good a cause! come, pr'ythee, let me anticipate a little of my revenue. _mor._ you would fain be fingering your rents before-hand; but that makes a man an ill husband ever after. consider, marriage is a painful vocation, as you shall prove it; manage your incomes as thriftily as you can, you shall find a hard task on't to make even at the year's end, and yet to live decently. _ant._ i came with a christian intention to revenge myself upon thy father, for being the head of a false religion. _mor._ and so you shall; i offer you his daughter for your second. but since you are so pressing, meet me under my window to-morrow night, body for body, about this hour; i'll slip down out of my lodging, and bring my father in my hand. _ant._ how, thy father! _mor._ i mean, all that's good of him; his pearls and jewels, his whole contents, his heart and soul; as much as ever i can carry! i'll leave him his alcoran, that's revenue enough for him; every page of it is gold and diamonds. he has the turn of an eye, a demure smile, and a godly cant, that are worth millions to him. i forgot to tell you, that i will have a slave prepared at the postern gate, with two horses ready saddled.--no more, for i fear i may be missed; and think i hear them calling for me.--if you have constancy and courage-- _ant._ never doubt it; and love in abundance, to wander with thee all the world over. _mor._ the value of twelve hundred thousand crowns in a casket!-- _ant._ a heavy burden, heaven knows! but we must pray for patience to support it. _mor._ besides a willing titt, that will venture her corps with you. come, i know you long to have a parting blow with me; and therefore, to shew i am in charity-- [_he kisses her._ _ant._ once more for pity, that i may keep the flavour upon my lips till we meet again. _mor._ no, frequent charities make bold beggars; and, besides, i have learned of a falconer, never to feed up a hawk when i would have him fly. that's enough; but, if you would be nibbling, here's a hand to stay your stomach. [_kissing her hand._ _ant._ thus conquered infidels, that wars may cease, are forced to give their hands, and sign the peace. _mor._ thus christians are outwitted by the foe; you had her in your power, and let her go. if you release my hand, the fault's not mine; you should have made me seal, as well as sign. [_she runs off, he follows her to the door; then comes back again, and goes out at the other._ act iv. scene i.--benducar's _palace, in the castle of alcazar._ benducar _solus._ _bend._ my future fate, the colour of my life, my all, depends on this important hour: this hour my lot is weighing in the scales, and heaven, perhaps, is doubting what to do. almeyda and a crown have pushed me forward: 'tis fixed, the tyrant must not ravish her; he and sebastian stand betwixt my hopes; he most, and therefore first to be dispatched. these, and a thousand things, are to be done in the short compass of this rolling night; and nothing yet performed, none of my emissaries yet returned. _enter_ haly, _first servant._ oh haly, thou hast held me long in pain. what hast thou learnt of dorax? is he dead? _haly._ two hours i warily have watched his palace; all doors are shut, no servant peeps abroad; some officers, with striding haste, passed in, while others outward went on quick dispatch. sometimes hushed silence seemed to reign within; then cries confused, and a joint clamour, followed; then lights went gliding by, from room to room, and shot, like thwarting meteors, cross the house. not daring further to inquire, i came with speed, to bring you this imperfect news. _bend._ hence i conclude him either dead, or dying. his mournful friends, summoned to take their leaves, are thronged about his couch, and sit in council. what those caballing captains may design, i must prevent, by being first in action.-- to muley-zeydan fly with speed, desire him to take my last instructions; tell the importance, and haste his presence here.-- [_exit_ haly. how has this poison lost its wonted way? it should have burnt its passage, not have lingered in the blind labyrinths and crooked turnings of human composition; now it moves like a slow fire, that works against the wind, as if his stronger stars had interposed.-- _enter_ hamet. well, hamet, are our friends, the rabble, raised? from mustapha what message? _ham._ what you wish. the streets are thicker in this noon of night, than at the mid-day sun; a drowsy horror sits on their eyes, like fear, not well awake; all crowd in heaps, as, at a night alarm, the bees drive out upon each others backs, to imboss their hives in clusters; all ask news; their busy captain runs the weary round, to whisper orders; and, commanding silence, makes not noise cease, but deafens it to murmurs. _bend._ night wastes apace; when, when will he appear! _ham._ he only waits your summons. _bend._ haste their coming. let secrecy and silence be enjoined in their close march. what news from the lieutenant? _ham._ i left him at the gate, firm to your interest, to admit the townsmen at their first appearance. _bend._ thus far 'tis well: go, hasten mustapha. [_exit_ hamet. _enter_ orchan, _the third servant._ o, orchan, did i think thy diligence would lag behind the rest!--what from the mufti? _orc._ i sought him round his palace; made inquiry of all the slaves; in short, i used your name, and urged the importance home; but had for answer, that, since the shut of evening, none had seen him. _bend._ o the curst fate of all conspiracies! they move on many springs; if one but fail, the restiff machine stops. in an ill hour he's absent; 'tis the first time, and sure will be the last, that e'er a mufti was not in the way, when tumults and rebellion should be broached. stay by me; thou art resolute and faithful; i have employment worthy of thy arm. [_walks._ _enter_ muley-zeydan. _mul. zeyd._ you see me come, impatient of my hopes, and eager as the courser for the race: is all in readiness? _bend._ all but the mufti. _mul. zeyd._ we must go on without him. _bend._ true, we must; for 'tis ill stopping in the full career, howe'er the leap be dangerous and wide. _orc._ [_looking out._] i see the blaze of torches from afar, and hear the trampling of thick-beating feet; this way they move. _bend._ no doubt, the emperor. we must not be surprised in conference. trust to my management the tyrant's death, and haste yourself to join with mustapha. the officer, who guards the gate, is yours: when you have gained that pass, divide your force; yourself in person head one chosen half, and march to oppress the faction in consult with dying dorax. fate has driven them all into the net; you must be bold and sudden: spare none; and if you find him struggling yet with pangs of death, trust not his rolling eyes and heaving gasps; for poison may be false,-- the home thrust of a friendly sword is sure. _mul. zeyd._ doubt not my conduct; they shall be surprised. mercy may wait without the gate one night, at morn i'll take her in. _bend._ here lies your way; you meet your brother there. _mul. zeyd._ may we ne'er meet! for, like the twins of leda, when i mount, he gallops down the skies. [_exit_ mul. zeyd. _bend._ he comes:--now, heart, be ribbed with iron for this one attempt; set ope thy sluices, send the vigorous blood through every active limb for my relief; then take thy rest within thy quiet cell, for thou shalt drum no more. _enter emperor, and guards attending him._ _emp._ what news of our affairs, and what of dorax? is he no more? say that, and make me happy. _bend._ may all your enemies be like that dog, whose parting soul is labouring at the lips. _emp._ the people, are they raised? _bend._ and marshalled too; just ready for the march. _emp._ then i'm at ease. _bend._ the night is yours; the glittering host of heaven shines but for you; but most the star of love, that twinkles you to fair almeyda's bed. oh, there's a joy to melt in her embrace, dissolve in pleasure, and make the gods curse immortality, that so they could not die. but haste, and make them yours. _emp._ i will; and yet a kind of weight hangs heavy at my heart; my flagging soul flies under her own pitch, like fowl in air too damp, and lugs along, as if she were a body in a body, and not a mounting substance made of fire. my senses, too, are dull and stupified, their edge rebated:--sure some ill approaches, and some kind sprite knocks softly at my soul, to tell me, fate's at hand[ ]. _bend._ mere fancies all. your soul has been before-hand with your body, and drunk so deep a draught of promised bliss, she slumbers o'er the cup; no danger's near, but of a surfeit at too full a feast. _emp._ it may be so; it looks so like the dream that overtook me, at my waking hour, this morn; and dreams, they say, are then divine, when all the balmy vapours are exhaled, and some o'erpowering god continues sleep. 'twas then, methought, almeyda, smiling, came, attended with a train of all her race, whom, in the rage of empire, i had murdered: but now, no longer foes, they gave me joy of my new conquest, and, with helping hands, heaved me into our holy prophet's arms, who bore me in a purple cloud to heaven[ ]. _bend._ good omen, sir; i wish you in that heaven your dream portends you,-- which presages death. [_aside._ _emp._ thou too wert there; and thou, methought, didst push me from below, with thy full force, to paradise. _bend._ yet better. _emp._ ha! what's that grizly fellow, that attends thee? _bend._ why ask you, sir? _emp._ for he was in my dream, and helped to heave me up. _bend._ with prayers and wishes; for i dare swear him honest. _emp._ that may be; but yet he looks damnation. _bend._ you forget the face would please you better. do you love, and can you thus forbear? _emp._ i'll head my people, then think of dalliance when the danger's o'er. my warlike spirits work now another way, and my soul's tuned to trumpets. _bend._ you debase yourself, to think of mixing with the ignoble herd; let such perform the servile work of war, such who have no almeyda to enjoy. what, shall the people know their god-like prince skulked in a nightly skirmish? stole a conquest, headed a rabble, and profaned his person, shouldered with filth, borne in a tide of ordure, and stifled with their rank offensive sweat? _emp._ i am off again; i will not prostitute the regal dignity so far, to head them. _bend._ there spoke a king. dismiss your guards, to be employed elsewhere in ruder combats; you will want no seconds in those alarms you seek. _emp._ go, join the crowd;-- [_to the guards._ benducar, thou shalt lead them in my place. [_exeunt guards._ the god of love once more has shot his fires into my soul, and my whole heart receives him. almeyda now returns with all her charms; i feel her as she glides along my veins, and dances in my blood. so when our prophet had long been hammering, in his lonely cell, some dull, insipid, tedious paradise, a brisk arabian girl came tripping by; passing she cast at him a side-long glance, and looked behind, in hopes to be pursued: he took the hint, embraced the flying fair, and, having found his heaven, he fixed it there. [_exit emperor._ _bend._ that paradise thou never shalt possess. his death is easy now, his guards are gone, and i can sin but once to seize the throne; all after-acts are sanctified by power. _orc._ command my sword and life. _bend._ i thank thee, orchan, and shall reward thy faith. this master-key frees every lock, and leads us to his person; and, should we miss our blow,--as heaven forbid!-- secures retreat. leave open all behind us; and first set wide the mufti's garden gate, which is his private passage to the palace; for there our mutineers appoint to meet, and thence we may have aid.--now sleep, ye stars, that silently o'erwatch the fate of kings! be all propitious influences barred, and none but murderous planets mount the guard. [_exit with_ orchan. scene ii.--_a night-scene of the mufti's garden._ _enter the mufti alone, in a slave's habit, like that of_ antonio. _muf._ this it is to have a sound head-piece; by this i have got to be chief of my religion; that is, honestly speaking, to teach others what i neither know nor believe myself. for what's mahomet to me, but that i get by him? now for my policy of this night: i have mewed up my suspected spouse in her chamber;--no more embassies to that lusty young stallion of a gardener. next, my habit of a slave; i have made myself as like him as i can, all but his youth and vigour; which when i had, i passed my time as well as any of my holy predecessors. now, walking under the windows of my seraglio, if johayma look out, she will certainly take me for antonio, and call to me; and by that i shall know what concupiscence is working in her. she cannot come down to commit iniquity, there's my safety; but if she peep, if she put her nose abroad, there's demonstration of her pious will; and i'll not make the first precedent for a churchman to forgive injuries. _enter_ morayma, _running to him with a casket in her hand, and embracing him._ _mor._ now i can embrace you with a good conscience; here are the pearls and jewels, here's my father. _muf._ i am indeed thy father; but how the devil didst thou know me in this disguise? and what pearls and jewels dost thou mean? _mor._ [_going back._] what have i done, and what will now become of me! _muf._ art thou mad, morayma? _mor._ i think you'll make me so. _muf._ why, what have i done to thee? recollect thyself, and speak sense to me. _mor._ then give me leave to tell you, you are the worst of fathers. _muf._ did i think i had begotten such a monster!--proceed, my dutiful child, proceed, proceed. _mor._ you have been raking together a mass of wealth, by indirect and wicked means: the spoils of orphans are in these jewels, and the tears of widows in these pearls. _muf._ thou amazest me! _mor._ i would do so. this casket is loaded with your sins; 'tis the cargo of rapines, simony, and extortions; the iniquity of thirty years muftiship converted into diamonds. _muf._ would some rich railing rogue would say as much to me, that i might squeeze his purse for scandal! _mor._ no, sir, you get more by pious fools than railers, when you insinuate into their families, manage their fortunes while they live, and beggar their heirs, by getting legacies, when they die. and do you think i'll be the receiver of your theft? i discharge my conscience of it: here, take again your filthy mammon, and restore it, you had best, to the true owners. _muf._ i am finely documented by my own daughter! _mor._ and a great credit for me to be so: do but think how decent a habit you have on, and how becoming your function to be disguised like a slave, and eaves-dropping under the women's windows, to be saluted, as you deserve it richly, with a piss-pot. if i had not known you casually by your shambling gait, and a certain reverend awkwardness that is natural to all of your function, here you had been exposed to the laughter of your own servants; who have been in search of you through the whole seraglio, peeping under every petticoat to find you. _muf._ pr'ythee, child, reproach me no more of human failings; they are but a little of the pitch and spots of the world, that are still sticking on me; but i hope to scour them out in time. i am better at bottom than thou thinkest; i am not the man thou takest me for. _mor._ no, to my sorrow, sir, you are not. _muf._ it was a very odd beginning though, methought, to see thee come running in upon me with such a warm embrace; pr'ythee, what was the meaning of that violent hot hug? _mor._ i am sure i meant nothing by it, but the zeal and affection which i bear to the man of the world, whom i may love lawfully. _muf._ but thou wilt not teach me, at this age, the nature of a close embrace? _mor._ no, indeed; for my mother-in-law complains, that you are past teaching: but if you mistook my innocent embrace for sin, i wish heartily it had been given where it would have been more acceptable. _muf._ why this is as it should be now; take the treasure again, it can never be put into better hands. _mor._ yes, to my knowledge, but it might. i have confessed my soul to you, if you can understand me rightly. i never disobeyed you till this night; and now, since, through the violence of my passion, i have been so unfortunate, i humbly beg your pardon, your blessing, and your leave, that, upon the first opportunity, i may go for ever from your sight; for heaven knows, i never desire to see you more. _muf._ [_wiping his eyes._] thou makest me weep at thy unkindness; indeed, dear daughter, we will not part. _mor._ indeed, dear daddy, but we will. _muf._ why, if i have been a little pilfering, or so, i take it bitterly of thee to tell me of it, since it was to make thee rich; and i hope a man may make bold with his own soul, without offence to his own child. here, take the jewels again; take them, i charge thee, upon thy obedience. _mor._ well then, in virtue of obedience, i will take them; but, on my soul, i had rather they were in a better hand. _muf._ meaning mine, i know it. _mor._ meaning his, whom i love better than my life. _muf._ that's me again. _mor._ i would have you think so. _muf._ how thy good nature works upon me! well, i can do no less than venture damning for thee; and i may put fair for it, if the rabble be ordered to rise to-night. _enter_ antonio, _in a rich african habit._ _ant._ what do you mean, my dear, to stand talking in this suspicious place, just underneath johayma's window?--[_to the mufti._] you are well met, comrade; i know you are the friend of our flight: are the horses ready at the postern gate? _muf._ antonio, and in disguise! now i begin to smell a rat. _ant._ and i another, that out-stinks it. false morayma, hast thou thus betrayed me to thy father! _mor._ alas! i was betrayed myself. he came disguised like you, and i, poor innocent, ran into his hands. _muf._ in good time you did so; i laid a trap for a bitch-fox, and a worse vermin has caught himself in it. you would fain break loose now, though you left a limb behind you; but i am yet in my own territories, and in call of company; that's my comfort. _ant._ [_taking him by the throat._] no; i have a trick left to put thee past thy squeaking. i have given thee the quinsy; that ungracious tongue shall preach no more false doctrine. _mor._ what do you mean? you will not throttle him? consider he's my father. _ant._ pr'ythee, let us provide first for our own safety; if i do not consider him, he will consider us, with a vengeance, afterwards. _mor._ you may threaten him for crying out; but, for my sake, give him back a little cranny of his windpipe, and some part of speech. _ant._ not so much as one single interjection.--come away, father-in-law, this is no place for dialogues; when you are in the mosque, you talk by hours, and there no man must interrupt you. this is but like for like, good father-in-law; now i am in the pulpit, it is your turn to hold your tongue. [_he struggles._] nay, if you will be hanging back, i shall take care you shall hang forward. [_pulls him along the stage, with his sword at his reins._ _mor._ the other way to the arbour with him; and make haste, before we are discovered. _ant._ if i only bind and gag him there, he may commend me hereafter for civil usage; he deserves not so much favour by any action of his life. _mor._ yes, pray bate him one,--for begetting your mistress. _ant._ i would, if he had not thought more of thy mother than of thee. once more, come along in silence, my pythagorean father-in-law. _joh._ [_at the balcony._] a bird in a cage may peep, at least, though she must not fly.--what bustle's there beneath my window? antonio, by all my hopes! i know him by his habit. but what makes that woman with him, and a friend, a sword drawn, and hasting hence? this is no time for silence:--who's within? call there, where are the servants? why, omar, abedin, hassan, and the rest, make haste, and run into the garden; there are thieves and villains; arm all the family, and stop them. _ant._ [_turning back._] o that screech owl at the window! we shall be pursued immediately; which way shall we take? _mor._ [_giving him the casket._] 'tis impossible to escape them; for the way to our horses lies back again by the house, and then we shall meet them full in the teeth. here, take these jewels; thou mayst leap the walls, and get away. _ant._ and what will become of thee, then, poor kind soul? _mor._ i must take my fortune. when you are got safe into your own country, i hope you will bestow a sigh on the memory of her who loved you. _ant._ it makes me mad to think, how many a good night will be lost betwixt us! take back thy jewels; 'tis an empty casket without thee: besides, i should never leap well with the weight of all thy father's sins about me; thou and they had been a bargain. _mor._ pr'ythee take them, 'twill help me to be revenged on him. _ant._ no, they'll serve to make thy peace with him. _mor._ i hear them coming; shift for yourself at least; remember i am yours for ever. [_servants crying,_ "this way, this way," _behind the scenes._ _ant._ and i but the empty shadow of myself without thee!--farewell, father-in-law, that should have been, if i had not been curst in my mother's belly.--now, which way, fortune? [_runs amazedly backwards and forwards. servants within,_ "follow, follow; yonder are the villains." o, here's a gate open; but it leads into the castle; yet i must venture it. [_a shout behind the scenes, where_ antonio _is going out._ there's the rabble in a mutiny; what, is the devil up at midnight! however, 'tis good herding in a crowd. [_runs out._ mufti _runs to_ morayma, _and lays hold on her, then snatches away the casket._ _muf._ now, to do things in order, first i seize upon the bag, and then upon the baggage; for thou art but my flesh and blood, but these are my life and soul. _mor._ then let me follow my flesh and blood, and keep to yourself your life and soul. _muf._ both, or none; come away to durance. _mor._ well, if it must be so, agreed; for i have another trick to play you, and thank yourself for what shall follow. _enter servants._ _joh._ [_from above._] one of them took through the private way into the castle; follow him, be sure, for these are yours already. _mor._ help here quickly, omar, abedin! i have hold on the villain that stole my jewels; but 'tis a lusty rogue, and he will prove too strong for me. what! help, i say; do you not know your master's daughter? _muf._ now, if i cry out, they will know my voice, and then i am disgraced for ever. o thou art a venomous cockatrice! _mor._ of your own begetting. [_the servants seize him._ _ serv._ what a glorious deliverance have you had, madam, from this bloody-minded christian! _mor._ give me back my jewels, and carry this notorious malefactor to be punished by my father.--i'll hunt the other dry-foot. [_takes the jewels, and runs out after_ antonio _at the same passage._ _ serv._ i long to be hanselling his hide, before we bring him to my master. _ serv._ hang him, for an old covetous hypocrite; he deserves a worse punishment himself, for keeping us so hardly. _ serv._ ay, would he were in this villain's place! thus i would lay him on, and thus. [_beats him._ _ serv._ and thus would i revenge myself of my last beating. [_he beats him too, and then the rest._ _muf._ oh, ho, ho! _ serv._ now, supposing you were the mufti, sir.-- [_beats him again._ _muf._ the devil's in that supposing rascal!--i can bear no more; and i am the mufti. now suppose yourselves my servants, and hold your hands: an anointed halter take you all! _ serv._ my master!--you will pardon the excess of our zeal for you, sir: indeed we all took you for a villain, and so we used you. _muf._ ay, so i feel you did; my back and sides are abundant testimonies of your zeal.--run, rogues, and bring me back my jewels, and my fugitive daughter; run, i say. [_they run to the gate, and the first servant runs back again._ _ serv._ sir, the castle is in a most terrible combustion; you may hear them hither. _muf._ 'tis a laudable commotion; the voice of the mobile is the voice of heaven.--i must retire a little, to strip me of the slave, and to assume the mufti, and then i will return; for the piety of the people must be encouraged, that they may help me to recover my jewels, and my daughter. [_exeunt mufti and servants._ scene iii.--_changes to the castle yard,_ _and discovers_ antonio, mustapha, _and the rabble shouting. they come forward._ _ant._ and so at length, as i informed you, i escaped out of his covetous clutches; and now fly to your illustrious feet for my protection. _must._ thou shalt have it, and now defy the mufti. 'tis the first petition that has been made to me since my exaltation to tumult, in this second night of the month abib, and in the year of the hegira,--the lord knows what year; but 'tis no matter; for when i am settled, the learned are bound to find it out for me; for i am resolved to date my authority over the rabble, like other monarchs. _ant._ i have always had a longing to be yours again, though i could not compass it before; and had designed you a casket of my master's jewels too; for i knew the custom, and would not have appeared before a great person, as you are, without a present: but he has defrauded my good intentions, and basely robbed you of them; 'tis a prize worthy a million of crowns, and you carry your letters of marque about you. _must._ i shall make bold with his treasure, for the support of my new government.--[_the people gather about him._]--what do these vile raggamuffins so near our person? your savour is offensive to us; bear back there, and make room for honest men to approach us: these fools and knaves are always impudently crowding next to princes, and keeping off the more deserving: bear back, i say.--[_they make a wider circle._]--that's dutifully done! now shout, to shew your loyalty. [_a great shout._]--hear'st thou that, slave antonio? these obstreperous villains shout, and know not for what they make a noise. you shall see me manage them, that you may judge what ignorant beasts they are.--for whom do you shout now? who's to live and reign; tell me that, the wisest of you? _ rabble._ even who you please, captain. _must._ la, you there! i told you so. _ rabble._ we are not bound to know, who is to live and reign; our business is only to rise upon command, and plunder. _ rabble._ ay, the richest of both parties; for they are our enemies. _must._ this last fellow is a little more sensible than the rest; he has entered somewhat into the merits of the cause. _ rabble._ if a poor man may speak his mind. i think, captain, that yourself are the fittest to live and reign; i mean not over, but next, and immediately under, the people; and thereupon i say, _a mustapha, a muatapha!_ _omnes._ a mustapha, a mustapha! _must._ i must confess the sound is pleasing, and tickles the ears of my ambition; but alas, good people, it must not be! i am contented to be a poor simple viceroy. but prince muley-zeydan is to be the man: i shall take care to instruct him in the arts of government, and in his duty to us all; and, therefore, mark my cry, _a muley-zeydan, a muley-zeydan!_ _omnes._ a muley-zeydan, a muley-zeydan! _must._ you see, slave antonio, what i might have been? _ant._ i observe your modesty. _must._ but for a foolish promise, i made once to my lord benducar, to set up any one he pleased.-- _re-enter the mufti, with his servants._ _ant._ here's the old hypocrite again.--now stand your ground and bate him not an inch. remember the jewels, the rich and glorious jewels; they are designed to be yours, by virtue of prerogative. _must._ let me alone to pick a quarrel; i have an old grudge to him upon thy account. _muf._ [_making up to the mobile._] good people, here you are met together. _ rabble._ ay, we know that without your telling: but why are we met together, doctor? for that's it which no body here can tell. _ rabble._ why, to see one another in the dark; and to make holiday at midnight. _muf._ you are met, as becomes good mussulmen, to settle the nation; for i must tell you, that, though your tyrant is a lawful emperor, yet your lawful emperor is but a tyrant. _ant._ what stuff he talks! _must._ 'tis excellent fine matter, indeed, slave antonio! he has a rare tongue! oh, he would move a rock, or elephant! _ant._ what a block have i to work upon! [_aside._]--but still, remember the jewels, sir; the jewels. _must._ nay, that's true, on the other side; the jewels must be mine. but he has a pure fine way of talking; my conscience goes along with him, but the jewels have set my heart against him. _muf._ that your emperor is a tyrant, is most manifest; for you were born to be turks, but he has played the turk with you, and is taking your religion away. _ rabble._ we find that in our decay of trade. i have seen, for these hundred years, that religion and trade always go together. _muf._ he is now upon the point of marrying himself, without your sovereign consent: and what are the effects of marriage? _ rabble._ a scolding domineering wife, if she prove honest; and, if a whore, a fine gaudy minx, that robs our counters every night, and then goes out, and spends it upon our cuckold-makers. _muf._ no; the natural effects of marriage are children: now, on whom would he beget these children? even upon a christian! o, horrible! how can you believe me, though i am ready to swear it upon the alcoran! yes, true believers, you may believe, that he is going to beget a race of misbelievers. _must._ that's fine, in earnest; i cannot forbear hearkening to his enchanting tongue. _ant._ but yet remember-- _must._ ay, ay, the jewels! now again i hate him; but yet my conscience makes me listen to him. _muf._ therefore, to conclude all, believers, pluck up your hearts, and pluck down the tyrant. remember the courage of your ancestors; remember the majesty of the people; remember yourselves, your wives, and children; and, lastly, above all, remember your religion, and our holy mahomet. all these require your timeous assistance;--shall i say, they beg it? no; they claim it of you, by all the nearest and dearest ties of these three p's, self-preservation, our property, and our prophet.--now answer me with an unanimous cheerful cry, and follow me, who am your leader, to a glorious deliverance. _omnes._ a mufti, a mufti! [_following him off the stage._ _ant._ now you see what comes of your foolish qualms of conscience; the jewels are lost, and they are all leaving you. _must._ what, am i forsaken of my subjects? would the rogue purloin my liege people from me!--i charge you, in my own name, come back, ye deserters, and hear me speak. _ rabble._ what, will he come with his balderdash, after the mufti's eloquent oration? _ rabble._ he's our captain, lawfully picked up, and elected upon a stall; we will hear him. _omnes._ speak, captain, for we will hear you. _must._ do you remember the glorious rapines and robberies you have committed? your breaking open and gutting of houses, your rummaging of cellars, your demolishing of christian temples, and bearing off, in triumph, the superstitious plate and pictures, the ornaments of their wicked altars, when all rich moveables were sentenced for idolatrous, and all that was idolatrous was seized? answer first, for your remembrance of all these sweetnesses of mutiny; for upon those grounds i shall proceed. _omnes._ yes, we do remember, we do remember. _must._ then make much of your retentive faculties.--and who led you to those honey-combs? your mufti? no, believers; he only preached you up to it, but durst not lead you: he was but your counsellor, but i was your captain; he only looed you, but, 'twas i that led you. _omnes._ that's true, that's true. _ant._ there you were with him for his figures. _must._ i think i was, slave antonio. alas, i was ignorant of my own talent!--say then, believers, will you have a captain for your mufti, or a mufti for your captain? and, further, to instruct you how to cry, will you have _a mufti_, or _no mufti_? _omnes._ no mufti, no mufti! _must._ that i laid in for them, slave antonio--do i then spit upon your faces? do i discourage rebellion, mutiny, rapine, and plundering? you may think i do, believers; but, heaven forbid! no, i encourage you to all these laudable undertakings; you shall plunder, you shall pull down the government; but you shall do this upon my authority, and not by his wicked instigation. _ rabble._ nay, when his turn is served, he may preach up loyalty again, and restitution, that he might have another snack among us. _ rabble._ he may indeed; for it is but his saying it is sin, and then we must restore; and therefore i would have a new religion, where half the commandments should be taken away, the rest mollified, and there should be little or no sin remaining. _omnes._ another religion, a new religion, another religion! _must._ and that may easily be done, with the help of a little inspiration; for i must tell you, i have a pigeon at home, of mahomet's own breed; and when i have learnt her to pick pease out of my ear, rest satisfied till then, and you shall have another. but, now i think on't, i am inspired already, that 'tis no sin to depose the mufti. _ant._ and good reason; for when kings and queens are to be discarded, what should knaves do any longer in the pack? _omnes._ he is deposed, he is deposed, he is deposed! _must._ nay, if he and his clergy will needs be preaching up rebellion, and giving us their blessing, 'tis but justice they should have the first-fruits of it.--slave antonio, take him into custody; and dost thou hear, boy, be sure to secure the little transitory box of jewels. if he be obstinate, put a civil question to him upon the rack, and he squeaks, i warrant him. _ant._ [_seizing the mufti._] come, my _quondam_ master, you and i must change qualities. _muf._ i hope you will not be so barbarous to torture me: we may preach suffering to others, but, alas! holy flesh is too well pampered to endure martyrdom. _must._ now, late mufti, not forgetting my first quarrel to you, we will enter ourselves with the plunder of your palace: 'tis good to sanctify a work, and begin a god's name. _ rabble._ our prophet let the devil alone with the last mob. _mob._ but he takes care of this himself. _as they are going out, enter_ benducar, _leading_ almeyda: _he with a sword in one hand;_ benducar's _slave follows, with_ muley-moluch's _head upon a spear._ _must._ not so much haste, masters; comeback again; you are so bent upon mischief, that you take a man upon the first word of plunder. here is a sight for you; the emperor is come upon his head to visit you. [_bowing._] most noble emperor, now i hope you will not hit us in the teeth, that we have pulled you down; for we can tell you to your face, that we have exalted you. [_they all shout._ _bend._ think what i am, and what yourself may be, [_to_ almeyda _apart._ in being mine: refuse not proffered love, that brings a crown. _alm._ [_to him._] i have resolved, and these shall know my thoughts. _bend._ [_to her._] on that i build.-- [_he comes up to the rabble._ joy to the people for the tyrant's death! oppression, rapine, banishment, and blood, are now no more; but speechless as that tongue, that lies for ever still. how is my grief divided with my joy, when i must own i killed him! bid me speak; for not to bid me, is to disallow what for your sakes is done. _must._ in the name of the people, we command you speak: but that pretty lady shall speak first; for we have taken somewhat of a liking to her person.--be not afraid, lady, to speak to these rude raggamuffians; there is nothing shall offend you, unless it be their stink, an't please you. [_making a leg._ _alm._ why should i fear to speak, who am your queen? my peaceful father swayed the sceptre long, and you enjoyed the blessings of his reign, while you deserved the name of africans. then, not commanded, but commanding you, fearless i speak: know me for what i am. _bend._ how she assumes! i like not this beginning. [_aside._ _alm._ i was not born so base to flatter crowds, and move your pity by a whining tale. your tyrant would have forced me to his bed; but in the attempt of that foul brutal act, these loyal slaves secured me by his death. [_pointing to_ benducar. _bend._ makes she no more of me than of a slave?-- [_aside._ madam, i thought i had instructed you [_to_ almeyda. to frame a speech more suiting to the times: the circumstances of that dire design, your own despair, my unexpected aid, my life endangered by his bold defence, and, after all, his death, and your deliverance, were themes that ought not to be slighted o'er. _must._ she might have passed over all your petty businesses, and no great matter; but the raising of my rabble is an exploit of consequence, and not to be mumbled up in silence, for all her pertness. _alm._ when force invades the gift of nature, life, the eldest law of nature bids defend; and if in that defence a tyrant fall, his death's his crime, not ours, suffice it, that he's dead; all wrongs die with him; when he can wrong no more, i pardon him: thus i absolve myself, and him excuse, who saved my life and honour, but praise neither. _bend._ 'tis cheap to pardon, whom you would not pay. but what speak i of payment and reward! ungrateful woman, you are yet no queen, nor more than a proud haughty christian slave: as such i seize my right. [_going to lay hold of her._ _alm._ [_drawing a dagger._] dare not to approach me!-- now, africans, he shows himself to you; to me he stood confessed before, and owned his insolence to espouse my person, and assume the crown, claimed in my right; for this, he slew your tyrant; oh no! he only changed him for a worse; embased your slavery by his own vileness, and loaded you with more ignoble bonds. then think me not ungrateful, not to share the imperial crown with a presuming traitor. he says, i am a christian; true, i am, but yet no slave: if christians can be thought unfit to govern those of other faith, 'tis left for you to judge. _bend._ i have not patience; she consumes the time in idle talk, and owns her false belief: seize her by force, and bear her thence unheard. _alm._ [_to the people._] no, let me rather die your sacrifice, than live his triumph. i throw myself into my people's arms; as you are men, compassionate my wrongs, and, as good men, protect me. _ant._ something must be done to save her. [_aside to_ must.] this is all addressed to you, sir: she singled you out with her eye, as commander in chief of the mobility. _must._ think'st thou so, slave antonio? _ant._ most certainly, sir; and you cannot, in honour, but protect her: now look to your hits, and make your fortune. _must._ methought, indeed, she cast a kind leer towards me. our prophet was but just such another scoundrel as i am, till he raised himself to power, and consequently to holiness, by marrying his master's widow. i am resolved i'll put forward for myself; for why should i be my lord benducar's fool and slave, when i may be my own fool and his master? _bend._ take her into possession, mustapha. _must._ that's better counsel than you meant it: yes, i do take her into possession, and into protection too. what say you, masters, will you stand by me? _omnes._ one and all, one and all. _bend._ hast thou betrayed me, traitor?--mufti, speak, and mind them of religion. [_mufti shakes his head._ _must._ alas! the poor gentleman has gotten a cold with a sermon of two hours long, and a prayer of fear; and, besides, if he durst speak, mankind is grown wiser at this time of day than to cut one another's throats about religion. our mufti's is a green coat, and the christian's is a black coat; and we must wisely go together by the ears, whether green or black shall sweep our spoils. [_drums within, and shouts._ _bend._ now we shall see whose numbers will prevail: the conquering troops of muley-zeydan come, to crush rebellion, and espouse my cause. _must._ we will have a fair trial of skill for it, i can tell him that. when we have dispatched with muley-zeydan, your lordship shall march, in equal proportions of your body, to the four gates of the city, and every tower shall have a quarter of you. [antonio _draws them up, and takes_ alm. by_ the hand. shouts again, and drums._ _enter_ dorax _and_ sebastian, _attended by african soldiers and portugueses._ almeyda _and_ sebastian _run into each others arms, and both speak together._ _seb._ and _alm._ my sebastian! my almeyda! _alm._ do you then live? _seb._ and live to love thee ever. _bend._ how! dorax and sebastian still alive! the moors and christians joined!--i thank thee, prophet. _dor._ the citadel is ours; and muley-zeydan safe under guard, but as becomes a prince. lay down your arms; such base plebeian blood would only stain the brightness of my sword, and blunt it for some nobler work behind. _must._ i suppose you may put it up without offence to any man here present. for my part, i have been loyal to my sovereign lady, though that villain benducar, and that hypocrite the mufti, would have corrupted me; but if those two escape public justice, then i and all my late honest subjects here deserve hanging. _bend._ [_to_ dor.] i'm sure i did my part to poison thee, what saint soe'er has soldered thee again: a dose less hot had burst through ribs of iron. _muf._ not knowing that, i poisoned him once more, and drenched him with a draught so deadly cold, that, hadst not thou prevented, had congealed the channel of his blood, and froze him dry. _bend._ thou interposing fool, to mangle mischief, and think to mend the perfect work of hell! _dor._ thus, when heaven pleases, double poisons cure[ ]. i will not tax thee of ingratitude to me, thy friend, who hast betrayed thy prince: death he deserved indeed, but not from thee. but fate, it seems, reserved the worst of men to end the worst of tyrants.-- go, bear him to his fate, and send him to attend his master's ghost. let some secure my other poisoning friend, whose double diligence preserved my life. _ant._ you are fallen into good hands, father-in-law; your sparkling jewels, and morayma's eyes, may prove a better bail than you deserve. _muf._ the best that can come of me, in this condition, is, to have my life begged first, and then to be begged for a fool afterwards[ ]. [_exeunt_ antonio, _with the mufti; and, at the same time,_ benducar _is carried off._ _dor._ [_to_ must.] you, and your hungry herd, depart untouched; for justice cannot stoop so low, to reach the groveling sin of crowds: but curst be they, who trust revenge with such mad instruments, whose blindfold business is but to destroy; and, like the fire, commissioned by the winds, begins on sheds, but, rolling in a round, on palaces returns. away, ye scum, that still rise upmost when the nation boils; ye mongrel work of heaven, with human shapes, not to be damned or saved, but breathe and perish, that have but just enough of sense, to know the master's voice, when rated, to depart. [_exeunt_ mustapha _and rabble._ _alm._ with gratitude as low as knees can pay [_kneeling to him._ to those blest holy fires, our guardian angels, receive these thanks, till altars can be raised. _dor._ arise, fair excellence, and pay no thanks, [_raising her up._ till time discover what i have deserved. _seb._ more than reward can answer. if portugal and spain were joined to africa, and the main ocean crusted into land, if universal monarchy were mine, here should the gift be placed. _dor._ and from some hands i should refuse that gift. be not too prodigal of promises; but stint your bounty to one only grant, which i can ask with honour. _seb._ what i am is but thy gift; make what thou canst of me, secure of no repulse. _dor._ [_to_ seb.] dismiss your train.-- [_to_ alm.] you, madam, please one moment to retire. [sebastian _signs to the portugueses to go off;_ almeyda, _bowing to him, gives off also. the africans follow her._ _dor._ [_to the captain of the guard._] with you one word in private. [_goes out with the captain._ _seb._ [_solus._] reserved behaviour, open nobleness, a long mysterious track of stern bounty: but now the hand of fate is on the curtain, and draws the scene to sight. _re-enter_ dorax, _having taken off his turban, and put on a peruke, hat, and cravat._ _dor._ now, do you know me? _seb._ thou shouldst be alonzo. _dor._ so you should be sebastian: but when sebastian ceased to be himself, i ceased to be alonzo. _seb._ as in a dream, i see thee here, and scarce believe mine eyes. _dor._ is it so strange to find me, where my wrongs, and your inhuman tyranny, have sent me? think not you dream; or, if you did, my injuries shall call so loud, that lethargy should wake, and death should give you back to answer me. a thousand nights have brushed their balmy wings over these eyes; but ever when they closed, your tyrant image forced them ope again, and dried the dews they brought: the long expected hour is come at length, by manly vengeance to redeem my fame; and, that once cleared, eternal sleep is welcome. _seb._ i have not yet forgot i am a king, whose royal office is redress of wrongs: if i have wronged thee, charge me face to face;-- i have not yet forgot i am a soldier. _dor._ 'tis the first justice thou hast ever done me. then, though i loath this woman's war of tongues, yet shall my cause of vengeance first be clear; and, honour, be thou judge. _seb._ honour befriend us both.-- beware i warn thee yet, to tell thy griefs in terms becoming majesty to hear: i warn thee thus, because i know thy temper is insolent, and haughty to superiors. how often hast thou braved my peaceful court, filled it with noisy brawls, and windy boasts; and with past service, nauseously repeated, reproached even me, thy prince? _dor._ and well i might, when you forgot reward, the part of heaven in kings; for punishment is hangman's work, and drudgery for devils.-- i must, and will reproach thee with my service, tyrant!--it irks me so to call my prince; but just resentment, and hard usage, coined the unwilling word; and, grating as it is, take it, for 'tis thy due. _seb._ how, tyrant? _dor._ tyrant. _seb._ traitor!--that name thou canst not echo back; that robe of infamy, that circumcision ill hid beneath that robe, proclaim thee traitor; and, if a name more foul than traitor be, 'tis renegade. _dor._ if i'm a traitor, think,--and blush, thou tyrant,-- whose injuries betrayed me into treason, effaced my loyalty, unhinged my faith, and hurried me, from hopes of heaven, to hell. all these, and all my yet unfinished crimes, when i shall rise to plead before the saints, i charge on thee, to make thy damning sure. _seb._ thy old presumptuous arrogance again, that bred my first dislike, and then my loathing.-- once more be warned, and know me for thy king. _dor._ too well i know thee, but for king no more. this is not lisbon; nor the circle this, where, like a statue, thou hast stood besieged by sycophants and fools, the growth of courts; where thy gulled eyes, in all the gaudy round, met nothing but a lie in every face, and the gross flattery of a gaping crowd, envious who first should catch, and first applaud, the stuff of royal nonsense: when i spoke, my honest homely words were carped and censured for want of courtly style; related actions, though modestly reported, passed for boasts; secure of merit if i asked reward, thy hungry minions thought their rights invaded, and the bread snatched from pimps and parasites. henriquez answered, with a ready lie, to save his king's,--the boon was begged before! _seb._ what say'st thou of henriquez? now, by heaven, thou mov'st me more by barely naming him, than all thy foul unmannered scurril taunts. _dor._ and therefore 'twas, to gall thee, that i named him. that thing, that nothing, but a cringe and smile; that woman, but more daubed; or, if a man, corrupted to a woman; thy man-mistress. _seb._ all false as hell, or thou. _dor._ yes; full as false as that i served thee fifteen hard campaigns, and pitched thy standard in these foreign fields: by me thy greatness grew, thy years grew with it, but thy ingratitude outgrew them both. _seb._ i see to what thou tend'st: but, tell me first, if those great acts were done alone for me? if love produced not some, and pride the rest? _dor._ why, love does all that's noble here below; but all the advantage of that love was thine. for, coming fraughted back, in either hand with palm and olive, victory and peace, i was indeed prepared to ask my own, (for violante's vows were mine before:) thy malice had prevention, ere i spoke; and asked me violante for henriquez. _seb._ i meant thee a reward of greater worth. _dor._ where justice wanted, could reward be hoped? could the robbed passenger expect a bounty from those rapacious hands, who stripped him first? _seb._ he had my promise, ere i knew thy love. _dor._ my services deserved thou shouldst revoke it. _seb._ thy insolence had cancelled all thy service: to violate my laws, even in my court, sacred to peace, and safe from all affronts; even to my face, and done in my despite, under the wing of awful majesty, to strike the man i loved! _dor._ even in the face of heaven, a place more sacred, would i have struck the man, who, prompt by power, would seize my right, and rob me of my love: but, for a blow provoked by thy injustice, the hasty product of a just despair, when he refused to meet me in the field, that thou shouldst make a coward's cause thy own! _seb._ he durst; nay more, desired, and begged with tears, to meet thy challenge fairly: 'twas thy fault to make it public; but my duty, then, to interpose, on pain of my displeasure, betwixt your swords. _dor._ on pain of infamy, he should have disobeyed. _seb._ the indignity, thou didst, was meant to me: thy gloomy eyes were cast on me with scorn, as who should say,--the blow was there intended: but that thou didst not dare to lift thy hands against anointed power. so was i forced to do a sovereign justice to myself, and spurn thee from my presence. _dor._ thou hast dared to tell me, what i durst not tell myself: i durst not think that i was spurned, and live; and live to hear it boasted to my face. all my long avarice of honour lost, heaped up in youth, and hoarded up for age! has honour's fountain then sucked back the stream? he has; and hooting boys may dry-shod pass, and gather pebbles from the naked ford.-- give me my love, my honour; give them back-- give me revenge, while i have breath to ask it! _seb._ now, by this honoured order which i wear, more gladly would i give, than thou dar'st ask it; nor shall the sacred character of king be urged, to shield me from thy bold appeal. if i have injured thee, that makes us equal; the wrong, if done, debased me down to thee. but thou hast charged me with ingratitude; hast thou not charged me? speak! _dor._ thou know'st i have: if thou disown'st that imputation, draw, and prove my charge a lie. _seb._ no; to disprove that lie, i must not draw. be conscious to thy worth, and tell thy soul, what thou hast done this day in my defence. to fight thee after this, what were it else than owning that ingratitude thou urgest? that isthmus stands between two rushing seas; which, mounting, view each other from afar, and strive in vain to meet. _dor._ i'll cut that isthmus. thou know'st i meant not to preserve thy life, but to reprieve it, for my own revenge. i saved thee out of honourable malice: now, draw;--i should be loth to think thou dar'st not: beware of such another vile excuse. _seb._ o patience, heaven! _dor._ beware of patience, too; that's a suspicious word. it had been proper, before thy foot had spurned me; now 'tis base: yet, to disarm thee of thy last defence, i have thy oath for my security. the only boon i begged was this fair combat: fight, or be perjured now; that's all thy choice. _seb._ now can i thank thee as thou would'st be thanked. [_drawing._ never was vow of honour better paid, if my true sword but hold, than this shall be. the sprightly bridegroom, on his wedding night, more gladly enters not the lists of love: why, 'tis enjoyment to be summoned thus. go, bear my message to henriquez ghost; and say, his master and his friend revenged him. _dor._ his ghost! then is my hated rival dead? _seb._ the question is beside our present purpose: thou seest me ready; we delay too long. _dor._ a minute is not much in either's life, when there's but one betwixt us; throw it in, and give it him of us who is to fail. _seb._ he's dead; make haste, and thou may'st yet o'ertake him. _dor._ when i was hasty, thou delayed'st me longer-- i pr'ythee let me hedge one moment more into thy promise: for thy life preserved, be kind; and tell me how that rival died, whose death, next thine, i wished. _seb._ if it would please thee, thou shouldst never know; but thou, like jealousy, enquir'st a truth, which, found, will torture thee.--he died in fight; fought next my person; as in concert fought; kept pace for pace, and blow for every blow; save when he heaved his shield in my defence, and on his naked side received my wound. then, when he could no more, he fell at once; but rolled his falling body cross their way, and made a bulwark of it for his prince. _dor._ i never can forgive him such a death! _seb._ i prophesied thy proud soul could not bear it.-- now, judge thyself, who best deserved my love? i knew you both; and (durst i say) as heaven foreknew, among the shining angel host, who would stand firm, who fall. _dor._ had he been tempted so, so had he fallen; and so had i been favoured, had i stood. _seb._ what had been, is unknown; what is, appears. confess, he justly was preferred to thee. _dor._ had i been born with his indulgent stars, my fortune had been his, and his been mine.-- o worse than hell! what glory have i lost, and what has he acquired, by such a death! i should have fallen by sebastian's side, my corps had been the bulwark of my king. his glorious end was a patched work of fate, ill sorted with a soft effeminate life; it suited better with my life than his, so to have died: mine had been of a piece, spent in your service, dying at your feet. _seb._ the more effeminate and soft his life, the more his fame, to struggle to the field, and meet his glorious fate. confess, proud spirit, (for i will have it from thy very mouth) that better he deserved my love than thou? _dor._ o, whither would you drive me? i must grant,-- yes, i must grant, but with a swelling soul,-- henriquez had your love with more desert. for you he fought, and died: i fought against you; through all the mazes of the bloody field, hunted your sacred life; which that i missed was the propitious error of my fate, not of my soul: my soul's a regicide. _seb._ [_more calmly._] thou might'st have given it a more gentle name. thou meant'st to kill a tyrant, not a king: speak, didst thou not, alonzo? _dor._ can i speak! alas, i cannot answer to alonzo!-- no, dorax cannot answer to alonzo; alonzo was too kind a name for me. then, when i fought and conquered with your arms, in that blest age, i was the man you named: till rage and pride debased me into dorax, and lost, like lucifer, my name above. _seb._ yet twice this day i owed my life to dorax. _dor._ i saved you but to kill you: there's my grief. _seb._ nay, if thou can'st be grieved, thou can'st repent; thou could'st not be a villain, though thou would'st: thou own'st too much, in owning thou hast erred; and i too little, who provoked thy crime. _dor._ o stop this headlong torrent of your goodness! it comes too fast upon a feeble soul, half drowned in tears before: spare my confusion; for pity spare; and say not first, you erred; for yet i have not dared, through guilt and shame, to throw myself beneath your royal feet.-- [_falls at his feet._ now spurn this rebel, this proud renegade; 'tis just you should, nor will i more complain. _seb._ indeed thou should'st not ask forgiveness first; but thou prevent'st me still, in all that's noble. [_taking him up._ yes, i will raise thee up with better news. thy violante's heart was ever thine; compelled to wed, because she was my ward, her soul was absent when she gave her hand; nor could my threats, or his pursuing courtship, effect the consummation of his love: so, still indulging tears, she pines for thee, a widow, and a maid. _dor._ have i been cursing heaven, while heaven blest me? i shall run mad with extacy of joy: what! in one moment, to be reconciled to heaven, and to my king, and to my love!-- but pity is my friend, and stops me short, for my unhappy rival:--poor henriquez! _seb._ art thou so generous, too, to pity him? nay, then, i was unjust to love him better. here let me ever hold thee in my arms; [_embracing him._ and all our quarrels be but such as these, who shall love best, and closest shall embrace. be what henriquez was,--be my alonzo. _dor._ what, my alonzo, said you? my alonzo! let my tears thank you, for i cannot speak; and, if i could, words were not made to vent such thoughts as mine. _seb._ some strange reverse of fate must sure attend this vast profusion, this extravagance of heaven, to bless me thus. 'tis gold so pure, it cannot bear the stamp, without alloy.-- be kind, ye powers! and take but half away: with ease the gifts of fortune i resign; but let my love and friend be ever mine. [_exeunt._ act v. scene i. _the scene is, a room of state._ _enter_ dorax _and_ antonio. _dor._ joy is on every face, without a cloud; as, in the scene of opening paradise, the whole creation danced at their new being, pleased to be what they were, pleased with each other, such joy have i, both in myself and friends; and double joy that i have made them happy. _ant._ pleasure has been the business of my life; and every change of fortune easy to me, because i still was easy to myself. the loss of her i loved would touch me nearest; yet, if i found her, i might love too much, and that's uneasy pleasure. _dor._ if she be fated to be your wife, your fate will find her for you: predestinated ills are never lost. _ant._ i had forgot to inquire before, but long to be informed, how, poisoned and betrayed, and round beset, you could unwind yourself from all these dangers, and move so speedily to our relief? _dor._ the double poisons, after a short combat, expelled each other in their civil war, by nature's benefit, and roused my thoughts to guard that life which now i found attacked. i summoned all my officers in haste, on whose experienced faith i might rely; all came resolved to die in my defence, save that one villain who betrayed the gate. our diligence prevented the surprise we justly feared: so muley-zeydan found us drawn up in battle, to receive the charge. _ant._ but how the moors and christian slaves were joined, you have not yet unfolded. _dor._ that remains. we knew their interest was the same with ours: and, though i hated more than death sebastian, i could not see him die by vulgar hands; but, prompted by my angel, or by his, freed all the slaves, and placed him next myself, because i would not have his person known. i need not tell the rest, the event declares it. _ant._ your conquests came of course; their men were raw, and yours were disciplined.--one doubt remains, why you industriously concealed the king, who, known, had added courage to his men? _dor._ i would not hazard civil broils betwixt his friends and mine; which might prevent our combat. yet, had he fallen, i had dismissed his troops; or, if victorious, ordered his escape.-- but i forgot a new increase of joy to feast him with surprise; i must about it: expect my swift return. [_exit._ _enter a servant._ _serv._ here's a lady at the door, that bids me tell you, she is come to make an end of the game, that was broken off betwixt you. _ant._ what manner of woman is she? does she not want two of the four elements? has she any thing about her but air and fire? _serv._ truly, she flies about the room as if she had wings instead of legs; i believe she's just turning into a bird:--a house bird i warrant her:--and so hasty to fly to you, that, rather than fail of entrance, she would come tumbling down the chimney, like a swallow. _enter_ morayma. _ant._ [_running to her, and embracing her._] look, if she be not here already!--what, no denial it seems will serve your turn? why, thou little dun, is thy debt so pressing? _mor._ little devil, if you please: your lease is out, good master conjurer, and i am come to fetch your soul and body; not an hour of lewdness longer in this world for you. _ant._ where the devil hast thou been? and how the devil didst thou find me here? _mor._ i followed you into the castle-yard, but there was nothing but tumult and confusion: and i was bodily afraid of being picked up by some of the rabble; considering i had a double charge about me,--my jewels, and my maidenhead. _ant._ both of them intended for my worship's sole use and property. _mor._ and what was poor little i among them all? _ant._ not a mouthful a-piece: 'twas too much odds, in conscience! _mor._ so, seeking for shelter, i naturally ran to the old place of assignation, the garden-house; where, for the want of instinct, you did not follow me. _ant._ well, for thy comfort, i have secured thy father; and i hope thou hast secured his effects for us. _mor._ yes, truly, i had the prudent foresight to consider, that, when we grow old, and weary of solacing one another, we might have, at least, wherewithal to make merry with the world; and take up with a worse pleasure of eating and drinking, when we were disabled for a better. _ant._ thy fortune will be even too good for thee; for thou art going into the country of serenades and gallantries, where thy street will be haunted every night with thy foolish lovers, and my rivals, who will be sighing and singing, under thy inexorable windows, lamentable ditties, and call thee cruel, and goddess, and moon, and stars, and all the poetical names of wicked rhime; while thou and i are minding our business, and jogging on, and laughing at them, at leisure minutes, which will be very few; take that by way of threatening. _mor._ i am afraid you are not very valiant, that you huff so much beforehand. but, they say, your churches are fine places for love-devotion; many a she-saint is there worshipped. _ant._ temples are there, as they are in all other countries, good conveniences for dumb interviews. i hear the protestants are not much reformed in that point neither; for their sectaries call their churches by the natural name of meeting-houses. therefore i warn thee in good time, not more of devotion than needs must, good future spouse, and always in a veil; for those eyes of thine are damned enemies to mortification. _mor._ the best thing i have heard of christendom is, that we women are allowed the privilege of having souls; and i assure you, i shall make bold to bestow mine upon some lover, whenever you begin to go astray; and, if i find no convenience in a church, a private chamber will serve the turn. _ant._ when that day comes, i must take my revenge, and turn gardener again; for i find i am much given to planting. _mor._ but take heed, in the mean time, that some young antonio does not spring up in your own family; as false as his father, though of another man's planting. _re-enter_ dorax, _with_ sebastian _and_ almeyda, sebastian _enters speaking to_ dorax, _while in the mean time_ antonio _presents_ morayma _to_ almeyda. _seb._ how fares our royal prisoner, muley-zeydan? _dor._ disposed to grant whatever i desire, to gain a crown, and freedom. well i know him, of easy temper, naturally good, and faithful to his word. _seb._ yet one thing wants, to fill the measure of my happiness; i'm still in pain for poor alvarez' life. _dor._ release that fear, the good old man is safe; i paid his ransom, and have already ordered his attendance. _seb._ o bid him enter, for i long to see him. _enter_ alvarez _with a servant, who departs when_ alvarez _is entered._ _alv._ now by my soul, and by these hoary hairs, [_falling down, and embracing the king's knees._ i'm so o'erwhelmed with pleasure, that i feel a latter spring within my withering limbs, that shoots me out again. _seb._ thou good old man, [_raising him._ thou hast deceived me into more, more joys, who stood brim-full before. _alv._ o my dear child,-- i love thee so, i cannot call thee king,-- whom i so oft have dandled in these arms! what, when i gave thee lost, to find thee living! 'tis like a father, who himself had 'scaped a falling house, and, after anxious search, hears from afar his only son within; and digs through rubbish, till he drags him out, to see the friendly light. such is my haste, so trembling is my joy, to draw thee forth from underneath thy fate. _seb._ the tempest is o'erblown, the skies are clear, and the sea charmed into a calm so still, that not a wrinkle ruffles her smooth face. _alv._ just such she shows before a rising storm; and therefore am i come with timely speed, to warn you into port. _alm._ my soul forebodes some dire event involved in those dark words, and just disclosing in a birth of fate. [_aside._ _alv._ is there not yet an heir of this vast empire, who still survives, of muley-moluch's branch? _dor._ yes, such a one there is a captive here, and brother to the dead. _alv._ the powers above be praised for that! my prayers for my good master, i hope, are heard. _seb._ thou hast a right in heaven. but why these prayers for me? _alv._ a door is open yet for your deliverance.-- now you, my countrymen, and you, almeyda, now all of us, and you, my all in one, may yet be happy in that captive's life. _seb._ we have him here an honourable hostage for terms of peace; what more he can contribute to make me blest, i know not. _ah._ vastly more; almeyda may be settled in the throne, and you review your native clime with fame. a firm alliance and eternal peace, the glorious crown of honourable war, are all included in that prince's life. let this fair queen be given to muley-zeydan, and make her love the sanction of your league. _seb._ no more of that; his life's in my dispose, and prisoners are not to insist on terms; or, if they were, yet he demands not these. _alv._ you should exact them. _alm._ better may be made, these cannot: i abhor the tyrant's race,-- my parents' murderers, my throne's usurpers. but, at one blow, to cut off all dispute, know this, thou busy, old, officious man,-- i am a christian; now be wise no more; or, if thou wouldst be still thought wise, be silent. _alv._ o, i perceive you think your interest touched: 'tis what before the battle i observed; but i must speak, and will. _seb._ i pr'ythee, peace; perhaps she thinks they are too near of blood. _alv._ i wish she may not wed to blood more near. _seb._ what if i make her mine? _alv._ now heaven forbid! _seb._ wish rather heaven may grant; for, if i could deserve, i have deserved her: my toils, my hazards, and my subjects' lives, provided she consent, may claim her love; and, that once granted, i appeal to these, if better i could chuse a beauteous bride. _ant._ the fairest of her sex. _mor._ the pride of nature. _dor._ he only merits her, she only him; so paired, so suited in their minds and persons, that they were framed the tallies for each other. if any alien love had interposed, it must have been an eye-sore to beholders, and to themselves a curse. _alv._ and to themselves the greatest curse that can be, were to join. _seb._ did not i love thee past a change to hate, that word had been thy ruin; but no more, i charge thee, on thy life, perverse old man! _alv._ know, sir, i would be silent if i durst: but if, on shipboard, i should see my friend grown frantic in a raging calenture, and he, imagining vain flowery fields, would headlong plunge himself into the deep,-- should i not hold him from that mad attempt, till his sick fancy were by reason cured? _seb._ i pardon thee the effects of doting age, vain doubts, and idle cares, and over-caution; the second nonage of a soul more wise, but now decayed, and sunk into the socket; peeping by fits, and giving feeble light. _alv._ have you forgot? _seb._ thou mean'st my father's will, in bar of marriage to almeyda's bed. thou seest my faculties are still entire, though thine are much impaired. i weighed that will, and found 'twas grounded on our different faiths; but, had he lived to see her happy change, he would have cancelled that harsh interdict, and joined our hands himself. _alv._ still had he lived and seen this change, he still had been the same. _seb._ i have a dark remembrance of my father: his reasonings and his actions both were just; and, granting that, he must have changed his measures. _alv._ yes, he was just, and therefore could not change. _seb._ 'tis a base wrong thou offer'st to the dead. _alv._ now heaven forbid, that i should blast his pious memory! no, i am tender of his holy fame; for, dying, he bequeathed it to my charge. believe, i am; and seek to know no more, but pay a blind obedience to his will; for, to preserve his fame, i would be silent. _seb._ crazed fool, who would'st be thought an oracle, come down from off the tripos, and speak plain. my father shall be justified, he shall: 'tis a son's part to rise in his defence, and to confound thy malice, or thy dotage. _alv._ it does not grieve me, that you hold me crazed; but, to be cleared at my dead master's cost, o there's the wound! but let me first adjure you, by all you owe that dear departed soul, no more to think of marriage with almeyda. _seb._ not heaven and earth combined can hinder it. _alv._ then witness heaven and earth, how loth i am to say, you must not, nay, you cannot, wed: and since not only a dead father's fame, but more, a lady's honour, must be touched, which, nice as ermines, will not bear a soil, let all retire, that you alone may hear what even in whispers i would tell your ear. [_all are going out._ _alm._ not one of you depart; i charge you, stay! and were my voice a trumpet loud as fame, to reach the round of heaven, and earth, and sea, all nations should be summoned to this place, so little do i fear that fellow's charge: so should my honour, like a rising swan, brush with her wings the falling drops away, and proudly plough the waves. _seb._ this noble pride becomes thy innocence; and i dare trust my father's memory, to stand the charge of that foul forging tongue. _alv._ it will be soon discovered if i forge. have you not heard your father in his youth, when newly married, travelled into spain, and made a long abode in philip's court? _seb._ why so remote a question, which thyself can answer to thyself? for thou wert with him, his favourite, as i oft have heard thee boast, and nearest to his soul. _alv._ too near, indeed; forgive me, gracious heaven, that ever i should boast i was so near, the confident of all his young amours!-- and have not you, unhappy beauty, heard, [_to alm._ have you not often heard, your exiled parents were refuged in that court, and at that time? _alm._ 'tis true; and often since my mother owned, how kind that prince was to espouse her cause; she counselled, nay enjoined me on her blessing, to seek the sanctuary of your court; which gave me first encouragement to come, and, with my brother, beg sebastian's aid. _seb._ thou helpst me well to justify my war: [_to alm._] my dying father swore me, then a boy, and made me kiss the cross upon his sword, never to sheath it, till that exiled queen were by my arms restored. _alm._ and can you find no mystery couched in this excess of kindness? were kings e'er known, in this degenerate age, so passionately fond of noble acts, where interest shared not more than half with honour? _seb._ base grovelling soul, who know'st not honour's worth, but weigh'st it out in mercenary scales! the secret pleasure of a generous act is the great mind's great bribe. _alv._ show me that king, and i'll believe the phoenix. but knock at your own breast, and ask your soul, if those fair fatal eyes edged not your sword more than your father's charge, and all your vows? if so,--and so your silence grants it is,-- know king, your father had, like you, a soul, and love is your inheritance from him. almeyda's mother, too, had eyes, like her, and not less charming; and were charmed no less than yours are now with her, and hers with you. _alm._ thou liest, impostor! perjured fiend, thou liest! _seb._ was't not enough to brand my father's fame, but thou must load a lady's memory? o infamous! o base, beyond repair! and to what end this ill-concerted lie, which palpable and gross, yet granted true, it bars not my inviolable vows? _alv._ take heed, and double not your father's crimes; to his adultery do not add your incest. know, she's the product of unlawful love, and 'tis your carnal sister you would wed. _seb._ thou shalt not say thou wer't condemned unheard; else, by my soul, this moment were thy last. _alm._ but think not oaths shall justify thy charge, nor imprecations on thy cursed head; for who dares lie to heaven, thinks heaven a jest. thou hast confessed thyself the conscious pandar of that pretended passion; a single witness infamously known, against two persons of unquestioned fame. _alv._ what interest can i have, or what delight, to blaze their shame, or to divulge my own? if proved, you hate me; if unproved, condemn. not racks or tortures could have forced this secret, but too much care to save you from a crime, which would have sunk you both. for, let me say, almeyda's beauty well deserves your love. _alm._ out, base impostor! i abhor thy praise. _dor._ it looks not like imposture; but a truth, on utmost need revealed. _seb._ did i expect from dorax this return? is this the love renewed? _dor._ sir, i am silent; pray heaven my fears prove false! _seb._ away! you all combine to make me wretched. _alv._ but hear the story of that fatal love, where every circumstance shall prove another; and truth so shine by her own native light, that, if a lie were mixt, it must be seen. _seb._ no; all may still be forged, and of a piece. no; i can credit nothing thou canst say. _alv._ one proof remains, and that's your father's hand, firmed with his signet; both so fully known, that plainer evidence can hardly be, unless his soul would want her heaven awhile, and come on earth to swear. _seb._ produce that writing. _alv._ [_to dorax._] alonzo has it in his custody; the same, which, when his nobleness redeemed me, and in a friendly visit owned himself for what he is, i then deposited, and had his faith to give it to the king. _dor._ untouched, and sealed, as when intrusted with me, [_giving a sealed paper to the king._ such i restore it with a trembling hand, lest aught within disturb your peace of soul. _seb._ draw near, almeyda; thou art most concerned, for i am most in thee.-- [_tearing open the seals._ alonzo, mark the characters; thou know'st my father's hand, observe it well; and if the impostor's pen have made one slip that shews it counterfeit, mark that, and save me. _dor._ it looks indeed too like my master's hand: so does the signet: more i cannot say; but wish 'twere not so like. _seb._ methinks it owns the black adultery, and almeyda's birth; but such a mist of grief comes o'er my eyes, i cannot, or i would not, read it plain. _alm._ heaven cannot be more true, than this is false. _seb._ o couldst thou prove it with the same assurance! speak, hast thou ever seen my father's hand? _alm._ no; but my mother's honour has been read by me, and by the world, in all her acts, in characters more plain and legible than this dumb evidence, this blotted lie.-- oh that i were a man, as my soul's one, to prove thee traitor, and assassinate of her fame! thus moved, i'd tear thee thus,-- [_tearing the paper._ and scatter o'er the field thy coward limbs, like this foul offspring of thy forging brain. [_scattering the paper._ _alv._ just so shalt thou be torn from all thy hopes; for know, proud woman, know, in thy despite, the most authentic proof is still behind,-- thou wear'st it on thy finger: 'tis that ring, which, matched to that on his, shall clear the doubt. 'tis no dumb forgery, for that shall speak, and sound a rattling peal to either's conscience. _seb._ this ring, indeed, my father, with a cold and shaking hand, just in the pangs of death, put on my finger, with a parting sigh; and would have, spoke, but faultered in his speech, with undistinguished sound. _alv._ i know it well, for i was present.--now, almeyda, speak, and truly tell us how you came by yours. _alm._ my mother, when i parted from her sight to go to portugal, bequeathed it to me, presaging she should never see me more. she pulled it from her finger, shed some tears, kissed it, and told me 'twas a pledge of love, and hid a mystery of great importance, relating to my fortunes. _alv._ mark me now, while i disclose that fatal mystery:-- those rings, when you were born and thought another's, your parents, glowing yet in sinful love, bid me bespeak: a curious artist wrought them. with joints so close, as not to be perceived, yet are they both each other's counterpart; her part had _juan_ inscribed, and his had _zayda_, (you know those names are theirs,) and in the midst a heart divided in two halves was placed. now, if the rivets of those rings inclosed fit not each other, i have forged this lie; but, if they join, you must for ever part. [sebastian _pulling off his ring,_ almeyda _does the same, and gives it to_ alvarez, _who unscrews both the rings, and fits one half to the other[ ]._ _seb._ now life, or death. _alm._ and either thine, or ours.-- i'm lost for ever. [_swoons. the women and_ morayma _take her up, and carry her off._ sebastian _here stands amazed without motion, his eyes fixed upward._ _seb._ look to the queen, my wife; for i am past all power of aid to her, or to myself. _alv._ his wife! said he, his wife! o fatal sound! for, had i known it, this unwelcome news had never reached their ears: so they had still been blest in ignorance, and i alone unhappy. _dor._ i knew it, but too late, and durst not speak. _seb._ [_starting out of his amazement._] i will not live, no not a moment more; i will not add one moment more to incest; i'll cut it off, and end a wretched being: for, should i live, my soul's so little mine, and so much hers, that i should still enjoy.-- ye cruel powers, take me, as you have made me, miserable; you cannot make me guilty; 'twas my fate, and you made that, not i. [_draws his sword._ antonio _and_ alvarez _lay hold on him, and_ dorax _wrests the sword out of his hand._ _ant._ for heaven's sake hold, and recollect your mind! _alv._ consider whom you punish, and for what; yourself unjustly; you have charged the fault on heaven, that best may bear it. though incest is indeed a deadly crime, you are not guilty, since unknown 'twas done, and, known, had been abhorred. _seb._ by heaven, you're traitors all, that hold my hands. if death be but cessation of our thought, then let me die, for i would think no more. i'll boast my innocence above, and let them see a soul they could not sully, i shall be there before my father's ghost, that yet must languish long in frosts and fires, for making me unhappy by his crime.-- stand oft, and let me take my fill of death; [_struggling again._ for i can hold my breath in your despite, and swell my heaving soul out when i please. _alv._ heaven comfort you! _seb._ what, art thou giving comfort! wouldst thou give comfort, who hast given despair? thou seest alonzo silent; he's a man. he knows, that men, abandoned of their hopes, should ask no leave, nor stay for sueing out a tedious writ of ease from lingering heaven, but help themselves as timely as they could, and teach the fates their duty. _dor._ [_to_ alv. _and_ ant.] let him go; he is our king, and he shall be obeyed. _alv._ what, to destroy himself? o parricide! _dor._ be not injurious in your foolish zeal, but leave him free; or, by my sword, i swear to hew that arm away, that stops the passage to his eternal rest. _ant._ [_letting go his hold._] let him be guilty of his own death, if he pleases; for i'll not be guilty of mine, by holding him. [_the king shakes off_ alv. _alv._ [_to_ dor.] infernal fiend, is this a subject's part? _dor._ 'tis a friend's office. he has convinced me, that he ought to die; and, rather than he should not, here's my sword, to help him on his journey. _seb._ my last, my only friend, how kind art thou, and how inhuman these! _dor._ to make the trifle, death, a thing of moment! _seb._ and not to weigh the important cause i had to rid myself of life! _dor._ true; for a crime so horrid, in the face of men and angels, as wilful incest is! _seb._ not wilful, neither. _dor._ yes, if you lived, and with repeated acts refreshed your sin, and loaded crimes with crimes, to swell your scores of guilt. _seb._ true; if i lived. _dor._ i said so, if you lived. _seb._ for hitherto was fatal ignorance, and no intended crime. _dor._ that you best know; but the malicious world will judge the worst. _alv._ o what a sophister has hell procured, to argue for damnation! _dor._ peace, old dotard. mankind, that always judge of kings with malice, will think he knew this incest, and pursued it. his only way to rectify mistakes, and to redeem her honour, is to die. _seb._ thou hast it right, my dear, my best alonzo! and that, but petty reparation too; but all i have to give. _dor._ your, pardon, sir; you may do more, and ought. _seb._ what, more than death? _dor._ death! why, that's children's sport; a stage-play death; we act it every night we go to bed. death, to a man in misery, is sleep. would you,--who perpetrated such a crime, as frightened nature, made the saints above shake heavens eternal pavement with their trembling to view that act,--would you but barely die? but stretch your limbs, and turn on t'other side. to lengthen out a black voluptuous slumber, and dream you had your sister in your arms? _seb._ to expiate this, can i do more than die? _dor._ o yes, you must do more, you must be damned; you must be damned to all eternity; and sure self-murder is the readiest way. _seb._ how, damned? _dor._ why, is that news? _alv._ o horror, horror! _dor._ what, thou a statesman, and make a business of damnation in such a world as this! why, 'tis a trade; the scrivener, usurer, lawyer, shopkeeper, and soldier, cannot live but by damnation. the politician does it by advance, and gives all gone beforehand. _seb._ o thou hast given me such a glimpse of hell, so pushed me forward, even to the brink of that irremeable burning gulph, that, looking in the abyss, i dare not leap. and now i see what good thou mean'st my soul, and thank thy pious fraud; thou hast indeed appeared a devil, but didst an angel's work. _dor._ 'twas the last remedy, to give you leisure; for, if you could but think, i knew you safe. _seb._ i thank thee, my alonzo; i will live, but never more to portugal return; for, to go back and reign, that were to show triumphant incest, and pollute the throne. _alv._ since ignorance-- _seb._ o, palliate not my wound; when you have argued all you can, 'tis incest. no, 'tis resolved: i charge you plead no more; i cannot live without almeyda's sight, nor can i see almeyda, but i sin. heaven has inspired me with a sacred thought, to live alone to heaven, and die to her. _dor._ mean you to turn an anchorite? _seb._ what else? the world was once too narrow for my mind, but one poor little nook will serve me now, to hide me from the rest of human kind. africk has deserts wide enough to hold millions of monsters; and i am, sure, the greatest. _alv._ you may repent, and wish your crown too late. _seb._ o never, never; i am past a boy: a sceptre's but a plaything, and a globe a bigger bounding stone. he, who can leave almeyda, may renounce the rest with ease. _dor._ o truly great! a soul fixed high, and capable of heaven. old as he is, your uncle cardinal is not so far enamoured of a cloister, but he will thank you for the crown you leave him. _seb._ to please him more, let him believe me dead, that he may never dream i may return. alonzo, i am now no more thy king, but still thy friend; and by that holy name adjure thee, to perform my last request;-- make our conditions with yon captive king; secure me but my solitary cell; 'tis all i ask him for a crown restored. _dor._ i will do more: but fear not muley-zeydan; his soft metal melts down with easy warmth, runs in the mould, and needs no further forge. [_exit_ dorax. _re-enter_ almeyda _led by_ morayma, _and followed by her attendants._ _seb._ see where she comes again! by heaven, when i behold those beauteous eyes, repentance lags, and sin comes hurrying on. _alm._ this is too cruel! _seb._ speak'st thou of love, of fortune, or of death, or double death? for we must part, almeyda. _alm._ i speak of all, for all things that belong to us are cruel; but, what's most cruel, we must love no more. o 'tis too much that i must never see you, but not to love you is impossible. no, i must love you; heaven may bate me that, and charge that sinful sympathy of souls upon our parents, when they loved too well. _seb._ good heaven, thou speak'st my thoughts, and i speak thine! nay, then there's incest in our very souls, for we were formed too like. _alm._ too like indeed, and yet not for each other. sure when we part, (for i resolved it too, though you proposed it first,) however distant, we shall be ever thinking of each other, and the same moment for each other pray. _seb._ but if a wish should come athwart our prayers! _alm._ it would do well to curb it, if we could. _seb._ we cannot look upon each other's face, but, when we read our love, we read our guilt: and yet, methinks, i cannot chuse but love. _aim._ i would have asked you, if i durst for shame, if still you loved? you gave it air before me. ah, why were we not born both of a sex? for then we might have loved without a crime. why was not i your brother? though that wish involved our parents' guilt, we had not parted; we had been friends, and friendship is no incest. _seb._ alas, i know not by what name to call thee! sister and wife are the two dearest names, and i would call thee both, and both are sin. unhappy we! that still we must confound the dearest names into a common curse. _alm._ to love, and be beloved, and yet be wretched! _seb._ to have but one poor night of all our lives; it was indeed a glorious, guilty night; so happy, that--forgive me, heaven!--i wish, with all its guilt, it were to come again. why did we know so soon, or why at all, that sin could be concealed in such a bliss? _alm._ men have a larger privilege of words, else i should speak; but we must part, sebastian,-- that's all the name that i have left to call thee;-- i must not call thee by the name i would; but when i say sebastian, dear sebastian, i kiss the name i speak. _seb._ we must make haste, or we shall never part. i would say something that's as dear as this; nay, would do more than say: one moment longer, and i should break through laws divine and human, and think them cobwebs spread for little man, which all the bulky herd of nature breaks. the vigorous young world was ignorant of these restrictions; 'tis decrepit now; not more devout, but more decayed, and cold.-- all this is impious, therefore we must part; for, gazing thus, i kindle at thy sight, and, once burnt down to tinder, light again much sooner than before. _re-enter_ dorax. _alm._ here comes the sad denouncer of my fate, to toll the mournful knell of separation; while i, as on my deathbed, hear the sound, that warns me hence for ever. _seb._ [_to_ dor.] now be brief, and i will try to listen, and share the minute, that remains, betwixt the care i owe my subjects, and my love. _dor._ your fate has gratified you all she can; gives easy misery, and makes exile pleasing. i trusted muley-zeydan as a friend, but swore him first to secrecy: he wept your fortune, and with tears not squeezed by art, but shed from nature, like a kindly shower: in short, he proffered more than i demanded; a safe retreat, a gentle solitude, unvexed with noise, and undisturbed with fears. i chose you one-- _alm._ o do not tell me where; for, if i knew the place of his abode, i should be tempted to pursue his steps, and then we both were lost. _seb._ even past redemption; for, if i knew thou wert on that design, (as i must know, because our souls are one,) i should not wander, but by sure instinct should meet thee just half-way in pilgrimage, and close for ever; for i know my love more strong than thine, and i more frail than thou. _alm._ tell me not that; for i must boast my crime, and cannot bear that thou should'st better love. _dor._ i may inform you both; for you must go, where seas, and winds, and deserts will divide you. under the ledge of atlas lies a cave, cut in the living rock by nature's hands, the venerable seat of holy hermits; who there, secure in separated cells, sacred even to the moors, enjoy devotion; and from the purling streams, and savage fruits. have wholesome beverage, and unbloody feasts. _seb._ 'tis penance too voluptuous for my crime[ ]. _dor._ your subjects, conscious of your life, are few; but all desirous to partake your exile, and to do office to your sacred person. the rest, who think you dead, shall be dismissed. under safe convoy, till they reach your fleet. _alm._ but how am wretched i to be disposed?-- a vain enquiry, since i leave my lord; for all the world beside is banishment. _dor._ i have a sister, abbess in terceras, who lost her lover on her bridal day. _alm._ there fate provided me a fellow-turtle, to mingle sighs with sighs, and tears with tears. _dor._ last, for myself, if i have well fulfilled my sad commission, let me beg the boon, to share the sorrows of your last recess, and mourn the common losses of our loves. _alv._ and what becomes of me? must i be left, as age and time had worn me out of use? these sinews are not yet so much unstrung, to fail me when my master should be served; and when they are, then will i steal to death, silent and unobserved, to save his tears. _seb._ i've heard you both;--alvarez, have thy wish;-- but thine, alonzo, thine is too unjust. i charge thee with my last commands, return, and bless thy violante with thy vows.-- antonio, be thou happy too in thine. last, let me swear you all to secrecy; and, to conceal my shame, conceal my life. _dor. ant. mor._ we swear to keep it secret. _alm._ now i would speak the last farewell, i cannot. it would be still farewell a thousand times; and, multiplied in echoes, still farewell. i will not speak, but think a thousand thousand. and be thou silent too, my last sebastian; so let us part in the dumb pomp of grief. my heart's too great, or i would die this moment; but death, i thank him, in an hour, has made a mighty journey, and i haste to meet him. [_she staggers, and her women hold her up._ _seb._ help to support this feeble drooping flower. this tender sweet, so shaken by the storm; for these fond arms must thus be stretched in vain, and never, never must embrace her more. 'tis past:--my soul goes in that word--farewell. [alvarez _goes with_ sebastian _to one end of the stage; women, with_ almeyda, _to the other:_ dorax _coming up to_ antonio _and_ morayma, _who stand on the middle of the stage._ _dor._ haste to attend almeyda:--for your sake your father is forgiven; but to antonio he forfeits half his wealth. be happy both; and let sebastian and almeyda's fate this dreadful sentence to the world relate,-- that unrepented crimes, of parents dead, are justly punished on their children's head. footnotes: . this whimsical account of the slave-market is probably taken from the following passage in the "captivity and escape of adam elliot, m.a."--"by sun-rising next morning, we were all of us, who came last to sallee, driven to market, where, the moors sitting taylor-wise on stalls round about, we were severally run up and down by persons who proclaimed our qualities or trades, and what might best recommend us to the buyer. i had a great black who was appointed to sell me; this fellow, holding me by the hand, coursed me up and down from one person to another, who called upon me at pleasure to examine what trade i was of, and to see what labour my hands had been accustomed to. all the seamen were soon bought up, but it was mid-day ere i could meet with a purchaser."--see _a modest vindication of titus oates_, london, . . the knight much wondered at his sudden wit; and said, the term of life is limited, ne may a man prolong nor shorten it; the soldier may not move from watchful sted, nor leave his stand until his captain bed. _fairy queen, book i. canto ._ . the same artifice is used in "oedipus," vol. vi. p. . to impress, by a description of the feelings of the unfortunate pair towards each other, a presentiment of their fatal relationship. the prophecy of nostradamus is also obviously imitated from the response of the delphic pythoness to oedipus.--_ibid. see_ p. . . for, interpreter; more usually spelled dragoman. . a horrid moorish punishment. the criminal was precipitated from a high tower upon iron scythes and hooks, which projected from its side. this scene settle introduces in one of his tragedies. . these presages of misfortune may remind the reader of the ominous feelings of the duke of guise, in the scene preceding his murder. the superstitious belief, that dejection of spirits, without cause, announces an impending violent death, is simply but well expressed in an old ballad called the "warning to all murderers:" and after this most bad pretence, the gentleman each day still felt his heart to throb and faint, and sad he was alway. his sleep was full of dreadful dreams, in bed where he did lie; his heart was heavy in the day, yet knew no reason why. and oft as he did sit at meat, his nose most suddenly would spring and gush out crimson blood, and straight it would be dry. . there is great art in rendering the interpretation of this ominous dream so ingeniously doubtful. the latter circumstance, where the emperor recognises his murderer as a personage in his vision, seems to be borrowed from the story of one of the caliphs, who, before his death, dreamed, that a sable hand and arm shook over his head a handful of red earth, and denounced, that such was the colour of the earth on which he should die. when taken ill on an expedition, he desired to know the colour of the earth on which his tent was pitched. a negro slave presented him with a specimen; and in the black's outstretched arm, bared, from respect, to the elbow, as well as in the colour of the earth, the caliph acknowledged the apparition he had seen in his sleep, and prepared for immediate death. . _et quum fata volunt, bina venena juvant._--ausonius. . idiots were anciently wards of the crown; and the custody of their person, and charge of their estate, was often granted to the suit of some favourite, where the extent of the latter rendered it an object of plunder. hence the common phrase of being _begged for a fool._ . this incident seems to be taken from the following passage in the _continuation of the adventures of don sebastian_. "in moran, an island some half league from venice, there is an abbot called capelo, a gentleman of venice, a grave personage, and of great authority, hearing that the king laid wait for certain jewels that he had lost, (hoping thereby to recover some of them,) having a diamond in his keeping with the arms of portugal, came to the town to the conventicles of st francis, called frari, where the king lay concealed, for that he was pursued by some that meant him no good, who no sooner beheld the ring, but he said, 'verily this is mine, and i either lost the same in flanders, or else it was stolen from me.' and when the king had put it upon his finger, it appeared otherwise engraven than before. the abbot enquiring of him that brought him the ring, how he came by it? he answered, it is true that the king hath said. hence arose a strange rumour of a ring, that, by turning the stone, you might discern three great letters engraven, s.r.p. as much as to say, _sebastianus rex portugallix."--harl. mis._ vol. v. p. . . it is said, in the pamphlets alluded to, that don sebastian, out of grief and shame for having fought against the advice of his generals, and lost the flower of his army, took the resolution of never returning to his country, but of burying himself in a hermitage; and that he resided for three years as an anchorite, on the top of a mountain in dalmatia. epilogue, spoken betwixt antonio and morayma _mor._ i quaked at heart, for fear the royal fashion should have seduced us two to separation: to be drawn in, against our own desire, poor i to be a nun, poor you, a friar. _ant._ i trembled, when the old man's hand was in, he would have proved we were too near of kin: discovering old intrigues of love, like t'other, } betwixt my father and thy sinful mother; } to make us sister turk and christian brother. } _mor._ excuse me there; that league should have been rather betwixt your mother and my mufti father; 'tis for my own and my relations' credit, your friends should bear the bastard, mine should get it. _ant._ suppose us two, almeyda and sebastian, with incest proved upon us-- _mor._ without question, their conscience was too queazy of digestion. _ant._ thou wouldst have kept the counsel of thy brother, and sinned, till we repented of each other. _mor._ beast as you are, on nature's laws to trample! 'twere fitter that we followed their example. and, since all marriage in repentance ends, 'tis good for us to part when we are friends. to save a maid's remorses and confusions, e'en leave me now before we try conclusions. _ant._ to copy their example, first make certain of one good hour, like theirs, before our parting; make a debauch, o'er night, of love and madness; and marry, when we wake, in sober sadness. _mor._ i'll follow no new sects of your inventing. one night might cost me nine long months repenting; first wed, and, if you find that life a fetter, die when you please; the sooner, sir, the better. my wealth would get me love ere i could ask it: oh! there's a strange temptation in the casket. all these young sharpers would my grace importune, and make me thundering votes of lives and fortune[ ]. footnote: . alluding to the addresses upon the revolution. * * * * * end of the seventh volume. edinburgh: printed by james ballantyne & co. the works of john dryden, now first collected _in eighteen volumes._ illustrated with notes, historical, critical, and explanatory; and a life of the author, by walter scott, esq. vol. vi. london: printed for william miller, albemarle street, by james ballantyne and co. edinburgh. . * * * * * contents of volume sixth. limberham, or the kind keeper, a comedy epistle dedicatory to lord vaughan oedipus, a tragedy preface troilus and cressida, or truth found too late, a tragedy epistle dedicatory to the earl of sunderland preface the spanish friar, or the double discovery epistle dedicatory to lord haughton * * * * * limberham; or, the kind keeper. a comedy. [greek: kên me phagês epi rhizan, homôs eti karpophorêsô. anthologia dentera.] _hic nuptarum insanit amoribus; hic meretricum: omnes hi metuunt versus; odere poetas._ horat. limberham. the extreme indelicacy of this play would, in the present times furnish ample and most just grounds for the unfavourable reception it met with from the public. but in the reign of charles ii. many plays were applauded, in which the painting is, at least, as coarse as that of dryden. "bellamira, or the mistress," a gross translation by sir charles sedley of terence's "eunuchus," had been often represented with the highest approbation. but the satire of dryden was rather accounted too personal, than too loose. the character of limberham has been supposed to represent lauderdale, whose age and uncouth figure rendered ridiculous his ungainly affectation of fashionable vices. mr malone intimates a suspicion, that shaftesbury was the person levelled at, whose lameness and infirmities made the satire equally poignant. in either supposition, a powerful and leading nobleman was offended, to whose party all seem to have drawn, whose loose conduct, in that loose age, exposed them to be duped like the hero of the play. it is a singular mark of the dissolute manners of those times, that an audience, to whom matrimonial infidelity was nightly held out, not only as the most venial of trespasses, but as a matter of triumphant applause, were unable to brook any ridicule, upon the mere transitory connection formed betwixt the keeper and his mistress. dryden had spared neither kind of union; and accordingly his opponents exclaimed, "that he lampooned the court, to oblige his friends in the city, and ridiculed the city, to secure a promising lord at court; exposed the kind keepers of covent garden, to please the cuckolds of cheapside; and drolled on the city do-littles, to tickle the covent-garden limberhams[ ]." even langbaine, relentless as he is in criticism, seems to have considered the condemnation of limberham as the vengeance of the faction ridiculed. "in this play, (which i take to be the best comedy of his) he so much exposed the keeping part of the town, that the play was stopt when it had but thrice appeared on the stage; but the author took a becoming care, that the things that offended on the stage, were either altered or omitted in the press. one of our modern writers, in a short satire against keeping, concludes thus: "dryden, good man, thought keepers to reclaim, writ a kind satire, call'd it limberham. this all the herd of letchers straight alarms; from charing-cross to bow was up in arms: they damn'd the play all at one fatal blow, and broke the glass, that did their picture show." mr malone mentions his having seen a ms. copy of this play, found by lord bolingbroke among the sweepings of pope's study, in which there occur several indecent passages, not to be found in the printed copy. these, doubtless, constituted the castrations, which, in obedience to the public voice, our author expunged from his play, after its condemnation. it is difficult to guess what could be the nature of the indecencies struck out, when we consider those which the poet deemed himself at liberty to retain. the reader will probably easily excuse any remarks upon this comedy. it is not absolutely without humour, but is so disgustingly coarse, as entirely to destroy that merit. langbaine, with his usual anxiety of research, traces back a few of the incidents to the novels of cinthio giraldi, and to those of some forgotten french authors. plays, even of this nature, being worth preservation, as containing genuine traces of the manners of the age in which they appear, i cannot but remark the promiscuous intercourse, which, in this comedy and others, is represented as taking place betwixt women of character, and those who made no pretensions to it. bellamira in sir charles sedley's play, and mrs tricksy in the following pages, are admitted into company with the modest female characters, without the least hint of exception or impropriety. such were actually the manners of charles the ii.d's time, where we find the mistresses of the king, and his brothers, familiar in the highest circles. it appears, from the evidence in the case of the duchess of norfolk for adultery, that nell gwyn was living with her grace in familiar habits; her society, doubtless, paving the way for the intrigue, by which the unfortunate lady lost her rank and reputation[ ]. it is always symptomatic of a total decay of morals, where female reputation neither confers dignity, nor excites pride, in its possessor; but is consistent with her mingling in the society of the libertine and the profligate. some of dryden's libellers draw an invidious comparison betwixt his own private life and this satire; and exhort him to be to vices, which he practised, kind. but of the injustice of this charge on dryden's character, we have spoken fully elsewhere. undoubtedly he had the licence of this, and his other dramatic writings, in his mind, when he wrote the following verses; where the impurity of the stage is traced to its radical source, the debauchery of the court: then courts of kings were held in high renown, ere made the common brothels of the town. there virgins honourable vows received, but chaste, as maids in monasteries, lived. the king himself, to nuptial rites a slave, no bad example to his poets gave; and they, not bad, but in a vicious age, had not, to please the prince, debauched the stage. _wife of bath's tale._ "limberham" was acted at the duke's theatre in dorset-garden; for, being a satire upon a court vice, it was deemed peculiarly calculated for that play-house. the concourse of the citizens thither is alluded to in the prologue to "marriage-a-la-mode." ravenscroft also, in his epilogue to the "citizen turned gentleman," acted at the same theatre, disowns the patronage of the courtiers who kept mistresses, probably because they constituted the minor part of his audience: from the court party we hope no success; our author is not one of the noblesse, that bravely does maintain his miss in town, whilst my great lady is with speed sent down, and forced in country mansion-house to fix. that miss may rattle here in coach-and-six. the stage for introducing "limberham" was therefore judiciously chosen, although the piece was ill received, and withdrawn after being only thrice represented. it was printed in . footnotes: . reasons for mr bayes changing his religion, p. . . see state trials, vol. viii. pp. , . to the right honourable john, lord vaughan, &c[ ]. my lord, i cannot easily excuse the printing of a play at so unseasonable a time[ ], when the great plot of the nation, like one of pharaoh's lean kine, has devoured its younger brethren of the stage. but however weak my defence might be for this, i am sure i should not need any to the world for my dedication to your lordship; and if you can pardon my presumption in it, that a bad poet should address himself to so great a judge of wit, i may hope at least to escape with the excuse of catullus, when he writ to cicero: _gratias tibi maximas catullus agit, pessimus omnium, poeta; tanto pessimus omnium poeta, quanto tu optimns omnium patronus._ i have seen an epistle of flecknoe's to a nobleman, who was by some extraordinary chance a scholar; (and you may please to take notice by the way, how natural the connection of thought is betwixt a bad poet and flecknoe) where he begins thus: _quatuordecim jam elapsi sunt anni,_ &c.; his latin, it seems, not holding out to the end of the sentence: but he endeavoured to tell his patron, betwixt two languages which he understood alike, that it was fourteen years since he had the happiness to know him. it is just so long, (and as happy be the omen of dulness to me, as it is to some clergymen and statesmen!) since your lordship has known, that there is a worse poet remaining in the world, than he of scandalous memory, who left it last[ ]. i might enlarge upon the subject with my author, and assure you, that i have served as long for you, as one of the patriarchs did for his old-testament mistress; but i leave those flourishes, when occasion shall serve, for a greater orator to use, and dare only tell you, that i never passed any part of my life with greater satisfaction or improvement to myself, than those years which i have lived in the honour of your lordship's acquaintance; if i may have only the time abated when the public service called you to another part of the world, which, in imitation of our florid speakers, i might (if i durst presume upon the expression) call the _parenthesis of my life_. that i have always honoured you, i suppose i need not tell you at this time of day; for you know i staid not to date my respects to you from that title which now you have, and to which you bring a greater addition by your merit, than you receive from it by the name; but i am proud to let others know, how long it is that i have been made happy by my knowledge of you; because i am sure it will give me a reputation with the present age, and with posterity. and now, my lord, i know you are afraid, lest i should take this occasion, which lies so fair for me, to acquaint the world with some of those excellencies which i have admired in you; but i have reasonably considered, that to acquaint the world, is a phrase of a malicious meaning; for it would imply, that the world were not already acquainted with them. you are so generally known to be above the meanness of my praises, that you have spared my evidence, and spoiled my compliment: should i take for my common places, your knowledge both of the old and the new philosophy; should i add to these your skill in mathematics and history; and yet farther, your being conversant with all the ancient authors of the greek and latin tongues, as well as with the modern--i should tell nothing new to mankind; for when i have once but named you, the world will anticipate all my commendations, and go faster before me than i can follow. be therefore secure, my lord, that your own fame has freed itself from the danger of a panegyric; and only give me leave to tell you, that i value the candour of your nature, and that one character of friendliness, and, if i may have leave to call it, kindness in you, before all those other which make you considerable in the nation[ ]. some few of our nobility are learned, and therefore i will not conclude an absolute contradiction in the terms of nobleman and scholar; but as the world goes now, 'tis very hard to predicate one upon the other; and 'tis yet more difficult to prove, that a nobleman can be a friend to poetry. were it not for two or three instances in whitehall, and in the town, the poets of this age would find so little encouragement for their labours, and so few understanders, that they might have leisure to turn pamphleteers, and augment the number of those abominable scribblers, who, in this time of licence, abuse the press, almost every day, with nonsense, and railing against the government. it remains, my lord, that i should give you some account of this comedy, which you have never seen; because it was written and acted in your absence, at your government of jamaica. it was intended for an honest satire against our crying sin of _keeping_; how it would have succeeded, i can but guess, for it was permitted to be acted only thrice. the crime, for which it suffered, was that which is objected against the satires of juvenal, and the epigrams of catullus, that it expressed too much of the vice which it decried. your lordship knows what answer was returned by the elder of those poets, whom i last mentioned, to his accusers: _--castum esse decet pium poetam ipsum. versiculos nihil necesse est: qui tum denique habent salem ac leporem si sint molliculi et parum pudici._ but i dare not make that apology for myself; and therefore have taken a becoming care, that those things which offended on the stage, might be either altered, or omitted in the press; for their authority is, and shall be, ever sacred to me, as much absent as present, and in all alterations of their fortune, who for those reasons have stopped its farther appearance on the theatre. and whatsoever hindrance it has been to me in point of profit, many of my friends can bear me witness, that i have not once murmured against that decree. the same fortune once happened to moliere, on the occasion of his "tartuffe;" which, notwithstanding, afterwards has seen the light, in a country more bigot than ours, and is accounted amongst the best pieces of that poet. i will be bold enough to say, that this comedy is of the first rank of those which i have written, and that posterity will be of my opinion. it has nothing of particular satire in it; for whatsoever may have been pretended by some critics in the town, i may safely and solemnly affirm, that no one character has been drawn from any single man; and that i have known so many of the same humour, in every folly which is here exposed, as may serve to warrant it from a particular reflection. it was printed in my absence from the town, this summer, much against my expectation; otherwise i had over-looked the press, and been yet more careful, that neither my friends should have had the least occasion of unkindness against me, nor my enemies of upbraiding me; but if it live to a second impression, i will faithfully perform what has been wanting in this. in the mean time, my lord, i recommend it to your protection, and beg i may keep still that place in your favour which i have hitherto enjoyed; and which i shall reckon as one of the greatest blessings which can befall, my lord, your lordship's most obedient, faithful servant, john dryden. footnotes: . john, lord vaughan, was the eldest surviving son of richard, earl of carbery, to which title he afterwards succeeded. he was a man of literature, and president of the royal society from to . dryden was distinguished by his patronage as far back as , being fourteen years before the acting of this play. lord vaughan had thus the honour of discovering and admiring the poet's genius, before the public applause had fixed his fame; and, probably better deserved the panegyric here bestowed, than was usual among dryden's patrons. he wrote a recommendatory copy of verses, which are prefixed to "the conquest of granada." mr malone informs us, that this accomplished nobleman died at chelsea, on th january, - . . the great popish plot, that scene of mystery and blood, broke out in august . . flecknoe was a roman catholic priest, very much addicted to scribbling verses. his name has been chiefly preserved by our author's satire of "mack-flecknoe;" in which he has depicted shadwell, as the literary son and heir of this wretched poetaster. a few farther particulars concerning him may be found prefixed to that poem. flecknoe, from this dedication, appears to have been just deceased. the particular passage referred to has not been discovered; even langbaine had never seen it: but mr malone points out a letter of flecknoe to the cardinal barberini, whereof the first sentence is in latin, and the next in english. our author, in an uncommon strain of self-depreciation, or rather to give a neat turn to his sentence, has avouched himself to be a worse poet than flecknoe. but expressions of modesty in a dedication, like those of panegyric, are not to be understood literally. as in the latter, dryden often strains a note beyond _ela_, so, on the present occasion, he has certainly sounded the very base string of humility. poor flecknoe, indeed, seems to have become proverbial, as the worst of poets. the earl of dorset thus begins a satire on edward howard: those damned antipodes to common sense, those toils to flecknoe, pr'ythee, tell me whence does all this mighty mass of dulness spring, which in such loads thou to the stage dost bring? . there is a very flat and prosaic imitation of this sentiment in the duke of buckingham's lines to pope: and yet so wondrous, so sublime a thing as the great iliad, scarce could make me sing; except i justly could at once commend a good companion, and as firm a friend; one moral, or a mere well-natured deed, does all desert in sciences exceed. thus prose may be humbled, as well as exalted; into poetry. prologue. true wit has seen its best days long ago; it ne'er looked up, since we were dipt in show; when sense in doggrel rhimes and clouds was lost, and dulness flourished at the actor's cost. nor stopt it here; when tragedy was done, satire and humour the same fate have run, and comedy is sunk to trick and pun. now our machining lumber will not sell, and you no longer care for heaven or hell; what stuff will please you next, the lord can tell. let them, who the rebellion first began to wit, restore the monarch, if they can; our author dares not be the first bold man. he, like the prudent citizen, takes care, to keep for better marts his staple ware; his toys are good enough for sturbridge fair. tricks were the fashion; if it now be spent, 'tis time enough at easter, to invent; no man will make up a new suit for lent. if now and then he takes a small pretence, to forage for a little wit and sense, pray pardon him, he meant you no offence. next summer, nostradamus tells, they say, that all the critics shall be shipped away, and not enow be left to damn a play. to every sail beside, good heaven, be kind; but drive away that swarm with such a wind, that not one locust may be left behind! dramatis personÆ aldo, _an honest, good-natured, free-hearted old gentleman of the town._ woodall, _his son, under a false name; bred abroad, and now returned from travel._ limberham, _a tame, foolish keeper, persuaded by what is last said to him, and changing next word._ brainsick, _a husband, who, being well conceited of himself, despises his wife: vehement and eloquent, as he thinks; but indeed a talker of nonsense._ gervase, woodall's _man: formal, and apt to give good counsel._ giles, woodall's _cast servant._ mrs saintly, _an hypocritical fanatic, landlady of the boarding-house._ mrs tricksy, _a termagant kept mistress._ mrs pleasance, _supposed daughter to_ mrs saintly: _spiteful and satirical; but secretly in love with_ woodall. mrs brainsick. judith, _a maid of the house._ scene--_a boarding-house in town._ limberham; or, the kind keeper. act i. scene i.--_an open garden-house; a table in it, and chairs._ _enter_ woodall _and_ gervase. _wood._ bid the footman receive the trunks and portmantua; and see them placed in the lodgings you have taken for me, while i walk a turn here in the garden. _gerv._ it is already ordered, sir. but they are like to stay in the outer-room, till the mistress of the house return from morning exercise. _wood._ what, she's gone to the parish church, it seems, to her devotions! _gerv._ no, sir; the servants have informed me, that she rises every morning, and goes to a private meeting-house; where they pray for the government, and practise against the authority of it. _wood._ and hast thou trepanned me into a tabernacle of the godly? is this pious boarding-house a place for me, thou wicked varlet? _gerv._ according to human appearance, i must confess, it is neither fit for you, nor you for it; but have patience, sir; matters are not so bad as they may seem. there are pious bawdy-houses in the world, or conventicles would not be so much frequented. neither is it impossible, but a devout fanatic landlady of a boarding-house may be a bawd. _wood._ ay, to those of her own church, i grant you, gervase; but i am none of those. _gerv._ if i were worthy to read you a lecture in the mystery of wickedness, i would instruct you first in the art of seeming holiness: but, heaven be thanked, you have a toward and pregnant genius to vice, and need not any man's instruction; and i am too good, i thank my stars, for the vile employment of a pimp. _wood._ then thou art even too good for me; a worse man will serve my turn. _gerv._ i call your conscience to witness, how often i have given you wholesome counsel; how often i have said to you, with tears in my eyes, master, or master aldo-- _wood._ mr woodall, you rogue! that is my _nomme de guerre._ you know i have laid by aldo, for fear that name should bring me to the notice of my father. _gerv._ cry you mercy, good mr woodall. how often have i said,--into what courses do you run! your father sent you into france at twelve years old; bred you up at paris, first in a college, and then at an academy: at the first, instead of running through a course of philosophy, you ran through all the bawdy-houses in town: at the latter, instead of managing the great horse, you exercised on your master's wife. what you did in germany, i know not; but that you beat them all at their own weapon, drinking, and have brought home a goblet of plate from munster, for the prize of swallowing a gallon of rhenish more than the bishop. _wood._ gervase, thou shalt be my chronicler; thou losest none of my heroic actions. _gerv._ what a comfort are you like to prove to your good old father! you have run a campaigning among the french these last three years, without his leave; and now he sends for you back, to settle you in the world, and marry you to the heiress of a rich gentleman, of whom he had the guardianship, yet you do not make your application to him. _wood._ pr'ythee, no more. _gerv._ you are come over, have been in town above a week _incognito_, haunting play-houses, and other places, which for modesty i name not; and have changed your name from aldo to woodall, for fear of being discovered to him: you have not so much as inquired where he is lodged, though you know he is most commonly in london: and lastly, you have discharged my honest fellow-servant giles, because-- _wood._ because he was too saucy, and was ever offering to give me counsel: mark that, and tremble at his destiny. _gerv._ i know the reason why i am kept; because you cannot be discovered by my means; for you took me up in france, and your father knows me not. _wood._ i must have a ramble in the town: when i have spent my money, i will grow dutiful, see my father, and ask for more. in the mean time, i have beheld a handsome woman at a play, i am fallen in love with her, and have found her easy: thou, i thank thee, hast traced her to her lodging in this boarding-house, and hither i am come, to accomplish my design. _gerv._ well, heaven mend all. i hear our landlady's voice without; [_noise._] and therefore shall defer my counsel to a fitter season. _wood._ not a syllable of counsel: the next grave sentence, thou marchest after giles. woodall's my name; remember that. _enter mrs_ saintly. is this the lady of the house? _gerv._ yes, mr woodall, for want of a better, as she will tell you. _wood._ she has a notable smack with her! i believe zeal first taught the art of kissing close. [_saluting her._ _saint._ you are welcome, gentleman. woodall is your name? _wood._ i call myself so. _saint._ you look like a sober discreet gentleman; there is grace in your countenance. _wood._ some sprinklings of it, madam: we must not boast. _saint._ verily, boasting is of an evil principle. _wood._ faith, madam-- _saint._ no swearing, i beseech you. of what church are you? _wood._ why, of covent-garden church, i think. _gerv._ how lewdly and ignorantly he answers! [_aside_] she means, of what religion are you? _wood._ o, does she so?--why, i am of your religion, be it what it will; i warrant it a right one: i'll not stand with you for a trifle; presbyterian, independent, anabaptist, they are all of them too good for us, unless we had the grace to follow them. _saint._ i see you are ignorant; but verily, you are a new vessel, and i may season you. i hope you do not use the parish-church. _wood._ faith, madam--cry you mercy; (i forgot again) i have been in england but five days. _saint._ i find a certain motion within me to this young man, and must secure him to myself, ere he see my lodgers. [_aside._]--o, seriously, i had forgotten; your trunk and portmantua are standing in the hall; your lodgings are ready, and your man may place them, if he please, while you and i confer together. _wood._ go, gervase, and do as you are directed. [_exit_ ger. _saint._ in the first place, you must know, we are a company of ourselves, and expect you should live conformably and lovingly amongst us. _wood._ there you have hit me. i am the most loving soul, and shall be conformable to all of you. _saint._ and to me especially. then, i hope, you are no keeper of late hours. _wood._ no, no, my hours are very early; betwixt three and four in the morning, commonly. _saint._ that must be amended; but, to remedy the inconvenience, i will myself sit up for you. i hope, you would not offer violence to me? _wood._ i think i should not, if i were sober. _saint._ then, if you were overtaken, and should offer violence, and i consent not, you may do your filthy part, and i am blameless. _wood._ [_aside._] i think the devil's in her; she has given me the hint again.--well, it shall go hard, but i will offer violence sometimes; will that content you? _saint._ i have a cup of cordial water in my closet, which will help to strengthen nature, and to carry off a debauch: i do not invite you thither; but the house will be safe a-bed, and scandal will be avoided. _wood._ hang scandal; i am above it at those times. _saint._ but scandal is the greatest part of the offence; you must be secret. and i must warn you of another thing; there are, besides myself, two more young women in my house. _wood._ [_aside._] that, besides herself, is a cooling card.--pray, how young are they? _saint._ about my age: some eighteen, or twenty, or thereabouts. _wood._ oh, very good! two more young women besides yourself, and both handsome? _saint._ no, verily, they are painted outsides; you must not cast your eyes upon them, nor listen to their conversation: you are already chosen for a better work. _wood._ i warrant you, let me alone: i am chosen, i. _saint._ they are a couple of alluring wanton minxes. _wood._ are they very alluring, say you? very wanton? _saint._ you appear exalted, when i mention those pit-falls of iniquity. _wood._ who, i exalted? good faith, i am as sober, a melancholy poor soul!-- _saint._ i see this abominable sin of swearing is rooted in you. tear it out; oh, tear it out! it will destroy your precious soul. _wood._ i find we two shall scarce agree: i must not come to your closet when i have got a bottle; for, at such a time, i am horribly given to it. _saint._ verily, a little swearing may be then allowable: you may swear you love me, it is a lawful oath; but then, you must not look on harlots. _wood._ i must wheedle her, and whet my courage first on her; as a good musician always preludes before a tune. come, here is my first oath. [_embracing her._ _enter_ aldo. _aldo._ how now, mrs saintly! what work have we here towards? _wood._ [_aside._] aldo, my own natural father, as i live! i remember the lines of that hide-bound face: does he lodge here? if he should know me, i am ruined. _saint._ curse on his coming! he has disturbed us. [_aside._] well, young gentleman, i shall take a time to instruct you better. _wood._ you shall find me an apt scholar. _saint._ i must go abroad upon some business; but remember your promise, to carry yourself soberly, and without scandal in my family; and so i leave you to this gentleman, who is a member of it. [_exit_ saint. _aldo._ [_aside._] before george, a proper fellow, and a swinger he should be, by his make! the rogue would humble a whore, i warrant him.--you are welcome, sir, amongst us; most heartily welcome, as i may say. _wood._ all's well: he knows me not.--sir, your civility is obliging to a stranger, and may befriend me, in the acquaintance of our fellow-lodgers. _aldo._ hold you there, sir: i must first understand you a little better; and yet, methinks, you should be true to love. _wood._ drinking and wenching are but slips of youth: i had those two good qualities from my father. _aldo._ thou, boy! aha, boy! a true trojan, i warrant thee! [_hugging him._] well, i say no more; but you are lighted into such a family, such food for concupiscence, such _bona roba's_! _wood._ one i know, indeed; a wife: but _bona roba's_, say you? _aldo._ i say, _bona roba's_, in the plural number. _wood._ why, what a turk mahomet shall i be! no, i will not make myself drunk with the conceit of so much joy: the fortune's too great for mortal man; and i a poor unworthy sinner. _aldo._ would i lie to my friend? am i a man? am i a christian? there is that wife you mentioned, a delicate little wheedling devil, with such an appearance of simplicity; and with that, she does so undermine, so fool her conceited husband, that he despises her! _wood._ just ripe for horns: his destiny, like a turk's, is written in his forehead.[ ] _aldo._ peace, peace! thou art yet ordained for greater things. there is another, too, a kept mistress, a brave strapping jade, a two-handed whore! _wood._ a kept mistress, too! my bowels yearn to her already: she is certain prize. _aldo._ but this lady is so termagant an empress! and he is so submissive, so tame, so led a keeper, and as proud of his slavery as a frenchman. i am confident he dares not find her false, for fear of a quarrel with her; because he is sure to be at the charges of the war. she knows he cannot live without her, and therefore seeks occasions of falling out, to make him purchase peace. i believe she is now aiming at a settlement. _wood._ might not i ask you one civil question? how pass you your time in this noble family? for i find you are a lover of the game, and i should be loth to hunt in your purlieus. _aldo._ i must first tell you something of my condition. i am here a friend to all of them; i am their _factotum_, do all their business; for, not to boast, sir, i am a man of general acquaintance: there is no news in town, either foreign or domestic, but i have it first; no mortgage of lands, no sale of houses, but i have a finger in them. _wood._ then, i suppose, you are a gainer by your pains. _aldo._ no, i do all _gratis_, and am most commonly a loser; only a buck sometimes from this good lord, or that good lady in the country: and i eat it not alone, i must have company. _wood._ pray, what company do you invite? _aldo._ peace, peace, i am coming to you: why, you must know i am tender-natured; and if any unhappy difference have arisen betwixt a mistress and her gallant, then i strike in, to do good offices betwixt them; and, at my own proper charges, conclude the quarrel with a reconciling supper. _wood._ i find the ladies of pleasure are beholden to you. _aldo._ before george, i love the poor little devils. i am indeed a father to them, and so they call me: i give them my counsel, and assist them with my purse. i cannot see a pretty sinner hurried to prison by the land-pirates, but nature works, and i must bail her; or want a supper, but i have a couple of crammed chickens, a cream tart, and a bottle of wine to offer her. _wood._ sure you expect some kindness in return. _aldo._ faith, not much: nature in me is at low water-mark; my body's a jade, and tires under me; yet i love to smuggle still in a corner; pat them down, and pur over them; but, after that, i can do them little harm. _wood._ then i'm acquainted with your business: you would be a kind of deputy-fumbler under me. _aldo._ you have me right. be you the lion, to devour the prey; i am your jackall, to provide it for you: there will be a bone for me to pick. _wood._ your humility becomes your age. for my part, i am vigorous, and throw at all. _aldo._ as right as if i had begot thee! wilt thou give me leave to call thee son? _wood._ with all my heart. _aldo._ ha, mad son! _wood._ mad daddy! _aldo._ your man told me, you were just returned from travel: what parts have you last visited? _wood._ i came from france. _aldo._ then, perhaps, you may have known an ungracious boy of mine there. _wood._ like enough: pray, what's his name? _aldo._ george aldo. _wood._ i must confess i do know the gentleman; satisfy yourself, he's in health, and upon his return. _aldo._ that's some comfort: but, i hear, a very rogue, a lewd young fellow. _wood._ the worst i know of him is, that he loves a wench; and that good quality he has not stolen. [_music at the balcony over head: mrs_ tricksy _and_ judith _appear._]--hark! there's music above. _aldo._ 'tis at my daughter tricksy's lodging; the kept mistress i told you of, the lass of mettle. but for all she carries it so high, i know her pedigree; her mother's a sempstress in dog-and-bitch yard, and was, in her youth, as right as she is. _wood._ then she's a two-piled punk, a punk of two descents. _aldo._ and her father, the famous cobler, who taught walsingham to the black-birds. how stand thy affections to her, thou lusty rogue? _wood._ all on fire: a most urging creature! _aldo._ peace! they are beginning. a song. i. _'gainst keepers we petition, who would inclose the common: 'tis enough to raise sedition in the free-born subject, woman. because for his gold, i my body have sold, he thinks i'm a slave for my life; he rants, domineers, he swaggers and swears, and would keep me as bare as his wife._ ii. _'gainst keepers we petition, &c. 'tis honest and fair, that a feast i prepare; but when his dull appetite's o'er, i'll treat with the rest some welcomer guest, for the reckoning was paid me before._ _wood._ a song against keepers! this makes well for us lusty lovers. _trick._ [_above._] father, father aldo! _aldo._ daughter tricksy, are you there, child? your friends at barnet are all well, and your dear master limberham, that noble hephestion, is returning with them. _trick._ and you are come upon the spur before, to acquaint me with the news. _aldo._ well, thou art the happiest rogue in a kind keeper! he drank thy health five times, _supernaculum_,[ ] to my son brain-sick; and dipt my daughter pleasance's little finger, to make it go down more glibly:[ ] and, before george, i grew tory rory, as they say, and strained a brimmer through the lily-white smock, i'faith. _trick._ you will never leave these fumbling tricks, father, till you are taken up on suspicion of manhood, and have a bastard laid at your door: i am sure you would own it, for your credit. _aldo._ before george, i should not see it starve, for the mother's sake: for, if she were a punk, she was good-natured, i warrant her. _wood._ [_aside._] well, if ever son was blest with a hopeful father, i am. _trick._ who is that gentleman with you? _aldo._ a young _monsieur_ returned from travel; a lusty young rogue; a true-milled whoremaster, with the right stamp. he is a fellow-lodger, incorporate in our society: for whose sake he came hither, let him tell you. _wood._ [_aside._] are you gloating already? then there's hopes, i'faith. _trick._ you seem to know him, father. _aldo._ know him! from his cradle--what's your name? _wood._ woodall. _ald._ woodall of woodall; i knew his father; we were contemporaries, and fellow-wenchers in our youth. _wood._ [_aside._] my honest father stumbles into truth, in spite of lying. _trick._ i was just coming down to the garden-house, before you came. [tricksy _descends._ _aldo._ i am sorry i cannot stay to present my son, woodall, to you; but i have set you together, that's enough for me. [_exit._ _wood._ [_alone._] 'twas my study to avoid my father, and i have run full into his mouth: and yet i have a strong hank upon him too; for i am privy to as many of his virtues, as he is of mine. after all, if i had an ounce of discretion left, i should pursue this business no farther: but two fine women in a house! well, it is resolved, come what will on it, thou art answerable for all my sins, old aldo-- _enter_ tricksy, _with a box of essences._ here she comes, this heir-apparent of a sempstress, and a cobler! and yet, as she's adorned, she looks like any princess of the blood. [_salutes her._ _trick._ [_aside._] what a difference there is between this gentleman, and my feeble keeper, mr limberham! he's to my wish, if he would but make the least advances to me.--father aldo tells me, sir, you are a traveller: what adventures have you had in foreign countries? _wood._ i have no adventures of my own, can deserve your curiosity; but, now i think on it, i can tell you one that happened to a french cavalier, a friend of mine, at tripoli. _trick._ no wars, i beseech you: i am so weary of father aldo's loraine and crequi. _wood._ then this is as you would desire it, a love-adventure. this french gentleman was made a slave to the dey of tripoli; by his good qualities, gained his master's favour; and after, by corrupting an eunuch, was brought into the seraglio privately, to see the dey's mistress. _trick._ this is somewhat; proceed, sweet sir. _wood._ he was so much amazed, when he first beheld her leaning over a balcony, that he scarcely dared to lift his eyes, or speak to her. _trick._ [_aside._] i find him now.--but what followed of this dumb interview? _wood._ the nymph was gracious, and came down to him; but with so goddess-like a presence, that the poor gentleman was thunder-struck again. _trick._ that savoured little of the monsieur's gallantry, especially when the lady gave him encouragement. _wood_ the gentleman was not so dull, but he understood the favour, and was presuming enough to try if she were mortal. he advanced with more assurance, and took her fair hands: was he not too bold, madam? and would not you have drawn back yours, had you been in the sultana's place? _trick._ if the sultana liked him well enough to come down into the garden to him, i suppose she came not thither to gather nosegays. _wood._ give me leave, madam, to thank you, in my friend's behalf, for your favourable judgment. [_kisses her hand._] he kissed her hand with an exceeding transport; and finding that she prest his at the same instant, he proceeded with a greater eagerness to her lips--but, madam, the story would be without life, unless you give me leave to act the circumstances. [_kisses her._ _trick._ well, i'll swear you are the most natural historian! _wood._ but now, madam, my heart beats with joy, when i come to tell you the sweetest part of his adventure: opportunity was favourable, and love was on his side; he told her, the chamber was more private, and a fitter scene for pleasure. then, looking on her eyes, he found them languishing; he saw her cheeks blushing, and heard her voice faultering in a half-denial: he seized her hand with an amorous ecstacy, and-- [_takes her hand._ _trick._ hold, sir, you act your part too far. your friend was unconscionable, if he desired more favours at the first interview. _wood._ he both desired and obtained them, madam, and so will-- _trick._ [_a noise within._] heavens! i hear mr limberham's voice: he's returned from barnet. _wood._ i'll avoid him. _trick._ that's impossible; he'll meet you. let me think a moment:--mrs saintly is abroad, and cannot discover you: have any of the servants seen you? _wood._ none. _trick._ then you shall pass for my italian merchant of essences: here's a little box of them just ready. _wood._ but i speak no italian; only a few broken scraps, which i picked from scaramouch and harlequin at paris. _trick._ you must venture that: when we are rid of limberham, 'tis but slipping into your chamber, throwing off your black perriwig, and riding suit, and you come out an englishman. no more; he's here. _enter_ limberham. _limb._ why, how now, pug? nay, i must lay you over the lips, to take hansel of them, for my welcome. _trick._ [_putting him back._] foh! how you smell of sweat, dear! _limb._ i have put myself into this same unsavoury heat, out of my violent affection to see thee, pug. before george, as father aldo says, i could not live without thee; thou art the purest bed-fellow, though i say it, that i did nothing but dream of thee all night; and then i was so troublesome to father aldo, (for you must know he and i were lodged together) that, in my conscience, i did so kiss him, and so hug him in my sleep! _trick._ i dare be sworn 'twas in your sleep; for, when you are waking, you are the most honest, quiet bed-fellow, that ever lay by woman. _limb._ well, pug, all shall be amended; i am come home on purpose to pay old debts. but who is that same fellow there? what makes he in our territories? _trick._ you oaf you, do you not perceive it is the italian seignior, who is come to sell me essences? _limb._ is this the seignior? i warrant you, it is he the lampoon was made on. [_sings the tune of seignior, and ends with,_ ho, ho. _trick._ pr'ythee leave thy foppery, that we may have done with him. he asks an unreasonable price, and we cannot agree. here, seignior, take your trinkets, and be gone. _wood._ [_taking the box._] _a dio, seigniora._ _limb._ hold, pray stay a little, seignior; a thing is come into my head of the sudden. _trick._ what would you have, you eternal sot? the man's in haste. _limb._ but why should you be in your frumps, pug, when i design only to oblige you? i must present you with this box of essences; nothing can be too dear for thee. _trick._ pray let him go, he understands no english. _limb._ then how could you drive a bargain with him, pug? _trick._ why, by signs, you coxcomb. _limb._ very good! then i'll first pull him by the sleeve, that's a sign to stay. look you, mr seignior, i would make a present of your essences to this lady; for i find i cannot speak too plain to you, because you understand no english. be not you refractory now, but take ready money: that's a rule. _wood._ _seignioro, non intendo inglese._ _limb._ this is a very dull fellow! he says, he does not intend english. how much shall i offer him, pug? _trick._ if you will present me, i have bidden him ten guineas. _limb._ and, before george, you bid him fair. look you, mr seignior, i will give you all these. , , , , , , , , , and . do you see, seignior? _wood._ _seignior, si._ _limb._ lo' you there, pug, he does see. here, will you take me at my word? _wood._ [_shrugging up_] _troppo poco, troppo poco._ _limb._ _a poco, a poco!_ why a pox on you too, an' you go to that. stay, now i think on't, i can tickle him up with french; he'll understand that sure. _monsieur, voulez vous prendre ces dix guinees, pour ces essences? mon foy c'est assez._ _wood._ _chi vala, amici: ho di casa! taratapa, taratapa, eus, matou, meau!_--[_to her._] i am at the end of my italian; what will become of me? _trick._ [_to him._] speak any thing, and make it pass for italian; but be sure you take his money. _wood._ _seignior, io non canno takare ten guinneo possibilmentè; 'tis to my losso._ _limb._ that is, pug, he cannot possibly take ten guineas, 'tis to his loss: now i understand him; this is almost english. _trick._ english! away, you fop: 'tis a kind of _lingua franca_, as i have heard the merchants call it; a certain compound language, made up of all tongues, that passes through the levant. _limb._ this _lingua_, what you call it, is the most rarest language! i understand it as well as if it were english; you shall see me answer him: _seignioro, stay a littlo, and consider wello, ten guinnio is monyo, a very considerablo summo._ _trick._ come, you shall make it twelve, and he shall take it for my sake. _limb._ then, _seignioro,_ for _pugsakio, addo two moro: je vous donne bon advise: prenez vitement: prenez me à mon mot._ _wood._ _io losero multo; ma pergagnare il vestro costumo, datemi hansello._ _limb._ there is both _hansello_ and _guinnio; tako, tako,_ and so good-morrow. _trick._ good-morrow, seignior; i like your spirits very well; pray let me have all your essence you can spare. _limb._ come, _puggio,_ and let us retire in _secreto_, like lovers, into our _chambro_; for i grow _impatiento--bon matin, monsieur, bon matin et bon jour._ [_exeunt_ limberham _and_ tricksy. _wood._ well, get thee gone, 'squire limberhamo, for the easiest fool i ever knew, next my naunt of fairies in the alchemist[ ]. i have escaped, thanks to my mistress's _lingua frança_: i'll steal to my chamber, shift my perriwig and clothes; and then, with the help of resty gervase, concert the business of the next campaign. my father sticks in my stomach still; but i am resolved to be woodall with him, and aldo with the women. [_exit._ act ii. scene i. _enter_ woodall _and_ gervase. _wood._ hitherto, sweet gervase, we have carried matters swimmingly. i have danced in a net before my father, almost check-mated the keeper, retired to my chamber undiscovered, shifted my habit, and am come out an absolute monsieur, to allure the ladies. how sits my _chedreux_? _gerv._ o very finely! with the locks combed down, like a mermaid's on a sign-post. well, you think now your father may live in the same house with you till doomsday, and never find you; or, when he has found you, he will be kind enough not to consider what a property you have made of him. my employment is at an end; you have got a better pimp, thanks to your filial reverence. _wood._ pr'ythee, what should a man do with such a father, but use him thus? besides, he does journey-work under me; 'tis his humour to fumble, and my duty to provide for his old age. _gerv._ take my advice yet; down o' your marrow bones, and ask forgiveness; espouse the wife he has provided for you; lie by the side of a wholesome woman, and procreate your own progeny in the fear of heaven. _wood._ i have no vocation to it, gervase: a man of sense is not made for marriage; 'tis a game, which none but dull plodding fellows can play at well; and 'tis as natural to them, as crimp is to a dutchman. _gerv._ think on't, however, sir; debauchery is upon its last legs in england: witty men began the fashion, and now the fops are got into it, 'tis time to leave it. _enter_ aldo. _aldo._ son woodall, thou vigorous young rogue, i congratulate thy good fortune; thy man has told me the adventure of the italian merchant. _wood._ well, they are now retired together, like rinaldo and armida, to private dalliance; but we shall find a time to separate their loves, and strike in betwixt them, daddy. but i hear there's another lady in the house, my landlady's fair daughter; how came you to leave her out of your catalogue? _aldo._ she's pretty, i confess, but most damnably honest; have a care of her, i warn you, for she's prying and malicious. _wood._ a twang of the mother; but i love to graff on such a crab-tree; she may bear good fruit another year. _aldo._ no, no, avoid her; i warrant thee, young alexander, i will provide thee more worlds to conquer. _gerv._ [_aside._] my old master would fain pass for philip of macedon, when he is little better than sir pandarus of troy. _wood._ if you get this keeper out of doors, father, and give me but an opportunity-- _aldo._ trust my diligence; i will smoke him out, as they do bees, but i will make him leave his honey-comb. _gerv._ [_aside._] if i had a thousand sons, none of the race of the gervases should ever be educated by thee, thou vile old satan! _aldo._ away, boy! fix thy arms, and whet, like the lusty german boys, before a charge: he shall bolt immediately. _wood._ o, fear not the vigorous five-and-twenty. _aldo._ hold, a word first: thou saidst my son was shortly to come over. _wood._ so he told me. _aldo._ thou art my bosom friend. _gerv._ [_aside._] of an hour's acquaintance. _aldo._ be sure thou dost not discover my frailties to the young scoundrel: 'twere enough to make the boy my master. i must keep up the dignity of old age with him. _wood._ keep but your own counsel, father; for whatever he knows, must come from you. _aldo._ the truth on't is, i sent for him over; partly to have married him, and partly because his villainous bills came so thick upon me, that i grew weary of the charge. _gerv._ he spared for nothing; he laid it on, sir, as i have heard. _wood._ peace, you lying rogue!--believe me, sir, bating his necessary expences of women, which i know you would not have him want, in all things else, he was the best manager of your allowance; and, though i say it-- _gerv._ [_aside._] that should not say it. _wood._ the most hopeful young gentleman in paris. _aldo._ report speaks otherwise; and, before george, i shall read him a wormwood lecture, when i see him. but, hark, i hear the door unlock; the lovers are coming out: i'll stay here, to wheedle him abroad; but you must vanish. _wood._ like night and the moon, in the maid's tragedy: i into mist; you into day[ ]. [_exeunt_ wood. _and_ ger. scene _changes to_ limberham's _apartment._ _enter_ limberham _and_ tricksy. _limb._ nay, but dear sweet honey pug, forgive me but this once: it may be any man's case, when his desires are too vehement. _trick._ let me alone; i care not. _limb._ but then thou wilt not love me, pug. _aldo._ how now, son limberham? there's no quarrel towards, i hope. _trick._ you had best tell now, and make yourself ridiculous. _limb._ she's in passion: pray do you moderate this matter, father aldo. _trick._ father aldo! i wonder you are not ashamed to call him so; you may be his father, if the truth were known. _aldo._ before george, i smell a rat, son limberham. i doubt, i doubt, here has been some great omission in love affairs. _limb._ i think all the stars in heaven have conspired my ruin. i'll look in my almanack.--as i hope for mercy, 'tis cross day now. _trick._ hang your pitiful excuses. 'tis well known what offers i have had, and what fortunes i might have made with others, like a fool as i was, to throw away my youth and beauty upon you. i could have had a young handsome lord, that offered me my coach and six; besides many a good knight and gentleman, that would have parted with their own ladies, and have settled half they had upon me. _limb._ ay, you said so. _trick._ i said so, sir! who am i? is not my word as good as yours? _limb._ as mine gentlewoman? though i say it, my word will go for thousands. _trick._ the more shame for you, that you have done no more for me: but i am resolved i'll not lose my time with you; i'll part. _limb._ do, who cares? go to dog-and-bitch yard, and help your mother to make footmen's shirts. _trick._ i defy you, slanderer; i defy you. _aldo._ nay, dear daughter! _limb._ i defy her too. _aldo._ nay, good son! _trick._ let me alone: i'll have him cudgelled by my footman. _enter_ saintly. _saint._ bless us! what's here to do? my neighbours will think i keep a nest of unclean birds here. _limb._ you had best peach now, and make her house be thought a bawdy-house! _trick._ no, no: while you are in it, you will secure it from that scandal.--hark hither, mrs saintly. [_whispers._] _limb._ do, tell, tell, no matter for that. _saint._ who would have imagined you had been such a kind of man, mr limberham! o heaven, o heaven! [_exit._ _limb._ so, now you have spit your venom, and the storm's over. _aldo._ [_crying._] that i should ever live to see this day! _trick._ to show i can live honest, in spite of all mankind, i'll go into a nunnery, and that is my resolution. _limb._ do not hinder her, good father aldo; i am sure she will come back from france, before she gets half way over to calais. _aldo._ nay, but son limberham, this must not be. a word in private;--you will never get such another woman, for love nor money. do but look upon her; she is a mistress for an emperor. _limb._ let her be a mistress for a pope, like a whore of babylon, as she is. _aldo._ would i were worthy to be a young man, for her sake! she should eat pearls, if she would have them. _limb._ she can digest them, and gold too. let me tell you, father aldo, she has the stomach of an ostrich. _aldo._ daughter tricksy, a word with you. _trick._ i'll hear nothing: i am for a nunnery. _aldo._ i never saw a woman, before you, but first or last she would be brought to reason. hark you, child, you will scarcely find so kind a keeper. what if he has some impediment one way? every body is not a hercules. you shall have my son woodall, to supply his wants; but, as long as he maintains you, be ruled by him that bears the purse. limberham singing. _i my own jailor was; my only foe, who did my liberty forego; i was a prisoner, because i would be so._ _aldo._ why, look you now, son limberham, is this a song to be sung at such a time, when i am labouring your reconcilement? come, daughter tricksy, you must be ruled; i'll be the peace-maker. _trick._ no, i'm just going. _limb._ the devil take me, if i call you back. _trick._ and his dam take me, if i return, except you do. _aldo._ so, now you will part, for a mere punctilio! turn to him, daughter: speak to her, son: why should you be so refractory both, to bring my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave? _limb._ i'll not be forsworn, i swore first; _trick._ thou art a forsworn man, however; for thou sworest to love me eternally. _limb._ yes, i was such a fool, to swear so. _aldo._ and will you have that dreadful oath lie gnawing on your conscience? _trick._ let him be damned; and so farewell for ever.--[_going._] _limb._ pug! _trick._ did you call, mr limberham? _limb._ it may be, ay; it may be, no. _trick._ well, i am going to the nunnery; but, to shew i am in charity, i'll pray for you. _aldo._ pray for him! fy, daughter, fy; is that an answer for a christian? _limb._ what did pug say? will she pray for me? well, to shew i am in charity, she shall not pray for me. come back, pug. but did i ever think thou couldst have been so unkind to have parted with me? [_cries._ _aldo._ look you, daughter, see how nature works in him. _limb._ i'll settle two hundred a-year upon thee, because thou said'st thou would'st pray for me. _aldo._ before george, son limberham, you will spoil all, if you underbid so. come, down with your dust, man: what, shew a base mind, when a fair lady's in question! _limb._ well, if i must give three hundred-- _trick._ no, it is no matter; my thoughts are on a better place. _aldo._ come, there is no better place than little london. you shall not part for a trifle. what, son limberham! four hundred a year is a square sum, and you shall give it. _limb._ it is a round sum indeed; i wish a three-cornered sum would have served her turn.--why should you be so pervicacious now, pug? pray take three hundred. nay, rather than part, pug, it shall be so.-- [_she frowns._] _aldo._ it shall be so, it shall be so: come, now buss, and seal the bargain. _trick._ [_kissing him._] you see what a good natured fool i am, mr limberham, to come back into a wicked world, for love of you.--you will see the writings drawn, father? _aldo._ ay; and pay the lawyer too. why, this is as it should be! i'll be at the charge of the reconciling supper.--[_to her aside._] daughter, my son woodall is waiting for you.--come away, son limberham to the temple. _limb._ with all my heart, while she is in a good humour: it would cost me another hundred, if i should stay till pug were in wrath again. adieu, sweet pug.--[_exeunt_ aldo, _and_ limb.] _trick._ that he should be so silly to imagine i would go into a nunnery! it is likely; i have much nun's flesh about me. but here comes my gentleman. _enter_ woodall, _not seeing her._ _wood._ now the wife's returned, and the daughter too, and i have seen them both, and am more distracted than before: i would enjoy all, and have not yet determined with which i should begin. it is but a kind of clergy-covetousness in me, to desire so many; if i stand gaping after pluralities, one of them is in danger to be made a _sine cure_--[_sees her._] o, fortune has determined for me. it is just here, as it is in the world; the mistress will be served before the wife. _trick._ how now, sir, are you rehearsing your _lingua franca_ by yourself, that you walk so pensively? _wood._ no faith, madam, i was thinking of the fair lady, who, at parting, bespoke so cunningly of me all my essences. _trick._ but there are other beauties in the house; and i should be impatient of a rival: for i am apt to be partial to myself, and think i deserve to be preferred before them. _wood._ your beauty will allow of no competition; and i am sure my love could make none. _trick._ yes, you have seen mrs brainsick; she's a beauty. _wood._ you mean, i suppose, the peaking creature, the married woman, with a sideling look, as if one cheek carried more bias than the other? _trick._ yes, and with a high nose, as visible as a land-mark. _wood._ with one cheek blue, the other red; just like the covering of lambeth palace. _trick._ nay, but her legs, if you could see them-- _wood._ she was so foolish to wear short petticoats, and show them. they are pillars, gross enough to support a larger building; of the tuscan order, by my troth. _trick._ and her little head, upon that long neck, shows like a traitor's skull upon a pole. then, for her wit-- _wood._ she can have none: there's not room enough for a thought to play in. _trick._ i think indeed i may safely trust you with such charms; and you have pleased me with your description of her. _wood._ i wish you would give me leave to please you better. but you transact as gravely with me as a spaniard; and are losing love, as he does flanders: you consider and demur, when the monarch is up in arms, and at your gates[ ]. _trick._ but to yield upon the first summons, ere you have laid a formal siege--to-morrow may prove a luckier day to you. _wood._ believe me, madam, lovers are not to trust to-morrow. love may die upon our hands, or opportunity be wanting; 'tis best securing the present hour. _trick._ no, love's like fruit; it must have time to ripen on the tree; if it be green gathered, 'twill but wither afterwards. _wood._ rather 'tis like gun powder; that which fires quickest, is commonly the strongest.--by this burning kiss-- _trick._ you lovers are such froward children, ever crying for the breast; and, when you have once had it, fall fast asleep in the nurse's arms. and with what face should i look upon my keeper after it? _wood._ with the same face that all mistresses look upon theirs. come, come. _trick._ but my reputation! _wood._ nay, that's no argument, if i should be so base to tell; for women get good fortunes now-a-days, by losing their credit, as a cunning citizen does by breaking. _trick._ but, i'm so shame-faced! well, i'll go in, and hide my blushes. [_exit._ _wood._ i'll not be long after you; for i think i have hidden my blushes where i shall never find them. _re-enter_ tricksy. _trick._ as i live, mr limberham and father aldo are just returned; i saw them entering. my settlement will miscarry, if you are found here: what shall we do? _wood._ go you into your bed-chamber, and leave me to my fortune. _trick._ that you should be so dull! their suspicion will be as strong still: for what should make you here? _wood._ the curse on't is too, i bid my man tell the family i was gone abroad; so that, if i am seen, you are infallibly discovered. [_noise._ _trick._ hark, i hear them! here's a chest which i borrowed of mrs pleasance; get quickly into it, and i will lock you up: there's nothing in't but clothes of limberham's, and a box of writings. _wood._ i shall be smothered. _trick._ make haste, for heaven's sake; they'll quickly be gone, and then-- _wood._ that _then_ will make a man venture any thing. [_he goes in, and she locks the chest._ _enter_ limberham _and_ aldo. _limb._ dost thou not wonder to see me come again so quickly, pug? _trick._ no, i am prepared for any foolish freak of yours: i knew you would have a qualm, when you came to settlement. _limb._ your settlement depends most absolutely on that chest. _trick._ father aldo, a word with you, for heaven's sake. _aldo._ no, no, i'll not whisper. do not stand in your own light, but produce the keys, daughter. _limb._ be not musty, my pretty st peter, but produce the keys. i must have the writings out, that concern thy settlement. _trick._ now i see you are so reasonable, i'll show you i dare trust your honesty; the settlement shall be deferred till another day. _aldo._ no deferring in these cases, daughter. _trick._ but i have lost the keys. _limb._ that's a jest! let me feel in thy pocket, for i must oblige thee. _trick._ you shall feel no where: i have felt already and am sure they are lost. _aldo._ but feel again, the lawyer stays. _trick._ well, to satisfy you, i will feel.--they are not here--nor here neither. [_she pulls out her handkerchief, and the keys drop after it:_ limberham _takes them up._ _limb._ look you now, pug! who's in the right? well, thou art born to be a lucky pug, in spite of thyself. _trick_ [_aside._] o, i am ruined!--one word, i beseech you, father aldo. _aldo._ not a syllable. what the devil's in you, daughter? open, son, open. _trick._ [_aloud._] it shall not be opened; i will have my will, though i lose my settlement. would i were within the chest! i would hold it down, to spite you. i say again, would i were within the chest, i would hold it so fast, you should not open it.--the best on't is, there's good inkle on the top of the inside, if he have the wit to lay hold on't. [_aside._ _limb._ [_going to open it._] before george, i think you have the devil in a string, pug; i cannot open it, for the guts of me. _hictius doctius!_ what's here to do? i believe, in my conscience, pug can conjure: marry, god bless us all good christians! _aldo._ push hard, son. _limb._ i cannot push; i was never good at pushing. when i push, i think the devil pushes too. well, i must let it alone, for i am a fumbler. here, take the keys, pug. _trick._ [_aside._] then all's safe again. _enter_ judith _and_ gervase. _jud._ madam, mrs pleasance has sent for the chest you borrowed of her. she has present occasion for it; and has desired us to carry it away. _limb._ well, that's but reason: if she must have it, she must have it. _trick_ tell her, it shall be returned some time to-day; at present we must crave her pardon, because we have some writings in it, which must first be taken out, when we can open it. _limb._ nay, that's but reason too: then she must not have it. _gerv._ let me come to't; i'll break it open, and you may take out your writings. _limb._ that's true: 'tis but reasonable it should be broken open. _trick._ then i may be bound to make good the loss. _limb._ 'tis unreasonable it should be broken open. _aldo._ before george, gervase and i will carry it away; and a smith shall be sent for to my daughter pleasance's chamber, to open it without damage. _limb._ why, who says against it? let it be carried; i'm all for reason. _trick._ hold; i say it shall not stir. _aldo._ what? every one must have their own; _fiat justitia, aut ruat mundus._ _limb._ ay, _fiat justitia,_ pug: she must have her own; for _justitia_ is latin for justice. [aldo _and_ gerv. _lift at it._ _aldo._ i think the devil's in't. _gerv._ there's somewhat bounces, like him, in't. 'tis plaguy heavy; but we'll take t'other heave. _trick._ [_taking hold of the chest._] then you shall carry me too. help, murder, murder! [_a confused gabbling among them._ _enter mrs_ saintly. _saint._ verily, i think all hell's broke loose among you. what, a schism in my family! does this become the purity of my house? what will the ungodly say? _limb._ no matter for the ungodly; this is all among ourselves: for, look you, the business is this. mrs pleasance has sent for this same business here, which she lent to pug; now pug has some private businesses within this business, which she would take out first, and the business will not be opened: and this makes all the business. _saint._ verily, i am raised up for a judge amongst you; and i say-- _trick._ i'll have no judge: it shall not go. _aldo._ why son, why daughter, why mrs saintly; are you all mad? hear me, i am sober, i am discreet; let a smith be sent for hither, let him break open the chest; let the things contained be taken out, and the thing containing be restored. _limb._ now hear me too, for i am sober and discreet; father aldo is an oracle: it shall be so. _trick._ well, to show i am reasonable, i am content. mr gervase and i will fetch an instrument from the next smith; in the mean time, let the chest remain where it now stands, and let every one depart the chamber. _limb._ that no violence be offered to the person of the chest, in pug's absence. _aldo._ then this matter is composed. _trick._ [_aside._] now i shall have leisure to instruct his man, and set him free, without discovery. come, mr gervase. [_exeunt all but_ saintly. _saint._ there is a certain motion put into my mind, and it is of good. i have keys here, which a precious brother, a devout blacksmith, made me, and which will open any lock of the same bore. verily, it can be no sin to unlock this chest therewith, and take from thence the spoils of the ungodly. i will satisfy my conscience, by giving part thereof to the hungry and the needy; some to our pastor, that he may prove it lawful; and some i will sanctify to my own use. [_she unlocks the chest, and_ woodall _starts up._ _wood._ let me embrace you, my dear deliverer! bless us! is it you, mrs saintly? [_she shrieks._ _saint._ [_shrieking._] heaven of his mercy! stop thief, stop thief! _wood._ what will become of me now? _saint._ according to thy wickedness, shall it be done unto thee. have i discovered thy backslidings, thou unfaithful man! thy treachery to me shall be rewarded, verily; for i will testify against thee. _wood._ nay, since you are so revengeful, you shall suffer your part of the disgrace; if you testify against me for adultery, i shall testify against you for theft: there's an eighth for your seventh. [_noise._ _saint._ verily, they are approaching: return to my embraces, and it shall be forgiven thee. _wood._ thank you, for your own sake. hark! they are coming! cry thief again, and help to save all yet. _saint._ stop thief, stop thief! _wood._ thank you for your own sake; but i fear 'tis too late. _enter_ tricksy _and_ limberham. _trick._ [_entering._] the chest open, and woodall discovered! i am ruined. _limb._ why all this shrieking, mrs saintly? _wood._ [_rushing him down._] stop thief, stop thief! cry you mercy, gentleman, if i have hurt you. _limb._ [_rising._] 'tis a fine time to cry a man mercy, when you have beaten his wind out of his body. _saint._ as i watched the chest, behold a vision rushed out of it, on the sudden; and i lifted up my voice, and shrieked. _limb._ a vision, landlady! what, have we gog and magog in our chamber? _trick._ a thief, i warrant you, who had gotten into the chest. _wood._ most certainly a thief; for, hearing my landlady cry out, i flew from my chamber to her help, and met him running down stairs, and then he turned back to the balcony, and leapt into the street. _limb._ i thought, indeed, that something held down the chest, when i would have opened it:--but my writings are there still, that's one comfort.--oh seignioro, are you here? _wood._ do you speak to me, sir? _saint._ this is mr woodall, your new fellow-lodger. _limb._ cry you mercy, sir; i durst have sworn you could have spoken _lingua franca_--i thought, in my conscience, pug, this had been thy italian _merchanto_. _wood._ sir, i see you mistake me for some other: i should be happy to be better known to you. _limb._ sir, i beg your pardon, with all my _hearto_. before george, i was caught again there! but you are so very like a paltry fellow, who came to sell pug essences this morning, that one would swear those eyes, and that nose and mouth, belonged to that rascal. _wood._ you must pardon me, sir, if i do not much relish the close of your compliment. _trick._ their eyes are nothing like:--you'll have a quarrel. _limb._ not very like, i confess. _trick._ their nose and mouth are quite different. _limb._ as pug says, they are quite different, indeed; but i durst have sworn it had been he; and, therefore, once again, i demand your _pardono_. _trick._ come, let us go down; by this time gervase has brought the smith, and then mrs pleasance may have her chest. please you, sir, to bear us company. _wood._ at your service, madam. _limb._ pray lead the way, sir. _wood._ 'tis against my will, sir; but i must leave you in possession. [_exeunt._ act iii.--scene i. _enter_ saintly _and_ pleasance. _pleas._ never fear it, i'll be a spy upon his actions; he shall neither whisper nor gloat on either of them, but i'll ring him such a peal! _saint._ above all things, have a care of him yourself; for surely there is witchcraft betwixt his lips: he is a wolf within the sheepfold; and therefore i will be earnest, that you may not fall. [_exit._ _pleas._ why should my mother be so inquisitive about this lodger? i half suspect old eve herself has a mind to be nibbling at the pippin. he makes love to one of them, i am confident; it may be to both; for, methinks, i should have done so, if i had been a man; but the damned petticoats have perverted me to honesty, and therefore i have a grudge to him for the privilege of his sex. he shuns me, too, and that vexes me; for, though i would deny him, i scorn he should not think me worth a civil question. _re-enter_ woodall, _with_ tricksy, mrs brainsick, judith, _and music._ _mrs brain._ come, your works, your works; they shall have the approbation of mrs pleasance. _trick._ no more apologies; give judith the words, she sings at sight. _jud._ i'll try my skill. a song from the italian. _by a dismal cypress lying, damon cried, all pale and dying,-- kind is death, that ends my pain, but cruel she i loved in vain. the mossy fountains murmur my trouble, and hollow mountains my groans redouble: every nymph mourns me, thus while i languish; she only scorns me, who caused my anguish. no love returning me, but all hope denying; by a dismal cypress lying, like a swan, so sung he dying,-- kind is death, that ends my pain, but cruel she i loved in vain._ _pleas._ by these languishing eyes, and those _simagres_ of yours, we are given to understand, sir, you have a mistress in this company; come, make a free discovery which of them your poetry is to charm, and put the other out of pain. _trick._ no doubt 'twas meant to mrs brainsick. _mrs brain._ we wives are despicable creatures; we know it, madam, when a mistress is in presence. _pleas._ why this ceremony betwixt you? 'tis a likely proper fellow, and looks as he could people a new isle of pines[ ]. _mrs brain._ 'twere a work of charity to convert a fair young schismatick, like you, if 'twere but to gain you to a better opinion of the government. _pleas._ if i am not mistaken in you, too, he has works of charity enough upon his hands already; but 'tis a willing soul, i'll warrant him, eager upon the quarry, and as sharp as a governor of covent-garden. _wood._ sure this is not the phrase of your family! i thought to have found a sanctified sister; but i suspect now, madam, that if your mother kept a pension in your father's time, there might be some gentleman-lodger in the house; for i humbly conceive you are of the half-strain at least. _pleas._ for all the rudeness of your language, i am resolved to know upon what voyage you are bound; your privateer of love, you argier's man, that cruize up and down for prize in the straitsmouth; which of the vessels would you snap now? _trick._ we are both under safe convoy, madam; a lover and a husband. _pleas._ nay, for your part, you are notably guarded, i confess; but keepers have their rooks, as well as gamesters; but they only venture under them till they pick up a sum, and then push for themselves. _wood._ [_aside._] a plague of her suspicions; they'll ruin me on that side. _pleas._ so; let but little minx go proud, and the dogs in covent-garden have her in the wind immediately; all pursue the scent. _trick._ not to a boarding-house, i hope? _pleas._ if they were wise, they would rather go to a brothel-house; for there most mistresses have left behind them their maiden-heads, of blessed memory: and those, which would not go off in that market, are carried about by bawds, and sold at doors, like stale flesh in baskets. then, for your honesty, or justness, as you call it, to your keepers, your kept-mistress is originally a punk; and let the cat be changed into a lady never so formally, she still retains her natural property of mousing. _mrs. brain._ you are very sharp upon the mistresses; but i hope you'll spare the wives. _pleas._ yes, as much as your husbands do after the first month of marriage; but you requite their negligence in household-duties, by making them husbands of the first head, ere the year be over. _wood._ [_aside._] she has me there, too! _pleas._ and as for you, young gallant-- _wood._ hold, i beseech you! a truce for me. _pleas._ in troth, i pity you; for you have undertaken a most difficult task,--to cozen two women, who are no babies in their art: if you bring it about, you perform as much as he that cheated the very lottery. _wood._ ladies, i am sorry this should happen to you for my sake: she is in a raging fit, you see; 'tis best withdrawing, till the spirit of prophecy has left her. _trick._ i'll take shelter in my chamber,--whither, i hope, he'll have the grace to follow me. [_aside._ _mrs brain._ and now i think on't, i have some letters to dispatch. [_exit_ trick. _and_ mrs brain. _severally._ _pleas._ now, good john among the maids, how mean you to bestow your time? away to your study, i advise you; invoke your muses, and make madrigals upon absence. _wood._ i would go to china, or japan, to be rid of that impetuous clack of yours. farewell, thou legion of tongues in one woman! _pleas._ will you not stay, sir? it may be i have a little business with you. _wood._ yes, the second part of the same tune! strike by yourself, sweet larum; you're true bell-metal i warrant you. [_exit._ _pleas._ this spitefulness of mine will be my ruin: to rail them off, was well enough; but to talk him away, too! o tongue, tongue, thou wert given for a curse to all our sex! _enter_ judith. _jud._ madam, your mother would speak with you. _pleas._ i will not come; i'm mad, i think; i come immediately. well, i'll go in, and vent my passion, by railing at them, and him too. [_exit._ _jud._ you may enter in safety, sir; the enemy's marched off. _re-enter_ woodall. _wood._ nothing, but the love i bear thy mistress, could keep me in the house with such a fury. when will the bright nymph appear? _jud._ immediately; i hear her coming. _wood._ that i could find her coming, mrs judith! _enter_ mrs brainsick. you have made me languish in expectation, madam. was it nothing, do you think, to be so near a happiness, with violent desires, and to be delayed? _mrs brain._ is it nothing, do you think, for a woman of honour, to overcome the ties of virtue and reputation; to do that for you, which i thought i should never have ventured for the sake of any man? _wood._ but my comfort is, that love has overcome. your honour is, in other words, but your good repute; and 'tis my part to take care of that: for the fountain of a woman's honour is in the lover, as that of the subject is in the king. _mrs brain._ you had concluded well, if you had been my husband: you know where our subjection lies. _wood._ but cannot i be yours without a priest? they were cunning people, doubtless, who began that trade; to have a double hank upon us, for two worlds: that no pleasure here, or hereafter, should be had, without a bribe to them. _mrs brain._ well, i'm resolved, i'll read, against the next time i see you; for the truth is, i am not very well prepared with arguments for marriage; meanwhile, farewell. _wood._ i stand corrected; you have reason indeed to go, if i can use my time no better: we'll withdraw if you please, and dispute the rest within. _mrs brain._ perhaps, i meant not so. _wood,_ i understand your meaning at your eyes. you'll watch, judith? _mrs brain._ nay, if that were all, i expect not my husband till to-morrow. the truth is, he is so oddly humoured, that, if i were ill inclined, it would half justify a woman; he's such a kind of man! _wood._ or, if he be not, well make him such a kind of man. _mrs brain._ so fantastical, so musical, his talk all rapture, and half nonsense: like a clock out of order, set him a-going, and he strikes eternally. besides, he thinks me such a fool, that i could half resolve to revenge myself, in justification of my wit. _wood._ come, come, no half resolutions among lovers; i'll hear no more of him, till i have revenged you fully. go out and watch, judith. [_exit_ judith. _mrs brain._ yet, i could say, in my defence, that my friends married me to him against my will. _wood._ then let us put your friends, too, into the quarrel: it shall go hard, but i'll give you a revenge for them. _enter_ judith _again, hastily._ how now? what's the matter? _mrs brain._ can'st thou not speak? hast thou seen a ghost?--as i live, she signs horns! that must be for my husband: he's returned. [judith _looks ghastly, and signs horns._ _jud._ i would have told you so, if i could have spoken for fear. _mrs brain._ hark, a knocking! what shall we do? [_knocking._ there's no dallying in this case: here you must not be found, that's certain; but judith hath a chamber within mine; haste quickly thither; i'll secure the rest. _jud._ follow me, sir. [_exeunt_ woodall, judith. _knocking again. she opens: enter_ brainsick. _brain._ what's the matter, gentlewoman? am i excluded from my own fortress; and by the way of barricado? am i to dance attendance at the door, as if i were some base plebeian groom? i'll have you know, that, when my foot assaults, the lightning and the thunder are not so terrible as the strokes: brazen gates shall tremble, and bolts of adamant dismount from off their hinges, to admit me. _mrs brain._ who would have thought, that 'nown dear would have come so soon? i was even lying down on my bed, and dreaming of him. tum a' me, and buss, poor dear; piddee buss. _brain._ i nauseate these foolish feats of love. _mrs brain._ nay, but why should he be so fretful now? and knows i dote on him? to leave a poor dear so long without him, and then come home in an angry humour! indeed i'll ky. _brain._ pr'ythee, leave thy fulsome fondness; i have surfeited on conjugal embraces. _mrs brain._ i thought so: some light huswife has bewitched him from me: i was a little fool, so i was, to leave a dear behind at barnet, when i knew the women would run mad for him. _brain._ i have a luscious air forming, like a pallas, in my brain-pain: and now thou com'st across my fancy, to disturb the rich ideas, with the yellow jaundice of thy jealousy. [_noise within._ hark, what noise is that within, about judith's bed? _mrs brain._ i believe, dear, she's making it.--would the fool would go! [_aside._ _brain._ hark, again! _mrs brain._ [_aside_] i have a dismal apprehension in my head, that he's giving my maid a cast of his office, in my stead. o, how it stings me! [woodall _sneezes._ _brain._ i'll enter, and find the reason of this tumult. _mrs brain._ [_holding him._] not for the world: there may be a thief there; and should i put 'nown dear in danger of his life?--what shall i do? betwixt the jealousy of my love, and fear of this fool, i am distracted: i must not venture them together, whatever comes on it. [_aside._] why judith, i say! come forth, damsel. _wood_. [_within._] the danger's over; i may come out safely. _jud._ [_within._] are you mad? you shall not. _mrs brain._ [_aside._] so, now i'm ruined unavoidably. _brain._ whoever thou art, i have pronounced thy doom; the dreadful brainsick bares his brawny arm in tearing terror; kneeling queens in vain should beg thy being.--sa, sa, there. _mrs brain._ [_aside._] though i believe he dares not venture in, yet i must not put it to the trial. why judith, come out, come out, huswife. _enter_ judith, _trembling._ what villain have you hid within? _jud._ o lord, madam, what shall i say? _mrs brain._ how should i know what you should say? mr brainsick has heard a man's voice within; if you know what he makes there, confess the truth; i am almost dead with fear, and he stands shaking. _brain._ terror, i! 'tis indignation shakes me. with this sabre i'll slice him as small as atoms; he shall be doomed by the judge, and damned upon the gibbet. _jud._ [_kneeling._] my master's so outrageous! sweet madam, do you intercede for me, and i'll tell you all in private. [_whispers._ if i say it is a thief, he'll call up help; i know not what of the sudden to invent. _mrs brain._ let me alone.--and is this all? why would you not confess it before, judith? when you know i am an indulgent mistress. [_laughs._ _brain._ what has she confessed? _mrs brain._ a venial love-trespass, dear: 'tis a sweetheart of hers; one that is to marry her; and she was unwilling i should know it, so she hid him in her chamber. _enter_ aldo. _aldo._ what's the matter trow? what, in martial posture, son brainsick? _jud._ pray, father aldo, do you beg my pardon of my master. i have committed a fault; i have hidden a gentleman in my chamber, who is to marry me without his friends' consent, and therefore came in private to me. _aldo._ that thou should'st think to keep this secret! why, i know it as well as he that made thee. _mrs brain._ [_aside._] heaven be praised, for this knower of all things! now will he lie three or four rapping volunteers, rather than be thought ignorant in any thing. _brain._ do you know his friends, father aldo? _aldo._ know them! i think i do. his mother was an arch-deacon's daughter; as honest a woman as ever broke bread: she and i have been cater-cousins in our youth; we have tumbled together between a pair of sheets, i'faith. _brain._ an honest woman, and yet you two have tumbled together! those are inconsistent. _aldo._ no matter for that. _mrs brain._ he blunders; i must help him. [_aside._] i warrant 'twas before marriage, that you were so great. _aldo._ before george, and so it was: for she had the prettiest black mole upon her left ancle, it does me good to think on't! his father was squire what-d'ye-call-him, of what-d'ye-call-em shire. what think you, little judith? do i know him now? _jud._ i suppose you may be mistaken: my servant's father is a knight of hampshire. _aldo._ i meant of hampshire. but that i should forget he was a knight, when i got him knighted, at the king's coming in! two fat bucks, i am sure he sent me. _brain._ and what's his name? _aldo._ nay, for that, you must excuse me; i must not disclose little judith's secrets. _mrs brain._ all this while the poor gentleman is left in pain: we must let him out in secret; for i believe the young fellow is so bashful, he would not willingly be seen. _jud._ the best way will be, for father aldo to lend me the key of his door, which opens into my chamber; and so i can convey him out. _aldo._ [_giving her a key._] do so, daughter. not a word of my familiarity with his mother, to prevent bloodshed betwixt us: but i have her name down in my almanack, i warrant her. _jud._ what, kiss and tell, father aldo? kiss and tell! [_exit._ _mrs brain._ i'll go and pass an hour with mrs tricksy. [_exit._ _enter_ limberham. _brain._ what, the lusty lover limberham! _enter_ woodall, _at another door._ _aldo._ o here's a monsieur, new come over, and a fellow-lodger; i must endear you two to one another. _brain._ sir, 'tis my extreme ambition to be better known to you; you come out of the country i adore. and how does the dear battist[ ]? i long for some of his new compositions in the last opera. _a propos!_ i have had the most happy invention this morning, and a tune trouling in my head; i rise immediately in my night-gown and slippers, down i put the notes slap-dash, made words to them like lightning; and i warrant you have them at the circle in the evening. _wood._ all were complete, sir, if s. andre would make steps to them. _brain._ nay, thanks to my genius, that care's over: you shall see, you shall see. but first the air. [_sings._] is it not very fine? ha, messieurs! _limb._ the close of it is the most ravishing i ever heard! _brain._ i dwell not on your commendations. what say you, sir? [_to_ wood.] is it not admirable? do you enter into it? _wood._ most delicate cadence! _brain._ gad, i think so, without vanity. battist and i have but one soul. but the close, the close! [_sings it thrice over._] i have words too upon the air; but i am naturally so bashful! _wood._ will you oblige me, sir? _brain._ you might command me, sir; for i sing too _en cavalier:_ but-- _limb._ but you would be entreated, and say, _nolo, nolo, nolo,_ three times, like any bishop, when your mouth waters at the diocese. _brain._ i have no voice; but since this gentleman commands me, let the words commend themselves. [_sings._ _my phillis is charming--_ _limb._ but why, of all names, would you chuse a phillis? there have been so many phillises in songs, i thought there had not been another left, for love or money. _brain._ if a man should listen to a fop! [_sings._ _my phillis--_ _aldo._ before george, i am on t'other side: i think, as good no song, as no phillis. _brain._ yet again!--_my phillis--_ [_sings._ _limb._ pray, for my sake, let it be your chloris. _brain._ [_looking scornfully at him._] _my phillis--_ [_sings._ _limb._ you had as good call her your succuba. _brain._ _morbleu!_ will you not give me leave? i am full of phillis. [_sings._] _my phillis--_ _limb._ nay, i confess, phillis is a very pretty name. _brain._ _diable!_ now i will not sing, to spite you. by the world, you are not worthy of it. well, i have a gentleman's fortune; i have courage, and make no inconsiderable figure in the world: yet i would quit my pretensions to all these, rather than not be author of this sonnet, which your rudeness has irrevocably lost. _limb._ some foolish french _quelque chose_, i warrant you. _brain._ _quelque chose!_ o ignorance, in supreme perfection! he means a _kek shose_[ ]. _limb._ why a _kek shoes_ let it be then! and a _kek shoes_ for your song. _brain._ i give to the devil such a judge. well, were i to be born again, i would as soon be the elephant, as a wit; he's less a monster in this age of malice. i could burn my sonnet, out of rage. _limb._ you may use your pleasure with your own. _wood._ his friends would not suffer him: virgil was not permitted to burn his Æneids. _brain._ dear sir, i'll not die ungrateful for your approbation. [_aside to_ wood.] you see this fellow? he is an ass already; he has a handsome mistress, and you shall make an ox of him ere long. _wood._ say no more, it shall be done. _limb._ hark you, mr woodall; this fool brainsick grows insupportable; he's a public nuisance; but i scorn to set my wit against him: he has a pretty wife: i say no more; but if you do not graff him-- _wood._ a word to the wise: i shall consider him, for your sake. _limb._ pray do, sir: consider him much. _wood._ much is the word.--this feud makes well for me. [_aside._ _brain._ [_to_ wood.] i'll give you the opportunity, and rid you of him.--come away, little limberham; you, and i, and father aldo, will take a turn together in the square. _aldo._ we will follow you immediately. _limb._ yes, we will come after you, bully brainsick: but i hope you will not draw upon us there. _brain._ if you fear that, bilbo shall be left behind. _limb._ nay, nay, leave but your madrigal behind: draw not that upon us, and it is no matter for your sword. [_exit_ brain. _enter_ tricksy, _and_ mrs brainsick, _with a note for each._ _wood._ [_aside._] both together! either of them, apart, had been my business: but i shall never play well at this three-hand game. _limb._ o pug, how have you been passing your time? _trick._ i have been looking over the last present of orange gloves you made me; and methinks i do not like the scent.--o lord, mr woodall, did you bring those you wear from paris? _wood._ mine are roman, madam. _trick._ the scent i love, of all the world. pray let me see them. _mrs brain._ nay, not both, good mrs tricksy; for i love that scent as well as you. _wood._ [_pulling them off, and giving each one._] i shall find two dozen more of women's gloves among my trifles, if you please to accept them, ladies. _trick._ look to it; we shall expect them.--now to put in my _billet-doux!_ _mrs brain._ so, now, i have the opportunity to thrust in my note. _trick._ here, sir, take your glove again; the perfume's too strong for me. _mrs brain._ pray take the other to it; though i should have kept it for a pawn. [mrs brainsick's _note falls out,_ limb. _takes it up._ _limb._ what have we here? [_reads._] for mr woodall! _both women._ hold, hold, mr limberham! [_they snatch it._ _aldo._ before george, son limberham, you shall read it. _wood._ by your favour, sir, but he must not. _trick._ he'll know my hand, and i am ruined! _mrs brain._ oh, my misfortune! mr woodall, will you suffer your secrets to be discovered! _wood._ it belongs to one of them, that's certain.--mr limberham, i must desire you to restore this letter; it is from my mistress. _trick._ the devil's in him; will he confess? _wood._ this paper was sent me from her this morning; and i was so fond of it, that i left it in my glove: if one of the ladies had found it there, i should have been laughed at most unmercifully. _mrs brain._ that's well come off! _limb._ my heart was at my mouth, for fear it had been pug's. [_aside._]--there 'tis again--hold, hold; pray let me see it once more: a mistress, said you? _aldo._ yes, a mistress, sir. i'll be his voucher, he has a mistress, and a fair one too. _limb._ do you know it, father aldo. _aldo._ know it! i know the match is as good as made already: old woodall and i are all one. you, son, were sent for over on purpose; the articles for her jointure are all concluded, and a friend of mine drew them. _limb._ nay, if father aldo knows it, i am satisfied. _aldo._ but how came you by this letter, son woodall? let me examine you. _wood._ came by it! (pox, he has _non-plus'd_ me!) how do you say i came by it, father aldo? _aldo._ why, there's it, now. this morning i met your mistress's father, mr you know who-- _wood._ mr who, sir? _aldo._ nay, you shall excuse me for that; but we are intimate: his name begins with some vowel or consonant, no matter which: well, her father gave me this very numerical letter, subscribed, for mr. woodall. _limb._ before george, and so it is. _aldo._ carry me this letter, quoth he, to your son woodall; 'tis from my daughter such a one, and then whispered me her name. _wood._ let me see; i'll read it once again. _limb._ what, are you not acquainted with the contents of it? _wood._ o, your true lover will read you over a letter from his mistress, a thousand times. _trick._ ay, two thousand, if he be in the humour. _wood._ two thousand! then it must be hers. [_reads to himself._] "away to your chamber immediately, and i'll give my fool the slip."--the fool! that may be either the keeper, or the husband; but commonly the keeper is the greater. humh! without subscription! it must be tricksy.--father aldo, pr'ythee rid me of this coxcomb. _aldo._ come, son limberham, we let our friend brainsick walk too long alone: shall we follow him? we must make haste; for i expect a whole bevy of whores, a chamber-full of temptation this afternoon: 'tis my day of audience. _limb._ mr woodall, we leave you here--you remember? [_exeunt_ limb. _and_ aldo. _wood._ let me alone.--ladies, your servant; i have a little private business with a friend of mine. _mrs brain._ meaning me.--well, sir, your servant. _trick._ your servant, till we meet again. [_exeunt severally._ scene ii.--_mr_ woodall's _chamber._ _mrs_ brainsick _alone._ _mrs brain._ my note has taken, as i wished: he will be here immediately. if i could but resolve to lose no time, out of modesty; but it is his part to be violent, for both our credits. never so little force and ruffling, and a poor weak woman is excused. [_noise._] hark, i hear him coming.--ah me! the steps beat double: he comes not alone. if it should be my husband with him! where shall i hide myself? i see no other place, but under his bed: i must lie as silently as my fear will suffer me. heaven send me safe again to my own chamber! [_creeps under the bed._ _enter_ woodall _and_ tricksy. _wood._ well, fortune at the last is favourable, and now you are my prisoner. _trick._ after a quarter of an hour, i suppose, i shall have my liberty upon easy terms. but pray let us parley a little first. _wood._ let it be upon the bed then. please you to sit? _trick._ no matter where; i am never the nearer to your wicked purpose. but you men are commonly great comedians in love-matters; therefore you must swear, in the first place-- _wood._ nay, no conditions: the fortress is reduced to extremity; and you must yield upon discretion, or i storm. _trick._ never to love any other woman. _wood._ i kiss the book upon it. [_kisses her. mrs_ brain. _pinches him from underneath the bed._] oh, are you at your love-tricks already? if you pinch me thus, i shall bite your lip. _trick._ i did not pinch you: but you are apt, i see, to take any occasion of gathering up more close to me.--next, you shall not so much as look on mrs brainsick. _wood._ have you done? these covenants are so tedious! _trick._ nay, but swear then. _wood._ i do promise, i do swear, i do any thing. [_mrs_ brain. _runs a pin into him._] oh, the devil! what do you mean to run pins into me? this is perfect caterwauling. _trick._ you fancy all this; i would not hurt you for the world. come, you shall see how well i love you. [_kisses him: mrs_ brain. _pricks her._] oh! i think you have needles growing in your bed. [_both rise up._ _wood._ i will see what is the matter in it. _saint._ [_within._] mr woodall, where are you, verily? _wood._ pox verily her! it is my landlady: here, hide yourself behind the curtains, while i run to the door, to stop her entry. _trick._ necessity has no law; i must be patient. [_she gets into the bed, and draws the clothes over her._ _enter_ saintly. _saint._ in sadness, gentleman, i can hold no longer: i will not keep your wicked counsel, how you were locked up in the chest; for it lies heavy upon my conscience, and out it must, and shall. _wood._ you may tell, but who will believe you? where's your witness? _saint._ verily, heaven is my witness. _wood._ that's your witness too, that you would have allured me to lewdness, have seduced a hopeful young man, as i am; you would have enticed youth: mark that, beldam. _saint._ i care not; my single evidence is enough to mr limberham; he will believe me, that thou burnest in unlawful lust to his beloved: so thou shalt be an outcast from my family. _wood._ then will i go to the elders of thy church, and lay thee open before them, that thou didst feloniously unlock that chest, with wicked intentions of purloining: so thou shalt be excommunicated from the congregation, thou jezebel, and delivered over to satan. _saint._ verily, our teacher will not excommunicate me, for taking the spoils of the ungodly, to clothe him; for it is a judged case amongst us, that a married woman may steal from her husband, to relieve a brother. but yet them mayest atone this difference betwixt us; verily, thou mayest. _wood._ now thou art tempting me again. well, if i had not the gift of continency, what might become of me? _saint._ the means have been offered thee, and thou hast kicked with the heel. i will go immediately to the tabernacle of mr limberham, and discover thee, o thou serpent, in thy crooked paths. [_going._ _wood._ hold, good landlady, not so fast; let me have time to consider on't; i may mollify, for flesh is frail. an hour or two hence we will confer together upon the premises. _saint._ oh, on the sudden, i feel myself exceeding sick! oh! oh! _wood._ get you quickly to your closet, and fall to your _mirabilis_; this is no place for sick people. begone, begone! _saint._ verily, i can go no farther. _wood._ but you shall, verily. i will thrust you down, out of pure pity. _saint._ oh, my eyes grow dim! my heart quops, and my back acheth! here i will lay me down, and rest me. [_throws herself suddenly down upon the bed;_ tricksy _shrieks, and rises; mrs_ brain. _rises from under the bed in a fright._ _wood._ so! here's a fine business! my whole seraglio up in arms! _saint._ so, so; if providence had not sent me hither, what folly had been this day committed! _trick._ oh the old woman in the oven! we both overheard your pious documents: did we not, mrs brainsick? _mrs brain._ yes, we did overhear her; and we will both testify against her. _wood._ i have nothing to say for her. nay, i told her her own; you can both bear me witness. if a sober man cannot be quiet in his own chamber for her-- _trick._ for, you know, sir, when mrs brainsick and i over-heard her coming, having been before acquainted with her wicked purpose, we both agreed to trap her in it. _mrs brain._ and now she would 'scape herself, by accusing us! but let us both conclude to cast an infamy upon her house, and leave it. _saint._ sweet mr woodall, intercede for me, or i shall be ruined. _wood._ well, for once i'll be good-natured, and try my interest.-- pray, ladies, for my sake, let this business go no farther. _trick. and mrs brain._ you may command us. _wood._ for, look you, the offence was properly to my person; and charity has taught me to forgive my enemies. i hope, mrs saintly, this will be a warning to you, to amend your life: i speak like a christian, as one that tenders the welfare of your soul. _saint._ verily, i will consider. _wood._ why, that is well said.--[_aside._] gad, and so must i too; for my people is dissatisfied, and my government in danger: but this is no place for meditation.--ladies, i wait on you. [_exeunt._ act iv.--scene i. _enter_ aldo _and_ geoffery. _aldo._ despatch, geoffery, despatch: the outlying punks will be upon us, ere i am in a readiness to give audience. is the office well provided? _geoff._ the stores are very low, sir: some dolly petticoats, and manteaus we have; and half a dozen pair of laced shoes, bought from court at second hand. _aldo._ before george, there is not enough to rig out a mournival of whores: they'll think me grown a mere curmudgeon. mercy on me, how will this glorious trade be carried on, with such a miserable stock! _geoff._ i hear a coach already stopping at the door. _aldo._ well, somewhat in ornament for the body, somewhat in counsel for the mind; one thing must help out another, in this bad world: whoring must go on. _enter mrs_ overdon, _and her daughter_ prue. _mrs over._ ask blessing, prue: he is the best father you ever had. _aldo._ bless thee, and make thee a substantial, thriving whore. have your mother in your eye, prue; it is good to follow good example. how old are you, prue? hold up your head, child. _pru._ going o'my sixteen, father aldo. _aldo._ and you have been initiated but these two years: loss of time, loss of precious time! mrs overdon, how much have you made of prue, since she has been man's meat? _mrs over._ a very small matter, by my troth; considering the charges i have been at in her education: poor prue was born under an unlucky planet; i despair of a coach for her. her first maiden-head brought me in but little, the weather-beaten old knight, that bought her of me, beat down the price so low. i held her at an hundred guineas, and he bid ten; and higher than thirty would not rise. _aldo._ a pox of his unlucky handsel! he can but fumble, and will not pay neither. _pru._ hang him; i could never endure him, father: he is the filthiest old goat; and then he comes every day to our house, and eats out his thirty guineas; and at three months end, he threw me off. _mrs over._ and since then, the poor child has dwindled, and dwindled away. her next maiden-head brought me but ten; and from ten she fell to five; and at last to a single guinea: she has no luck to keeping; they all leave her, the more my sorrow. _aldo._ we must get her a husband then in the city; they bite rarely at a stale whore at this end of the town, new furbished up in a tawdry manteau. _mrs over._ no: pray let her try her fortune a little longer in the world first: by my troth, i should be loth to be at all this cost, in her french, and her singing, to have her thrown away upon a husband. _aldo._ before george, there can come no good of your swearing, mrs overdon: say your prayers, prue, and go duly to church o'sundays, you'll thrive the better all the week. come, have a good heart, child; i will keep thee myself: thou shalt do my little business; and i'll find thee an able young fellow to do thine. _enter mrs_ pad. daughter pad, you are welcome: what, you have performed the last christian office to your keeper; i saw you follow him up the heavy hill to tyburn. have you had never a business since his death? _mrs pad._ no indeed, father; never since execution-day. the night before, we lay together most lovingly in newgate; and the next morning he lift up his eyes, and prepared his soul with a prayer, while one might tell twenty; and then mounted the cart as merrily, as if he had been going for a purse. _aldo._ you are a sorrowful widow, daughter pad; but i'll take care of you.--geoffery, see her rigged out immediately for a new voyage: look in figure , in the upper drawer, and give her out the flowered justacorps, with the petticoat belonging to it. _mrs pad._ could you not help to prefer me, father? _aldo._ let me see--let me see:--before george, i have it, and it comes as pat too! go me to the very judge that sate upon him; it is an amorous, impotent old magistrate, and keeps admirably. i saw him leer upon you from the bench: he will tell you what is sweeter than strawberries and cream, before you part. _enter mrs_ termagant. _mrs term._ o father, i think i shall go mad. _aldo._ you are of the violentest temper, daughter termagant! when had you a business last? _mrs term._ the last i had was with young caster, that son-of-a-whore gamester: he brought me to taverns, to draw in young cullies, while he bubbled them at play; and, when he had picked up a considerable sum, and should divide, the cheating dog would sink my share, and swear,--damn him, he won nothing. _aldo._ unconscionable villain, to cozen you in your own calling! _mrs term._ when he loses upon the square, he comes home zoundsing and blooding; first beats me unmercifully, and then squeezes me to the last penny. he has used me so, that, gad forgive me, i could almost forswear my trade. the rogue starves me too: he made me keep lent last year till whitsuntide, and out-faced me with oaths it was but easter. and what mads me most, i carry a bastard of the rogue's in my belly; and now he turns me off, and will not own it. _mrs over._ lord, how it quops! you are half a year gone, madam.-- [_laying her hand on her belly._ _mrs term._ i feel the young rascal kicking already, like his father.--oh, there is an elbow thrusting out: i think, in my conscience, he is palming and topping in my belly; and practising for a livelihood, before he comes into the world. _aldo._ geoffery, set her down in the register, that i may provide her a mid-wife, and a dry and wet nurse: when you are up again, as heaven send you a good hour, we will pay him off at law, i'faith. you have him under black and white, i hope? _mrs term._ yes, i have a note under his hand for two hundred pounds. _aldo._ a note under his hand! that is a chip in porridge; it is just nothing.--look, geoffery, to the figure , for old half-shirts for childbed linen. _enter mrs_ hackney. _hack._ o, madam termagant, are you here? justice, father aldo, justice! _aldo._ why, what is the matter, daughter hackney? _hack._ she has violated the law of nations; for yesterday she inveigled my own natural cully from me, a married lord, and made him false to my bed, father. _term._ come, you are an illiterate whore. he is my lord now; and, though you call him fool, it is well known he is a critic, gentlewoman. you never read a play in all your life; and i gained him by my wit, and so i'll keep him. _hack._ my comfort is, i have had the best of him; he can take up no more, till his father dies: and so, much good may do you with my cully, and my clap into the bargain. _aldo._ then there is a father for your child, my lord's son and heir by mr caster. but henceforward, to preserve peace betwixt you, i ordain, that you shall ply no more in my daughter hackney's quarters: you shall have the city, from white-chapel to temple-bar, and she shall have to covent-garden downwards: at the play-houses, she shall ply the boxes, because she has the better face; and you shall have the pit, because you can prattle best out of a vizor mask. _mrs pad._ then all friends, and confederates. now let us have father aldo's delight, and so adjourn the house. _aldo._ well said, daughter.--lift up your voices, and sing like nightingales, you tory rory jades. courage, i say; as long as the merry pence hold out, you shall none of you die in shoreditch. _enter_ woodall. a hey, boys, a hey! here he comes, that will swinge you all! down, you little jades, and worship him; it is the genius of whoring. _wood._ and down went chairs and table, and out went every candle. ho, brave old patriarch in the middle of the church militant! whores of all sorts; forkers and ruin-tailed: now come i gingling in with my bells, and fly at the whole covey. _aldo._ a hey, a hey, boys! the town's thy own; burn, ravish, and destroy! _wood._ we will have a night of it, like alexander, when he burnt persepolis: _tuez, tuez, tuez! point de quartier._ [_he runs in amongst them, and they scuttle about the room._ _enter_ saintly, pleasance, judith, _with broom-sticks._ _saint._ what, in the midst of sodom! o thou lewd young man! my indignation boils over against these harlots; and thus i sweep them from out my family. _pleas._ down with the suburbians, down with them. _aldo._ o spare my daughters, mrs saintly! sweet mrs pleasance, spare my flesh and blood! _wood._ keep the door open, and help to secure the retreat, father: there is no pity to be expected. [_the whores run out, followed by_ saintly, pleasance, _and_ judith. _aldo._ welladay, welladay! one of my daughters is big with bastard, and she laid at her gascoins most unmercifully! every stripe she had, i felt it: the first fruit of whoredom is irrecoverably lost! _wood._ make haste, and comfort her. _aldo._ i will, i will; and yet i have a vexatious business, which calls me first another way. the rogue, my son, is certainly come over; he has been seen in town four days ago. _wood._ it is impossible: i'll not believe it. _aldo._ a friend of mine met his old man, giles, this very morning, in quest of me; and giles assured him, his master is lodged in this very street. _wood._ in this very street! how knows he that? _aldo._ he dogged him to the corner of it; and then my son turned back, and threatened him. but i'll find out giles, and then i'll make such an example of my reprobate! [_exit._ _wood._ if giles be discovered, i am undone!--why, gervase, where are you, sirrah! hey, hey! _enter_ gervase. run quickly to that betraying rascal giles, a rogue, who would take judas's bargain out of his hands, and undersell him. command him strictly to mew himself up in his lodgings, till farther orders: and in case he be refractory, let him know, i have not forgot to kick and cudgel. that _memento_ would do well for you too, sirrah. _gerv._ thank your worship; you have always been liberal of your hands to me. _wood._ and you have richly deserved it. _gerv._ i will not say, who has better deserved it of my old master. _wood._ away, old epictetus, about your business, and leave your musty morals, or i shall-- _gerv._ nay, i won't forfeit my own wisdom so far as to suffer for it. rest you merry: i'll do my best, and heaven mend all. [_exit._ _enter_ saintly. _saint._ verily, i have waited till you were alone, and am come to rebuke you, out of the zeal of my spirit. _wood._ it is the spirit of persecution. dioclesian, and julian the apostate, were but types of thee. get thee hence, thou old geneva testament: thou art a part of the ceremonial law, and hast been abolished these twenty years. _saint._ all this is nothing, sir. i am privy to your plots: i'll discover them to mr limberham, and make the house too hot for you. _wood._ what, you can talk in the language of the world, i see! _saint._ i can, i can, sir; and in the language of the flesh and devil too, if you provoke me to despair: you must, and shall be mine, this night. _wood._ the very ghost of queen dido in the ballad.[ ] _saint._ delay no longer, or-- _wood._ or! you will not swear, i hope? _saint._ uds-niggers but i will; and that so loud, that mr limberham shall hear me. _wood._ uds-niggers, i confess, is a very dreadful oath. you could lie naturally before, as you are a fanatic; if you can swear such rappers too, there is hope of you; you may be a woman of the world in time. well, you shall be satisfied, to the utmost farthing, to-night, and in your own chamber. _saint._ or, expect to-morrow-- _wood._ all shall be atoned ere then. go, provide the bottle of clary, the westphalia ham, and other fortifications of nature; we shall see what may be done. what! an old woman must not be cast away. [_chucks her._ _saint._ then, verily, i am appeased. _wood._ nay, no relapsing into verily; that is in our bargain. look how she weeps for joy! it is a good old soul, i warrant her. _saint._ you will not fail? _wood._ dost thou think i have no compassion for thy gray hairs? away, away; our love may be discovered: we must avoid scandal; it is thy own maxim. [_exit_ saintly. they are all now at ombre; and brainsick's maid has promised to send her mistress up. _enter_ pleasance. that fury here again! _pleas._ [_aside._] i'll conquer my proud spirit, i am resolved on it, and speak kindly to him.--what, alone, sir! if my company be not troublesome; or a tender young creature, as i am, may safely trust herself with a man of such prowess, in love affairs--it wonnot be. _wood._ so! there is one broadside already: i must sheer off. [_aside._ _pleas._ what, you have been pricking up and down here upon a cold scent[ ]; but, at last, you have hit it off, it seems! now for a fair view at the wife or mistress: up the wind, and away with it: hey, jowler!--i think i am bewitched, i cannot hold. _wood._ your servant, your servant, madam: i am in a little haste at present. [_going._ _pleas._ pray resolve me first, for which of them you lie in ambush; for, methinks, you have the mien of a spider in her den. come, i know the web is spread, and whoever comes, sir cranion stands ready to dart out, hale her in, and shed his venom. _wood._ [_aside._] but such a terrible wasp, as she, will spoil the snare, if i durst tell her so. _pleas._ it is unconscionably done of me, to debar you the freedom and civilities of the house. alas, poor gentleman! to take a lodging at so dear a rate, and not to have the benefit of his bargain!--mischief on me, what needed i have said that? [_aside._ _wood._ the dialogue will go no farther. farewell, gentle, quiet lady. _pleas._ pray stay a little; i'll not leave you thus. _wood._ i know it; and therefore mean to leave you first. _pleas._ o, i find it now! you are going to set up your bills, like a love-mountebank, for the speedy cure of distressed widows, old ladies, and languishing maids in the green-sickness: a sovereign remedy. _wood._ that last, for maids, would be thrown away: few of your age are qualified for the medicine. what the devil would you be at, madam? _pleas._ i am in the humour of giving you good counsel. the wife can afford you but the leavings of a fop; and to a witty man, as you think yourself, that is nauseous: the mistress has fed upon a fool so long, she is carrion too, and common into the bargain. would you beat a ground for game in the afternoon, when my lord mayor's pack had been before you in the morning? _wood._ i had rather sit five hours at one of his greasy feasts, then hear you talk. _pleas._ your two mistresses keep both shop and warehouse; and what they cannot put off in gross, to the keeper and the husband, they sell by retail to the next chance-customer. come, are you edified? _wood._ i am considering how to thank you for your homily; and, to make a sober application of it, you may have some laudable design yourself in this advice. _pleas._ meaning, some secret inclination to that amiable person of yours? _wood._ i confess, i am vain enough to hope it; for why should you remove the two dishes, but to make me fall more hungrily on the third? _pleas._ perhaps, indeed, in the way of honour-- _wood._ paw, paw! that word honour has almost turned my stomach: it carries a villainous interpretation of matrimony along with it. but, in a civil way, i could be content to deal with you, as the church does with the heads of your fanatics, offer you a lusty benefice to stop your mouth; if fifty guineas, and a courtesy more worth, will win you. _pleas._ out upon thee! fifty guineas! dost thou think i'll sell myself? and at a playhouse price too? whenever i go, i go all together: no cutting from the whole piece; he who has me shall have the fag-end with the rest, i warrant him. be satisfied, thy sheers shall never enter into my cloth. but, look to thyself, thou impudent belswagger: i will he revenged; i will. [_exit._ _wood._ the maid will give warning, that is my comfort; for she is bribed on my side. i have another kind of love to this girl, than to either of the other two; but a fanatic's daughter, and the noose of matrimony, are such intolerable terms! o, here she comes, who will sell me better cheap. scene _opens to_ brainsick's _apartment._ _enter mrs_ brainsick. _mrs brain._ how now, sir? what impudence is this of yours, to approach my lodgings? _wood._ you lately honoured mine; and it is the part of a well-bred man, to return your visit. _mrs brain._ if i could have imagined how base a fellow you had been, you should not then have been troubled with my company. _wood._ how could i guess, that you intended me the favour, without first acquainting me? _mrs brain._ could i do it, ungrateful as you are, with more obligation to you, or more hazard to myself, than by putting my note into your glove? _wood._ was it yours, then? i believed it came from mrs tricksy. _mrs brain._ you wished it so; which made you so easily believe it. i heard the pleasant dialogue betwixt you. _wood._ i am glad you did; for you could not but observe, with how much care i avoided all occasions of railing at you; to which she urged me, like a malicious woman, as she was. _mrs brain._ by the same token, you vowed and swore never to look on mrs brainsick! _wood._ but i had my mental reservations in a readiness. i had vowed fidelity to you before; and there went my second oath, i'faith: it vanished in a twinkling, and never gnawed my conscience in the least. _mrs brain._ well, i shall never heartily forgive you. _jud._ [_within._] mr brainsick, mr brainsick, what do you mean, to make my lady lose her game thus? pray, come back, and take up her cards again. _mrs brain._ my husband, as i live! well, for all my quarrel to you, step immediately into that little dark closet: it is for my private occasions; there is no lock, but he will not stay. _wood._ thus am i ever tantalized! [_goes in._ _enter_ brainsick. _brain._ what, am i become your drudge? your slave? the property of all your pleasures? shall i, the lord and master of your life, become subservient; and the noble name of husband be dishonoured? no, though all the cards were kings and queens, and indies to be gained by every deal-- _mrs brain._ my dear, i am coming to do my duty. i did but go up a little, (i whispered you for what) and am returning immediately. _brain._ your sex is but one universal ordure, a nuisance, and incumbrance of that majestic creature, man: yet i myself am mortal too. nature's necessities have called me up; produce your utensil of urine. _mrs brain._ it is not in the way, child: you may go down into the garden. _brain._ the voyage is too far: though the way were paved with pearls and diamonds, every step of mine is precious, as the march of monarchs. _mrs brain._ then my steps, which are not so precious, shall be employed for you: i will call up judith. _brain._ i will not dance attendance. at the present, your closet shall be honoured. _mrs brain._ o lord, dear, it is not worthy to receive such a man as you are. _brain._ nature presses; i am in haste. _mrs brain._ he must be discovered, and i unavoidably undone! [_aside._ [brainsick _goes to the door, and_ woodall _meets him: she shrieks out._ _brain._ monsieur woodall! _wood._ sir, begone, and make no noise, or you will spoil all. _brain._ spoil all, quotha! what does he mean, in the name of wonder? _wood._ [_taking him aside._] hark you, mr brainsick, is the devil in you, that you and your wife come hither, to disturb my intrigue, which you yourself engaged me in, with mrs tricksy, to revenge you on limberham? why, i had made an appointment with her here; but, hearing somebody come up, i retired into the closet, till i was satisfied it was not the keeper. _brain._ but why this intrigue in my wife's chamber? _wood._ why, you turn my brains, with talking to me of your wife's chamber! do you lie in common? the wife and husband, the keeper and the mistress? _mrs brain._ i am afraid they are quarrelling; pray heaven i get off. _brain._ once again, i am the sultan of this place: mr limberham is the mogul of the next mansion. _wood._ though i am a stranger in the house, it is impossible i should be so much mistaken: i say, this is limberham's lodging. _brain._ you would not venture a wager of ten pounds, that you are not mistaken? _wood._ it is done: i will lay you. _brain._ who shall be judge? _wood._ who better than your wife? she cannot be partial, because she knows not on which side you have laid. _brain._ content.--come hither, lady mine: whose lodgings are these? who is lord, and grand seignior of them? _mrs brain._ [_aside._] oh, goes it there?--why should you ask me such a question, when every body in the house can tell they are 'nown dear's? _brain._ now are you satisfied? children and fools, you know the proverb-- _wood._ pox on me! nothing but such a positive coxcomb as i am, would have laid his money upon such odds; as if you did not know your own lodgings better than i, at half a day's warning! and that which vexes me more than the loss of my money, is the loss of my adventure! [_exit._ _brain._ it shall be spent: we will have a treat with it. this is a fool of the first magnitude. _mrs brain._ let my own dear alone, to find a fool out. _enter_ limberham. _limb._ bully brainsick, pug has sent me to you on an embassy, to bring you down to cards again; she is in her mulligrubs already; she will never forgive you the last _vol_ you won. it is but losing a little to her, out of complaisance, as they say, to a fair lady; and whatever she wins, i will make up to you again in private. _brain._ i would not be that slave you are, to enjoy the treasures of the east. the possession of peru, and of potosi, should not buy me to the bargain. _limb._ will you leave your perboles, and come then? _brain._ no; for i have won a wager, to be spent luxuriously at long's; with pleasance of the party, and termagant tricksy; and i will pass, in person, to the preparation: come, matrimony. [_exeunt_ brainsick, _mrs_ brain. _enter_ saintly, _and_ pleasance. _pleas._ to him: i'll second you: now for mischief! _saint._ arise, mr limberham, arise; for conspiracies are hatched against you, and a new faux is preparing to blow up your happiness. _limb._ what is the matter, landlady? pr'ythee, speak good honest english, and leave thy canting. _saint._ verily, thy beloved is led astray, by the young man woodall, that vessel of uncleanness: i beheld them communing together; she feigned herself sick, and retired to her tent in the garden-house; and i watched her out-going, and behold he followed her. _pleas._ do you stand unmoved, and hear all this? _limb._ before george, i am thunder-struck! _saint._ take to thee thy resolution, and avenge thyself. _limb._ but give me leave to consider first: a man must do nothing rashly. _pleas._ i could tear out the villain's eyes, for dishonouring you, while you stand considering, as you call it. are you a man, and suffer this? _limb._ yes, i am a man; but a man's but a man, you know: i am recollecting myself, how these things can be. _saint._ how they can be! i have heard them; i have seen them. _limb._ heard them, and seen them! it may be so; but yet i cannot enter into this same business: i am amazed, i must confess; but the best is, i do not believe one word of it. _saint._ make haste, and thine own eyes shall testify against her. _limb._ nay, if my own eyes testify, it may be so:--but it is impossible, however; for i am making a settlement upon her, this very day. _pleas._ look, and satisfy yourself, ere you make that settlement on so false a creature. _limb._ but yet, if i should look, and not find her false, then i must cast in another hundred, to make her satisfaction. _pleas._ was there ever such a meek, hen-hearted creature! _saint._ verily, thou has not the spirit of a cock-chicken. _limb._ before george, but i have the spirit of a lion, and i will tear her limb from limb--if i could believe it. _pleas._ love, jealousy, and disdain, how they torture me at once! and this insensible creature--were i but in his place--[_to him._] think, that this very instant she is yours no more: now, now she is giving up herself, with so much violence of love, that if thunder roared, she could not hear it. _limb._ i have been whetting all this while: they shall be so taken in the manner, that mars and venus shall be nothing to them. _pleas._ make haste; go on then. _limb._ yes, i will go on;--and yet my mind misgives me plaguily. _saint._ again backsliding! _pleas._ have you no sense of honour in you? _limb._ well, honour is honour, and i must go: but i shall never get me such another pug again! o, my heart! my poor tender heart! it is just breaking with pug's unkindness! [_they drag him out._ scene ii.--woodall _and_ tricksy _discovered in the garden-house._ _enter_ gervase _to them._ _gerv._ make haste, and save yourself, sir; the enemy's at hand: i have discovered him from the corner, where you set me sentry. _wood._ who is it? _gerv._ who should it be, but limberham? armed with a two-hand fox. o lord, o lord! _trick._ enter quickly into the still-house, both of you, and leave me to him: there is a spring-lock within, to open it when we are gone. _wood._ well, i have won the party and revenge, however: a minute longer, and i had won the tout. [_they go in: she locks the door._ _enter_ limberham, _with a great sword._ _limb._ disloyal pug! _trick._ what humour is this? you are drunk, it seems: go sleep. _limb._ thou hast robbed me of my repose for ever: i am like macbeth, after the death of good king duncan; methinks a voice says to me,--sleep no more; tricksy has murdered sleep. _trick._ now i find it: you are willing to save your settlement, and are sent by some of your wise counsellors, to pick a quarrel with me. _limb._ i have been your cully above these seven years; but, at last, my eyes are opened to your witchcraft; and indulgent heaven has taken care of my preservation. in short, madam, i have found you out; and, to cut off preambles, produce your adulterer. _trick._ if i have any, you know him best: you are the only ruin of my reputation. but if i have dishonoured my family, for the love of you, methinks you should be the last man to upbraid me with it. _limb._ i am sure you are of the family of your abominable great grandam eve; but produce the man, or, by my father's soul-- _trick._ still i am in the dark. _limb._ yes, you have been in the dark; i know it: but i shall bring you to light immediately. _trick._ you are not jealous? _limb._ no; i am too certain to be jealous: but you have a man here, that shall be nameless; let me see him. _trick._ oh, if that be your business, you had best search: and when you have wearied yourself, and spent your idle humour, you may find me above, in my chamber, and come to ask my pardon. [_going._ _limb._ you may go, madam; but i shall beseech your ladyship to leave the key of the still-house door behind you: i have a mind to some of the sweet-meats you have locked up there; you understand me. now, for the old dog-trick! you have lost the key, i know already, but i am prepared for that; you shall know you have no fool to deal with. _trick._ no; here is the key: take it, and satisfy your foolish curiosity. _limb._ [_aside._] this confidence amazes me! if those two gipsies have abused me, and i should not find him there now, this would make an immortal quarrel. _trick._ [_aside._] i have put him to a stand. _limb._ hang it, it is no matter; i will be satisfied: if it comes to a rupture, i know the way to buy my peace. pug, produce the key. _trick._ [_takes him about the neck._] my dear, i have it for you: come, and kiss me. why would you be so unkind to suspect my faith now! when i have forsaken all the world for you.--[_kiss again._] but i am not in the mood of quarrelling to-night; i take this jealousy the best way, as the effect of your passion. come up, and we will go to bed together, and be friends. [_kiss again._ _limb._ [_aside._] pug is in a pure humour to-night, and it would vex a man to lose it; but yet i must be satisfied:--and therefore, upon mature consideration, give me the key. _trick._ you are resolved, then? _limb._ yes, i am resolved; for i have sworn to myself by styx; and that is an irrevocable oath. _trick._ now, see your folly: there's the key. [_gives it him._ _limb._ why, that is a loving pug; i will prove thee innocent immediately: and that will put an end to all controversies betwixt us. _trick._ yes, it shall put an end to all our quarrels: farewell for the last time, sir. look well upon my face, that you may remember it; for, from this time forward, i have sworn it irrevocably too, that you shall never see it more. _limb._ nay, but hold a little, pug. what's the meaning of this new commotion? _trick._ no more; but satisfy your foolish fancy, for you are master: and, besides, i am willing to be justified. _limb._ then you shall be justified. [_puts the key in the door._ _trick._ i know i shall: farewell. _limb._ but, are you sure you shall? _trick._ no, no, he is there: you'll find him up in the chimney, or behind the door; or, it may be, crowded into some little galley-pot. _limb._ but you will not leave me, if i should look? _trick._ you are not worthy my answer: i am gone. [_going out._ _limb._ hold, hold, divine pug, and let me recollect a little.--this is no time for meditation neither: while i deliberate, she may be gone. she must be innocent, or she could never be so confident and careless.--sweet pug, forgive me. [_kneels._ _trick._ i am provoked too far. _limb._ it is the property of a goddess to forgive. accept of this oblation; with this humble kiss, i here present it to thy fair hand: i conclude thee innocent without looking, and depend wholly upon thy mercy. [_offers the key._ _trick._ no, keep it, keep it: the lodgings are your own. _limb._ if i should keep it, i were unworthy of forgiveness: i will no longer hold this fatal instrument of our separation. _trick._ [_taking it._] rise, sir: i will endeavour to overcome my nature, and forgive you; for i am so scrupulously nice in love, that it grates my very soul to be suspected: yet, take my counsel, and satisfy yourself. _limb._ i would not be satisfied, to be possessor of potosi, as my brother brainsick says. come to bed, dear pug.--now would not i change my condition, to be an eastern monarch! [_exeunt._ _enter_ woodall _and_ gervase. _gerv._ o lord, sir, are we alive! _wood._ alive! why, we were never in any danger: well, she is a rare manager of a fool! _gerv._ are you disposed yet to receive good counsel? has affliction wrought upon you? _wood._ yes, i must ask thy advice in a most important business. i have promised a charity to mrs saintly, and she expects it with a beating heart a-bed: now, i have at present no running cash to throw away; my ready money is all paid to mrs tricksy, and the bill is drawn upon me for to-night. _gerv._ take advice of your pillow. _wood._ no, sirrah; since you have not the grace to offer yours, i will for once make use of my authority and command you to perform the foresaid drudgery in my place. _gerv._ zookers, i cannot answer it to my conscience. _wood._ nay, an your conscience can suffer you to swear, it shall suffer you to lie too: i mean in this sense. come, no denial, you must do it; she is rich, and there is a provision for your life. _gerv._ i beseech you, sir, have pity on my soul. _wood._ have you pity of your body: there is all the wages you must expect. _gerv._ well, sir, you have persuaded me: i will arm my conscience with a resolution of making her an honourable amends by marriage; for to-morrow morning a parson shall authorise my labours, and turn fornication into duty. and, moreover, i will enjoin myself, by way of penance, not to touch her for seven nights after. _wood._ thou wert predestinated for a husband, i see, by that natural instinct: as we walk, i will instruct thee how to behave thyself, with secrecy and silence. _gerv._ i have a key of the garden, to let us out the back-way into the street, and so privately to our lodging. _wood._ 'tis well: i will plot the rest of my affairs a-bed; for it is resolved that limberham shall not wear horns alone: and i am impatient till i add to my trophy the spoils of brainsick. [_exeunt._ act v.--scene i. _enter_ woodall _and_ judith. _jud._ well, you are a lucky man! mrs brainsick is fool enough to believe you wholly innocent; and that the adventure of the garden-house, last night, was only a vision of mrs saintly's. _wood._ i knew, if i could once speak with her, all would be set right immediately; for, had i been there, look you-- _jud._ as you were, most certainly. _wood._ limberham must have found me out; that _fe-fa-fum_ of a keeper would have smelt the blood of a cuckold-maker: they say, he was peeping and butting about in every cranny. _jud._ but one. you must excuse my unbelief, though mrs brainsick is better satisfied. she and her husband, you know, went out this morning to the new exchange: there she has given him the slip; and pretending to call at her tailor's to try her stays for a new gown-- _wood._ i understand thee;--she fetched me a short turn, like a hare before her muse, and will immediately run hither to covert? _jud._ yes; but because your chamber will be least suspicious, she appoints to meet you there; that, if her husband should come back, he may think her still abroad, and you may have time-- _wood._ to take in the horn-work. it happens as i wish; for mrs tricksy, and her keeper, are gone out with father aldo, to complete her settlement; my landlady is safe at her morning exercise with my man gervase, and her daughter not stirring: the house is our own, and iniquity may walk bare-faced. _jud._ and, to make all sure, i am ordered to be from home. when i come back again, i shall knock at your door, with, _speak, brother, speak;_ [_singing._ _is the deed done?_ _wood._ _long ago, long ago;_--and then we come panting out together. oh, i am ravished with the imagination on't! _jud._ well, i must retire; good-morrow to you, sir. [_exit._ _wood._ now do i humbly conceive, that this mistress in matrimony will give me more pleasure than the former; for your coupled spaniels, when they are once let loose, are afterwards the highest rangers. _enter mrs_ brainsick, _running._ _mrs brain._ oh dear mr woodall, what shall i do? _wood._ recover breath, and i'll instruct you in the next chamber. _mrs brain._ but my husband follows me at heels. _wood._ has he seen you? _mrs brain._ i hope not: i thought i had left him sure enough at the exchange; but, looking behind me, as i entered into the house, i saw him walking a round rate this way. _wood._ since he has not seen you, there is no danger; you need but step into my chamber, and there we will lock ourselves up, and transform him in a twinkling. _mrs brain._ i had rather have got into my own; but judith is gone out with the key, i doubt. _wood._ yes, by your appointment. but so much the better; for when the cuckold finds no company, he will certainly go a sauntering again. _mrs brain._ make haste, then. _wood._ immediately.--[_goes to open the door hastily, and breaks his key._] what is the matter here? the key turns round, and will not open! as i live, we are undone! with too much haste it is broken! _mrs brain._ then i am lost; for i cannot enter into my own. _wood._ this next room is limberham's. see! the door's open; and he and his mistress are both abroad. _mrs brain._ there is no remedy, i must venture in; for his knowing i am come back so soon, must be cause of jealousy enough, if the fool should find me. _wood._ [_looking in._] see there! mrs tricksy has left her indian gown upon the bed; clap it on, and turn your back: he will easily mistake you for her, if he should look in upon you. _mrs brain._ i will put on my vizor-mask, however, for more security. [_noise._] hark! i hear him. [_goes in._ _enter_ brainsick. _brain._ what, in a musty musing, monsieur woodall! let me enter into the affair. _wood._ you may guess it, by the post i have taken up. _brain._ o, at the door of the damsel tricksy! your business is known by your abode; as the posture of a porter before a gate, denotes to what family he belongs. [_looks in._] it is an assignation, i see; for yonder she stands, with her back toward me, drest up for the duel, with all the ornaments of the east. now for the judges of the field, to divide the sun and wind betwixt the combatants, and a tearing trumpeter to sound the charge. _wood._ it is a private quarrel, to be decided without seconds; and therefore you would do me a favour to withdraw. _brain._ your limberham is nearer than you imagine: i left him almost entering at the door. _wood._ plague of all impertinent cuckolds! they are ever troublesome to us honest lovers: so intruding! _brain._ they are indeed, where their company is not desired. _wood._ sure he has some tutelar devil to guard his brows! just when she had bobbed him, and made an errand home, to come to me! _brain._ it is unconscionably done of him. but you shall not adjourn your love for this: the brainsick has an ascendant over him; i am your guarantee; he is doomed a cuckold, in disdain of destiny. _wood._ what mean you? _brain._ to stand before the door with my brandished blade, and defend the entrance: he dies upon the point, if he approaches. _wood._ if i durst trust it, it is heroic. _brain._ it is the office of a friend: i will do it. _wood._ [_aside._] should he know hereafter his wife were here, he would think i had enjoyed her, though i had not; it is best venturing for something. he takes pains enough, on conscience, for his cuckoldom; and, by my troth, has earned it fairly.--but, may a man venture upon your promise? _brain._ bars of brass, and doors of adamant, could not more secure you. _wood._ i know it; but still gentle means are best: you may come to force at last. perhaps you may wheedle him away: it is but drawing a trope or two upon him. _brain._ he shall have it, with all the artillery of eloquence. _wood._ ay, ay; your figure breaks no bones. with your good leave.-- [_goes in._ _brain._ thou hast it, boy. turn to him, madam; to her woodall: and st george for merry england. _tan ta ra ra ra, ra ra! dub, a dub, dub; tan ta ra ra ra._ _enter_ limberham. _limb._ how now, bully brainsick! what, upon the _tan ta ra_, by yourself? _brain._ clangor, _taratantara,_ murmur. _limb._ commend me to honest _lingua franca_. why, this is enough to stun a christian, with your hebrew, and your greek, and such like latin. _brain._ out, ignorance! _limb._ then ignorance, by your leave; for i must enter. [_attempts to pass._ _brain._ why in such haste? the fortune of greece depends not on it. _limb._ but pug's fortune does: that is dearer to me than greece, and sweeter than ambergrease. _brain._ you will not find her here. come, you are jealous; you are haunted with a raging fiend, that robs you of your sweet repose. _limb._ nay, an you are in your perbole's again! look you, it is pug is jealous of her jewels: she has left the key of her cabinet behind, and has desired me to bring it back to her. _brain._ poor fool! he little thinks she is here before him!--well, this pretence will never pass on me; for i dive deeper into your affairs; you are jealous. but, rather than my soul should be concerned for a sex so insignificant--ha! the gods! if i thought my proper wife were now within, and prostituting all her treasures to the lawless love of an adulterer, i would stand as intrepid, as firm, and as unmoved, as the statue of a roman gladiator. _limb._ [_in the same tone._] of a roman gladiator!--now are you as mad as a march hare; but i am in haste, to return to pug: yet, by your favour, i will first secure the cabinet. _brain._ no, you must not. _limb._ must not? what, may not a man come by you, to look upon his own goods and chattels, in his own chamber? _brain._ no; with this sabre i defy the destinies, and dam up the passage with my person; like a rugged rock, opposed against the roaring of the boisterous billows. your jealousy shall have no course through me, though potentates and princes-- _limb._ pr'ythee, what have we to do with potentates and princes? will you leave your troping, and let me pass? _brain._ you have your utmost answer. _limb._ if this maggot bite a little deeper, we shall have you a citizen of bethlem yet, ere dog-days. well, i say little; but i will tell pug on it. [_exit._ _brain._ she knows it already, by your favour-- [_knocking._ sound a retreat, you lusty lovers, or the enemy will charge you in the flank, with a fresh reserve: march off, march off upon the spur, ere he can reach you. _enter_ woodall. _wood._ how now, baron tell-clock[ ], is the passage clear? _brain._ clear as a level, without hills or woods, and void of ambuscade. _wood._ but limberham will return immediately, when he finds not his mistress where he thought he left her. _brain._ friendship, which has done much, will yet do more. [_shows a key._] with this _passe par tout_, i will instantly conduct her to my own chamber, that she may out-face the keeper, she has been there; and, when my wife returns, who is my slave, i will lay my conjugal commands upon her, to affirm, they have been all this time together. _wood._ i shall never make you amends for this kindness, my dear padron. but would it not be better, if you would take the pains to run after limberham, and stop him in his way ere he reach the place where he thinks he left his mistress; then hold him in discourse as long as possibly you can, till you guess your wife may be returned, that so they may appear together? _brain._ i warrant you: _laissez faire a marc antoine._ [_exit._ _wood._ now, madam, you may venture out in safety. _mrs brain._ [_entering._] pray heaven i may. [_noise._ _wood._ hark! i hear judith's voice: it happens well that she's returned: slip into your chamber immediately, and send back the gown. _mrs brain._ i will:--but are not you a wicked man, to put me into all this danger? [_exit._ _wood._ let what can happen, my comfort is, at least, i have enjoyed. but this is no place for consideration. be jogging, good mr woodall, out of this family, while you are well; and go plant in some other country, where your virtues are not so famous. [_going._ _enter_ tricksy, _with a box of writings._ _trick._ what, wandering up and down, as if you wanted an owner? do you know that i am lady of the manor; and that all wefts and strays belong to me? _wood._ i have waited for you above an hour; but friar bacon's head has been lately speaking to me,--that time is past. in a word, your keeper has been here, and will return immediately; we must defer our happiness till some more favourable time. _trick._ i fear him not; he has this morning armed me against himself, by this settlement; the next time he rebels, he gives me a fair occasion of leaving him for ever. _wood._ but is this conscience in you? not to let him have his bargain, when he has paid so dear for it? _trick._ you do not know him: he must perpetually be used ill, or he insults. besides, i have gained an absolute dominion over him: he must not see, when i bid him wink. if you argue after this, either you love me not, or dare not. _wood._ go in, madam: i was never dared before. i'll but scout a little, and follow you immediately. [trick. _goes in._] i find a mistress is only kept for other men: and the keeper is but her man in a green livery, bound to serve a warrant for the doe, whenever she pleases, or is in season. _enter_ judith, _with the night-gown._ _jud._ still you're a lucky man! mr brainsick has been exceeding honourable: he ran, as if a legion of bailiffs had been at his heels, and overtook limberham in the street. here, take the gown; lay it where you found it, and the danger's over. _wood._ speak softly; mrs tricksy is returned. [_looks in._] oh, she's gone into her closet, to lay up her writings: i can throw it on the bed, ere she perceive it has been wanting. [_throws it in._ _jud._ every woman would not have done this for you, which i have done. _wood._ i am sensible of it, little judith; there's a time to come shall pay for all. i hear her returning: not a word; away. [_exit_ judith. _re-enter_ tricksy. _trick._ what, is a second summons needful? my favours have not been so cheap, that they should stick upon my hands. it seems, you slight your bill of fare, because you know it; or fear to be invited to your loss. _wood._ i was willing to secure my happiness from interruption. a true soldier never falls upon the plunder, while the enemy is in the field. _trick._ he has been so often baffled, that he grows contemptible. were he here, should he see you enter into my closet; yet-- _wood._ you are like to be put upon the trial, for i hear his voice. _trick._ 'tis so: go in, and mark the event now: be but as unconcerned, as you are safe, and trust him to my management. _wood._ i must venture it; because to be seen here would have the same effect, as to be taken within. yet i doubt you are too confident. [_he goes in._ _enter_ limberham _and_ brainsick. _limb._ how now, pug? returned so soon! _trick._ when i saw you came not for me, i was loth to be long without you. _limb._ but which way came you, that i saw you not? _trick._ the back way; by the garden door. _limb._ how long have you been here? _trick._ just come before you. _limb._ o, then all's well. for, to tell you true, pug, i had a kind of villainous apprehension that you had been here longer: but whatever thou sayest is an oracle, sweet pug, and i am satisfied. _brain._ [_aside._] how infinitely she gulls him! and he so stupid not to find it! [_to her._] if he be still within, madam, (you know my meaning?) here's bilbo ready to forbid your keeper entrance. _trick._ [_aside._] woodall must have told him of our appointment.--what think you of walking down, mr limberham? _limb._ i'll but visit the chamber a little first. _trick._ what new maggot's this? you dare not, sure, be jealous! _limb._ no, i protest, sweet pug, i am not: only to satisfy my curiosity; that's but reasonable, you know. _trick._ come, what foolish curiosity? _limb._ you must know, pug, i was going but just now, in obedience to your commands, to enquire of the health and safety of your jewels, and my brother brainsick most barbarously forbade me entrance:--nay, i dare accuse you, when pug's by to back me;--but now i am resolved i will go see them, or somebody shall smoke for it. _brain._ but i resolve you shall not. if she pleases to command my person, i can comply with the obligation of a cavalier. _trick._ but what reason had you to forbid him, then, sir? _limb._ ay, what reason had you to forbid me, then, sir? _brain._ 'twas only my caprichio, madam.--now must i seem ignorant of what she knows full well. [_aside._ _trick._ we'll enquire the cause at better leisure; come down, mr limberham. _limb._ nay, if it were only his caprichio, i am satisfied; though i must tell you, i was in a kind of huff, to hear him _tan ta ra, tan ta ra,_ a quarter of an hour together; for _tan ta ra_ is but an odd kind of sound, you know, before a man's chamber. _enter_ pleasance. _pleas._ [_aside._] judith has assured me, he must be there; and, i am resolved, i'll satisfy my revenge at any rate upon my rivals. _trick._ mrs pleasance is come to call us: pray let us go. _pleas._ oh dear, mr limberham, i have had the dreadfullest dream to-night, and am come to tell it you: i dreamed you left your mistress's jewels in your chamber, and the door open. _limb._ in good time be it spoken; and so i did, mrs pleasance. _pleas._ and that a great swinging thief came in, and whipt them out. _limb._ marry, heaven forbid! _trick._ this is ridiculous: i'll speak to your mother, madam, not to suffer you to eat such heavy suppers. _limb._ nay, that's very true; for, you may remember she fed very much upon larks and pigeons; and they are very heavy meat, as pug says. _trick._ the jewels are all safe; i looked on them. _brain._ will you never stand corrected, mrs pleasance? _pleas._ not by you; correct your matrimony.--and methought, of a sudden this thief was turned to mr woodall; and that, hearing mr limberham come, he slipt for fear into the closet. _trick._ i looked all over it; i'm sure he is not there.--come away, dear. _brain._ what, i think you are in a dream too, brother limberham. _limb._ if her dream should come out now! 'tis good to be sure, however. _trick._ you are sure; have not i said it?--you had best make mr woodall a thief, madam. _pleas._ i make him nothing, madam: but the thief in my dream was like mr woodall; and that thief may have made mr limberham something. _limb._ nay, mr woodall is no thief, that's certain; but if a thief should be turned to mr woodall, that may be something. _trick._ then i'll fetch out the jewels: will that satisfy you? _brain._ that shall satisfy him. _limb._ yes, that shall satisfy me. _pleas._ then you are a predestinated fool, and somewhat worse, that shall be nameless. do you not see how grossly she abuses you? my life on't, there's somebody within, and she knows it; otherwise she would suffer you to bring out the jewels. _limb._ nay, i am no predestinated fool; and therefore, pug, give way. _trick._ i will not satisfy your humour. _limb._ then i will satisfy it myself: for my generous blood is up, and i'll force my entrance. _brain._ here's bilbo, then, shall bar you; atoms are not so small, as i will slice the slave. ha! fate and furies! _limb._ ay, for all your fate and furies, i charge you, in his majesty's name, to keep the peace: now, disobey authority, if you dare. _trick._ fear him not, sweet mr brainsick. _pleas._ to _brain._ but, if you should hinder him, he may trouble you at law, sir, and say you robbed him of his jewels. _limb._ that is well thought on. i will accuse him heinously; there--and therefore fear and tremble. _brain._ my allegiance charms me: i acquiesce. the occasion is plausible to let him pass.--now let the burnished beams upon his brow blaze broad, for the brand he cast upon the brainsick. [_aside._ _trick._ dear mr limberham, come back, and hear me. _limb._ yes, i will hear thee, pug. _pleas._ go on; my life for yours, he is there. _limb._ i am deaf as an adder; i will not hear thee, nor have no commiseration. [_struggles from her, and rushes in._ _trick._ then i know the worst, and care not. [limberham _comes running out with the jewels, followed by_ woodall, _with his sword drawn._ _limb._ o save me, pug, save me! [_gets behind her._ _wood._ a slave, to come and interrupt me at my devotions! but i will-- _limb._ hold, hold, since you are so devout; for heaven's sake, hold! _brain._ nay, monsieur woodall! _trick._ for my sake, spare him. _limb._ yes, for pug's sake, spare me. _wood._ i did his chamber the honour, when my own was not open, to retire thither; and he to disturb me, like a profane rascal as he was. _limb._ [_aside._] i believe he had the devil for his chaplain, an' a man durst tell him so. _wood._ what is that you mutter? _limb._ nay, nothing; but that i thought you had not been so well given. i was only afraid of pug's jewels. _wood._ what, does he take me for a thief? nay then-- _limb._ o mercy, mercy! _pleas._ hold, sir; it was a foolish dream of mine that set him on. i dreamt, a thief, who had been just reprieved for a former robbery, was venturing his neck a minute after in mr limberham's closet. _wood._ are you thereabouts, i'faith! a pox of artemidorus[ ]. _trick._ i have had a dream, too, concerning mrs brainsick, and perhaps-- _wood._ mrs tricksy, a word in private with you, by your keeper's leave. _limb._ yes, sir, you may speak your pleasure to her; and, if you have a mind to go to prayers together, the closet is open. _wood._ [_to_ trick.] you but suspect it at most, and cannot prove it: if you value me, you will not engage me in a quarrel with her husband. _trick._ well, in hope you will love me, i will obey. _brain._ now, damsel tricksy, your dream, your dream! _trick._ it was something of a flagelet, that a shepherd played upon so sweetly, that three women followed him for his music, and still one of them snatched it from the other. _pleas._ [_aside._] i understand her; but i find she is bribed to secrecy. _limb._ that flagelet was, by interpretation,--but let that pass; and mr woodall, there, was the shepherd, that played the _tan ta ra_ upon it: but a generous heart, like mine, will endure the infamy no longer; therefore, pug, i banish thee for ever. _trick._ then farewell. _limb._ is that all you make of me? _trick._ i hate to be tormented with your jealous humours, and am glad to be rid of them. _limb._ bear witness, good people, of her ingratitude! nothing vexes me, but that she calls me jealous; when i found him as close as a butterfly in her closet. _trick._ no matter for that; i knew not he was there. _limb._ would i could believe thee! _wood._ you have both our words for it. _trick._ why should you persuade him against his will? _limb._ since you won't persuade me, i care not much; here are the jewels in my possession, and i'll fetch out the settlement immediately. _wood._ [_shewing the box._] look you, sir, i'll spare your pains; four hundred a-year will serve to comfort a poor cast mistress. _limb._ i thought what would come of your devil's _pater nosters_! _brain._ restore it to him for pity, woodall. _trick._ i make him my trustee; he shall not restore it. _limb._ here are jewels, that cost me above two thousand pounds; a queen might wear them. behold this orient necklace, pug! 'tis pity any neck should touch it, after thine, that pretty neck! but oh, 'tis the falsest neck that e'er was hanged in pearl. _wood._ 'twould become your bounty to give it her at parting. _limb._ never the sooner for your asking. but oh, that word parting! can i bear it? if she could find in her heart but so much grace, as to acknowledge what a traitress she has been, i think, in my conscience i could forgive her. _trick._ i'll not wrong my innocence so much, nor this gentleman's; but, since you have accused us falsely, four hundred a-year betwixt us two will make us some part of reparation. _wood._ i answer you not, but with my leg, madam. _pleas._ [_aside._] this mads me; but i cannot help it. _limb._ what, wilt thou kill me, pug, with thy unkindness, when thou knowest i cannot live without thee? it goes to my heart, that this wicked fellow-- _wood._ how's that, sir? _limb._ under the rose, good mr woodall; but, i speak it with all submission, in the bitterness of my spirit, that you, or any man, should have the disposing of my four hundred a-year _gratis_; therefore dear pug, a word in private, with your permission, good mr woodall. _trick._ alas, i know, by experience, i may safely trust my person with you. [_exeunt_ limb. _and_ trick. _enter_ aldo. _pleas._ o, father aldo, we have wanted you! here has been made the rarest discovery! _brain._ with the most comical catastrophe! _wood._ happily arrived, i'faith, my old sub-fornicator; i have been taken up on suspicion here with mrs tricksy. _aldo._ to be taken, to be seen! before george, that's a point next the worst, son woodall. _wood._ truth is, i wanted thy assistance, old methusalem; but, my comfort is, i fell greatly. _aldo._ well, young phæton, that's somewhat yet, if you made a blaze at your departure. _enter_ giles, _mrs_ brainsick, _and_ judith. _giles._ by your leave, gentlemen, i have followed an old master of mine these two long hours, and had a fair course at him up the street; here he entered, i'm sure. _aldo._ whoop holyday! our trusty and well-beloved giles, most welcome! now for some news of my ungracious son. _wood._ [_aside._] giles here! o rogue, rogue! now, would i were safe stowed over head and ears in the chest again. _aldo._ look you now, son woodall, i told you i was not mistaken; my rascal's in town, with a vengeance to him. _giles._ why, this is he, sir; i thought you had known him. _aldo._ known whom? _giles._ your son here, my young master. _aldo._ do i dote? or art thou drunk, giles? _giles._ nay, i am sober enough, i'm sure; i have been kept fasting almost these two days. _aldo._ before george, 'tis so! i read it in that leering look: what a tartar have i caught! _brain._ woodall his son! _pleas._ what, young father aldo! _aldo._ [_aside._] now cannot i for shame hold up my head, to think what this young rogue is privy to! _mrs brain._ the most dumb interview i ever saw! _brain._ what, have you beheld the gorgon's head on either side? _aldo._ oh, my sins! my sins! and he keeps my book of conscience too! he can display them, with a witness! oh, treacherous young devil! _wood._ [_aside._] well, the squib's run to the end of the line, and now for the cracker: i must bear up. _aldo._ i must set a face of authority on the matter, for my credit.--pray, who am i? do you know me, sir? _wood._ yes, i think i should partly know you, sir: you may remember some private passages betwixt us. _aldo._ [_aside._] i thought as much; he has me already!--but pray, sir, why this ceremony amongst friends? put on, put on; and let us hear what news from france. have you heard lately from my son? does he continue still the most hopeful and esteemed young gentleman in paris? does he manage his allowance with the same discretion? and, lastly, has he still the same respect and duty for his good old father? _wood._ faith, sir, i have been too long from my catechism, to answer so many questions; but, suppose there be no news of your _quondam_ son, you may comfort up your heart for such a loss; father aldo has a numerous progeny about the town, heaven bless them. _aldo._ it is very well, sir; i find you have been searching for your relations, then, in whetstone's park[ ]! _wood._ no, sir; i made some scruple of going to the foresaid place, for fear of meeting my own father there. _aldo._ before george, i could find in my heart to disinherit thee. _pleas._ sure you cannot be so unnatural. _wood._ i am sure i am no bastard; witness one good quality i have. if any of your children have a stronger tang of the father in them, i am content to be disowned. _aldo._ well, from this time forward, i pronounce thee--no son of mine. _wood._ then you desire i should proceed to justify i am lawfully begotten? the evidence is ready, sir; and, if you please, i shall relate, before this honourable assembly, those excellent lessons of morality you gave me at our first acquaintance. as, in the first place-- _aldo._ hold, hold; i charge thee hold, on thy obedience. i forgive thee heartily: i have proof enough thou art my son; but tame thee that can, thou art a mad one. _pleas._ why this is as it should be. _aldo._ [_to him._] not a word of any passages betwixt us; it is enough we know each other; hereafter we will banish all pomp and ceremony, and live familiarly together. i'll be pylades, and thou mad orestes, and we will divide the estate betwixt us, and have fresh wenches, and _ballum rankum_ every night. _wood._ a match, i'faith: and let the world pass. _aldo._ but hold a little; i had forgot one point: i hope you are not married, nor engaged? _wood._ to nothing but my pleasures, i. _aldo._ a mingle of profit would do well though. come, here is a girl; look well upon her; it is a mettled toad, i can tell you that: she will make notable work betwixt two sheets, in a lawful way. _wood._ what, my old enemy, mrs pleasance! _mrs brain._ marry mrs saintly's daughter! _aldo._ the truth is, she has past for her daughter, by my appointment; but she has as good blood running in her veins, as the best of you. her father, mr palms, on his death-bed, left her to my care and disposal, besides a fortune of twelve hundred a year; a pretty convenience, by my faith. _wood._ beyond my hopes, if she consent. _aldo._ i have taken some care of her education, and placed her here with mrs saintly, as her daughter, to avoid her being blown upon by fops, and younger brothers. so now, son, i hope i have matched your concealment with my discovery; there is hit for hit, ere i cross the cudgels. _pleas._ you will not take them up, sir? _wood._ i dare not against you, madam: i am sure you will worst me at all weapons. all i can say is, i do not now begin to love you. _aldo._ let me speak for thee: thou shalt be used, little pleasance, like a sovereign princess: thou shalt not touch a bit of butchers' meat in a twelve-month; and thou shall be treated-- _pleas._ not with _ballum rankum_ every night, i hope! _aldo._ well, thou art a wag; no more of that. thou shall want neither man's meat, nor woman's meat, as far as his provision will hold out. _pleas._ but i fear he is so horribly given to go a house-warming abroad, that the least part of the provision will come to my share at home. _wood._ you will find me so much employment in my own family, that i shall have little need to look out for journey-work. _aldo._ before george, he shall do thee reason, ere thou sleepest. _pleas._ no; he shall have an honourable truce for one day at least; for it is not fair to put a fresh enemy upon him. _mrs brain._ [_to_ pleas.] i beseech you, madam, discover nothing betwixt him and me. _pleas._ [_to her._] i am contented to cancel the old score; but take heed of bringing me an after-reckoning. _enter_ gervase, _leading_ saintly. _gerv._ save you, gentlemen; and you, my _quondam_ master: you are welcome all, as i may say. _aldo._ how now, sirrah? what is the matter? _gerv._ give good words, while you live, sir; your landlord, and mr saintly, if you please. _wood._ oh, i understand the business; he is married to the widow. _saint._ verily the good work is accomplished. _brain._ but, why mr saintly? _gerv._ when a man is married to his betters, it is but decency to take her name. a pretty house, a pretty situation, and prettily furnished! i have been unlawfully labouring at hard duty; but a parson has soldered up the matter: thank your worship, mr woodall--how? giles here! _wood._ this business is out, and i am now aldo. my father has forgiven me, and we are friends. _gerv._ when will giles, with his honesty, come to this? _wood._ nay, do not insult too much, good mr saintly: thou wert but my deputy; thou knowest the widow intended it to me. _gerv._ but i am satisfied she performed it with me, sir. well, there is much good will in these precise old women; they are the most zealous bed-fellows! look, an' she does not blush now! you see there is grace in her. _wood._ mr limberham, where are you? come, cheer up, man! how go matters on your side of the country? cry him, gervase. _gerv._ mr limberham, mr limberham, make your appearance in the court, and save your recognizance. _enter_ limberham _and_ tricksy. _wood._ sir, i should now make a speech to you in my own defence; but the short of all is this: if you can forgive what is past, your hand, and i'll endeavour to make up the breach betwixt you and your mistress: if not, i am ready to give you the satisfaction of a gentleman. _limb._ sir, i am a peaceable man, and a good christian, though i say it, and desire no satisfaction from any man. pug and i are partly agreed upon the point already; and therefore lay thy hand upon thy heart, pug, and, if thou canst, from the bottom of thy soul, defy mankind, naming no body, i'll forgive thy past enormities; and, to give good example to all christian keepers, will take thee to be my wedded wife; and thy four hundred a-year shall be settled upon thee, for separate maintenance. _trick._ why, now i can consent with honour. _aldo._ this is the first business that was ever made up without me. _wood._ give you joy, mr bridegroom. _limb._ you may spare your breath, sir, if you please; i desire none from you. it is true, i am satisfied of her virtue, in spite of slander; but, to silence calumny, i shall civilly desire you henceforth, not to make a chapel-of-ease of pug's closet. _pleas._ [_aside._] i'll take care of false worship, i'll warrant him. he shall have no more to do with bel and the dragon. _brain._ come hither, wedlock, and let me seal my lasting love upon thy lips. saintly has been seduced, and so has tricksy; but thou alone art kind and constant. hitherto i have not valued modesty, according to its merit; but hereafter, memphis shall not boast a monument more firm than my affection. _wood._ a most excellent reformation, and at a most seasonable time! the moral of it is pleasant, if well considered. now, let us to dinner.--mrs saintly, lead the way, as becomes you, in your own house. [_the rest going off._ _pleas._ your hand, sweet moiety. _wood._ and heart too, my comfortable importance. mistress and wife, by turns, i have possessed: he, who enjoys them both in one, is blessed. footnotes: . the mahommedan doctrine of predestination is well known. they reconcile themselves to all dispensations, by saying, "they are written on the forehead" of him, to whose lot they have fallen. . the custom of drinking _supernaculum_, consisted in turning down the cup upon the thumb-nail of the drinker after his pledge, when, if duly quaffed off, no drop of liquor ought to appear upon his nail. with that she set it to her nose, and off at once the rumkin goes; no drops beside her muzzle falling, until that she had supped it all in: then turning't topsey on her thumb, says--look, here's _supernaculum._ _cotton's virgil travestie._ this custom seems to have been derived from the germans, who held, that if a drop appeared on the thumb, it presaged grief and misfortune to the person whose health was drunk. . this piece of dirty gallantry seems to have been fashionable: come, phyllis, thy finger, to begin the go round; how the glass in thy hand with charms does abound! you and the wine to each other lend arms, and i find that my love does for either improve, for that does redouble, as you double your charms. . dapper, a silly character in jonson's alchemist, tricked by an astrologer, who persuades him the queen of fairies is his aunt. . the mask, introduced in the first act of the maid's tragedy, ends with the following dialogue betwixt cinthia and night: _cinthia_ whip up thy team, the day breaks here, and yon sun-flaring beam shot from the south. say, which way wilt thou go? _night._ i'll vanish into mists. _cinthia._ i into day. . in spring , whilst the treaty of nimeguen was under discussion, the french took the three important frontier towns, valenciennes, st omer, and cambray. the spaniards seemed, with the most passive infatuation, to have left the defence of flanders to the prince of orange and the dutch. . alluding to the imaginary history of pine, a merchant's clerk, who, being wrecked on a desert island in the south seas, bestowed on it his own name, and peopled it by the assistance of his master's daughter and her two maid servants, who had escaped from the wreck by his aid. . sulli, the famous composer. . it would seem that about this time the french were adopting their present mode of pronunciation, so capriciously distinct from the orthography. . "queen dido, or the wandering prince of troy," an old ballad, printed in the "reliques of ancient poetry," in which the ghost of queen dido thus addresses the perfidious Æneas: therefore prepare thy flitting soul, to wander with me in the air; when deadly grief shall make it howl, because of me thou took'st no care. delay not time, thy glass is run, thy date is past, thy life is done. . _pricking_, in hare-hunting, is tracking the foot of the game by the eye, when the scent is lost.] . the facetious tom brown, in his d dialogue on mr bayes' changing his religion, introduces our poet saying, "likewise he (cleveland) having the misfortune to call that domestic animal a cock, the baron tell-clock of the night, i could never, igad, as i came home from the tavern, meet a watchman or so, but i presently asked him, 'baron tell-clock of the night, pr'ythee how goes the time?" . artemidorus, the sophist of cnidos, was the soothsayer who prophesied the death of cæsar. shakespeare has introduced him in his tragedy of "julius cæsar." . a common rendezvous of the rakes and bullies of the time; "for when they expected the most polished hero in nemours, i gave them a ruffian reeking from whetstone's park." dedication to lee's "princess of cleves." in his translation of ovid's "love elegies," lib. ii, eleg. xix. dryden mentions, "an easy whetstone whore." epilogue. spoken by limberham. i beg a boon, that, ere you all disband, some one would take my bargain off my hand: to keep a punk is but a common evil; to find her false, and marry,--that's the devil. well, i ne'er acted part in all my life, but still i was fobbed off with some such wife. i find the trick; these poets take no pity of one that is a member of the city. we cheat you lawfully, and in our trades; you cheat us basely with your common jades. now i am married, i must sit down by it; but let me keep my dear-bought spouse in quiet. let none of you damned woodalls of the pit, put in for shares to mend our breed in wit; we know your bastards from our flesh and blood, not one in ten of yours e'er comes to good. in all the boys, their fathers' virtues shine, but all the female fry turn pugs--like mine. when these grow up, lord, with what rampant gadders our counters will be thronged, and roads with padders! this town two bargains has, not worth one farthing,-- a smithfield horse, and wife of covent-garden[ ]. footnote: . alluding to an old proverb, that whoso goes to westminster for a wife, to st paul's for a man, and to smithfield for a horse, may meet with a whore, a knave, and a jade. falstaff, on being informed that bardolph is gone to smithfield to buy him a horse, observes, "i bought him in paul's, and he'll buy me a horse in smithfield; an i could get me but a wife in the stews, i were manned, horsed, and wived." _second part of henry iv._ act i. scene ii. * * * * * oedipus. a tragedy. _hi proprium decus et partum indignantur honorem, ni teneant--_ virg. _vos exemplaria græca nocturnâ versate manu, versate diurnâ._ horat. oedipus. the dreadful subject of this piece has been celebrated by several ancient and modern dramatists. of seven tragedies of sophocles which have reached our times, two are founded on the history of oedipus. the first of these, called "oedipus tyrannus," has been extolled by every critic since the days of aristotle, for the unparalleled art with which the story is managed. the dreadful secret, the existence of which is announced by the pestilence, and by the wrath of the offended deities, seems each moment on the verge of being explained, yet, till the last act, the reader is still held in horrible suspense. every circumstance, resorted to for the purpose of evincing the falsehood of the oracle, tends gradually to confirm the guilt of oedipus, and to accelerate the catastrophe; while his own supposed consciousness of innocence, at once interests us in his favour, and precipitates the horrible discovery. dryden, who arranged the whole plan of the following tragedy, although assisted by lee in the execution, was fully aware of the merit of the "oedipus tyrannus;" and, with the addition of the under-plot of adrastus and eurydice, has traced out the events of the drama, in close imitation of sophocles. the grecian bard, however, in concurrence with the history or tradition of greece, has made oedipus survive the discovery of his unintentional guilt, and reserved him, in blindness and banishment, for the subject of his second tragedy of "oedipus coloneus." this may have been well judged, considering that the audience were intimately acquainted with the important scenes which were to follow among the descendants of oedipus, with the first and second wars against thebes, and her final conquest by the ancestors of those athenians, before whom the play was rehearsed, led on by their demi-god theseus. they were also prepared to receive, with reverence and faith, the belief on which the whole interest turns, that if oedipus should be restored to thebes, the vengeance of the gods against the devoted city might be averted; and to applaud his determination to remain on athenian ground, that the predestined curse might descend on his unnatural sons and ungrateful country. but while the modern reader admires the lofty tone of poetry and high strain of morality which pervades "oedipus coloneus," it must appear more natural to his feelings, that the life of the hero, stained with unintentional incest and parricide, should be terminated, as in dryden's play, upon the discovery of his complicated guilt and wretchedness. yet there is something awful in the idea of the monarch, blind and exiled, innocent in intention, though so horribly criminal in fact, devoted, as it were, to the infernal deities, and sacred from human power and violence by the very excess of his guilt and misery. the account of the death of oedipus coloneus reaches the highest tone of sublimity. while the lightning flashes around him, he expresses the feeling, that his hour is come; and the reader anticipates, that, like malefort in the "unnatural combat," he is to perish by a thunder-bolt. yet, for the awful catastrophe, which we are artfully led to expect, is substituted a mysterious termination, still more awful. oedipus arrays himself in splendid apparel, and dismisses his daughters and the attending athenians. theseus alone remains with him. the storm subsides, and the attendants return to the place, but oedipus is there no longer--he had not perished by water, by sword, nor by fire--no one but theseus knew the manner of his death. with an impressive hint, that it was as strange and wonderful as his life had been dismally eventful, the poet drops a curtain over the fate of his hero. this last sublime scene dryden has not ventured to imitate; and the rants of lee are a poor substitute for the calm and determined despair of the "oedipus coloneus." seneca, perhaps to check the seeds of vice in nero, his pupil, to whom incest and blood were afterwards so familiar[ ], composed the latin tragedy on the subject of oedipus, which is alluded to by dryden in the following preface. the cold declamatory rhetorical stile of that philosopher was adapted precisely to counteract the effect, which a tale of terror produces on the feelings and imagination. his taste exerted itself in filling up and garnishing the more trifling passages, which sophocles had passed over as unworthy of notice, and in adjusting incidents laid in the heroic age of grecian simplicity, according to the taste and customs of the court of nero[ ]. yet though devoid of dramatic effect, of fancy, and of genius, the oedipus of seneca displays the masculine eloquence and high moral sentiment of its author; and if it does not interest us in the scene of fiction, it often compels us to turn our thoughts inward, and to study our own hearts. the oedipe of corneille is in all respects unworthy of its great author. the poet considering, as he states in his introduction, that the subject of oedipus tearing out his eyes was too horrible to be presented before ladies, qualifies its terrors by the introduction of a love intrigue betwixt theseus and dirce. the unhappy propensity of the french poets to introduce long discussions upon _la belle passion_, addressed merely to the understanding, without respect to feeling or propriety, is nowhere more ridiculously displayed than in "oedipe." the play opens with the following polite speech of theseus to dirce: _n'ecoutez plus, madame, une pitie cruelle, qui d'un fidel amant vous ferait un rebelle: la gloire d'obeir n'a rien que me soit doux, lorsque vous m'ordonnez de m'eloigner de vous. quelque ravage affreux qu'etale ici la peste, l'absence aux vrais amans est encore plus funeste; et d'un si grand peril l'image s'offre en vain, quand ce peril douteux epargne un mal certain._ act premiere, scene premiere. it is hardly possible more prettily to jingle upon the _peril douteux_, and the _mal certain_; but this is rather an awkward way of introducing the account of the pestilence, with which all the other dramatists have opened their scene. oedipus, however, is at once sensible of the cause which detained theseus at his melancholy court, amidst the horrors of the plague: _je l'avais bien juge qu'_ un interet d'amour _fermait ici vos yeux aux perils de ma cour._ _oedipo conjectere opus est_--it would have been difficult for any other person to have divined such a motive. the conduct of the drama is exactly suitable to its commencement; the fate of oedipus and of thebes, the ravages of the pestilence, and the avenging of the death of laius, are all secondary and subordinate considerations to the loves of theseus and dirce, as flat and uninteresting a pair as ever spoke _platitudes_ in french hexameters. so much is this the engrossing subject of the drama, that oedipus, at the very moment when tiresias is supposed to be engaged in raising the ghost of laius, occupies himself in a long scene of scolding about love and duty with dirce; and it is not till he is almost bullied by her off the stage, that he suddenly recollects, as an apology for his retreat, _mais il faut aller voir ce qu'a fait tiresias._ considering, however, the declamatory nature of the french dialogue, and the peremptory rule of their drama, that love, or rather gallantry, must be the moving principle of every performance, it is more astonishing that corneille should have chosen so masculine and agitating a subject, than that he should have failed in treating it with propriety or success. in the following tragedy, dryden has avowedly adopted the greek model; qualified, however, by the under plot of adrastus and eurydice, which contributes little either to the effect or merit of the play. creon, in his ambition and his deformity, is a poor copy of richard iii., without his abilities; his plots and treasons are baffled by the single appearance of oedipus; and as for the loves and woes of eurydice, and the prince of argos, they are lost in the horrors of the principal story, like the moonlight amid the glare of a conflagration. in other respects, the conduct of the piece closely follows the "oedipus tyrannus," and, in some respects, even improves on that excellent model. the tiresias of sophocles, for example, upon his first introduction, denounces oedipus as the slayer of laius, braves his resentment, and prophesies his miserable catastrophe. in dryden's play, the first anathema of the prophet is levelled only against the unknown murderer; and it is not till the powers of hell have been invoked, that even the eye of the prophet can penetrate the horrible veil, and fix the guilt decisively upon oedipus. by this means, the striking quarrel betwixt the monarch and tiresias is, with great art, postponed to the third act; and the interest, of course, is more gradually heightened than in the grecian tragedy. the first and third acts, which were wholly written by dryden, maintain a decided superiority over the rest of the piece. yet there are many excellent passages scattered through lee's scenes; and as the whole was probably corrected by dryden, the tragedy has the appearance of general consistence and uniformity. there are several scenes, in which dryden seems to have indulged his newly adopted desire of imitating the stile of shakespeare. such are, in particular, the scene of oedipus walking in his sleep, which bears marks of dryden's pen; and such, also, is the incantation in the third act. seneca and corneille have thrown this last scene into narrative. yet, by the present large size of our stages, and the complete management of light and shade, the incantation might be represented with striking effect; an advantage which, i fear, has been gained by the sacrifice of others, much more essential to the drama, considered as a dignified and rational amusement. the incantation itself is nobly written, and the ghost of laius can only be paralleled in shakespeare. the language of oedipus is, in general, nervous, pure, and elegant; and the dialogue, though in so high a tone of passion, is natural and affecting. some of lee's extravagancies are lamentable exceptions to this observation. this may be instanced in the passage, where jocasta threatens to fire olympus, destroy the heavenly furniture, and smoke the deities _like bees out of their ambrosial hives_; and such is the still more noted wish of oedipus; through all the inmost chambers of the sky, may there not be a glimpse, one starry spark, but gods meet gods, and jostle in the dark! these blemishes, however, are entitled to some indulgence from the reader, when they occur in a work of real genius. those, who do not strive at excellence, will seldom fall into absurdity; as he, who is contented to walk, is little liable to stumble. notwithstanding the admirable disposition of the parts of this play, the gradual increase of the interest, and the strong impassioned language of the dialogue, the disagreeable nature of the plot forms an objection to its success upon a british stage. distress, which turns upon the involutions of unnatural or incestuous passion, carries with it something too disgusting for the sympathy of a refined age; whereas, in a simple state of society, the feelings require a more powerful stimulus; as we see the vulgar crowd round an object of real horror, with the same pleasure we reap from seeing it represented on a theatre. besides, in ancient times, in those of the roman empire at least, such abominations really occurred, as sanctioned the story of oedipus. but the change of manners has introduced not only greater purity of moral feeling, but a sensibility, which retreats with abhorrence even from a fiction turning upon such circumstances. hence, garrick, who well knew the taste of an english audience, renounced his intention of reviving the excellent old play of "king and no king;" and hence massinger's still more awful tragedy of "the unnatural combat," has been justly deemed unfit for a modern stage. independent of this disgusting circumstance, it may be questioned whether the horror of this tragedy is not too powerful for furnishing mere amusement? it is said in the "companion to the playhouse," that when the piece was performing at dublin, a musician, in the orchestra, was so powerfully affected by the madness of oedipus, as to become himself actually delirious: and though this may be exaggerated, it is certain, that, when the play was revived about thirty years ago, the audience were unable to support it to an end; the boxes being all emptied before the third act was concluded. among all our english plays, there is none more determinedly bloody than "oedipus," in its progress and conclusion. the entrance of the unfortunate king, with his eyes torn from their sockets, is too disgusting for representation[ ]. of all the persons of the drama, scarce one survives the fifth act. oedipus dashes out his brains, jocasta stabs herself, their children are strangled, creon kills eurydice, adrastus kills creon, and the insurgents kill adrastus; when we add to this, that the conspirators are hanged, the reader will perceive, that the play, which began with a pestilence, concludes with a massacre, and darkness is the burier of the dead. another objection to oedipus has been derived from the doctrine of fatalism, inculcated by the story. there is something of cant in talking much upon the influence of a theatre on public morals; yet, i fear, though the most moral plays are incapable of doing much good, the turn of others may make a mischievous impression, by embodying in verse, and rendering apt for the memory, maxims of an impious or profligate tendency. in this point of view, there is, at least, no edification in beholding the horrible crimes unto which oedipus is unwillingly plunged, and in witnessing the dreadful punishment he sustains, though innocent of all moral or intentional guilt, corneille has endeavoured to counterbalance the obvious conclusion, by a long tirade upon free-will, which i have subjoined, as it contains some striking ideas.[ ] but the doctrine, which it expresses, is contradictory of the whole tenor of the story; and the correct deduction is much more justly summed up by seneca, in the stoical maxim of necessity: _fatis agimur, cedite fatis; non solicitæ possunt curæ, mutare rati stamina fusi; quicquid patimur mortale genus, quicquid facimus venit ex alto; servatque sua decreta colus, lachesis dura revoluta manu._ some degree of poetical justice might have been preserved, and a valuable moral inculcated, had the conduct of oedipus, in his combat with laius, been represented as atrocious, or, at least, unwarrantable; as the sequel would then have been a warning, how impossible it is to calculate the consequences or extent of a single act of guilt. but, after all, dryden perhaps extracts the true moral, while stating our insufficiency to estimate the distribution of good and evil in human life, in a passage, which, in excellent poetry, expresses more sound truth, than a whole shelf of philosophers: the gods are just-- but how can finite measure infinite? reason! alas, it does not know itself! yet man, vain man, would, with this, short-lined plummet, fathom the vast abyss of heavenly justice. whatever is, is in its causes just, since all things are by fate. but purblind man sees but a part o'the chain; the nearest links; his eyes not carrying to that equal beam, that poises all above.-- the prologue states, that the play, if damned, may be recorded as the "first buried since the woollen act." this enables us to fix the date of the performance. by the th charles ii. cap. . all persons were appointed to be buried in woollen after st august, . the play must therefore have been represented early in the season - . it was not printed until . footnotes: . nero is said to have represented the character of oedipus, amongst others of the same horrible cast.--_suetonius,_ lib. vi. cap. . . thus seneca is justly ridiculed by dacier, for sending laius forth with a numerous party of guards, to avoid the indecorum of a king going abroad too slenderly attended. the guards lose their way within a league of their master's capital; and, by this awkward contrivance, their absence is accounted for, when he is met by oedipus. . voltaire, however, held a different opinion. he thought a powerful effect might be produced by the exhibition of the blind king, indistinctly seen in the back ground, amid the shrieks of jocasta, and the exclamations of the thebans; provided the actor was capable of powerful gesture, and of expressing much passion, with little declamation. . _quoi! la necessite des vertus et des vices d'un astre imperieux doit suivre les caprices? et delphes malgré nous conduit nos actions au plus bizarre effet de ses predictions? l'ame est donc toute esclave; une loi soveraine vers le bien ou le mal incessamment l'entraine; et nous recevons ni crainte ni desir, de cette liberté qui n'a rien a choisir; attachés sans relache á cet ordre sublime, vertueux sans merite, et vicieux sans crime; qu'on massare les rois, qu'on brise les autels, c'est la faute des dieux, et non pas des mortels; de toute la vertu sur la terre epandue tout le prix ces dieux, toute la gloire est due; ils agissent en nous, quand nous pensons agir, alons qu'on delibere, on ne fait qu'obeir; et notre volonté n'aime, hait, cherche, evite, que suivant que d'en haut leur bras la precipite! d'un tel aveuglement daignez me dispenser le ciel juste a punir, juste a recompenser, pour rendre aux actions leur peine ou leur salaire, doit nous offrir son aide et puis nous laisser faire._ preface. though it be dangerous to raise too great an expectation, especially in works of this nature, where we are to please an insatiable audience, yet it is reasonable to prepossess them in favour of an author; and therefore, both the prologue and epilogue informed you, that oedipus was the most celebrated piece of all antiquity; that sophocles, not only the greatest wit, but one of the greatest men in athens, made it for the stage at the public cost; and that it had the reputation of being his masterpiece, not only among the seven of his which are still remaining, but of the greater number which are perished. aristotle has more than once admired it, in his book of poetry; horace has mentioned it: lucullus, julius cæsar, and other noble romans, have written on the same subject, though their poems are wholly lost; but seneca's is still preserved. in our own age, corneille has attempted it, and, it appears by his preface, with great success. but a judicious reader will easily observe, how much the copy is inferior to the original. he tells you himself, that he owes a great part of his success, to the happy episode of theseus and dirce; which is the same thing, as if we should acknowledge, that we were indebted for our good fortune to the under-plot of adrastus, eurydice, and creon. the truth is, he miserably failed in the character of his hero: if he desired that oedipus should be pitied, he should have made him a better man. he forgot, that sophocles had taken care to show him, in his first entrance, a just, a merciful, a successful, a religious prince, and, in short, a father of his country. instead of these, he has drawn him suspicious, designing, more anxious of keeping the theban crown, than solicitous for the safety of his people; hectored by theseus, condemned by dirce, and scarce maintaining a second part in his own tragedy. this was an error in the first concoction; and therefore never to be mended in the second or the third. he introduced a greater hero than oedipus himself; for when theseus was once there, that companion of hercules must yield to none. the poet was obliged to furnish him with business, to make him an equipage suitable to his dignity; and, by following him too close, to lose his other king of brentford in the crowd. seneca, on the other side, as if there were no such thing as nature to be minded in a play, is always running after pompous expression, pointed sentences, and philosophical notions, more proper for the study than the stage: the frenchman followed a wrong scent; and the roman was absolutely at cold hunting. all we could gather out of corneille was, that an episode must be, but not his way: and seneca supplied us with no new hint, but only a relation which he makes of his tiresias raising the ghost of laius; which is here performed in view of the audience,--the rites and ceremonies, so far his, as he agreed with antiquity, and the religion of the greeks. but he himself was beholden to homer's tiresias, in the "odysses," for some of them; and the rest have been collected from heliodore's "ethiopiques," and lucan's erictho[ ]. sophocles, indeed, is admirable everywhere; and therefore we have followed him as close as possibly we could. but the athenian theatre, (whether more perfect than ours, is not now disputed,) had a perfection differing from ours. you see there in every act a single scene, (or two at most,) which manage the business of the play; and after that succeeds the chorus, which commonly takes up more time in singing, than there has been employed in speaking. the principal person appears almost constantly through the play; but the inferior parts seldom above once in the whole tragedy. the conduct of our stage is much more difficult, where we are obliged never to lose any considerable character, which we have once presented. custom likewise has obtained, that we must form an under-plot of second persons, which must be depending on the first; and their by-walks must be like those in a labyrinth, which all of them lead into the great parterre; or like so many several lodging chambers, which have their outlets into the same gallery. perhaps, after all, if we could think so, the ancient method, as it is the easiest, is also the most natural, and the best. for variety, as it is managed, is too often subject to breed distraction; and while we would please too many ways, for want of art in the conduct, we please in none[ ]. but we have given you more already than was necessary for a preface; and, for aught we know, may gain no more by our instructions, than that politic nation is like to do, who have taught their enemies to fight so long, that at last they are in a condition to invade them[ ]. footnotes: . heliodorus, bishop of trica, wrote a romance in greek, called the "ethiopiques," containing the amours of theagenes and chariclea. he was so fond of this production, that, the option being proposed to him by a synod, he rather chose to resign his bishopric than destroy his work. there occurs a scene of incantation in this romance. the story of lucan's witch occurs in the sixth book of the pharsalia. dryden has judiciously imitated seneca, in representing necromancy as the last resort of tiresias, after all milder modes of augury had failed. . it had been much to be wished, that our author had preferred his own better judgment, and the simplicity of the greek plot, to compliance with this foolish custom. . this seems to allude to the french, who, after having repeatedly reduced the dutch to extremity, were about this period defeated by the prince of orange, in the battle of mons. see the next note. prologue. when athens all the grecian slate did guide, and greece gave laws to all the world beside; then sophocles with socrates did sit, supreme in wisdom one, and one in wit: and wit from wisdom differed not in those, but as 'twas sung in verse, or said in prose. then, oedipus, on crowded theatres, drew all admiring eyes and list'ning ears: the pleased spectator shouted every line, the noblest, manliest, and the best design! and every critic of each learned age, by this just model has reformed the stage. now, should it fail, (as heaven avert our fear!) damn it in silence, lest the world should hear. for were it known this poem did not please, you might set up for perfect savages: your neighbours would not look on you as men, but think the nation all turned picts again. faith, as you manage matters, 'tis not fit you should suspect yourselves of too much wit: drive not the jest too far, but spare this piece; and, for this once, be not more wise than greece. see twice! do not pell-mell to damning fall, like true-born britons, who ne'er think at all: pray be advised; and though at mons[ ] you won, on pointed cannon do not always run. with some respect to ancient wit proceed; you take the four first councils for your creed. but, when you lay tradition wholly by, and on the private spirit alone rely, you turn fanatics in your poetry. if, notwithstanding all that we can say, you needs will have your penn'orths of the play, and come resolved to damn, because you pay, record it, in memorial of the fact, the first play buried since the woollen act. footnote: . on the th of august, , the prince of orange, afterwards william iii. marched to the attack of the french army, which blockaded mons, and lay secured by the most formidable entrenchments. notwithstanding a powerful and well-served artillery, the duke of luxemburgh was forced to abandon his trenches, and retire with great loss. the english and scottish regiments, under the gallant earl of ossory, had their full share in the glory of the day. it is strongly suspected, that the prince of orange, when he undertook this perilous atchievement, knew that a peace had been signed betwixt france and the states, though the intelligence was not made public till next day. carleton says, that the troops, when drawn up for the attack, supposed the purpose was to fire a _feu-de-joie_ for the conclusion of the war. the enterprize, therefore, though successful, was needless as well as desperate, and merited dryden's oblique censure. dramatis personÆ. oedipus, _king of thebes._ adrastus, _prince of argos._ creon, _brother to_ jocasta. tiresias, _a blind prophet._ hÆmon, _captain of the guard._ alcander, } diocles, } _lords of_ creon's _faction._ pyracmon, } phorbas, _an old shepherd._ dymas, _the messenger returned from delphos._ Ægeon, _the corinthian embassador._ _ghost of_ laius, _the late king of thebes._ jocasta, _queen of thebes._ eurydice, _her daughter, by_ laius, _her first husband._ manto, _daughter of_ tiresias. _priests, citizens, attendants,_ &c. scene--_thebes._ oedipus. act i. scene i.--_the curtain rises to a plaintive tune, representing the present condition of thebes; dead bodies appear at a distance in the streets; some faintly go over the stage, others drop._ _enter_ alcander, diocles, _and_ pyracmon. _alc._ methinks we stand on ruins; nature shakes about us; and the universal frame so loose, that it but wants another push, to leap from off its hinges. _dioc._ no sun to cheer us; but a bloody globe, that rolls above, a bald and beamless fire, his face o'er-grown with scurf: the sun's sick, too; shortly he'll be an earth. _pyr._ therefore the seasons lie all confused; and, by the heavens neglected, forget themselves: blind winter meets the summer in his mid-way, and, seeing not his livery, has driven him headlong back; and the raw damps, with flaggy wings, fly heavily about, scattering their pestilential colds and rheums through all the lazy air. _alc._ hence murrains followed on bleating flocks, and on the lowing herds: at last, the malady grew more domestic, and the faithful dog died at his master's feet[ ]. _dioc._ and next, his master: for all those plagues, which earth and air had brooded, first on inferior creatures tried their force, and last they seized on man. _pyr._ and then a thousand deaths at once advanced, and every dart took place; all was so sudden, that scarce a first man fell; one but began to wonder, and straight fell a wonder too; a third, who stooped to raise his dying friend, dropt in the pious act.--heard you that groan? [_groan within._ _dioc._ a troop of ghosts took flight together there. now death's grown riotous, and will play no more for single stakes, but families and tribes. how are we sure we breathe not now our last, and that, next minute, our bodies, cast into some common pit, shall not be built upon, and overlaid by half a people? _alc._ there's a chain of causes linked to effects; invincible necessity, that whate'er is, could not but so have been; that's my security. _to them, enter_ creon. _cre._ so had it need, when all our streets lie covered with dead and dying men; and earth exposes bodies on the pavements, more than she hides in graves. betwixt the bride and bridegroom have i seen the nuptial torch do common offices of marriage and of death. _dioc._ now oedipus (if he return from war, our other plague) will scarce find half he left, to grace his triumphs. _pyr._ a feeble pæan will be sung before him. _alc._ he would do well to bring the wives and children of conquered argians, to renew his thebes. _cre._ may funerals meet him at the city gates, with their detested omen! _dioc._ of his children. _cre._ nay, though she be my sister, of his wife. _alc._ o that our thebes might once again behold a monarch, theban born! _dioc._ we might have had one. _pyr._ yes, had the people pleased. _cre._ come, you are my friends: the queen my sister, after laius' death, feared to lie single; and supplied his place with a young successor. _dioc._ he much resembles her former husband too. _alc._ i always thought so. _pyr._ when twenty winters more have grizzled his black locks, he will be very laius. _cre._ so he will. meantime, she stands provided of a laius, more young, and vigorous too, by twenty springs. these women are such cunning purveyors! mark, where their appetites have once been pleased, the same resemblance, in a younger lover, lies brooding in their fancies the same pleasures, and urges their remembrance to desire. _dioc._ had merit, not her dotage, been considered; then creon had been king; but oedipus, a stranger! _cre._ that word, _stranger_, i confess, sounds harshly in my ears. _dioc._ we are your creatures. the people, prone, as in all general ills, to sudden change; the king, in wars abroad; the queen, a woman weak and unregarded; eurydice, the daughter of dead laius, a princess young and beauteous, and unmarried,-- methinks, from these disjointed propositions, something might be produced. _cre._ the gods have done their part, by sending this commodious plague. but oh, the princess! her hard heart is shut by adamantine locks against my love. _alc._ your claim to her is strong; you are betrothed. _pyr._ true, in her nonage. _dioc._ i heard the prince of argos, young adrastus, when he was hostage here-- _cre._ oh name him not! the bane of all my hopes. that hot-brained, head-long warrior, has the charms of youth, and somewhat of a lucky rashness, to please a woman yet more fool than he. that thoughtless sex is caught by outward form. and empty noise, and loves itself in man. _alc._ but since the war broke out about our frontiers, he's now a foe to thebes. _cre._ but is not so to her. see, she appears; once more i'll prove my fortune. you insinuate kind thoughts of me into the multitude; lay load upon the court; gull them with freedom; and you shall see them toss their tails, and gad, as if the breeze had stung them. _dioc._ we'll about it. [_exeunt_ alc. dioc. _and_ pyr. _enter_ eurydice. _cre._ hail, royal maid! thou bright eurydice, a lavish planet reigned when thou wert born, and made thee of such kindred mould to heaven, thou seem'st more heaven's than ours. _eur._ cast round your eyes, where late the streets were so thick sown with men, like cadmus' brood, they jostled for the passage; now look for those erected heads, and see them, like pebbles, paving all our public ways; when you have thought on this, then answer me,-- if these be hours of courtship? _cre._ yes, they are; for when the gods destroy so fast, 'tis time we should renew the race. _eur._ what, in the midst of horror? _cre._ why not then? there's the more need of comfort. _eur._ impious creon! _cre._ unjust eurydice! can you accuse me of love, which is heaven's precept, and not fear that vengeance, which you say pursues our crimes, should reach your perjuries? _eur._ still the old argument. i bade you cast your eyes on other men, now cast them on yourself; think what you are. _cre._ a man. _eur._ a man! _cre._ why, doubt you i'm a man? _eur._ 'tis well you tell me so; i should mistake you for any other part o'the whole creation, rather than think you man. hence from my sight, thou poison to my eyes! _cre._ 'twas you first poisoned mine; and yet, methinks, my face and person should not make you sport. _eur._ you force me, by your importunities, to shew you what you are. _cre._ a prince, who loves you; and, since your pride provokes me, worth your love. even at its highest value. _eur._ love from thee! why love renounced thee ere thou saw'st the light; nature herself start back when thou wert born, and cried,--the work's not mine. the midwife stood aghast; and when she saw thy mountain back, and thy distorted legs, thy face itself; half-minted with the royal stamp of man, and half o'ercome with beast, stood doubting long, whose right in thee were more; and knew not, if to burn thee in the flames were not the holier work. _cre._ am i to blame, if nature threw my body in so perverse a mould? yet when she cast her envious hand upon my supple joints, unable to resist, and rumpled them on heaps in their dark lodging, to revenge her bungled work, she stampt my mind more fair; and as from chaos, huddled and deformed, the god struck fire, and lighted up the lamps that beautify the sky, so he informed this ill-shaped body with a daring soul; and, making less than man, he made me more. _eur._ no; thou art all one error, soul and body; the first young trial of some unskilled power, rude in the making art, and ape of jove. thy crooked mind within hunched out thy back, and wandered in thy limbs. to thy own kind make love, if thou canst find it in the world; and seek not from our sex to raise an offspring, which, mingled with the rest, would tempt the gods, to cut off human kind. _cre._ no; let them leave the argian prince for you. that enemy of thebes has made you false, and break the vows you made to me. _eur._ they were my mother's vows, made when i was at nurse. _cre._ but hear me, maid: this blot of nature, this deformed, loathed creon, is master of a sword, to reach the blood of your young minion, spoil the gods' fine work, and stab you in his heart. _eur._ this when thou dost, then mayst thou still be cursed with loving me; and, as thou art, be still unpitied, loathed; and let his ghost--no, let his ghost have rest-- but let the greatest, fiercest, foulest fury, let creon haunt himself. [_exit_ eur. _cre._ 'tis true, i am what she has told me--an offence to sight: my body opens inward to my soul, and lets in day to make my vices seen by all discerning eyes, but the blind vulgar. i must make haste, ere oedipus return, to snatch the crown and her--for i still love, but love with malice. as an angry cur snarls while he feeds, so will i seize and stanch the hunger of my love on this proud beauty, and leave the scraps for slaves. _enter_ tiresias, _leaning on a staff, and led by his daughter_ manto. what makes this blind prophetic fool abroad? would his apollo had him! he's too holy for earth and me; i'll shun his walk, and seek my popular friends. [_exit_ creon. _tir._ a little farther; yet a little farther, thou wretched daughter of a dark old man, conduct my weary steps: and thou, who seest for me and for thyself, beware thou tread not, with impious steps, upon dead corps. now stay; methinks i draw more open, vital air. where are we? _man._ under covert of a wall; the most frequented once, and noisy part of thebes; now midnight silence reigns even here, and grass untrodden springs beneath our feet. _tir._ if there be nigh this place a sunny bank, there let me rest awhile:--a sunny bank! alas! how can it be, where no sun shines, but a dim winking taper in the skies, that nods, and scarce holds up his drowzy head, to glimmer through the damps! [_a noise within._ follow, follow, follow! a creon, a creon, a creon! hark! a tumultuous noise, and creon's name thrice echoed. _man._ fly, the tempest drives this way. _tir._ whither can age and blindness take their flight? if i could fly, what could i suffer worse, secure of greater ills? [_noise again,_ creon, creon, creon! _enter_ creon, diocles, alcander, pyracmon; _followed by the crowd._ _cre._ i thank ye, countrymen; but must refuse the honours you intend me; they're too great, and i am too unworthy; think again, and make a better choice. _ cit._ think twice! i ne'er thought twice in all my life; that's double work. _ cit._ my first word is always my second; and therefore i'll have no second word; and therefore, once again, i say, a creon! _all._ a creon, a creon, a creon! _cre._ yet hear me, fellow-citizens. _dioc._ fellow-citizens! there was a word of kindness! _alc._ when did oedipus salute you by that familiar name? _ cit._ never, never; he was too proud. _cre._ indeed he could not, for he was a stranger; but under him our thebes is half destroyed. forbid it, heaven, the residue should perish under a theban born! 'tis true, the gods might send this plague among you, because a stranger ruled; but what of that? can i redress it now? _ cit._ yes, you or none. 'tis certain that the gods are angry with us, because he reigns. _cre._ oedipus may return; you may be ruined. _ cit._ nay, if that be the matter, we are ruined already. _ cit._ half of us, that are here present, were living men but yesterday; and we, that are absent, do but drop and drop, and no man knows whether he be dead or living. and therefore, while we are sound and well, let us satisfy our consciences, and make a new king. _ cit._ ha, if we were but worthy to see another coronation! and then, if we must die, we'll go merrily together. _all._ to the question, to the question. _dioc._ are you content, creon should be your king? _all_ a creon, a creon, a creon! _tir._ hear me, ye thebans, and thou creon, hear me. _ cit._ who's that would be heard? we'll hear no man; we can scarce hear one another. _tir._ i charge you, by the gods, to hear me. _ cit._ oh, it is apollo's priest, we must hear him; it is the old blind prophet, that sees all things. _ cit._ he comes from the gods too, and they are our betters; and, in good manners, we must hear him:--speak, prophet. _ cit._ for coming from the gods, that's no great matter, they can all say that: but he is a great scholar; he can make almanacks, an' he were put to it; and therefore i say, hear him. _tir._ when angry heaven scatters its plagues among you, is it for nought, ye thebans? are the gods unjust in punishing? are there no crimes, which pull this vengeance down? _ cit._ yes, yes; no doubt there are some sins stirring, that are the cause of all. _ cit._ yes, there are sins, or we should have no taxes. _ cit._ for my part, i can speak it with a safe conscience, i never sinned in all my life. _ cit._ nor i. _ cit._ nor i. _ cit._ then we are all justified; the sin lies not at our doors. _tir._ all justified alike, and yet all guilty! were every man's false dealing brought to light, his envy, malice, lying, perjuries, his weights and measures, the other man's extortions, with what face could you tell offended heaven, you had not sinned? _ cit._ nay, if these be sins, the case is altered; for my part, i never thought any thing but murder had been a sin. _tir._ and yet, as if all these were less than nothing, you add rebellion to them, impious thebans! have you not sworn before the gods to serve and to obey this oedipus, your king by public voice elected? answer me, if this be true! _ cit._ this is true; but its a hard world, neighbours, if a man's oath must be his master. _cre._ speak, diocles; all goes wrong. _dioc._ how are you traitors, countrymen of thebes? this holy sire, who presses you with oaths, forgets your first; were you not sworn before to laius and his blood? _all._ we were; we were. _dioc._ while laius has a lawful successor, your first oath still must bind: eurydice is heir to laius; let her marry creon. offended heaven will never be appeased, while oedipus pollutes the throne of laius, a stranger to his blood. _all._ we'll no oedipus, no oedipus. _ cit._ he puts the prophet in a mouse-hole. _ cit._ i knew it would be so; the last man ever speaks the best reason. _tir._ can benefits thus die, ungrateful thebans! remember yet, when, after laius' death, the monster sphinx laid your rich country waste, your vineyards spoiled, your labouring oxen slew, yourselves for fear mewed up within your walls; she, taller than your gates, o'er-looked your town; but when she raised her bulk to sail above you, she drove the air around her like a whirlwind, and shaded all beneath; till, stooping down, she clap'd her leathern wing against your towers, and thrust out her long neck, even to your doors[ ]. _dioc. alc. pyr._ we'll hear no more. _tir._ you durst not meet in temples, to invoke the gods for aid; the proudest he, who leads you now, then cowered, like a dared[ ] lark: this creon shook for fear, the blood of laius curdled in his veins, 'till oedipus arrived. called by his own high courage and the gods, himself to you a god, ye offered him your queen and crown; (but what was then your crown!) and heaven authorized it by his success. speak then, who is your lawful king? _all._ 'tis oedipus. _tir._ 'tis oedipus indeed: your king more lawful than yet you dream; for something still there lies in heaven's dark volume, which i read through mists: 'tis great, prodigious; 'tis a dreadful birth, of wondrous fate; and now, just now disclosing. i see, i see! how terrible it dawns, and my soul sickens with it! _ cit._ how the god shakes him! _tir._ he comes, he comes! victory! conquest! triumph! but oh! guiltless and guilty: murder! parricide! incest! discovery! punishment--'tis ended, and all your sufferings o'er. _a trumpet within: enter_ hÆmon. _hæm._ rouse up, you thebans; tune your _io pæans_! your king returns; the argians are o'ercome; their warlike prince in single combat taken, and led in bands by god-like oedipus! _all._ oedipus, oedipus, oedipus! _creon._ furies confound his fortune!-- [_aside._ haste, all haste, [_to them._ and meet with blessings our victorious king; decree processions; bid new holidays; crown all the statues of our gods with garlands; and raise a brazen column, thus inscribed,-- _to oedipus, now twice a conqueror; deliverer of his thebes._ trust me, i weep for joy to see this day. _tir._ yes, heaven knows why thou weep'st.--go, countrymen, and, as you use to supplicate your gods, so meet your king with bays, and olive branches; bow down, and touch his knees, and beg from him an end of all your woes; for only he can give it you. [_exit_ tiresias, _the people following._ _enter_ oedipus _in triumph;_ adrastus _prisoner;_ dymas, _train._ _cre._ all hail, great oedipus! thou mighty conqueror, hail; welcome to thebes; to thy own thebes; to all that's left of thebes; for half thy citizens are swept away, and wanting for thy triumphs; and we, the happy remnant, only live to welcome thee, and die. _oedip._ thus pleasure never comes sincere to man, but lent by heaven upon hard usury; and while jove holds us out the bowl of joy, ere it can reach our lips, 'tis dashed with gall by some left-handed god. o mournful triumph! o conquest gained abroad, and lost at home! o argos, now rejoice, for thebes lies low! thy slaughtered sons now smile, and think they won, when they can count more theban ghosts than theirs. _adr._ no; argos mourns with thebes; you tempered so your courage while you fought, that mercy seemed the manlier virtue, and much more prevailed; while argos is a people, think your thebes can never want for subjects. every nation will crowd to serve where oedipus commands. _cre._ [_to_ hÆm.] how mean it shews, to fawn upon the victor! _hæm._ had you beheld him fight, you had said otherwise. come, 'tis brave bearing in him, not to envy superior virtue. _oedip._ this indeed is conquest, to gain a friend like you: why were we foes? _adr._ 'cause we were kings, and each disdained an equal. i fought to have it in my power to do what thou hast done, and so to use my conquest. to shew thee, honour was my only motive, know this, that were my army at thy gates, and thebes thus waste, i would not take the gift, which, like a toy dropt from the hands of fortune, lay for the next chance-comer. _oedip._ [_embracing._] no more captive, but brother of the war. 'tis much more pleasant, and safer, trust me, thus to meet thy love, than when hard gauntlets clenched our warlike hands, and kept them from soft use. _adr._ my conqueror! _oedip._ my friend! that other name keeps enmity alive. but longer to detain thee were a crime; to love, and to eurydice, go free. such welcome, as a ruined town can give, expect from me; the rest let her supply. _adr._ i go without a blush, though conquered twice, by you, and by my princess. [_exit_ adrastus. _cre._ [_aside._] then i am conquered thrice; by oedipus, and her, and even by him, the slave of both. gods, i'm beholden to you, for making me your image; would i could make you mine! [_exit_ creon. _enter the people with branches in their hands, holding them up, and kneeling: two priests before them._ _oedip._ alas, my people! what means this speechless sorrow, downcast eyes, and lifted hands? if there be one among you, whom grief has left a tongue, speak for the rest. _ pr._ o father of thy country! to thee these knees are bent, these eyes are lifted, as to a visible divinity; a prince, on whom heaven safely might repose the business of mankind; for providence might on thy careful bosom sleep secure, and leave her task to thee. but where's the glory of thy former acts? even that's destroyed, when none shall live to speak it. millions of subjects shalt thou have; but mute. a people of the dead; a crowded desert; a midnight silence at the noon of day. _oedip._ o were our gods as ready with their pity, as i with mine, this presence should be thronged with all i left alive; and my sad eyes not search in vain for friends, whose promised sight flattered my toils of war. _ pr._ twice our deliverer! _oedip._ nor are now your vows addrest to one who sleeps. when this unwelcome news first reached my ears, dymas was sent to delphos, to enquire the cause and cure of this contagious ill, and is this day returned; but, since his message concerns the public, i refused to hear it but in this general presence: let him speak. _dym._ a dreadful answer from the hallowed urn, and sacred tripos, did the priestess give, in these mysterious words. _the oracle._ _shed in a cursed hour, by cursed hand, blood-royal unrevenged has cursed the land. when laius' death is expiated well, your plague shall cease. the rest let laius tell._ _oedip._ dreadful indeed! blood, and a king's blood too! and such a king's, and by his subjects shed! (else why this curse on thebes?) no wonder then if monsters, wars, and plagues, revenge such crimes! if heaven be just, its whole artillery, all must be emptied on us: not one bolt shall err from thebes; but more be called for, more; new-moulded thunder of a larger size, driven by whole jove. what, touch anointed power! then, gods, beware; jove would himself be next, could you but reach him too. _ pr._ we mourn the sad remembrance. _oedip._ well you may; worse than a plague infects you: you're devoted to mother earth, and to the infernal powers; hell has a right in you. i thank you, gods, that i'm no theban born: how my blood curdles! as if this curse touched me, and touched me nearer than all this presence!--yes, 'tis a king's blood, and i, a king, am tied in deeper bonds to expiate this blood. but where, from whom, or how must i atone it? tell me, thebans, how laius fell; for a confused report passed through my ears, when first i took the crown; but full of hurry, like a morning dream, it vanished in the business of the day.[ ] _ pr._ he went in private forth, but thinly followed, and ne'er returned to thebes. _oedip._ nor any from him? came there no attendant? none to bring news? _ pr._ but one; and he so wounded, he scarce drew breath to speak some few faint words. _oedip._ what were they? something may be learnt from thence. _ pr._ he said, a band of robbers watched their passage, who took advantage of a narrow way, to murder laius and the rest; himself left too for dead. _oedip._ made you no more enquiry, but took this bare relation? _ pr._ 'twas neglected; for then the monster sphinx began to rage, and present cares soon buried the remote: so was it hushed, and never since revived. _oedip._ mark, thebans, mark! just then, the sphinx began to rage among you; the gods took hold even of the offending minute, and dated thence your woes: thence will i trace them. _ pr._ 'tis just thou should'st. _oedip._ hear then this dreadful imprecation; hear it; 'tis laid on all; not any one exempt: bear witness, heaven, avenge it on the perjured! if any theban born, if any stranger reveal this murder, or produce its author, ten attick talents be his just reward: but if, for fear, for favour, or for hire, the murderer he conceal, the curse of thebes fall heavy on his head: unite our plagues, ye gods, and place them there: from fire and water, converse, and all things common, be he banished. but for the murderer's self, unfound by man, find him, ye powers celestial and infernal! and the same fate, or worse than laius met, let be his lot: his children be accurst; his wife and kindred, all of his, be cursed! _both pr._ confirm it, heaven! _enter_ jocasta, _attended by women._ _joc._ at your devotions? heaven succeed your wishes; and bring the effect of these your pious prayers on you, and me, and all. _pr._ avert this omen, heaven! _oedip._ o fatal sound! unfortunate jocasta! what hast thou said! an ill hour hast thou chosen for these fore-boding words! why, we were cursing! _joc._ then may that curse fall only where you laid it. _oedip._ speak no more! for all thou say'st is ominous: we were cursing; and that dire imprecation has thou fastened on thebes, and thee, and me, and all of us. _joc._ are then my blessings turned into a curse? o unkind oedipus! my former lord thought me his blessing; be thou like my laius. _oedip._ what, yet again? the third time hast thou cursed me: this imprecation was for laius' death, and thou hast wished me like him. _joc._ horror seizes me! _oedip._ why dost thou gaze upon me? pr'ythee, love, take off thy eye; it burdens me too much. _joc._ the more i look, the more i find of laius: his speech, his garb, his action; nay, his frown,-- for i have seen it,--but ne'er bent on me. _oedip._ are we so like? _joc._ in all things but his love. _oedip._ i love thee more: so well i love, words cannot speak how well. no pious son e'er loved his mother more, than i my dear jocasta. _joc._ i love you too the self-same way; and when you chid, methought a mother's love start[ ] up in your defence, and bade me not be angry. be not you; for i love laius still, as wives should love; but you more tenderly, as part of me: and when i have you in my arms, methinks i lull my child asleep. _oedip._ then we are blest; and all these curses sweep along the skies like empty clouds, but drop not on our heads. _joc._ i have not joyed an hour since you departed, for public miseries, and for private fears; but this blest meeting has o'er-paid them all. good fortune, that comes seldom, comes more welcome. all i can wish for now, is your consent to make my brother happy. _oedip._ how, jocasta? _joc._ by marriage with his niece, eurydice. _oedip._ uncle and niece! they are too near, my love; 'tis too like incest; 'tis offence to kind: had i not promised, were there no adrastus, no choice but creon left her of mankind, they should not marry: speak no more of it; the thought disturbs me. _joc._ heaven can never bless a vow so broken, which i made to creon; remember, he is my brother. _oedip._ that is the bar; and she thy daughter: nature would abhor to be forced back again upon herself, and, like a whirlpool, swallow her own streams. _joc._ be not displeased: i'll move the suit no more. _oedip._ no, do not; for, i know not why, it shakes me, when i but think on incest. move we forward, to thank the gods for my success, and pray to wash the guilt of royal blood away. [_exeunt._ act ii. scene i.--_an open gallery. a royal bed-chamber being supposed behind. the time, night. thunder, &c._ _enter_ hÆmon, alcander, _and_ pyracmon. _hæm._ sure 'tis the end of all things! fate has torn the lock of time off, and his head is now the ghastly ball of round eternity! call you these peals of thunder, but the yawn of bellowing clouds? by jove, they seem to me the world's last groans; and those vast sheets of flame are its last blaze. the tapers of the gods, the sun and moon, run down like waxen-globes; the shooting stars end all in purple jellies[ ], and chaos is at hand. _pyr._ 'tis midnight, yet there's not a theban sleeps, but such as ne'er must wake. all crowd about the palace, and implore, as from a god, help of the king; who, from the battlement, by the red lightning's glare descried afar, atones the angry powers. [_thunder, &c._ _hæm._ ha! pyracmon, look; behold, alcander, from yon' west of heaven, the perfect figures of a man and woman; a sceptre, bright with gems, in each right hand, their flowing robes of dazzling purple made: distinctly yonder in that point they stand, just west; a bloody red stains all the place; and see, their faces are quite hid in clouds. _pyr._ clusters of golden stars hang o'er their heads, and seem so crowded, that they burst upon them: all dart at once their baleful influence, in leaking fire. _alc._ long-bearded comets stick, like flaming porcupines, to their left sides, as they would shoot their quills into their hearts. _hæm._ but see! the king, and queen, and all the court! did ever day or night shew aught like this? [_thunders again. the scene draws, and discovers the prodigies._ _enter_ oedipus, jocasta, eurydice, adrastus; _and all coming forward with amazement._ _oedip._ answer, you powers divine! spare all this noise, this rack of heaven, and speak your fatal pleasure. why breaks yon dark and dusky orb away? why from the bleeding womb of monstrous night, burst forth such myriads of abortive stars? ha! my jocasta, look! the silver moon! a settling crimson stains her beauteous face! she's all o'er blood! and look, behold again, what mean the mystic heavens she journies on? a vast eclipse darkens the labouring planet:-- sound there, sound all our instruments of war; clarions and trumpets, silver, brass, and iron, and beat a thousand drums, to help her labour. _adr._ 'tis vain; you see the prodigies continue; let's gaze no more, the gods are humorous. _oedip._ forbear, rash man.--once more i ask your pleasure! if that the glow-worm light of human reason might dare to offer at immortal knowledge, and cope with gods, why all this storm of nature? why do the rocks split, and why rolls the sea? why those portents in heaven, and plagues on earth? why yon gigantic forms, ethereal monsters? alas! is all this but to fright the dwarfs, which your own hands have made? then be it so. or if the fates resolve some expiation for murdered laius; hear me, hear me, gods! hear me thus prostrate: spare this groaning land, save innocent thebes, stop the tyrant death; do this, and lo, i stand up an oblation, to meet your swiftest and severest anger; shoot all at once, and strike me to the centre. _the cloud draws, that veiled the heads of the figures in the sky, and shews them crowned, with the names of_ oedipus _and_ jocasta, _written above in great characters of gold._ _adr._ either i dream, and all my cooler senses are vanished with that cloud that fleets away, or just above those two majestic heads, i see, i read distinctly, in large gold, _oedipus and jocasta._ _alc._ i read the same. _adr._ 'tis wonderful; yet ought not man to wade too far in the vast deep of destiny. [_thunder; and the prodigies vanish._ _joc._ my lord, my oedipus, why gaze you now, when the whole heaven is clear, as if the gods had some new monsters made? will you not turn, and bless your people, who devour each word you breathe? _oedip._ it shall be so. yes, i will die, o thebes, to save thee! draw from my heart my blood, with more content than e'er i wore thy crown.--yet, o jocasta! by all the endearments of miraculous love, by all our languishings, our fears in pleasure, which oft have made us wonder; here i swear, on thy fair hand, upon thy breast i swear, i cannot call to mind, from budding childhood to blooming youth, a crime by me committed, for which the awful gods should doom my death. _joc._ 'tis not you, my lord, but he who murdered laius, frees the land. were you, which is impossible, the man, perhaps my poniard first should drink your blood; but you are innocent, as your jocasta, from crimes like those. this made me violent to save your life, which you unjust would lose: nor can you comprehend, with deepest thought, the horrid agony you cast me in, when you resolved to die. _oedip._ is't possible? _joc._ alas! why start you so? her stiffening grief, who saw her children slaughtered all at once, was dull to mine: methinks, i should have made my bosom bare against the armed god, to save my oedipus! _oedip._ i pray, no more. _joc._ you've silenced me, my lord. _oedip._ pardon me, dear jocasta! pardon a heart that sinks with sufferings, and can but vent itself in sobs and murmurs: yet, to restore my peace, i'll find him out. yes, yes, you gods! you shall have ample vengeance on laius' murderer. o, the traitor's name! i'll know't, i will; art shall be conjured for it, and nature all unravelled. _joc._ sacred sir-- _oedip._ rage will have way, and 'tis but just; i'll fetch him, though lodged in air upon a dragon's wing, though rocks should hide him: nay, he shall be dragged from hell, if charms can hurry him along: his ghost shall be, by sage tiresias' power,-- tiresias, that rules all beneath the moon,-- confined to flesh, to suffer death once more; and then be plunged in his first fires again. _enter_ creon. _cre._ my lord, tiresias attends your pleasure. _oedip._ haste, and bring him in.-- o, my jocasta, eurydice, adrastus, creon, and all ye thebans, now the end of plagues, of madness, murders, prodigies, draws on: this battle of the heavens and earth shall by his wisdom be reduced to peace. _enter_ tiresias, _leaning on a staff, led by his daughter_ manto, _followed by other thebans._ o thou, whose most aspiring mind knows all the business of the courts above, opens the closets of the gods, and dares to mix with jove himself and fate at council; o prophet, answer me, declare aloud the traitor, who conspired the death of laius; or be they more, who from malignant stars have drawn this plague, that blasts unhappy thebes? _tir._ we must no more than fate commissions us to tell; yet something, and of moment, i'll unfold, if that the god would wake; i feel him now, like a strong spirit charmed into a tree, that leaps, and moves the wood without a wind: the roused god, as all this while he lay entombed alive, starts and dilates himself; he struggles, and he tears my aged trunk with holy fury; my old arteries burst; my rivell'd skin, like parchment, crackles at the hallowed fire; i shall be young again:--manto, my daughter, thou hast a voice that might have saved the bard of thrace, and forced the raging bacchanals, with lifted prongs, to listen to thy airs. o charm this god, this fury in my bosom, lull him with tuneful notes, and artful strings, with powerful strains; manto, my lovely child, sooth the unruly godhead to be mild. song to apollo. _phoebus, god beloved by men, at thy dawn, every beast is roused in his den; at thy setting, all the birds of thy absence complain, and we die, all die, till the morning comes again. phoebus, god beloved by men! idol of the eastern kings, awful as the god who flings his thunder round, and the lightning wings; god of songs, and orphean strings, who to this mortal bosom brings all harmonious heavenly things! thy drowsy prophet to revive, ten thousand thousand forms before him drive: with chariots and horses all o'fire awake him, convulsions, and furies, and prophesies shake him: let him tell it in groans, though he bend with the load, though he burst with the weight of the terrible god._ _tir._ the wretch, who shed the blood of old labdacides, lives, and is great; but cruel greatness ne'er was long. the first of laius' blood his life did seize, and urged his fate, which else had lasting been and strong. the wretch, who laius killed, must bleed or fly; or thebes, consumed with plagues, in ruins lie. _oedip._ the first of laius' blood! pronounce the person; may the god roar from thy prophetic mouth, that even the dead may start up, to behold; name him, i say, that most accursed wretch, for, by the stars, he dies! speak, i command thee; by phoebus, speak; for sudden death's his doom: here shall he fall, bleed on this very spot; his name, i charge thee once more, speak. _tir._ 'tis lost, like what we think can never shun remembrance; yet of a sudden's gone beyond the clouds. _oedip._ fetch it from thence; i'll have't, wheree'er it be. _cre._ let me entreat you, sacred sir, be calm, and creon shall point out the great offender. 'tis true, respect of nature might enjoin me silence, at another time; but, oh, much more the power of my eternal love! that, that should strike me dumb; yet thebes, my country-- i'll break through all, to succour thee, poor city! o, i must speak. _oedip._ speak then, if aught thou knowest, as much thou seem'st to know,--delay no longer. _cre._ o beauty! o illustrious, royal maid! to whom my vows were ever paid, till now; and with such modest, chaste, and pure affection, the coldest nymph might read'em without blushing; art thou the murdress, then, of wretched laius? and i, must i accuse thee! o my tears! why will you fall in so abhorred a cause? but that thy beauteous, barbarous hand destroyed thy father, (o monstrous act!) both gods and men at once take notice. _oedip._ eurydice! _eur._ traitor, go on; i scorn thy little malice; and knowing more my perfect innocence, than gods and men, then how much more than thee, who art their opposite, and formed a liar, i thus disdain thee! thou once didst talk of love; because i hate thy love, thou dost accuse me. _adr._ villain, inglorious villain, and traitor, doubly damned, who durst blaspheme the spotless virtue of the brightest beauty; thou diest: nor shall the sacred majesty, [_draws and wounds him._ that guards this place, preserve thee from my rage. _oedip._ disarm them both!--prince, i shall make you know, that, i can tame you twice. guards, seize him. _adr._ sir, i must acknowledge, in another cause repentance might abash me; but i glory in this, and smile to see the traitor's blood. _oedip._ creon, you shall be satisfied at full. _cre._ my hurt is nothing, sir; but i appeal to wise tiresias, if my accusation be not most true. the first of laius' blood gave him his death. is there a prince before her? then she is faultless, and i ask her pardon. and may this blood ne'er cease to drop, o thebes, if pity of thy sufferings did not move me, to shew the cure which heaven itself prescribed. _eur._ yes, thebans, i will die to save your lives. more willingly than you can wish my fate; but let this good, this wise, this holy man, pronounce my sentence: for to fall by him, by the vile breath of that prodigious villain, would sink my soul, though i should die a martyr. _adr._ unhand me, slaves.--o mightiest of kings, see at your feet a prince not used to kneel; touch not eurydice, by all the gods, as you would save your thebes, but take my life: for should she perish, heaven would heap plagues on plagues, rain sulphur down, hurl kindled bolts upon your guilty heads. _cre._ you turn to gallantry, what is but justice; proof will be easy made. adrastus was the robber, who bereft the unhappy king of life; because he flatly had denied to make so poor a prince his son-in-law; therefore 'twere fit that both should perish. _ theb._ both, let both die. _all theb._ both, both; let them die. _oedip._ hence, you wild herd! for your ringleader here, he shall be made example. hæmon, take him. _ theb._ mercy, o mercy! _oedip._ mutiny in my presence! hence, let me see that busy face no more. _tir._ thebans, what madness makes you drunk with rage? enough of guilty death's already acted: fierce creon has accused eurydice, with prince adrastus; which the god reproves by inward checks, and leaves their fates in doubt. _oedip._ therefore instruct us what remains to do, or suffer; for i feel a sleep like death upon me, and i sigh to be at rest. _tir._ since that the powers divine refuse to clear the mystic deed, i'll to the grove of furies; there i can force the infernal gods to shew their horrid forms; each trembling ghost shall rise, and leave their grisly king without a waiter. for prince adrastus and eurydice, my life's engaged, i'll guard them in the fane, 'till the dark mysteries of hell are done. follow me, princes; thebans, all to rest. o, oedipus, to-morrow--but no more. if that thy wakeful genius will permit, indulge thy brain this night with softer slumbers: to-morrow, o to-morrow!--sleep, my son; and in prophetic dreams thy fate be shown. [_exeunt_ tir. adr. eur. man. _and theb._ _manent_ oedipus, jocasta, creon, pyracmon, hÆmon, _and_ alcander. _oedip._ to bed, my fair, my dear, my best jocasta. after the toils of war, 'tis wondrous strange our loves should thus be dashed. one moment's thought, and i'll approach the arms of my beloved. _joc._ consume whole years in care, so now and then i may have leave to feed my famished eyes with one short passing glance, and sigh my vows: this, and no more, my lord, is all the passion of languishing jocasta. [_exit._ _oedip._ thou softest, sweetest of the world! good night.-- nay, she is beauteous too; yet, mighty love! i never offered to obey thy laws, but an unusual chillness came upon me; an unknown hand still checked my forward joy, dashed me with blushes, though no light was near; that even the act became a violation. _pyr._ he's strangely thoughtful. _oedip._ hark! who was that? ha! creon, didst thou call me? _cre._ not i, my gracious lord, nor any here. _oedip._ that's strange! methought i heard a doleful voice cry, oedipus.--the prophet bade me sleep. he talked of dreams, and visions, and to-morrow! i'll muse no more; come what will, or can, my thoughts are clearer than unclouded stars; and with those thoughts i'll rest. creon, good-night. [_exit with_ hÆm. _cre._ sleep seal your eyes up, sir,--eternal sleep! but if he sleep and wake again, o all tormenting dreams, wild horrors of the night, and hags of fancy, wing him through the air: from precipices hurl him headlong down, charybdis roar, and death be set before him! _alc._ your curses have already taken effect, for he looks very sad. _cre._ may he be rooted, where he stands, for ever; his eye-balls never move, brows be unbent, his blood, his entrails, liver, heart, and bowels, be blacker than the place i wish him, hell. _pyr._ no more; you tear yourself, but vex not him. methinks 'twere brave this night to force the temple, while blind tiresias conjures up the fiends, and pass the time with nice eurydice. _alc._ try promises and threats, and if all fail, since hell's broke loose, why should not you be mad? ravish, and leave her dead with her adrastus. _cre._ were the globe mine, i'd give a province hourly for such another thought.--lust and revenge! to stab at once the only man i hate, and to enjoy the woman whom i love! i ask no more of my auspicious stars, the rest as fortune please; so but this night she play me fair, why, let her turn for ever. _enter_ hÆmon. _hæm._ my lord, the troubled king is gone to rest; yet, ere he slept, commanded me to clear the antichambers; none must dare be near him. _cre._ hæmon, you do your duty; [_thunder._ and we obey.--the night grows yet more dreadful! 'tis just that all retire to their devotions. the gods are angry; but to-morrow's dawn, if prophets do not lie, will make all clear. _as they go off,_ oedipus _enters, walking asleep in his shirt, with a dagger in his right hand, and a taper in his left._ _oedip._ o, my jocasta! 'tis for this, the wet starved soldier lies on the cold ground; for this, he bears the storms of winter camps, and freezes in his arms; to be thus circled, to be thus embraced. that i could hold thee ever!--ha! where art thou? what means this melancholy light, that seems the gloom of glowing embers? the curtain's drawn; and see she's here again! jocasta? ha! what, fallen asleep so soon? how fares my love? this taper will inform me.-- ha! lightning blast me, thunder rivet me ever to prometheus' rock, and vultures gnaw out my incestuous heart!-- by all the gods, my mother merope! my sword! a dagger! ha, who waits there? slaves, my sword!--what, hæmon, dar'st thou, villain, stop me? with thy own poniard perish.--ha! who's this? or is't a change of death? by all my honours, new murder; thou hast slain old polybus: incest and parricide,--thy father's murderer! out, thou infernal flame!--now all is dark, all blind and dismal, most triumphant mischief! and now, while thus i stalk about the room, i challenge fate to find another wretch like oedipus! [_thunder,_ &c. _enter_ jocasta _attended, with lights, in a night-gown._ _oedip._ night, horror, death, confusion, hell, and furies! where am i?--o, jocasta, let me hold thee, thus to my bosom! ages let me grasp thee! all that the hardest-tempered weathered flesh, with fiercest human spirit inspired, can dare, or do, i dare; but, oh you powers, this was, by infinite degrees, too much for man. methinks my deafened ears are burst; my eyes, as if they had been knocked by some tempestuous hand, shoot flashing fire;-- that sleep should do this! _joc._ then my fears were true. methought i heard your voice,--and yet i doubted,-- now roaring like the ocean, when the winds fight with the waves; now, in a still small tone your dying accents fell, as wrecking ships, after the dreadful yell, sink murmuring down, and bubble up a noise. _oedip._ trust me, thou fairest, best of all thy kind, none e'er in dreams was tortured so before. yet what most shocks the niceness of my temper, even far beyond the killing of my father, and my own death, is, that this horrid sleep dashed my sick fancy with an act of incest: i dreamt, jocasta, that thou wert my mother; which, though impossible, so damps my spirits, that i could do a mischief on myself, lest i should sleep, and dream the like again. _joc._ o oedipus, too well i understand you! i know the wrath of heaven, the care of thebes, the cries of its inhabitants, war's toils, and thousand other labours of the state, are all referred to you, and ought to take you for ever from jocasta. _oedip._ life of my life, and treasure of my soul, heaven knows i love thee. _joc._ o, you think me vile, and of an inclination so ignoble, that i must hide me from your eyes for ever. be witness, gods, and strike jocasta dead, if an immodest thought, or low desire, inflamed my breast, since first our loves were lighted. _oedip._ o rise, and add not, by thy cruel kindness, a grief more sensible than all my torments. thou thinkest my dreams are forged; but by thyself, the greatest oath, i swear, they are most true; but, be they what they will, i here dismiss them. begone, chimeras, to your mother clouds! is there a fault in us? have we not searched the womb of heaven, examined all the entrails of birds and beasts, and tired the prophet's art? yet what avails? he, and the gods together, seem, like physicians, at a loss to help us; therefore, like wretches that have lingered long, we'll snatch the strongest cordial of our love; to bed, my fair. _ghost._ [_within._] oedipus! _oedip._ ha! who calls? didst thou not hear a voice? _joc._ alas! i did. _ghost._ jocasta! _joc._ o my love, my lord, support me! _oedip._ call louder, till you burst your airy forms!-- rest on my hand. thus, armed with innocence, i'll face these babbling dæmons of the air; in spite of ghosts, i'll on. though round my bed the furies plant their charms, i'll break them, with jocasta in my arms; clasped in the folds of love, i'll wait my doom; and act my joys, though thunder shake the room. [_exeunt._ act iii. scene i.--_a dark grove._ _enter_ creon _and_ diocles. _cre._ 'tis better not to be, than be unhappy. _dioc._ what mean you by these words? _cre._ 'tis better not to be, than to be creon. a thinking soul is punishment enough; but when 'tis great, like mine, and wretched too, then every thought draws blood. _dioc._ you are not wretched. _cre._ i am: my soul's ill married to my body. i would be young, be handsome, be beloved: could i but breathe myself into adrastus!-- _dioc._ you rave; call home your thoughts. _cre._ i pr'ythee let my soul take air a while; were she in oedipus, i were a king; then i had killed a monster, gained a battle, and had my rival prisoner; brave, brave actions! why have not i done these? _dioc._ your fortune hindered. _cre._ there's it; i have a soul to do them all: but fortune will have nothing done that's great, but by young handsome fools; body and brawn do all her work: hercules was a fool, and straight grew famous; a mad boist'rous fool, nay worse, a woman's fool; fool is the stuff, of which heaven makes a hero. _dioc._ a serpent ne'er becomes a flying dragon, till he has eat a serpent[ ]. _cre._ goes it there? i understand thee; i must kill adrastus. _dioc._ or not enjoy your mistress: eurydice and he are prisoners here, but will not long be so: this tell-tale ghost perhaps will clear 'em both. _cre._ well: 'tis resolved. _dioc._ the princess walks this way; you must not meet her, till this be done. _cre._ i must. _dioc._ she hates your sight; and more, since you accused her. _cre._ urge it not. i cannot stay to tell thee my design; for she's too near. _enter_ eurydice. how, madam, were your thoughts employed? _eur._ on death, and thee. _cre._ then were they not well sorted: life and me had been the better match. _eur._ no, i was thinking on two the most detested things in nature: and they are death and thee. _cre._ the thought of death to one near death is dreadful! o 'tis a fearful thing to be no more; or, if to be, to wander after death; to walk as spirits do, in brakes all day; and when the darkness comes, to glide in paths that lead to graves; and in the silent vault, where lies your own pale shroud, to hover o'er it, striving to enter your forbidden corps, and often, often, vainly breathe your ghost into your lifeless lips; then, like a lone benighted traveller, shut out from lodging, shall your groans be answered by whistling winds, whose every blast will shake your tender form to atoms. _eur._ must i be this thin being? and thus wander? no quiet after death! _cre._ none: you must leave this beauteous body; all this youth and freshness must be no more the object of desire, but a cold lump of clay; which then your discontented ghost will leave, and loath its former lodging. this is the best of what comes after death. even to the best. _eur._ what then shall be thy lot?-- eternal torments, baths of boiling sulphur, vicissitudes of fires, and then of frosts; and an old guardian fiend, ugly as thou art, to hollow in thy ears at every lash,-- this for eurydice; these for her adrastus! _cre._ for her adrastus! _eur._ yes; for her adrastus: for death shall ne'er divide us: death? what's death! _dioc._ you seemed to fear it. _eur._ but i more fear creon: to take that hunch-backed monster in my arms! the excrescence of a man! _dioc. to cre._ see what you've gained. _eur._ death only can be dreadful to the bad: to innocence, 'tis like a bug-bear dressed to frighten children; pull but off his masque, and he'll appear a friend. _cre._ you talk too slightly of death and hell. let me inform you better. _eur._ you best can tell the news of your own country. _dioc._ nay, now you are too sharp. _eur._ can i be so to one, who has accused me of murder and of parricide? _cre._ you provoked me: and yet i only did thus far accuse you, as next of blood to laius: be advised, and you may live. _eur._ the means? _cre._ 'tis offered you. the fool adrastus has accused himself. _eur._ he has indeed, to take the guilt from me. _cre._ he says he loves you; if he does, 'tis well: he ne'er could prove it in a better time. _eur._ then death must be his recompence for love? _cre._ 'tis a fool's just reward; the wise can make a better use of life. but 'tis the young man's pleasure; his ambition: i grudge him not that favour. _eur._ when he's dead, where shall i find his equal! _cre._ every where. fine empty things, like him, the court swarms with them. fine fighting things; in camps they are so common, crows feed on nothing else: plenty of fools; a glut of them in thebes. and fortune still takes care they should be seen: she places 'em aloft, o'th' topmost spoke of all her wheel. fools are the daily work of nature; her vocation; if she form a man, she loses by't, 'tis too expensive; 'twould make ten fools: a man's a prodigy. _eur._ that is, a creon: o thou black detractor, who spit'st thy venom against gods and men! thou enemy of eyes; thou, who lov'st nothing but what nothing loves, and that's thyself; who hast conspired against my life and fame, to make me loathed by all, and only fit for thee. but for adrastus' death,--good gods, his death!-- what curse shall i invent? _dioc._ no more: he's here. _eur._ he shall be ever here. he who would give his life, give up his fame-- _enter_ adrastus. if all the excellence of woman-kind were mine;--no, 'tis too little all for him: were i made up of endless, endless joys! _adr._ and so thou art: the man, who loves like me, would think even infamy, the worst of ills, were cheaply purchased, were thy love the price. uncrowned, a captive, nothing left but honour,-- 'tis the last thing a prince should throw away; but when the storm grows loud, and threatens love, throw even that o'er-board; for love's the jewel, and last it must be kept. _cre._ [_to_ dioc.] work him, be sure, to rage; he is passionate; make him the aggressor. _dioc._ o false love, false honour! _cre._ dissembled both, and false! _adr._ darest thou say this to me? _cre._ to you! why what are you, that i should fear you? i am not laius. hear me, prince of argos; you give what's nothing, when you give your honour: 'tis gone; 'tis lost in battle. for your love, vows made in wine are not so false as that: you killed her father; you confessed you did: a mighty argument to prove your passion to the daughter! _adr._ [_aside._] gods, must i bear this brand, and not retort the lye to his foul throat! _dioc._ basely you killed him. _adr._ [_aside._] o, i burn inward: my blood's all on fire! alcides, when the poisoned shirt sate closest, had but an ague-fit to this my fever. yet, for eurydice, even this i'll suffer, to free my love.--well then, i killed him basely. _cre._ fairly, i'm sure, you could not. _dioc._ nor alone. _cre._ you had your fellow thieves about you, prince; they conquered, and you killed. _adr._ [_aside._] down, swelling heart! 'tis for thy princess all:--o my eurydice!-- [_to her._ _eur._ [_to him._] reproach not thus the weakness of my sex, as if i could not bear a shameful death, rather than see you burdened with a crime of which i know you free. _cre._ you do ill, madam, to let your head-long love triumph o'er nature: dare you defend your father's murderer? _eur._ you know he killed him not. _cre._ let him say so. _dioc._ see, he stands mute. _cre._ o power of conscience, even in wicked men! it works, it stings, it will not let him utter one syllable, one,--no, to clear himself from the most base, detested, horrid act that ere could stain a villain,--not a prince. _adr._ ha! villain! _dioc._ echo to him, groves: cry villain. _adr._ let me consider--did i murder laius, thus, like a villain? _cre._ best revoke your words, and say you killed him not. _adr._ not like a villain; pr'ythee, change me that for any other lye. _dioc._ no, villain, villain. _cre._ you killed him not! proclaim your innocence, accuse the princess: so i knew 'twould be. _adr._ i thank thee, thou instructest me: no matter how i killed him. _cre._ [_aside._] cooled again! _eur._ thou, who usurp'st the sacred name of conscience, did not thy own declare him innocent? to me declare him so? the king shall know it. _cre._ you will not be believed, for i'll forswear it. _eur._ what's now thy conscience? _cre._ 'tis my slave, my drudge, my supple glove, my upper garment, to put on, throw off, as i think best: 'tis my obedient conscience. _adr._ infamous wretch! _cre._ my conscience shall not do me the ill office to save a rival's life; when thou art dead, (as dead thou shalt be, or be yet more base than thou think'st me, by forfeiting her life, to save thy own,--) know this,--and let it grate thy very soul,-- she shall be mine: (she is, if vows were binding;) mark me, the fruit of all thy faith and passion, even of thy foolish death, shall all be mine. _adr._ thine, say'st thou, monster! shall my love be thine? o, i can bear no more! thy cunning engines have with labour raised my heavy anger, like a mighty weight, to fall and pash thee dead. see here thy nuptials; see, thou rash ixion, [_draws._ thy promised juno vanished in a cloud; and in her room avenging thunder rolls, to blast thee thus!--come both!-- [_both draw._ _cre._ 'tis what i wished. now see whose arm can launch the surer bolt, and who's the better jove! [_fight._ _eur._ help; murther, help! _enter_ hÆmon _and guards, run betwixt them, and beat down their swords._ _hæm._ hold, hold your impious hands! i think the furies, to whom this grove is hallowed, have inspired you: now, by my soul, the holiest earth of thebes you have profaned with war. nor tree, nor plant grows here, but what is fed with magick juice; all full of human souls, that cleave their barks to dance at midnight by the moon's pale beams: at least two hundred years these reverend shades have known no blood, but of black sheep and oxen, shed by the priest's own hand to proserpine. _adr._ forgive a stranger's ignorance: i knew not the honours of the place. _hæm._ thou, creon, didst. not oedipus, were all his foes here lodged, durst violate the religion of these groves, to touch one single hair; but must, unarmed, parle as in truce, or surlily avoid what most he longed to kill[ ]. _cre._ i drew not first, but in my own defence. _adr._ i was provoked beyond man's patience; all reproach could urge was used to kindle one, not apt to bear. _hæm._ 'tis oedipus, not i, must judge this act.-- lord creon, you and diocles retire: tiresias, and the brother-hood of priests, approach the place: none at these rites assist, but you the accused, who by the mouth of laius must be absolved or doomed. _adr._ i bear my fortune. _eur._ and i provoke my trial. _hæm._ 'tis at hand. for see, the prophet comes, with vervain crowned; the priests with yew, a venerable band; we leave you to the gods. [_exit_ hÆmon _with_ creon _and_ diocles. _enter_ tiresias, _led by_ manto: _the priests follow; all cloathed in long black habits._ _tir._ approach, ye lovers; ill-fated pair! whom, seeing not, i know, this day your kindly stars in heaven were joined; when lo, an envious planet interposed, and threatened both with death: i fear, i fear!-- _eur._ is there no god so much a friend to love, who can controul the malice of our fate? are they all deaf; or have the giants heaven? _tir._ the gods are just; but how can finite measure infinite? reason! alas, it does not know itself! yet man, vain man, would with this short-lined plummet, fathom the vast abyss of heavenly justice. whatever is, is in its causes just; since all things are by fate. but purblind man sees but a part o'the chain; the nearest links; his eyes not carrying to that equal beam, that poises all above. _eur._ then we must die! _tir._ the danger's imminent this day. _adr._ why then there's one day less for human ills; and who would moan himself, for suffering that, which in a day must pass? something, or nothing;-- i shall be what i was again, before i was adrastus.-- penurious heaven, can'st thou not add a night to our one day? give me a night with her, and i'll give all the rest. _tir._ she broke her vow, first made to creon: but the time calls on; and laius' death must now be made more plain. how loth i am to have recourse to rites so full of horror, that i once rejoice i want the use of sight!-- _ pr._ the ceremonies stay. _tir._ _chuse the darkest part o'the grove: such as ghosts at noon-day love. dig a trench, and dig it nigh_ _where the bones of laius lie; altars, raised of turf or stone, will the infernal powers have none. answer me, if this be done?_ _all pr._ _'tis done._ _tir._ _is the sacrifice made fit? draw her backward to the pit: draw the barren heifer back; barren let her be, and black. cut the curled hair, that grows full betwixt her horns and brows: and turn your faces from the sun: answer me, if this be done?_ _all pr._ _'tis done._ _tir._ _pour in blood, and blood like wine, to mother earth and proserpine: mingle milk into the stream; feast the ghosts that love the steam; snatch a brand from funeral pile; toss it in to make them boil: and turn your faces from the sun: answer me, if all be done?_ _all pr._ _all is done._ [_peal of thunder; and flashes of lightning; then groaning below the stage._ _man._ o, what laments are those? _tir._ the groans of ghosts, that cleave the heart with pain, and heave it up: they pant and stick half-way. [_the stage wholly darkened._ _man._ and now a sudden darkness covers all, true genuine night, night added to the groves; the fogs are blown full in the face of heaven. _tir._ am i but half obeyed? infernal gods, must you have musick too? then tune your voices, and let them have such sounds as hell ne'er heard, since orpheus bribed the shades. _musick first. then song._ _ . hear, ye sullen powers below: hear, ye taskers of the dead. . you that boiling cauldrons blow, you that scum the molten lead. . you that pinch with red-hot tongs; . you that drive the trembling hosts of poor, poor ghosts, with your sharpened prongs; . you that thrust them off the brim; . you that plunge them when they swim: . till they drown; till they go on a row, down, down, down: ten thousand, thousand, thousand fathoms low._ _chorus._ _till they drown, &c._ _ . musick for awhile shall your cares beguile: wondering how your pains were eased; . and disdaining to be pleas'd; . till alecto free the dead from their eternal bands; till the snakes drop from her head, and whip from out her hands. . come away, do not stay, but obey, while we play, for hell's broke up, and ghosts have holiday._ _chorus._ _come away, &c._ [_a flash of lightning: the stage is made bright, and the ghosts are seen passing betwixt the trees._ _ . laius! . laius! . laius!_ _ . hear! . hear! . hear!_ _tir._ _hear and appear! by the fates that spun thy thread!_ _cho._ _which are three._ _tir._ _by the furies fierce and dread!_ _cho._ _which are three._ _tir._ _by the judges of the dead!_ _cho._ _which are three. three times three!_ _tir._ _by hell's blue flame: by the stygian lake: and by demogorgon's name, at which ghosts quake, hear and appear!_ [_the ghost of laius rises armed in his chariot, as he was slain. and behind his chariot, sit the three who were murdered with him._ _ghost of laius._ why hast thou drawn me from my pain below, to suffer worse above? to see the day, and thebes, more hated? hell is heaven to thebes. for pity send me back, where i may hide, in willing night, this ignominious head: in hell i shun the public scorn; and then they hunt me for their sport, and hoot me as i fly: behold even now they grin at my gored side, and chatter at my wounds. _tir._ i pity thee: tell but why thebes is for thy death accurst, and i'll unbind the charm. _ghost._ o spare my shame! _tir._ are these two innocent? _ghost._ of my death they are. but he who holds my crown,--oh, must i speak!-- was doomed to do what nature most abhors. the gods foresaw it; and forbade his being, before he yet was born. i broke their laws, and clothed with flesh his pre-existing soul. some kinder power, too weak for destiny, took pity, and endued his new-formed mass with temperance, justice, prudence, fortitude, and every kingly virtue: but in vain. for fate, that sent him hood-winked to the world, performed its work by his mistaking hands. ask'st thou who murdered me? 'twas oedipus: who stains my bed with incest? oedipus: for whom then are you curst, but oedipus! he comes, the parricide! i cannot bear him: my wounds ake at him: oh, his murderous breath venoms my airy substance! hence with him, banish him; sweep him out; the plague he bears will blast your fields, and mark his way with ruin. from thebes, my throne, my bed, let him be driven: do you forbid him earth, and i'll forbid him heaven. [_ghost descends._ _enter_ oedipus, creon, hÆmon, &c. _oedip._ what's this! methought some pestilential blast struck me, just entering; and some unseen hand struggled to push me backward! tell me why my hair stands bristling up, why my flesh trembles? you stare at me! then hell has been among ye, and some lag fiend yet lingers in the grove. _tir._ what omen sawest thou, entering? _oedip._ a young stork, that bore his aged parent on his back; till weary with the weight, he shook him off, and pecked out both his eyes. _adr._ oh, oedipus! _eur._ oh, wretched oedipus! _tir._ oh, fatal king! _oedip._ what mean these exclamations on my name? i thank the gods, no secret thoughts reproach me: no: i dare challenge heaven to turn me outward, and shake my soul quite empty in your sight. then wonder not that i can bear unmoved these fixed regards, and silent threats of eyes. a generous fierceness dwells with innocence; and conscious virtue is allowed some pride. _tir._ thou knowest not what thou sayest. _oedip._ what mutters he? tell me, eurydice: thou shak'st: thy soul's a woman;--speak, adrastus, and boldly, as thou met'st my arms in fight:-- dar'st thou not speak? why then 'tis bad indeed.-- tiresias, thee i summon by thy priesthood, tell me what news from hell; where laius points, and whose the guilty head! _tir._ let me not answer. _oedip._ be dumb then, and betray thy native soil to farther plagues. _tir._ i dare not name him to thee. _oedip._ dar'st thou converse with hell, and canst thou fear an human name? _tir._ urge me no more to tell a thing, which, known, would make thee more unhappy: 'twill be found, though i am silent. _oedip._ old and obstinate! then thou thyself art author or accomplice of this murther, and shun'st the justice, which by public ban thou hast incurred. _tir._ o, if the guilt were mine, it were not half so great: know, wretched man, thou only, thou art guilty! thy own curse falls heavy on thyself. _oedip._ speak this again: but speak it to the winds, when they are loudest, or to the raging seas; they'll hear as soon, and sooner will believe. _tir._ then hear me, heaven! for, blushing, thou hast seen it; hear me, earth, whose hollow womb could not contain this murder, but sent it back to light! and thou, hell, hear me! whose own black seal has 'firmed this horrid truth, oedipus murthered laius! _oedip._ rot the tongue, and blasted be the mouth that spoke that lie! thou blind of sight, but thou more blind of soul! _tir._ thy parents thought not so. _oedip._ who were my parents? _tir._ thou shalt know too soon. _oedip._ why seek i truth from thee? the smiles of courtiers, and the harlot's tears, the tradesman's oaths, and mourning of an heir, are truths to what priests tell. o why has priest-hood privilege to lie, and yet to be believed!--thy age protects thee. _tir._ thou canst not kill me; 'tis not in thy fate, as 'twas to kill thy father, wed thy mother, and beget sons, thy brothers[ ]. _oedip._ riddles, riddles! _tir._ thou art thyself a riddle; a perplext obscure enigma, which when thou unty'st, thou shalt be found and lost. _oedip._ impossible!-- adrastus, speak; and, as thou art a king, whose royal word is sacred, clear my fame. _adr._ would i could! _oedip._ ha, wilt thou not? can that plebeian vice of lying mount to kings? can they be tainted? then truth is lost on earth. _cre._ the cheat's too gross. adrastus is his oracle, and he, the pious juggler, but adrastus' organ. _oedip._ 'tis plain, the priest's suborned to free the prisoner. _cre._ and turn the guilt, on you. _oedip._ o, honest creon, how hast thou been belied! _eur._ hear me. _cre._ she's bribed to save her lover's life. _adr._ if, oedipus, thou think'st-- _cre._ hear him not speak. _adr._ then hear these holy men. _cre._ priests, priests; all bribed, all priests. _oedip._ adrastus, i have found thee: the malice of a vanquished man has seized thee! _adr._ if envy and not truth-- _oedip._ i'll hear no more: away with him. [hÆmon _takes him off by force:_ creon _and_ eurydice _follow._ [_to_ tir.] why stand'st thou here, impostor? so old, and yet so wicked,--lie for gain? and gain so short as age can promise thee! _tir._ so short a time as i have yet to live, exceeds thy 'pointed hour;--remember laius! no more; if e'er we meet again, 'twill be in mutual darkness; we shall feel before us to reach each other's hand;--remember laius! [_exit_ tiresias: _priests follow._ oedipus _solus._ remember laius! that's the burden still: murther and incest! but to hear them named my soul starts in me: the good sentinel stands to her weapons, takes the first alarm to guard me from such crimes.--did i kill laius? then i walked sleeping, in some frightful dream; my soul then stole my body out by night; and brought me back to bed ere morning-wake it cannot be even this remotest way, but some dark hint would justle forward now, and goad my memory.--oh my jocasta! _enter_ jocasta. _joc._ why are you thus disturbed? _oedip._ why, would'st thou think it? no less than murder. _joc._ murder! what of murder? _oedip._ is murder then no more? add parricide, and incest; bear not these a frightful sound? _joc._ alas! _oedip._ how poor a pity is alas, for two such crimes!--was laius us'd to lie? _joc._ oh no: the most sincere, plain, honest man; one who abhorred a lie. _oedip._ then he has got that quality in hell. he charges me--but why accuse i him? i did not hear him speak it: they accuse me,-- the priest, adrastus and eurydice,-- of murdering laius!--tell me, while i think on't, has old tiresias practised long this trade? _joc._ what trade? _oedip._ why, this foretelling trade. _joc._ for many years. _oedip._ has he before this day accused me? _joc._ never. _oedip._ have you ere this inquired who did this murder? _joc._ often; but still in vain. _oedip._ i am satisfied. then 'tis an infant-lye; but one day old. the oracle takes place before the priest; the blood of laius was to murder laius: i'm not of laius' blood. _joc._ even oracles are always doubtful, and are often forged: laius had one, which never was fulfilled, nor ever can be now. _oedip._ and what foretold it? _joc._ that he should have a son by me, foredoomed the murderer of his father: true, indeed, a son was born; but, to prevent that crime, the wretched infant of a guilty fate, bored through his untried feet, and bound with cords, on a bleak mountain naked was exposed: the king himself lived many, many years, and found a different fate; by robbers murdered, where three ways met: yet these are oracles, and this the faith we owe them. _oedip._ sayest thou, woman? by heaven, thou hast awakened somewhat in me, that shakes my very soul! _joc._ what new disturbance? _oedip._ methought thou said'st--(or do i dream thou said'st it!) this murder was on laius' person done, where three ways meet? _joc._ so common fame reports. _oedip._ would it had lied! _joc._ why, good my lord? _oedip._ no questions. 'tis busy time with me; despatch mine first; say where, where was it done! _joc._ mean you the murder? _oedip._ could'st thou not answer without naming murder? _joc._ they say in phocide; on the verge that parts it from daulia, and from delphos. _oedip._ so!--how long? when happened this? _joc._ some little time before you came to thebes. _oedip._ what will the gods do with me! _joc._ what means that thought? _oedip._ something: but 'tis not yet your turn to ask: how old was laius, what his shape, his stature, his action, and his mien? quick, quick, your answer!-- _joc._ big made he was, and tall: his port was fierce, erect his countenance: manly majesty sate in his front, and darted from his eyes, commanding all he viewed: his hair just grizzled, as in a green old age: bate but his years, you are his picture. _oedip._ [_aside._] pray heaven he drew me not!-- am i his picture? _joc._ so i have often told you. _oedip._ true, you have; add that unto the rest:--how was the king attended, when he travelled? _joc._ by four servants: he went out private. _oedip._ well counted still:-- one 'scaped, i hear; what since became of him? _joc._ when he beheld you first, as king in thebes, he kneeled, and trembling begged i would dismiss him: he had my leave; and now he lives retired. _oedip._ this man must be produced: he must, jocasta. _joc._ he shall--yet have i leave to ask you why? _oedip._ yes, you shall know: for where should i repose the anguish of my soul, but in your breast! i need not tell you corinth claims my birth; my parents, polybus and merope, two royal names; their only child am i. it happened once,--'twas at a bridal feast,-- one, warm with wine, told me i was a foundling, not the king's son; i, stung with this reproach, struck him: my father heard of it: the man was made ask pardon; and the business hushed. _joc._ 'twas somewhat odd. _oedip._ and strangely it perplexed me. i stole away to delphos, and implored the god, to tell my certain parentage. he bade me seek no farther:--'twas my fate to kill my father, and pollute his bed, by marrying her who bore me. _joc._ vain, vain oracles! _oedip._ but yet they frighted me; i looked on corinth as a place accurst, resolved my destiny should wait in vain, and never catch me there. _joc._ too nice a fear. _oedip._ suspend your thoughts; and flatter not too soon. just in the place you named, where three ways met. and near that time, five persons i encountered; one was too like, (heaven grant it prove not him!) whom you describe for laius: insolent, and fierce they were, as men who lived on spoil. i judged them robbers, and by force repelled the force they used: in short, four men i slew: the fifth upon his knees demanding life, my mercy gave it;--bring me comfort now. if i slew laius, what can be more wretched! from thebes, and you, my curse has banished me: from corinth, fate. _joc._ perplex not thus your mind. my husband fell by multitudes opprest; so phorbas said: this band you chanced to meet: and murdered not my laius, but revenged him. _oedip._ there's all my hope: let phorbas tell me this, and i shall live again.-- to you, good gods, i make my last appeal; or clear my virtue, or my crime reveal: if wandering in the maze of fate i run, and backward trod the paths i sought to shun, impute my errors to your own decree; my hands are guilty, but my heart is free. [_exeunt._ act iv. scene i. _enter_ pyracmon _and_ creon. _pyr._ some business of import, that triumph wears, you seem to go with; nor is it hard to guess when you are pleased, by a malicious joy, whose red and fiery beams cast through your visage a glowing pleasure. sure you smile revenge, and i could gladly hear. _cre._ would'st thou believe! this giddy hair-brained king, whom old tiresias has thunder-struck with heavy accusation, though conscious of no inward guilt, yet fears: he fears jocasta, fears himself, his shadow; he fears the multitude; and,--which is worth an age of laughter,--out of all mankind, he chuses me to be his orator; swears that adrastus, and the lean-looked prophet[ ], are joint conspirators; and wished me to appease the raving thebans; which i swore to do. _pyr._ a dangerous undertaking; directly opposite to your own interest. _cre._ no, dull pyracmon; when i left his presence with all the wings, with which revenge could aid my flight, i gained the midst o'the city; there, standing on a pile of dead and dying, i to the mad and sickly multitude, with interrupting sobs, cry'd out,--o thebes! o wretched thebes, thy king, thy oedipus, this barbarous stranger, this usurper, monster, is by the oracle, the wise tiresias, proclaimed the murderer of thy royal laius: jocasta too, no longer now my sister, is found complotter in the horrid deed. here i renounce all tie of blood and nature, for thee, o thebes, dear thebes, poor bleeding thebes!-- and there i wept, and then the rabble howled. and roared, and with a thousand antic mouths gabbled revenge! revenge was all the cry. _pyr._ this cannot fail: i see you on the throne: and oedipus cast out. _cre._ then strait came on alcander, with a wild and bellowing crowd, whom he had wrought; i whispered him to join. and head the forces while the heat was in them. so to the palace i returned, to meet the king, and greet him with another story.-- but see, he enters. _enter_ oedipus _and_ jocasta, _attended._ _oedip._ said you that phorbas is returned, and yet intreats he may return, without being asked of aught concerning what we have discovered? _joc._ he started when i told him your intent, replying, what he knew of that affair would give no satisfaction to the king; then, falling on his knees, begged, as for life, to be dismissed from court: he trembled too, as if convulsive death had seized upon him, and stammered in his abrupt prayer so wildly, that had he been the murderer of laius, guilt and distraction could not have shook him more. _oedip._ by your description, sure as plagues and death lay waste our thebes, some deed that shuns the light begot those fears; if thou respect'st my peace, secure him, dear jocasta; for my genius shrinks at his name. _joc._ rather let him go: so my poor boding heart would have it be, without a reason. _oedip._ hark, the thebans come! therefore retire: and, once more, if thou lovest me, let phorbas be retained. _joc._ you shall, while i have life, be still obeyed. in vain you sooth me with your soft endearments, and set the fairest countenance to view; your gloomy eyes, my lord, betray a deadness and inward languishing: that oracle eats like a subtle worm its venomed way, preys on your heart, and rots the noble core, howe'er the beauteous out-side shews so lovely. _oedip._ o, thou wilt kill me with thy love's excess! all, all is well; retire, the thebans come. [_exit_ joc. _ghost._ oedipus! _oedip._ ha! again that scream of woe! thrice have i heard, thrice, since the morning dawned, it hollowed loud, as if my guardian spirit called from some vaulted mansion, oedipus! or is it but the work of melancholy? when the sun sets, shadows, that shewed at noon but small, appear most long and terrible; so, when we think fate hovers o'er our heads, our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds; owls, ravens, crickets seem the watch of death; nature's worst vermin scare her godlike sons; echoes, the very leavings of a voice, grow babbling ghosts, and call us to our graves; each mole-hill thought swells to a huge olympus; while we fantastic dreamers heave and puff, and sweat with an imagination's weight; as if, like atlas, with these mortal shoulders we could sustain the burden of the world. [creon _comes forward._ _cre._ o, sacred sir, my royal lord-- _oedip._ what now? thou seem'st affrighted at some dreadful action; thy breath comes short, thy darted eyes are fixt on me for aid, as if thou wert pursued: i sent thee to the thebans; speak thy wonder: fear not; this palace is a sanctuary, the king himself's thy guard. _cre._ for me, alas, my life's not worth a thought, when weighed with yours! but fly, my lord; fly as your life is sacred. your fate is precious to your faithful creon, who therefore, on his knees, thus prostrate begs you would remove from thebes, that vows your ruin. when i but offered at your innocence, they gathered stones, and menaced me with death, and drove me through the streets, with imprecations against your sacred person, and those traitors who justified your guilt, which cursed tiresias told, as from heaven, was cause of their destruction. _oedip._ rise, worthy creon; haste and take our guard, rank them in equal part upon the square, then open every gate of this our palace, and let the torrent in. hark, it comes. [_shout._ i hear them roar: begone, and break down all the dams, that would oppose their furious passage. [_exit_ creon _with guards._ _enter_ adrastus, _his sword drawn._ _adr._ your city is all in arms, all bent to your destruction: i heard but now, where i was close confined, a thundering shout, which made my jailors vanish, cry,--fire the palace! where is the cruel king? yet, by the infernal gods, those awful powers that have accused you, which these ears have heard, and these eyes seen, i must believe you guiltless; for, since i knew the royal oedipus, i have observed in all his acts such truth, and god-like clearness, that, to the last gush of blood and spirits, i'll defend his life, and here have sworn to perish by his side. _oedip._ be witness, gods, how near this touches me. [_embracing him._ o what, what recompence can glory make? _adr._ defend your innocence, speak like yourself, and awe the rebels with your dauntless virtue. but hark! the storm comes nearer. _oedip._ let it come. the force of majesty is never known but in a general wreck: then, then is seen the difference 'twixt a threshold and a throne. _enter_ creon, pyracmon, alcander, tiresias, _thebans._ _alc._ where, where's this cruel king?--thebans, behold, there stands your plague, the ruin, desolation of this unhappy--speak; shall i kill him? or shall he be cast out to banishment? _all theb._ to banishment, away with him! _oedip._ hence, you barbarians, to your slavish distance! fix to the earth your sordid looks; for he, who stirs, dares more than madmen, fiends, or furies. who dares to face me, by the gods, as well may brave the majesty of thundering jove. did i for this relieve you, when besieged by this fierce prince, when cooped within your walls, and to the very brink of fate reduced; when lean-jawed famine made more havock of you, than does the plague? but i rejoice i know you, know the base stuff that tempered your vile souls: the gods be praised, i needed not your empire, born to a greater, nobler, of my own; nor shall the sceptre of the earth now win me to rule such brutes, so barbarous a people. _adr._ methinks, my lord, i see a sad repentance, a general consternation spread among them. _oedip._ my reign is at an end; yet, ere i finish, i'll do a justice that becomes a monarch; a monarch, who, in the midst of swords and javelins, dares act as on his throne, encompast round with nations for his guard. alcander, you are nobly born, therefore shall lose your head: [_seizes him._ here, hæmon, take him: but for this, and this, let cords dispatch them. hence, away with them! _tir._ o sacred prince, pardon distracted thebes, pardon her, if she acts by heaven's award; if that the infernal spirits have declared the depth of fate; and if our oracles may speak, o do not too severely deal! but let thy wretched thebes at least complain. if thou art guilty, heaven will make it known; if innocent, then let tiresias die. _oedip._ i take thee at thy word.--run, haste, and save alcander: i swear, the prophet, or the king shall die. be witness, all you thebans, of my oath; and phorbas be the umpire. _tir._ i submit. [_trumpet sounds._ _oedip._ what mean those trumpets? _enter_ hÆmon _with_ alcander, _&c._ _hæm._ from your native country, great sir, the famed Ægeon is arrived, that renowned favourite of the king your father: he comes as an ambassador from corinth, and sues for audience. _oedip._ haste, hæmon, fly, and tell him that i burn to embrace him. _hæm._ the queen, my lord, at present holds him in private conference; but behold her here. _enter_ jocasta, eurydice, _&c._ _joc._ hail, happy oedipus, happiest of kings! henceforth be blest, blest as thou canst desire; sleep without fears the blackest nights away; let furies haunt thy palace, thou shalt sleep secure, thy slumbers shall be soft and gentle as infants' dreams. _oedip._ what does the soul of all my joys intend? and whither would this rapture? _joc._ o, i could rave, pull down those lying fanes, and burn that vault, from whence resounded those false oracles, that robbed my love of rest: if we must pray, rear in the streets bright altars to the gods, let virgins' hands adorn the sacrifice; and not a grey-beard forging priest come near, to pry into the bowels of the victim, and with his dotage mad the gaping world. but see, the oracle that i will trust, true as the gods, and affable as men. _enter_ Ægeon. _kneels._ _oedip._ o, to my arms, welcome, my dear Ægeon; ten thousand welcomes! o, my foster-father, welcome as mercy to a man condemned! welcome to me, as, to a sinking mariner, the lucky plank that bears him to the shore! but speak, o tell me what so mighty joy is this thou bring'st, which so transports jocasta? _joc._ peace, peace, Ægeon, let jocasta tell him!-- o that i could for ever charm, as now, my dearest oedipus! thy royal father, polybus, king of corinth, is no more. _oedip._ ha! can it be? Ægeon, answer me; and speak in short, what my jocasta's transport may over-do. _Æge._ since in few words, my royal lord, you ask to know the truth,--king polybus is dead. _oedip._ o all you powers, is't possible? what, dead! but that the tempest of my joy may rise by just degrees, and hit at last the stars, say, how, how died he? ha! by sword, by fire, or water? by assassinates, or poison? speak: or did he languish under some disease? _Æge._ of no distemper, of no blast he died, but fell like autumn-fruit that mellowed long; even wondered at, because he dropt no sooner. fate seemed to wind him up for fourscore years; yet freshly ran he on ten winters more: till, like a clock worn out with eating time, the wheels of weary life at last stood still. _oedip._ o, let me press thee in my youthful arms, and smother thy old age in my embraces. yes, thebans, yes, jocasta, yes, adrastus, old polybus, the king my father's dead! fires shall be kindled in the midst of thebes; in the midst of tumult, wars, and pestilence, i will rejoice for polybus's death. know, be it known to the limits of the world; yet farther, let it pass yon dazzling roof, the mansion of the gods, and strike them deaf with everlasting peals of thundering joy. _tir._ fate! nature! fortune! what is all this world? _oedip._ now, dotard; now, thou blind old wizard prophet, where are your boding ghosts, your altars now; your birds of knowledge, that in dusky air chatter futurity? and where are now your oracles, that called me parricide? is he not dead? deep laid in his monument? and was not i in thebes when fate attacked him? avaunt, begone, you vizors of the gods! were i as other sons, now i should weep; but, as i am, i have reason to rejoice: and will, though his cold shade should rise and blast me. o, for this death, let waters break their bounds; rocks, valleys, hills, with splitting io's ring: io, jocasta, io pæan sing! _tir._ who would not now conclude a happy end! but all fate's turns are swift and unexpected. _Æge._ your royal mother merope, as if she had no soul since you forsook the land, waves all the neighbouring princes that adore her. _oedip._ waves all the princes! poor heart! for what? o speak. _Æge._ she, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, grows cold, even in the summer of her age, and, for your sake, has sworn to die unmarried. _oedip._ how! for my sake, die and not marry! o my fit returns. _Æge._ this diamond, with a thousand kisses blest, with thousand sighs and wishes for your safety, she charged me give you, with the general homage of our corinthian lords. _oedip._ there's magic in it, take it from my sight; there's not a beam it darts, but carries hell, hot flashing lust, and necromantic incest: take it from these sick eyes, oh hide it from me!-- no, my jocasta, though thebes cast me out, while merope's alive, i'll ne'er return. o, rather let me walk round the wide world a beggar, than accept a diadem on such abhorred conditions. _joc._ you make, my lord, your own unhappiness, by these extravagant and needless fears. _oedip._ needless! o, all you gods! by heaven, i would rather embrue my arms, up to my very shoulders, in the dear entrails of the best of fathers, than offer at the execrable act of damned incest: therefore no more of her. _Æge._ and why, o sacred sir, if subjects may presume to look into their monarch's breast, why should the chaste and spotless merope infuse such thoughts, as i must blush to name? _oedip._ because the god of delphos did forewarn me, with thundering oracles. _Æge._ may i entreat to know them? _oedip._ yes, my Ægeon; but the sad remembrance quite blasts my soul: see then the swelling priest! methinks, i have his image now in view!-- he mounts the tripos in a minute's space, his clouded head knocks at the temple-roof; while from his mouth, these dismal words are heard: "fly, wretch, whom fate has doomed thy father's blood to spill, and with preposterous births thy mother's womb to fill!" _Æge._ is this the cause, why you refuse the diadem of corinth? _oedip._ the cause! why, is it not a monstrous one! _Æge._ great sir, you may return; and though you should enjoy the queen, (which all the gods forbid!) the act would prove no incest. _oedip._ how, Ægeon? though i enjoy my mother, not incestuous! thou ravest, and so do i; and these all catch my madness; look, they're dead with deep distraction: not incest! what, not incest with my mother? _Æge._ my lord, queen merope is not your mother. _oedip._ ha! did i hear thee right? not merope my mother! _Æge._ nor was polybus your father. _oedip._ then all my days and nights must now be spent in curious search, to find out those dark parents who gave me to the world; speak then, Ægeon. by all the gods celestial and infernal, by all the ties of nature, blood and friendship, conceal not from this racked despairing king, a point or smallest grain of what thou knowest: speak then, o answer to my doubts directly, if royal polybus was not my father, why was i called his son? _Æge._ he from my arms received you, as the fairest gift of nature. not but you were adorned with all the riches that empire could bestow, in costly mantles, upon its infant heir. _oedip._ but was i made the heir of corinth's crown, because Ægeon's hands presented me? _Æge._ by my advice, being past all hope of children, he took, embraced, and owned you for his son. _oedip._ perhaps i then am yours; instruct me, sir; if it be so, i'll kneel and weep before you. with all the obedience of a penitent child, imploring pardon. kill me, if you please; i will not writhe my body at the wound, but sink upon your feet with a last sigh, and ask forgiveness with my dying hands. _Æge._ o rise, and call not to this aged cheek the little blood which should keep warm my heart; you are not mine, nor ought i to be blest with such a god-like offspring. sir, i found you upon the mount cithæron. _oedip._ o speak, go on, the air grows sensible of the great things you utter, and is calm: the hurried orbs, with storms so racked of late, seem to stand still, as if that jove were talking. cithæron! speak, the valley of cithæron! _Æge._ oft-times before, i thither did resort, charmed with the conversation of a man, who led a rural life, and had command o'er all the shepherds, who about those vales tended their numerous flocks: in this man's arms, i saw you smiling at a fatal dagger, whose point he often offered at your throat; but then you smiled, and then he drew it back, then lifted it again,--you smiled again: 'till he at last in fury threw it from him, and cried aloud,--the gods forbid thy death. then i rushed in, and, after some discourse, to me he did bequeath your innocent life; and i, the welcome care to polybus. _oedip._ to whom belongs the master of the shepherds? _Æge._ his name i knew not, or i have forgot: that he was of the family of laius, i well remember. _oedip._ and is your friend alive? for if he be, i'll buy his presence, though it cost my crown. _Æge._ your menial attendants best can tell whether he lives, or not; and who has now his place. _joc._ winds, bear me to some barren island, where print of human feet was never seen; o'er-grown with weeds of such a monstrous height, their baleful tops are washed with bellying clouds; beneath whose venomous shade i may have vent for horrors, that would blast the barbarous world! _oedip._ if there be any here that knows the person whom he described, i charge him on his life to speak; concealment shall be sudden death: but he, who brings him forth, shall have reward beyond ambition's lust. _tir._ his name is phorbas: jocasta knows him well; but, if i may advise, rest where you are, and seek no farther. _oedip._ then all goes well, since phorbas is secured by my jocasta.--haste, and bring him forth: my love, my queen, give orders, ha! what mean these tears, and groans, and strugglings? speak, my fair, what are thy troubles? _joc._ yours; and yours are mine: let me conjure you, take the prophet's counsel, and let this phorbas go. _oedip._ not for the world. by all the gods, i'll know my birth, though death attends the search. i have already past the middle of the stream; and to return, seems greater labour than to venture over: therefore produce him. _joc._ once more, by the gods, i beg, my oedipus, my lord, my life, my love, my all, my only, utmost hope! i beg you, banish phorbas: o, the gods, i kneel, that you may grant this first request. deny me all things else; but for my sake, and as you prize your own eternal quiet, never let phorbas come into your presence. _oedip._ you must be raised, and phorbas shall appear, though his dread eyes were basilisks. guards, haste, search the queen's lodgings; find, and force him hither. [_exeunt guards._ _joc._ o, oedipus, yet send, and stop their entrance, ere it be too late; unless you wish to see jocasta rent with furies,--slain out-right with mere distraction! keep from your eyes and mine the dreadful phorbas. forbear this search, i'll think you more than mortal; will you yet hear me? _oedip._ tempests will be heard, and waves will dash, though rocks their basis keep. but see, they enter. if thou truly lovest me, either forbear this subject, or retire. _enter_ hÆmon, _guards, with_ phorbas. _joc._ prepare then, wretched prince, prepare to hear a story, that shall turn thee into stone. could there be hewn a monstrous gap in nature, a flaw made through the centre, by some god, through which the groans of ghosts may strike thy ears, they would not wound thee, as this story will. hark, hark! a hollow voice calls out aloud, jocasta! yes, i'll to the royal bed, where first the mysteries of our loves were acted, and double-dye it with imperial crimson; tear off this curling hair, be gorged with fire, stab every vital part, and, when at last i'm slain, to crown the horror, my poor tormented ghost shall cleave the ground, to try if hell can yet more deeply wound. [_exit._ _oedip._ she's gone; and, as she went, methought her eyes grew larger, while a thousand frantic spirits, seething like rising bubbles on the brim, peeped from the watry brink, and glowed upon me. i'll seek no more; but hush my genius up, that throws me on my fate.--impossible! o wretched man, whose too too busy thoughts hide swifter than the gallopping heaven's round, with an eternal hurry of the soul. nay, there's a time when even the rolling year seems to stand still, dead calms are in the ocean, when not a breath disturbs the drowzy waves: but man, the very monster of the world, is ne'er at rest; the soul for ever wakes. come then, since destiny thus drives us on, let us know the bottom.--hæmon, you i sent; where is that phorbas? _hæm._ here, my royal lord. _oedip._ speak first, Ægeon, say, is this the man? _Æge._ my lord, it is; though time has ploughed that face with many furrows since i saw it first, yet i'm too well acquainted with the ground, quite to forget it. _oedip._ peace; stand back a while.-- come hither, friend; i hear thy name is phorbas. why dost thou turn thy face? i charge thee answer to what i shall enquire: wert thou not once the servant to king laius here in thebes? _phor._ i was, great sir, his true and faithful servant; born and bred up in court, no foreign slave. _oedip._ what office hadst thou? what was thy employment? _phor._ he made me lord of all his rural pleasures; for much he loved them: oft i entertained him with sporting swains, o'er whom i had command. _oedip._ where was thy residence? to what part of the country didst thou most frequently resort? _phor._ to mount cithæron, and the pleasant vallies which all about lie shadowing its large feet. _oedip._ come forth, Ægeon.--ha! why start'st thou, phorbas? forward, i say, and face to face confront him: look wistly on him,--through him, if thou canst! and tell me on thy life, say, dost thou know him? didst thou e'er see him? e'er converse with him near mount cithæron? _phor._ who, my lord, this man? _oedip._ this man, this old, this venerable man: speak, did'st thou ever meet him there? _phor._ where, sacred sir? _oedip._ near mount cithæron; answer to the purpose, 'tis a king speaks; and royal minutes are of much more worth than thousand vulgar years: did'st thou e'er see this man near mount cithæron? _phor._ most sure, my lord, i have seen lines like those his visage bears; but know not where, nor when. _Æge._ is't possible you should forget your ancient friend? there are, perhaps, particulars, which may excite your dead remembrance. have you forgot i took an infant from you, doomed to be murdered in that gloomy vale? the swaddling-bands were purple, wrought with gold. have you forgot, too, how you wept, and begged that i should breed him up, and ask no more? _phor._ whate'er i begged, thou, like a dotard, speak'st more than is requisite; and what of this? why is it mentioned now? and why, o why dost thou betray the secrets of thy friend? _Æge._ be not too rash. that infant grew at last a king; and here the happy monarch stands. _phor._ ha! whither would'st thou? o what hast thou uttered! for what thou hast said, death strike thee dumb for ever! _oedip._ forbear to curse the innocent; and be accurst thyself, thou shifting traitor, villain, damned hypocrite, equivocating slave! _phor._ o heavens! wherein, my lord, have i offended? _oedip._ why speak you not according to my charge? bring forth the rack: since mildness cannot win you, torments shall force. _phor._ hold, hold, o dreadful sir! you will not rack an innocent old man? _oedip._ speak then. _phor._ alas! what would you have me say? _oedip._ did this old man take from your arms an infant? _phor._ he did: and, oh! i wish to all the gods, phorbas had perished in that very moment. _oedip._ moment! thou shalt be hours, days, years, a dying.-- here, bind his hands; he dallies with my fury: but i shall find a way-- _phor._ my lord, i said i gave the infant to him. _oedip._ was he thy own, or given thee by another? _phor._ he was not mine, but given me by another. _oedip._ whence? and from whom? what city? of what house? _phor._ o, royal sir, i bow me to the ground; would i could sink beneath it! by the gods, i do conjure you to inquire no more. _oedip._ furies and hell! hæmon, bring forth the rack, fetch hither cords, and knives, and sulphurous flames: he shall be bound and gashed, his skin flead off, and burnt alive. _phor._ o spare my age. _oedip._ rise then, and speak. _phor._ dread sir, i will. _oedip._ who gave that infant to thee? _phor._ one of king laius' family. _oedip._ o, you immortal gods!--but say, who was't? which of the family of laius gave it? a servant, or one of the royal blood? _phor._ o wretched state! i die, unless i speak; and if i speak, most certain death attends me! _oedip._ thou shalt not die. speak, then, who was it? speak, while i have sense to understand the horror; for i grow cold. _phor._ the queen jocasta told me, it was her son by laius. _oedip._ o you gods!--but did she give it thee? _phor._ my lord, she did. _oedip._ wherefore? for what?--o break not yet, my heart; though my eyes burst, no matter:--wilt thou tell me, or must i ask for ever? for what end, why gave she thee her child? _phor._ to murder it. _oedip._ o more than savage! murder her own bowels, without a cause! _phor._ there was a dreadful one, which had foretold, that most unhappy son should kill his father, and enjoy his mother. _oedip._ but one thing more. jocasta told me, thou wert by the chariot when the old king was slain: speak, i conjure thee, for i shall never ask thee aught again,-- what was the number of the assassinates? _phor._ the dreadful deed was acted but by one; and sure that one had much of your resemblance. _oedip._ 'tis well! i thank you, gods! 'tis wondrous well! daggers, and poison! o there is no need for my dispatch: and you, you merciless powers, hoard up your thunder-stones; keep, keep your bolts, for crimes of little note. [_falls._ _adr._ help, hæmon, help, and bow him gently forward; chafe, chafe his temples: how the mighty spirits, half-strangled with the damp his sorrows raised, struggle for vent! but see, he breathes again, and vigorous nature breaks through opposition.-- how fares my royal friend? _oedip._ the worse for you. o barbarous men, and oh the hated light, why did you force me back, to curse the day; to curse my friends; to blast with this dark breath the yet untainted earth and circling air? to raise new plagues, and call new vengeance down, why did you tempt the gods, and dare to touch me? methinks there's not a hand that grasps this hell, but should run up like flax all blazing fire. stand from this spot, i wish you as my friends, and come not near me, lest the gaping earth swallow you too.--lo, i am gone already. [_draws, and claps his sword to his breast, which_ adrastus _strikes away with his foot._ _adr._ you shall no more be trusted with your life:-- creon, alcander, hæmon, help to hold him. _oedip._ cruel adrastus! wilt thou, hæmon, too? are these the obligations of my friends? o worse than worst of my most barbarous foes! dear, dear adrastus, look with half an eye on my unheard of woes, and judge thyself, if it be fit that such a wretch should live! o, by these melting eyes, unused to weep, with all the low submissions of a slave, i do conjure thee, give my horrors way! talk not of life, for that will make me rave: as well thou may'st advise a tortured wretch, all mangled o'er from head to foot with wounds, and his bones broke, to wait a better day. _adr._ my lord, you ask me things impossible; and i with justice should be thought your foe, to leave you in this tempest of your soul. _tir._ though banished thebes, in corinth you may reign; the infernal powers themselves exact no more: calm then your rage, and once more seek the gods. _oedip._ i'll have no more to do with gods, nor men; hence, from my arms, avaunt. enjoy thy mother! what, violate, with bestial appetite, the sacred veils that wrapt thee yet unborn! this is not to be borne! hence; off, i say! for they, who let my vengeance, make themselves accomplices in my most horrid guilt. _adr._ let it be so; we'll fence heav'n's fury from you, and suffer all together. this, perhaps, when ruin comes, may help to break your fall. _oedip._ o that, as oft i have at athens seen the stage arise, and the big clouds descend; so now, in very deed i might behold the pond'rous earth, and all yon marble roof meet, like the hand of jove, and crush mankind! for all the elements, and all the powers celestial, nay, terrestrial, and infernal, conspire the wreck of out-cast oedipus! fall darkness then, and everlasting night shadow the globe; may the sun never dawn; the silver moon be blotted from her orb; and for an universal rout of nature through all the inmost chambers of the sky, may there not be a glimpse, one starry spark, but gods meet gods, and jostle in the dark; that jars may rise, and wrath divine be hurled, which may to atoms shake the solid world! [_exeunt._ act v.--scene i. _enter_ creon, alcander, _and_ pyracmon. _creon._ thebes is at length my own; and all my wishes, which sure were great as royalty e'er formed, fortune and my auspicious stars have crowned. o diadem, thou centre of ambition, where all its different lines are reconciled, as if thou wert the burning glass of glory! _pyr._ might i be counsellor, i would intreat you to cool a little, sir; find out eurydice; and, with the resolution of a man marked out for greatness, give the fatal choice of death or marriage. _alc._ survey cursed oedipus, as one who, though unfortunate, beloved, thought innocent, and therefore much lamented by all the thebans: you must mark him dead, since nothing but his death, not banishment, can give assurance to your doubtful reign. _cre._ well have you done, to snatch me from the storm of racking transport, where the little streams of love, revenge, and all the under passions, as waters are by sucking whirlpools drawn, were quite devoured in the vast gulph of empire. therefore, pyracmon, as you boldly urged, eurydice shall die, or be my bride. alcander, summon to their master's aid my menial servants, and all those whom change of state, and hope of the new monarch's favour, can win to take our part: away.--what now? [_exit_ alcander. _enter_ hÆmon. when hæmon weeps, without the help of ghosts i may foretel there is a fatal cause. _hæm._ is't possible you should be ignorant of what has happened to the desperate king? _cre._ i know no more but that he was conducted into his closet, where i saw him fling his trembling body on the royal bed; all left him there, at his desire, alone; but sure no ill, unless he died with grief, could happen, for you bore his sword away. _hæm._ i did; and, having locked the door, i stood; and through a chink i found, not only heard, but saw him, when he thought no eye beheld him. at first, deep sighs heaved from his woful heart murmurs, and groans that shook the outward rooms. and art thou still alive, o wretch! he cried; then groaned again, as if his sorrowful soul had cracked the strings of life, and burst away. _cre._ i weep to hear; how then should i have grieved, had i beheld this wondrous heap of sorrow! but, to the fatal period. _hæm._ thrice he struck, with all his force, his hollow groaning breast, and thus, with outcries, to himself complained:-- but thou canst weep then, and thou think'st 'tis well, these bubbles of the shallowest emptiest sorrow, which children vent for toys, and women rain for any trifle their fond hearts are set on; yet these thou think'st are ample satisfaction for bloodiest murder, and for burning lust: no, parricide! if thou must weep, weep blood; weep eyes, instead of tears:--o, by the gods! 'tis greatly thought, he cried, and fits my woes. which said, he smiled revengefully, and leapt upon the floor; thence gazing at the skies, his eye-balls fiery red, and glowing vengeance,-- gods i accuse you not, though i no more will view your heaven, till, with more durable glasses, the mighty soul's immortal perspectives, i find your dazzling beings: take, he cried, take, eyes, your last, your fatal farewel-view. then with a groan, that seemed the call of death, with horrid force lifting his impious hands, he snatched, he tore, from forth their bloody orbs, the balls of sight, and dashed them on the ground. _cre._ a master-piece of horror; new and dreadful! _hæm._ i ran to succour him; but, oh! too late; for he had plucked the remnant strings away. what then remains, but that i find tiresias, who, with his wisdom, may allay those furies, that haunt his gloomy soul? [_exit._ _cre._ heaven will reward thy care, most honest, faithful,--foolish hæmon! but see, alcander enters, well attended. _enter_ alcander, _attended._ i see thou hast been diligent. _alc._ nothing these, for number, to the crowds that soon will follow; be resolute, and call your utmost fury to revenge. _cre._ ha! thou hast given the alarm to cruelty; and never may these eyes be closed, till they behold adrastus stretched at the feet of false eurydice. but see, they are here! retire a while, and mark. _enter_ adrastus, _and_ eurydice, _attended._ _adr._ alas, eurydice, what fond rash man, what inconsiderate and ambitious fool, that shall hereafter read the fate of oedipus, will dare, with his frail hand, to grasp a sceptre? _eur._ 'tis true, a crown seems dreadful, and i wish that you and i, more lowly placed, might pass our softer hours in humble cells away: not but i love you to that infinite height, i could (o wondrous proof of fiercest love!) be greatly wretched in a court with you. _adr._ take then this most loved innocence away; fly from tumultuous thebes, from blood and murder, fly from the author of all villainies, rapes, death, and treason, from that fury creon: vouchsafe that i, o'er-joyed, may bear you hence, and at your feet present the crown of argos. [creon _and attendants come up to him._ _cre._ i have o'er-heard thy black design, adrastus, and therefore, as a traitor to this state, death ought to be thy lot: let it suffice that thebes surveys thee as a prince; abuse not her proffered mercy, but retire betimes, lest she repent, and hasten on thy doom. _adr._ think not, most abject, most abhorred of men, adrastus will vouchsafe to answer thee;-- thebans to you i justify my love: i have addrest my prayer to this fair princess; but, if i ever meant a violence, or thought to ravish, as that traitor did, what humblest adorations could not win, brand me, you gods, blot me with foul dishonour, and let men curse me by the name of creon! _eur._ hear me, o thebans, if you dread the wrath of her whom fate ordained to be your queen; hear me, and dare not, as you prize your lives, to take the part of that rebellious traitor. by the decree of royal oedipus, by queen jocasta's order, by what's more, my own dear vows of everlasting love, i here resign, to prince adrastus' arms, all that the world can make me mistress of. _cre._ o perjured woman! draw all; and when i give the word, fall on.-- traitor, resign the princess, or this moment expect, with all those most unfortunate wretches, upon this spot straight to be hewn in pieces. _adr._ no, villain, no; with twice those odds of men, i doubt not in this cause to vanquish thee.-- captain remember to your care i give my love; ten thousand, thousand times more clear, than life or liberty. _cre._ fall on, alcander.-- pyracmon you and i must wheel about for nobler game, the princess. _adr._ ah, traitor, dost thou shun me? follow, follow, my brave companions! see, the cowards fly! [_exeunt fighting:_ creon's _party beaten off by_ adrastus. _enter_ oedipus. _oedip._ o, 'tis too little this; thy loss of sight, what has it done? i shall be gazed at now the more; be pointed at, there goes the monster! nor have i hid my horrors from myself; for, though corporeal light be lost for ever, the bright reflecting soul, through glaring optics, presents in larger size her black ideas, doubling the bloody prospect of my crimes; holds fancy down, and makes her act again, with wife and mother:--tortures, hell and furies! ha! now the baleful offspring's brought to light! in horrid form, they rank themselves before me;-- what shall i call this medley of creation? here one, with all the obedience of a son, borrowing jocasta's look, kneels at my feet, and calls me father; there, a sturdy boy, resembling laius just as when i killed him, bears up, and with his cold hand grasping mine, cries out, how fares my brother oedipus? what, sons and brothers! sisters and daughters too! fly all, begone, fly from my whirling brain! hence, incest, murder! hence, you ghastly figures! o gods! gods, answer; is there any mean? let me go mad, or die. _enter_ jocasta. _joc._ where, where is this most wretched of mankind, this stately image of imperial sorrow, whose story told, whose very name but mentioned, would cool the rage of fevers, and unlock the hand of lust from the pale virgin's hair, and throw the ravisher before her feet? _oedip._ by all my fears, i think jocasta's voice!-- hence fly; begone! o thou far worse than worst of damning charmers! o abhorred, loathed creature! fly, by the gods, or by the fiends, i charge thee, far as the east, west, north, or south of heaven, but think not thou shalt ever enter there; the golden gates are barred with adamant, 'gainst thee, and me; and the celestial guards, still as we rise, will dash our spirits down. _joc._ o wretched pair! o greatly wretched we! two worlds of woe! _oedip._ art thou not gone then? ha! how darest thou stand the fury of the gods? or comest thou in the grave to reap new pleasures? _joc._ talk on, till thou mak'st mad my rolling brain; groan still more death; and may those dismal sources still bubble on, and pour forth blood and tears. methinks, at such a meeting, heaven stands still; the sea, nor ebbs, nor flows; this mole-hill earth is heaved no more; the busy emmets cease: yet hear me on-- _oedip._ speak, then, and blast my soul. _joc._ o, my loved lord, though i resolve a ruin, to match my crimes; by all my miseries, 'tis horror, worse than thousand thousand deaths, to send me hence without a kind farewell. _oedip._ gods, how she shakes me!--stay thee, o jocasta! speak something ere thou goest for ever from me! _joc._ 'tis woman's weakness, that i would be pitied; pardon me then, o greatest, though most wretched. of all thy kind! my soul is on the brink, and sees the boiling furnace just beneath: do not thou push me off, and i will go, with such a willingness, as if that heaven with all its glory glowed for my reception. _oedip._ o, in my heart i feel the pangs of nature; it works with kindness o'er: give, give me way! i feel a melting here, a tenderness, too mighty for the anger of the gods! direct me to thy knees: yet, oh forbear, lest the dead embers should revive. stand off, and at just distance let me groan my horrors!--here on the earth, here blow my utmost gale; here sob my sorrows, till i burst with sighing; here gasp and languish out my wounded soul. _joc._ in spite of all those crimes the cruel gods can charge me with, i know my innocence; know yours. 'tis fate alone that makes us wretched, for you are still my husband. _oedip._ swear i am, and i'll believe thee; steal into thy arms, renew endearments, think them no pollutions, but chaste as spirits' joys. gently i'll come, thus weeping blind, like dewy night, upon thee, and fold thee softly in my arms to slumber. [_the ghost of_ laius _ascends by degrees, pointing at_ jocasta. _joc._ begone, my lord! alas, what are we doing? fly from my arms! whirlwinds, seas, continents, and worlds, divide us! o, thrice happy thou, who hast no use of eyes; for here's a sight would turn the melting face of mercy's self to a wild fury. _oedip._ ha! what seest thou there? _joc._ the spirit of my husband! o, the gods! how wan he looks! _oedip._ thou ravest; thy husband's here. _joc._ there, there he mounts in circling fire among the blushing clouds! and see, he waves jocasta from the world! _ghost._ jocasta, oedipus. [_vanish with thunder._ _oedip._ what wouldst thou have? thou knowest i cannot come to thee, detained in darkness here, and kept from means of death. i've heard a spirit's force is wonderful; at whose approach, when starting from his dungeon, the earth does shake, and the old ocean groans, rocks are removed, and towers are thundered down; and walls of brass, and gates of adamant are passable as air, and fleet like winds. _joc._ was that a raven's croak, or my son's voice? no matter which; i'll to the grave and hide me. earth open, or i'll tear thy bowels up. hark! he goes on, and blabs the deed of incest. _oedip._ strike then, imperial ghost; dash all at once this house of clay into a thousand pieces; that my poor lingering soul may take her flight to your immortal dwellings. _joc._ haste thee, then, or i shall be before thee. see,--thou canst not see! then i will tell thee that my wings are on. i'll mount, i'll fly, and with a port divine glide all along the gaudy milky soil, to find my laius out; ask every god in his bright palace, if he knows my laius, my murdered laius! _oedip._ ha! how's this, jocasta? nay, if thy brain be sick, then thou art happy. _joc._ ha! will you not? shall i not find him out? will you not show him? are my tears despised? why, then i'll thunder, yes, i will be mad, and fright you with my cries. yes, cruel gods, though vultures, eagles, dragons tear my heart, i'll snatch celestial flames, fire all your dwellings, melt down your golden roofs, and make your doors of crystal fly from off their diamond hinges; drive you all out from your ambrosial hives, to swarm like bees about the field of heaven. this will i do, unless you show me laius, my dear, my murdered lord. o laius! laius! laius! [_exit_ jocasta. _oedip._ excellent grief! why, this is as it should be! no mourning can be suitable to crimes like ours, but what death makes, or madness forms. i could have wished, methought, for sight again, to mark the gallantry of her distraction; her blazing eyes darting the wandering stars, to have seen her mouth the heavens, and mate the gods, while with her thundering voice she menaced high, and every accent twanged with smarting sorrow; but what's all this to thee? thou, coward, yet art living, canst not, wilt not find the road to the great palace of magnificent death; though thousand ways lead to his thousand doors, which, day and night, are still unbarred for all. [_clashing of swords. drums and trumpets without._ hark! 'tis the noise of clashing swords! the sound comes near;--o, that a battle would come o'er me! if i but grasp a sword, or wrest a dagger, i'll make a ruin with the first that falls. _enter_ hÆmon, _with guards._ _hæm._ seize him, and bear him to the western tower.-- pardon me, sacred sir; i am informed that creon has designs upon your life: forgive me, then, if, to preserve you from him, i order your confinement. _oedip._ slaves, unhand me!-- i think thou hast a sword;--'twas the wrong side. yet, cruel hæmon, think not i will live; he, that could tear his eyes out, sure can find some desperate way to stifle this cursed breath: or if i starve!--but that's a lingering fate; or if i leave my brains upon the wall!-- the airy soul can easily o'er-shoot those bounds, with which thou striv'st to pale her in. yes, i will perish in despite of thee; and, by the rage that stirs me, if i meet thee in the other world, i'll curse thee for this usage. [_exit._ _hæm._ tiresias, after him, and with your counsel, advise him humbly: charm, if possible, these feuds within; while i without extinguish, or perish in the attempt, the furious creon; that brand which sets our city in a flame. _tir._ heaven prosper your intent, and give a period to all our plagues. what old tiresias can, shall straight be done.--lead, manto, to the tower. [_exeunt_ tiresias _and_ manto. _hæm._ follow me all, and help to part this fray, [_trumpets again._ or fall together in the bloody broil. [_exeunt._ _enter_ creon _with_ eurydice; pyracmon, _and his party, giving ground to_ adrastus. _cre._ hold, hold your arms, adrastus, prince of argos! hear, and behold; eurydice is my prisoner. _adr._ what would'st thou, hell-hound? _cre._ see this brandished dagger; forego the advantage which thy arms have won. or, by the blood which trembles through the heart of her, whom more than life i know thou lovest, i'll bury to the haft, in her fair breast, this instrument of my revenge. _adr._ stay thee, damned wretch; hold, stop thy bloody hand! _cre._ give order, then, that on this instant, now, this moment, all thy soldiers straight disband. _adr._ away, my friends, since fate has so allotted; begone, and leave me to the villain's mercy. _eur._ ah, my adrastus! call them, call them back! stand there; come back! o, cruel barbarous men! could you then leave your lord, your prince, your king, after so bravely having fought his cause, to perish by the hand of this base villain? why rather rush you not at once together all to his ruin? drag him through the streets, hang his contagious quarters on the gates; nor let my death affright you. _cre._ die first thyself, then. _adr._ o, i charge thee hold!-- hence from my presence, all; he's not my friend that disobeys.--see, art thou now appeased? [_exeunt attendants._ or is there aught else yet remains to do, that can atone thee? slake thy thirst of blood with mine; but save, o save that innocent wretch! _cre._ forego thy sword, and yield thyself my prisoner. _eur._ yet, while there's any dawn of hope to save thy precious life, my dear adrastus, whate'er thou dost, deliver not thy sword; with that thou may'st get off, tho' odds oppose thee. for me, o fear not; no, he dares not touch me; his horrid love will spare me. keep thy sword; lest i be ravished after thou art slain. _adr._ instruct me, gods, what shall adrastus do? _cre._ do what thou wilt, when she is dead; my soldiers with numbers will o'erpower thee. is't thy wish eurydice should fall before thee? _adr._ traitor, no; better that thou, and i, and all mankind, should be no more. _cre._ then cast thy sword away, and yield thee to my mercy, or i strike. _adr._ hold thy raised arm; give me a moment's pause. my father, when he blest me, gave me this: my son, said he, let this be thy last refuge; if thou forego'st it, misery attends thee.-- yet love now charms it from me; which in all the hazards of my life i never lost. 'tis thine, my faithful sword; my only trust; though my heart tells me that the gift is fatal. [_gives it._ _cre._ fatal! yes, foolish love-sick prince, it shall: thy arrogance, thy scorn, my wound's remembrance. turn all at once the fatal point upon thee.-- pyracmon to the palace; dispatch the king; hang hæmon up, for he is loyal, and will oppose me.--come, sir, are you ready? _adr._ yes, villain, for whatever thou canst dare. _eur._ hold, creon, or through me, through me you wound. _adr._ off, madam, or we perish both; behold i'm not unarmed, my poniard's in my hand; therefore, away. _eur._ i'll guard your life with mine. _cre._ die both, then; there is now no time for dallying. [_kills_ eurydice. _eur._ ah, prince, farewell! farewell, my dear adrastus! [_dies._ _adr._ unheard-of monster! eldest-born of hell! down, to thy primitive flame. [_stabs_ creon. _cre._ help, soldiers, help; revenge me. _adr._ more; yet more; a thousand wounds! i'll stamp thee still, thus, to the gaping furies. [adrastus _falls, killed by the soldiers._ _enter_ hÆmon, _guards, with_ alcander _and_ pyracmon _bound; the assassins are driven off._ o hæmon, i am slain; nor need i name the inhuman author of all villainies; there he lies gasping. _cre._ if i must plunge in flames, burn first my arm; base instrument, unfit to act the dictates of my daring mind; burn, burn for ever, o weak substitute of that, the god, ambition. [_dies._ _adr._ she's gone;--o deadly marksman, in the heart! yet in the pangs of death she grasps my hand; her lips too tremble, as if she would speak her last farewell.--o, oedipus, thy fall is great; and nobly now thou goest attended! they talk of heroes, and celestial beauties, and wondrous pleasures in the other world; let me but find her there, i ask no more. [_dies._ _enter a captain to_ hÆmon; _with_ teresias _and_ manto. _cap._ o, sir, the queen jocasta, swift and wild, as a robbed tygress bounding o'er the woods, has acted murders that amaze mankind; in twisted gold i saw her daughters hang on the bed-royal, and her little sons stabbed through the breasts upon the bloody pillows. _hæm._ relentless heavens! is then the fate of laius never to be atoned? how sacred ought kings' lives be held, when but the death of one demands an empire's blood for expiation! but see! the furious mad jocasta's here. _scene draws, and discovers_ jocasta _held by her women and stabbed in many places of her bosom, her hair dishevelled, her children slain upon the bed._ was ever yet a sight of so much horror and pity brought to view! _joc._ ah, cruel women! will you not let me take my last farewell of those dear babes? o let me run, and seal my melting soul upon their bubbling wounds! i'll print upon their coral mouths such kisses, as shall recal their wandering spirits home. let me go, let me go, or i will tear you piece-meal. help, hæmon, help; help, oedipus; help, gods; jocasta dies. _enter_ oedipus _above._ _oedip._ i've found a window, and i thank the gods 'tis quite unbarred; sure, by the distant noise, the height will fit my fatal purpose well. _joc._ what hoa, my oedipus! see where he stands! his groping ghost is lodged upon a tower, nor can it find the road. mount, mount, my soul; i'll wrap thy shivering spirit in lambent flames; and so we'll sail.-- but see! we're landed on the happy coast; and all the golden strands are covered o'er with glorious gods, that come to try our cause. jove, jove, whose majesty now sinks me down, he, who himself burns in unlawful fires, shall judge, and shall acquit us. o, 'tis done; 'tis fixt by fate, upon record divine; and oedipus shall now be ever mine. [_dies._ _oedip._ speak, hæmon; what has fate been doing there? what dreadful deed has mad jocasta done? _hæm._ the queen herself, and all your wretched offspring, are by her fury slain. _oedip._ by all my woes, she has outdone me in revenge and murder, and i should envy her the sad applause: but oh, my children! oh, what have they done? this was not like the mercy of the heavens, to set her madness on such cruelty: this stirs me more than all my sufferings, and with my last breath i must call you tyrants. _hæm._ what mean you, sir? _oedip._ jocasta! lo, i come. o laius, labdacus, and all you spirits of the cadmean race, prepare to meet me, all weeping ranged along the gloomy shore; extend your arms to embrace me, for i come. may all the gods, too, from their battlements, behold and wonder at a mortal's daring; and, when i knock the goal of dreadful death, shout and applaud me with a clap of thunder. once more, thus winged by horrid fate, i come, swift as a falling meteor; lo, i fly, and thus go downwards to the darker sky. [_thunder. he flings himself from the window: the thebans gather about his body._ _hæm._ o prophet, oedipus is now no more! o cursed effect of the most deep despair! _tir._ cease your complaints, and bear his body hence; the dreadful sight will daunt the drooping thebans, whom heaven decrees to raise with peace and glory. yet, by these terrible examples warned, the sacred fury thus alarms the world:-- let none, though ne'er so virtuous, great, and high, be judged entirely blest before they die. [_exeunt._ footnotes: . imitated from the commencement of the plague in the first book of the _iliad_. . the story of the sphinx is generally known: she was a monster, who delighted in putting a riddle to the thebans, and slaying each poor dull boeotian, who could not interpret it. oedipus guessed the enigma, on which the monster destroyed herself for shame. thus he attained the throne of thebes, and the bed of jocasta. . to _dare a lark_, is to fly a hawk, or present some other object of fear, to engage the bird's attention, and prevent it from taking wing, while the fowler draws his net: farewell, nobility; let his grace go forward, and dare us with his cap, like larks. _henry viii._ act iii. scene ii. . the carelessness of oedipus about the fate of his predecessor is very unnatural; but to such expedients dramatists are often reduced, to communicate to their audience what must have been known to the persons of the drama. . _start_ is here, and in p. , used for _started_, being borrowed from _sterte_, the old perfect of the verb. . it is a common idea, that falling stars, as they are called, are converted into a sort of jelly. "among the rest, i had often the opportunity to see the seeming shooting of the stars from place to place, and sometimes they appeared as if falling to the ground, where i once or twice found a white jelly-like matter among the grass, which i imagined to be distilled from them; and hence foolishly conjectured, that the stars themselves must certainly consist of a like substance." . serpens, serpentem vorans, fit draco. peccata, peccatis superaddita, monstra fiunt. _hieroglyphica animalium, per archibaldum simsonum dalkethensis ecclesiæ pastorem, p. ._ . the idea of this sacred grove seems to be taken from that of colonus near athens, dedicated to the eumenides, which gives name to sophocles's second tragedy. seneca describes the scene of the incantation in the following lines: _est procul ab urbe lucus illicibus niger dircæa circa vallis irriguæ loca. cupressus altis exerens silvis caput virente semper alligat trunco nemus; curvosque tendit quercus et putres situ annosa ramos: hujus abrupit latus edax vetustas: illa jam fessa cadens radice, fulta pendet aliena trabe. amara baccas laurus; et tiliæ leves et paphia myrtus; et per immensum mare motura remos alnus; et phoebo obvia enode zephyris pinus opponens latus. medio stat ingens arbor, atque umbra gravi silvas minores urget; et magno ambitu diffusa ramos, una defendit nemus. tristis sub illa, lucis et phoebi inscius restagnat humor, frigore æterno rigens. limosa pigrum circuit fontem palus. actus tertius. scena prima._ this diffuse account of the different kinds of forest trees, which composed the enchanted grove, is very inartificially put into the mouth of creon, who, notwithstanding the horrible message which he has to deliver to oedipus from the ghost, finds time to solace the king with this long description of a place, which he doubtless knew as well as creon himself. dryden, on the contrary, has, with great address, rendered the description necessary, by the violence committed within the sacred precinct, and turned it, not upon minute and rhetorical detail, but upon the general awful properties of this consecrated ground. lucan's fine description of the massyllian forest, and that of the enchanted grove in tasso, have been both consulted by our author.] . the quarrel betwixt oedipus and the prophet, who announces his guilt, is imitated from a similar scene in the oedipus tyrannus. . borrowed from shakespeare; and lean-looked prophets whisper fearful change. _richard ii._ epilogue. what sophocles could undertake alone, our poets found a work for more than one; and therefore two lay tugging at the piece, with all their force, to draw the ponderous mass from greece; a weight that bent even seneca's strong muse, and which corneille's shoulders did refuse. so hard it is the athenian harp to string! so much two consuls yield to one just king. terror and pity this whole poem sway; the mightiest machines that can mount a play. how heavy will those vulgar souls be found, whom two such engines cannot move from ground! when greece and rome have smiled upon this birth, you can but damn for one poor spot of earth; and when your children find your judgment such, they'll scorn their sires, and wish themselves born dutch; each haughty poet will infer with ease, how much his wit must under-write to please. as some strong churl would, brandishing, advance the monumental sword that conquered france; so you, by judging this, your judgment teach, thus far you like, that is, thus far you reach. since then the vote of full two thousand years has crowned this plot, and all the dead are theirs, think it a debt you pay, not alms you give, and, in your own defence, let this play live. think them not vain, when sophocles is shown, to praise his worth they humbly doubt their own. yet as weak states each other's power assure, weak poets by conjunction are secure. their treat is what your palates relish most, charm! song! and show! a murder and a ghost! we know not what you can desire or hope, to please you more, but burning of a pope.[ ] footnote: . the burning a pope in effigy, was a ceremony performed upon the anniversary of queen elizabeth's coronation. when parties ran high betwixt the courtiers and opposition, in the latter part of charles the ii. reign, these anti-papal solemnities were conducted by the latter, with great state and expence, and employed as engines to excite the popular resentment against the duke of york, and his religion. the following curious description of one of these tumultuary processions, in , was extracted by ralph, from a very scarce pamphlet; it is the ceremony referred to in the epilogue; and it shall be given at length, as the subject is frequently alluded to by dryden. [illustration: the solemn mock procession of the pope, cardinals, jesuits, friars, &c. through the city of london november .th . london published january by william miller, albemarle street. dryden works to face vol th page ] "on the said th of november, , the bells, generally, about the town, began to ring at three o'clock in the morning. at the approach of the evening, (all things being in readiness) the solemn procession began, setting forth from moregate, and so passed, first to aldgate, and thence through leadenhall-street, by the royal exchange, through cheapside, and so to temple-bar in the ensuing order, viz. " . came six whifflers, to clear the way, in pioneer caps, and red waistcoats. " . a bellman ringing, and with a loud (but doleful) voice, crying out all the way, remember justice godfrey. " . a dead body, representing justice godfrey, in a decent black habit, carried before a jesuit, in black, on horse-back, in like manner as he was carried by the assassins to primrose hill. " . next after sir edmonbury, so mounted, came a priest in a surplice, with a cope embroidered with dead bones, skeletons, skulls, and the like, giving pardons very plentifully to all those who should murder protestants; and proclaiming it meritorious. " . then a priest in black alone, with a great silver cross. " . four carmelites, in white and black habits. " . four grey-friars, in the proper habits of their order. " . six jesuits, with bloody daggers. " . a concert of wind music. " . four bishops, in purple, and lawn sleeves, with a golden crosier on their breast, and crosier-staves in their hands. " . four other bishops, in _pontificalibus_, with surplices, and rich embroidered copes, and golden mitres on their heads. " . six cardinals, in scarlet robes and caps. " . the pope's doctor, _i.e._ wakeman,[a] with jesuits-powder in one hand, and an urinal in the other. " . two priests in surplices, with two golden crosses. "lastly, the pope, in a lofty, glorious pageant, representing a chair of state, covered with scarlet, richly embroidered and fringed, and bedecked with golden balls and crosses: at his feet a cushion of state, and two boys in surplices with white silk banners, and bloody crucifixes and daggers with an incense pot before them, censing his holiness, who was arrayed in a splendid scarlet gown, lined through with ermin, and richly daubed with gold and silver lace; on his head a triple crown of gold, and a glorious collar of gold and precious stones, st peter's keys, a number of beads, agnus deis, and other catholic trumpery. at his back, his holiness's privy counsellor, the degraded seraphim, (_anglice_ the devil,) frequently caressing, hugging, and whispering him, and oft times instructing him aloud to destroy his majesty, to forge a protestant plot, and to fire the city again, to which purpose he held an infernal torch in his hand. "the whole procession was attended with flambeaux and lights, by order; but so many more came in volunteers, as made up some thousands. "never were the balconies, windows, and houses more numerously lined, or the streets closer throng'd with multitudes of people, all expressing their abhorrence of popery, with continual shouts and exclamations; so that 'tis modestly computed, that, in the whole progress, there could not be fewer than two hundred thousand spectators. "thus with a slow, and solemn state, they proceeded to temple bar; where with innumerable swarms, the houses seemed to be converted into heaps of men, and women, and children, for whose diversion there were provided great variety of excellent fireworks. "temple bar being, since its rebuilding, adorned with four stately statues, viz. those of queen elizabeth and king james, on the inward, or eastern side, fronting the city; and those of king charles the i. of blessed memory, and our present gracious sovereign, (whom god, in mercy to these nations, long preserve!) on the outside, facing towards westminster; and the statue of queen elizabeth in regard to the day, having on a crown of gilded laurel, and in her hand a golden shield, with this motto inscribed: _the protestant religion, and magna charta_, and flambeaux placed before it. the pope being brought up near thereunto, the following song, alluding to the posture of those statues, was sung in parts, between one representing the english cardinal (_howard_)[b] and others acting the people: cardinal norfolk. from york to london town we come, to talk of popish ire, to reconcile you all to rome, and prevent smithfield fire. plebeians. cease, cease, thou norfolk cardinal, see yonder stands queen bess; who sav'd our souls from popish thrall: o queen bess, queen bess, queen bess! your popish plot, and smithfield threat, we do not fear at all; for lo! beneath queen bess's feet, you fall, you fall, you fall. "'tis true, our king's on t'other side, a looking tow'rds whitehall: but could we bring him round about; he'd counterplot you all. "then down with james, and set up charles, on good queen bess's side; that all true commons, lords, and earls, may wish him a fruitfull bride." now god preserve great charles our king, and eke all honest men; and traitors all to justice bring: amen, amen, amen. "then having entertained the thronging spectators for some time, with the ingenious fireworks, a vast bonfire being prepared, just over against the inner temple gate, his holiness, after some compliments and reluctancies, was decently toppled from all his grandeur, into the impartial flames; the crafty devil leaving his infallibilityship in the lurch, and laughing as heartily at his deserved ignominious end, as subtle jesuits do at the ruin of bigotted lay catholics, whom themselves have drawn in; or, as credulous coleman's abettors did, when, with pretences of a reprieve at last gasp, they had made him vomit up his soul with a lye, and sealed his dangerous chops with a halter. this justice was attended with a prodigious shout, that might be heard far beyond somerset-house; and 'twas believed the echo, by continued reverberations, before it ceased, reached _scotland_, (the duke was then there;) france, and even rome, itself, damping them all with a dreadfull astonishment." from a very rare broadside, in the collection made by narcissus luttrell. footnotes: a. sir george wakeman was physician to the queen, and a catholic. he was tried for the memorable popish plot and acquitted, the credit of the witnesses being now blasted, by the dying declarations of those who suffered. b. philip, the d son of henry earl of arundel, and brother to the duke of norfolk, created a cardinal in . he was a second cousin of lady elizabeth howard, afterwards the wife of our poet. * * * * * troilus and cressida: or, truth found too late. a tragedy. _rectius iliacum carmen deducis in actus, quam si proferres ignota indictaque primus._ hor. troilus and cressida. the story of troilus and cressida was one of the more modern fables, engrafted, during the dark ages, on "the tale of troy divine." chaucer, who made it the subject of a long and somewhat dull poem, professes to have derived his facts from an author of the middle ages, called lollius, to whom he often refers, and who he states to have written in latin. tyrwhitt disputes the existence of this personage, and supposes chaucer's original to have been the _philostrato dell' amorose fatiche de troilo,_ a work of boccacio. but chaucer was never reluctant in acknowledging obligations to his contemporaries, when such really existed; and mr tyrwhitt's opinion seems to be successfully combated by mr godwin, in his "life of chaucer." the subject, whencesoever derived, was deemed by shakespeare worthy of the stage; and his tragedy, of troilus and cressida, contains so many scenes of distinguished excellence, that it could have been wished our author had mentioned it with more veneration. in truth, even the partiality of an editor must admit, that on this occasion, the modern improvements of dryden shew to very little advantage beside the venerable structure to which they have been attached. the arrangement of the plot is, indeed, more artificially modelled; but the preceding age, during which the infidelity of cressida was proverbially current, could as little have endured a catastrophe turning upon the discovery of her innocence, as one which should have exhibited helen chaste, or hector a coward. in dryden's time, the prejudice against this unfortunate female was probably forgotten, as her history had become less popular. there appears, however, something too nice and fastidious in the critical rule, which exacts that the hero and heroine of the drama shall be models of virtuous perfection. in the most interesting of the ancient plays we find this limitation neglected, with great success; and it would have been more natural to have brought about the catastrophe on the plan of shakespeare and chaucer, than by the forced mistake in which dryden's lovers are involved, and the stale expedient of cressida's killing herself, to evince her innocence. for the superior order, and regard to the unity of place, with which dryden has new-modelled the scenes and entries, he must be allowed the full praise which he claims in the preface. in the dialogue, considered as distinct from the plot, dryden appears not to have availed himself fully of the treasures of his predecessor. he has pitilessly retrenched the whole scene, in the d act, between ulysses and achilles, full of the purest and most admirable moral precept, expressed in the most poetical and dignified language[ ]. probably this omission arose from dryden's desire to simplify the plot, by leaving out the intrigues of the grecian chiefs, and limiting the interest to the amours of troilus and cressida. but he could not be insensible to the merit of this scene, though he has supplied it by one far inferior, in which ulysses is introduced, using gross flattery to the buffoon thersites. in the latter part of the play, dryden has successfully exerted his own inventive powers. the quarrelling scene between hector and troilus is very impressive, and no bad imitation of that betwixt brutus and cassius, with which dryden seems to have been so much charmed, and which he has repeatedly striven to emulate. the parting of hector and andromache contains some affecting passages, some of which may be traced back to homer; although the pathos, upon the whole, is far inferior to that of the noted scene in the iliad, and destitute of the noble simplicity of the grecian bard. mr godwin has justly remarked, that the delicacy of chaucer's ancient tale has suffered even in the hands of shakespeare; but in those of dryden it has undergone a far deeper deterioration. whatever is coarse and naked in shakespeare, has been dilated into ribaldry by the poet laureat of charles the second; and the character of pandarus, in particular, is so grossly heightened, as to disgrace even the obliging class to whom that unfortunate procurer has bequeathed his name. so far as this play is to be considered as an alteration of shakespeare, i fear it must be allowed, that our author has suppressed some of his finest poetry, and exaggerated some of his worst faults. troilus and cressida was published in . footnote: . i need only recall to the reader's remembrance the following beautiful passage, inculcating the unabating energy necessary to maintain, in the race of life, the ground which has been already gained. _ulys._ time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, wherein he puts alms for oblivion, a great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes: these scraps are good deeds past; which are devour'd as fast as they are made, forgot as soon as done: perséverance, dear my lord, keeps honour bright: to have done, is to hang quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail in monumental mockery. take the instant way; for honour travels in a strait so narrow, where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; for emulation hath a thousand sons, that one by one pursue: if you give way, or hedge aside from the direct forthright, like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by, and leave you hindmost.-- or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, lie there for pavement to the abject rear, o'er run and trampled on: then what they do in present, though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours: for time is like a fashionable host, that slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand; and with his arms out stretch'd, as he would fly, grasps-in the comer: welcome ever smiles, and farewel goes out sighing. o, let not virtue seek remuneration for the thing it was; for beauty, wit, high birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, love, friendship, charity, are subjects all to envious and calumniating time. one touch of nature makes the whole world kin,-- that all, with one consent, praise new-born gawds, though they are made and moulded of things past; and give to dust, that is a little gilt, more laud than gilt o'er-dusted. the present eye praises the present object: then marvel not, thou great and complete man, that all the greeks begin to worship ajax; since things in motion sooner catch the eye, than what not stirs. the cry went once on thee, and still it might, and yet it may again, if thou would'st not entomb thyself alive, and case thy reputation in thy tent; whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, made emulous missions 'mongst the gods themselves, and drave great mars to faction. to the right honourable robert, earl of sunderland[ ], principal secretary of state, one of his majesty's most honourable privy-council, &c. my lord, since i cannot promise you much of poetry in my play, it is but reasonable that i should secure you from any part of it in my dedication. and indeed i cannot better distinguish the exactness of your taste from that of other men, than by the plainness and sincerity of my address. i must keep my hyperboles in reserve for men of other understandings. an hungry appetite after praise, and a strong digestion of it, will bear the grossness of that diet; but one of so critical a judgment as your lordship, who can set the bounds of just and proper in every subject, would give me small encouragement for so bold an undertaking. i more than suspect, my lord, that you would not do common justice to yourself; and, therefore, were i to give that character of you, which i think you truly merit, i would make my appeal from your lordship to the reader, and would justify myself from flattery by the public voice, whatever protestation you might enter to the contrary. but i find i am to take other measures with your lordship; i am to stand upon my guard with you, and to approach you as warily as horace did augustus: _cui malè si palpere, recalcitrat undique tutus._ an ill-timed, or an extravagant commendation, would not pass upon you; but you would keep off such a dedicator at arms-end, and send him back with his encomiums to this lord, or that lady, who stood in need of such trifling merchandise. you see, my lord, what an awe you have upon me, when i dare not offer you that incense which would be acceptable to other patrons; but am forced to curb myself from ascribing to you those honours, which even an enemy could not deny you. yet i must confess, i never practised that virtue of moderation (which is properly your character) with so much reluctancy as now: for it hinders me from being true to my own knowledge, in not witnessing your worth, and deprives me of the only means which i had left, to shew the world that true honour and uninterested respect which i have always paid you. i would say somewhat, if it were possible which might distinguish that veneration i have for you, from the flatteries of those who adore your fortune. but the eminence of your condition, in this particular, is my unhappiness; for it renders whatever i would say suspected. professions of service, submissions, and attendance, are the practice of all men to the great; and commonly they, who have the least sincerity, perform them best; as they, who are least engaged in love, have their tongues the freest to counterfeit a passion. for my own part, i never could shake off the rustic bashfulness which hangs upon my nature; but, valuing myself at as little as i am worth, have been afraid to render even the common duties of respect to those who are in power. the ceremonious visits, which are generally paid on such occasions, are not my talent. they may be real even in courtiers, but they appear with such a face of interest, that a modest man would think himself in danger of having his sincerity mistaken for his design. my congratulations keep their distance, and pass no farther than my heart. there it is that i have all the joy imaginable, when i see true worth rewarded, and virtue uppermost in the world. if, therefore, there were one to whom i had the honour to be known; and to know him so perfectly, that i could say, without flattery, he had all the depth of understanding that was requisite in an able statesman, and all that honesty which commonly is wanting; that he was brave without vanity, and knowing without positiveness; that he was loyal to his prince, and a lover of his country; that his principles were full of moderation, and all his counsels such as tended to heal, and not to widen, the breaches of the nation: that in all his conversation there appeared a native candour, and a desire of doing good in all his actions: if such an one, whom i have described, were at the helm; if he had risen by his merits, and were chosen out in the necessity and pressures of affairs, to remedy our confusions by the seasonableness of his advice, and to put a stop to our ruin, when we were just rolling downward to the precipice; i should then congratulate the age in which i live, for the common safety; i should not despair of the republic, though hannibal were at the gates; i should send up my vows for the success of such an action, as virgil did, on the like occasion, for his patron, when he was raising up his country from the desolations of a civil war: _hunc saltem everso juvenem succurrere seclo ne, superi, prohibete._ i know not whither i am running, in this extacy which is now upon me: i am almost ready to re-assume the ancient rights of poetry; to point out, and prophecy the man, who was born for no less an undertaking, and whom posterity shall bless for its accomplishment. methinks, i am already taking fire from such a character, and making room for him, under a borrowed name, amongst the heroes of an epic poem. neither could mine, or some more happy genius, want encouragement under such a patron: _pollio amat nostram, quamvis sit rustica, musam._ but these are considerations afar off, my lord: the former part of the prophecy must be first accomplished; the quiet of the nation must be secured; and a mutual trust, betwixt prince and people, be renewed; and then this great and good man will have leisure for the ornaments of peace; and make our language as much indebted to his care, as the french is to the memory of their famous richelieu[ ]. you know, my lord, how low he laid the foundations of so great a work; that he began it with a grammar and a dictionary; without which all those remarks and observations, which have since been made, had been performed to as little purpose, as it would be to consider the furniture of the rooms, before the contrivance of the house. propriety must first be stated, ere any measures of elegance can be taken. neither is one vaugelas sufficient for such a work[ ]. it was the employment of the whole academy for many years; for the perfect knowledge of a tongue was never attained by any single person. the court, the college, and the town, must be joined in it. and as our english is a composition of the dead and living tongues, there is required a perfect knowledge, not only of the greek and latin, but of the old german, the french, and the italian; and, to help all these, a conversation with those authors of our own, who have written with the fewest faults in prose and verse. but how barbarously we yet write and speak, your lordship knows, and i am sufficiently sensible in my own english. for i am often put to a stand, in considering whether what i write be the idiom of the tongue, or false grammar, and nonsense couched beneath that specious name of anglicism; and have no other way to clear my doubts, but by translating my english into latin, and thereby trying what sense the words will bear in a more stable language. i am desirous, if it were possible, that we might all write with the same certainty of words, and purity of phrase, to which the italians first arrived, and after them the french; at least that we might advance so far, as our tongue is capable of such a standard. it would mortify an englishman to consider, that from the time of boccace and of petrarch, the italian has varied very little; and that the english of chaucer, their contemporary, is not to be understood without the help of an old dictionary. but their goth and vandal had the fortune to be grafted on a roman stock; ours has the disadvantage to be founded on the dutch[ ]. we are full of monosyllables, and those clogged with consonants, and our pronunciation is effeminate; all which are enemies to a sounding language. it is true, that to supply our poverty, we have trafficked with our neighbour nations; by which means we abound as much in words, as amsterdam does in religions; but to order them, and make them useful after their admission, is the difficulty. a greater progress has been made in this, since his majesty's return, than, perhaps, since the conquest to his time. but the better part of the work remains unfinished; and that which has been done already, since it has only been in the practice of some few writers, must be digested into rules and method, before it can be profitable to the general. will your lordship give me leave to speak out at last? and to acquaint the world, that from your encouragement and patronage, we may one day expect to speak and write a language, worthy of the english wit, and which foreigners may not disdain to learn? your birth, your education, your natural endowments, the former employments which you have had abroad, and that which, to the joy of good men you now exercise at home, seem all to conspire to this design: the genius of the nation seems to call you out as it were by name, to polish and adorn your native language, and to take from it the reproach of its barbarity. it is upon this encouragement that i have adventured on the following critique, which i humbly present you, together with the play; in which, though i have not had the leisure, nor indeed the encouragement, to proceed to the principal subject of it, which is the words and thoughts that are suitable to tragedy; yet the whole discourse has a tendency that way, and is preliminary to it. in what i have already done, i doubt not but i have contradicted some of my former opinions, in my loose essays of the like nature; but of this, i dare affirm, that it is the fruit of my riper age and experience, and that self-love, or envy have no part in it. the application to english authors is my own, and therein, perhaps, i may have erred unknowingly; but the foundation of the rules is reason, and the authority of those living critics who have had the honour to be known to you abroad, as well as of the ancients, who are not less of your acquaintance. whatsoever it be, i submit it to your lordship's judgment, from which i never will appeal, unless it be to your good nature, and your candour. if you can allow an hour of leisure to the perusal of it, i shall be fortunate that i could so long entertain you; if not, i shall at least have the satisfaction to know, that your time was more usefully employed upon the public. i am, my lord, your lordship's most obedient, humble servant, john dryden. footnotes: . this was the famous earl of sunderland, who, being a tory under the reign of charles, a papist in that of his successor, and a whig in that of william, was a favourite minister of all these monarchs. he was a man of eminent abilities; and our author shews a high opinion of his taste, by abstaining from the gross flattery, which was then the fashionable stile of dedication. . alluding to the institution of an academy for fixing the language, often proposed about this period. . author of a treatise on the french language. . dutch is here used generally for the high dutch or german. the preface. the poet Æschylus was held in the same veneration by the athenians of after-ages, as shakespeare is by us; and longinus has judged, in favour of him, that he had a noble boldness of expression, and that his imaginations were lofty and heroic; but, on the other side, quintilian affirms, that he was daring to extravagance. it is certain, that he affected pompous words, and that his sense was obscured by figures; notwithstanding these imperfections, the value of his writings after his decease was such, that his countrymen ordained an equal reward to those poets, who could alter his plays to be acted on the theatre, with those whose productions were wholly new, and of their own. the case is not the same in england; though the difficulties of altering are greater, and our reverence for shakespeare much more just, than that of the grecians for Æschylus. in the age of that poet, the greek tongue was arrived to its full perfection; they had then amongst them an exact standard of writing and of speaking: the english language is not capable of such a certainty; and we are at present so far from it, that we are wanting in the very foundation of it, a perfect grammar. yet it must be allowed to the present age, that the tongue in general is so much refined since shakespeare's time, that many of his words, and more of his phrases, are scarce intelligible. and of those which we understand, some are ungrammatical, others coarse; and his whole style is so pestered with figurative expressions, that it is as affected as it is obscure. it is true, that in his latter plays he had worn off somewhat of the rust; but the tragedy, which i have undertaken to correct, was in all probability one of his first endeavours on the stage. the original story was written by one lollius a lombard, in latin verse, and translated by chaucer into english; intended, i suppose, a satire on the inconstancy of women: i find nothing of it among the ancients; not so much as the name cressida once mentioned. shakespeare, (as i hinted) in the apprenticeship of his writing, modelled it into that play, which is now called by the name of "troilus and cressida," but so lamely is it left to us, that it is not divided into acts; which fault i ascribe to the actors who printed it after shakespeare's death; and that too so carelessly, that a more uncorrected copy i never saw. for the play itself, the author seems to have begun it with some fire; the characters of pandarus and thersites, are promising enough; but as if he grew weary of his task, after an entrance or two, he lets them fall: and the latter part of the tragedy is nothing but a confusion of drums and trumpets, excursions and alarms. the chief persons, who give name to the tragedy, are left alive; cressida is false, and is not punished. yet, after all, because the play was shakespeare's, and that there appeared in some places of it the admirable genius of the author, i undertook to remove that heap of rubbish under which many excellent thoughts lay wholly buried. accordingly, i new modelled the plot, threw out many unnecessary persons, improved those characters which were begun and left unfinished, as hector, troilus, pandarus, and thersites, and added that of andromache. after this, i made, with no small trouble, an order and connection of all the scenes; removing them from the places where they were inartificially set; and, though it was impossible to keep them all unbroken, because the scene must be sometimes in the city and sometimes in the camp, yet i have so ordered them, that there is a coherence of them with one another, and a dependence on the main design; no leaping from troy to the grecian tents, and thence back again, in the same act, but a due proportion of time allowed for every motion. i need not say that i have refined his language, which before was obsolete; but i am willing to acknowledge, that as i have often drawn his english nearer to our times, so i have sometimes conformed my own to his; and consequently, the language is not altogether so pure as it is significant. the scenes of pandarus and cressida, of troilus and pandarus, of andromache with hector and the trojans, in the second act, are wholly new; together with that of nestor and ulysses with thersites, and that of thersites with ajax and achilles. i will not weary my reader with the scenes which are added of pandarus and the lovers, in the third, and those of thersites, which are wholly altered; but i cannot omit the last scene in it, which is almost half the act, betwixt troilus and hector. the occasion of raising it was hinted to me by mr betterton; the contrivance and working of it was my own. they who think to do me an injury, by saying, that it is an imitation of the scene betwixt brutus and cassius, do me an honour, by supposing i could imitate the incomparable shakespeare; but let me add, that if shakespeare's scene, or that faulty copy of it in "amintor and melantius," had never been, yet euripides had furnished me with an excellent example in his "iphigenia," between agamemnon and menelaus; and from thence, indeed, the last turn of it is borrowed. the occasion which shakespeare, euripides, and fletcher, have all taken, is the same,--grounded upon friendship; and the quarrel of two virtuous men, raised by natural degrees to the extremity of passion, is conducted in all three, to the declination of the same passion, and concludes with a warm renewing of their friendship. but the particular ground-work which shakespeare has taken, is incomparably the best; because he has not only chosen two of the greatest heroes of their age, but has likewise interested the liberty of rome, and their own honours, who were the redeemers of it, in this debate. and if he has made brutus, who was naturally a patient man, to fly into excess at first, let it be remembered in his defence, that, just before, he has received the news of portia's death; whom the poet, on purpose neglecting a little chronology, supposes to have died before brutus, only to give him an occasion of being more easily exasperated. add to this, that the injury he had received from cassius, had long been brooding in his mind; and that a melancholy man, upon consideration of an affront, especially from a friend, would be more eager in his passion, than he who had given it, though naturally more choleric. euripides, whom i have followed, has raised the quarrel betwixt two brothers, who were friends. the foundation of the scene was this: the grecians were wind-bound at the port of aulis, and the oracle had said, that they could not sail, unless agamemnon delivered up his daughter to be sacrificed: he refuses; his brother menelaus urges the public safety; the father defends himself by arguments of natural affection, and hereupon they quarrel. agamemnon is at last convinced, and promises to deliver up iphigenia, but so passionately laments his loss, that menelaus is grieved to have been the occasion of it, and, by a return of kindness, offers to intercede for him with the grecians, that his daughter might not be sacrificed. but my friend mr rymer has so largely, and with so much judgment, described this scene, in comparing it with that of melantius and amintor, that it is superfluous to say more of it; i only named the heads of it, that any reasonable man might judge it was from thence i modelled my scene betwixt troilus and hector. i will conclude my reflections on it, with a passage of longinus, concerning plato's imitation of homer: "we ought not to regard a good imitation as a theft, but as a beautiful idea of him who undertakes to imitate, by forming himself on the invention and the work of another man; for he enters into the lists like a new wrestler, to dispute the prize with the former champion. this sort of emulation, says hesiod, is honourable, [greek: agathê d' eris esti brotoisin]--when we combat for victory with a hero, and are not without glory even in our overthrow. those great men, whom we propose to ourselves as patterns of our imitation, serve us as a torch, which is lifted up before us, to enlighten our passage, and often elevate our thoughts as high as the conception we have of our author's genius." i have been so tedious in three acts, that i shall contract myself in the two last. the beginning scenes of the fourth act are either added or changed wholly by me; the middle of it is shakespeare altered, and mingled with my own; three or four of the last scenes are altogether new. and the whole fifth act, both the plot and the writing, are my own additions. but having written so much for imitation of what is excellent, in that part of the preface which related only to myself, methinks it would neither be unprofitable nor unpleasant to inquire how far we ought to imitate our own poets, shakespeare and fletcher, in their tragedies; and this will occasion another inquiry, how those two writers differ between themselves: but since neither of these questions can be solved, unless some measures be first taken, by which we may be enabled to judge truly of their writings, i shall endeavour, as briefly as i can, to discover the grounds and reason of all criticism, applying them in this place only to tragedy. aristotle with his interpreters, and horace, and longinus, are the authors to whom i owe my lights; and what part soever of my own plays, or of this, which no mending could make regular, shall fall under the condemnation of such judges, it would be impudence in me to defend. i think it no shame to retract my errors, and am well pleased to suffer in the cause, if the art may be improved at my expence: i therefore proceed to the grounds of criticism in tragedy. tragedy is thus defined by aristotle (omitting what i thought unnecessary in his definition). it is an imitation of one entire, great, and probable action; not told, but represented; which, by moving in us fear and pity, is conducive to the purging of those two passions in our minds. more largely thus: tragedy describes or paints an action, which action must have all the properties above named. first, it must be one or single; that is, it must not be a history of one man's life, suppose of alexander the great, or julius cæsar, but one single action of theirs. this condemns all shakespeare's historical plays, which are rather chronicles represented, than tragedies; and all double action of plays. as, to avoid a satire upon others, i will make bold with my own "marriage a-la-mode," where there are manifestly two actions, not depending on one another; but in "oedipus" there cannot properly be said to be two actions, because the love of adrastus and eurydice has a necessary dependence on the principal design into which it is woven. the natural reason of this rule is plain; for two different independent actions distract the attention and concernment of the audience, and consequently destroy the intention of the poet; if his business be to move terror and pity, and one of his actions he comical, the other tragical, the former will divert the people, and utterly make void his greater purpose. therefore, as in perspective, so in tragedy, there must be a point of sight in which all the lines terminate; otherwise the eye wanders, and the work is false. this was the practice of the grecian stage. but terence made an innovation in the roman: all his plays have double actions; for it was his custom to translate two greek comedies, and to weave them into one of his, yet so, that both their actions were comical, and one was principal, the other but secondary or subservient. and this has obtained on the english stage, to give us the pleasure of variety. as the action ought to be one, it ought, as such, to have order in it; that is, to have a natural beginning, a middle, and an end. a natural beginning, says aristotle, is that which could not necessarily have been placed after another thing; and so of the rest. this consideration will arraign all plays after the new model of spanish plots, where accident is heaped upon accident, and that which is first might as reasonably be last; an inconvenience not to be remedied, but by making one accident naturally produce another, otherwise it is a farce and not a play. of this nature is the "slighted maid;" where there is no scene in the first act, which might not by as good reason be in the fifth. and if the action ought to be one, the tragedy ought likewise to conclude with the action of it. thus in "mustapha," the play should naturally have ended with the death of zanger, and not have given us the grace-cup after dinner, of solyman's divorce from roxolana. the following properties of the action are so easy, that they need not my explaining. it ought to be great, and to consist of great persons, to distinguish it from comedy, where the action is trivial, and the persons of inferior rank. the last quality of the action is, that it ought to be probable, as well as admirable and great. it is not necessary that there should be historical truth in it; but always necessary that there should be a likeness of truth, something that is more than barely possible; _probable_ being that which succeeds, or happens, oftener than it misses. to invent therefore a probability and to make it wonderful, is the most difficult undertaking in the art of poetry; for that, which is not wonderful, is not great; and that, which is not probable, will not delight a reasonable audience. this action, thus described, must be represented and not told, to distinguish dramatic poetry from epic: but i hasten to the end or scope of tragedy, which is, to rectify or purge our passions, fear and pity. to instruct delightfully is the general end of all poetry. philosophy instructs, but it performs its work by precept; which is not delightful, or not so delightful as example. to purge the passions by example, is therefore the particular instruction which belongs to tragedy. rapin, a judicious critic, has observed from aristotle, that pride and want of commiseration are the most predominant vices in mankind; therefore, to cure us of these two, the inventors of tragedy have chosen to work upon two other passions, which are, fear and pity. we are wrought to fear, by their setting before our eyes some terrible example of misfortune, which happened to persons of the highest quality; for such an action demonstrates to us, that no condition is privileged from the turns of fortune; this must of necessity cause terror in us, and consequently abate our pride. but when we see that the most virtuous, as well as the greatest, are not exempt from such misfortunes, that consideration moves pity in us, and insensibly works us to be helpful to, and tender over, the distressed; which is the noblest and most godlike of moral virtues, here it is observable, that it is absolutely necessary to make a man virtuous, if we desire he should be pitied: we lament not, but detest, a wicked man; we are glad when we behold his crimes are punished, and that poetical justice is done upon him. euripides was censured by the critics of his time, for making his chief characters too wicked; for example, phædra, though she loved her son-in-law with reluctancy, and that it was a curse upon her family for offending venus, yet was thought too ill a pattern for the stage. shall we therefore banish all characters of villainy? i confess i am not of that opinion; but it is necessary that the hero of the play be not a villain; that is, the characters, which should move our pity, ought to have virtuous inclinations, and degrees of moral goodness in them. as for a perfect character of virtue, it never was in nature, and therefore there can be no imitation of it; but there are allays of frailty to be allowed for the chief persons, yet so that the good which is in them shall outweigh the bad, and consequently leave room for punishment on the one side, and pity on the other. after all, if any one will ask me, whether a tragedy cannot be made upon any other grounds than those of exciting pity and terror in us;--bossu, the best of modern critics, answers thus in general: that all excellent arts, and particularly that of poetry, have been invented and brought to perfection by men of a transcendent genius; and that, therefore, they, who practise afterwards the same arts, are obliged to tread in their footsteps, and to search in their writings the foundation of them; for it is not just that new rules should destroy the authority of the old. but rapin writes more particularly thus, that no passions in a story are so proper to move our concernment, as fear and pity; and that it is from our concernment we receive our pleasure, is undoubted. when the soul becomes agitated with fear for one character, or hope for another; then it is that we are pleased in tragedy, by the interest which we take in their adventures. here, therefore, the general answer may be given to the first question, how far we ought to imitate shakespeare and fletcher in their plots; namely, that we ought to follow them so far only, as they have copied the excellencies of those who invented and brought to perfection dramatic poetry; those things only excepted, which religion, custom of countries, idioms of languages, &c. have altered in the superstructures, but not in the foundation of the design. how defective shakespeare and fletcher have been in all their plots, mr rymer has discovered in his criticisms. neither can we, who follow them, be excused from the same, or greater errors; which are the more unpardonable in us, because we want their beauties to countervail our faults. the best of their designs, the most approaching to antiquity, and the most conducing to move pity, is the "king and no king;" which, if the farce of bessus were thrown away, is of that inferior sort of tragedies, which end with a prosperous event. it is probably derived from the story of oedipus, with the character of alexander the great, in his extravagances, given to arbaces. the taking of this play, amongst many others, i cannot wholly ascribe to the excellency of the action; for i find it moving when it is read. it is true, the faults of the plot are so evidently proved, that they can no longer be denied. the beauties of it must therefore lie either in the lively touches of the passion; or we must conclude, as i think we may, that even in imperfect plots there are less degrees of nature, by which some faint emotions of pity and terror are raised in us; as a less engine will raise a less proportion of weight, though not so much as one of archimedes's making; for nothing can move our nature, but by some natural reason, which works upon passions. and, since we acknowledge the effect, there must be something in the cause. the difference between shakespeare and fletcher, in their plottings, seems to be this; that shakespeare generally moves more terror, and fletcher more compassion: for the first had a more masculine, a bolder, and more fiery genius; the second, a more soft and womanish. in the mechanic beauties of the plot, which are the observation of the three unities, time, place, and action, they are both deficient; but shakespeare most. ben jonson reformed those errors in his comedies, yet one of shakespeare's was regular before him; which is, "the merry wives of windsor." for what remains concerning the design, you are to be referred to our english critic. that method which he has prescribed to raise it, from mistake, or ignorance of the crime, is certainly the best, though it is not the only; for amongst all the tragedies of sophocles, there is but one, oedipus, which is wholly built after that model. after the plot, which is the foundation of the play, the next thing to which we ought to apply our judgment, is the manners; for now the poet comes to work above ground. the ground-work, indeed, is that which is most necessary, as that upon which depends the firmness of the whole fabric; yet it strikes not the eye so much, as the beauties or imperfections of the manners, the thoughts, and the expressions. the first rule which bossu prescribes to the writer of an heroic poem, and which holds too by the same reason in all dramatic poetry, is to make the moral of the work; that is, to lay down to yourself what that precept of morality shall be, which you would insinuate into the people; as, namely, homer's (which i have copied in my "conquest of granada,") was, that union preserves a commonwealth and discord destroys it. sophocles, in his oedipus, that no man is to be accounted happy before his death. it is the moral that directs the whole action of the play to one centre; and that action or fable is the example built upon the moral, which confirms the truth of it to our experience. when the fable is designed, then, and not before, the persons are to be introduced, with their manners, characters, and passions. the manners, in a poem, are understood to be those inclinations, whether natural or acquired, which move and carry us to actions, good, bad, or indifferent, in a play; or which incline the persons to such or such actions. i have anticipated part of this discourse already, in declaring that a poet ought not to make the manners perfectly good in his best persons; but neither are they to be more wicked in any of his characters, than necessity requires. to produce a villain, without other reason than a natural inclination to villainy, is, in poetry, to produce an effect without a cause; and to make him more a villain than he has just reason to be, is to make an effect which is stronger than the cause. the manners arise from many causes; and are either distinguished by complexion, as choleric and phlegmatic, or by the differences of age or sex, of climates, or quality of the persons, or their present condition. they are likewise to be gathered from the several virtues, vices, or passions, and many other common-places, which a poet must be supposed to have learned from natural philosophy, ethics, and history; of all which, whosoever is ignorant, does not deserve the name of poet. but as the manners are useful in this art, they may be all comprised under these general heads: first, they must be apparent; that is, in every character of the play, some inclinations of the person must appear; and these are shown in the actions and discourse. secondly, the manners must be suitable, or agreeing to the persons; that is, to the age, sex, dignity, and the other general heads of manners: thus, when a poet has given the dignity of a king to one of his persons, in all his actions and speeches, that person must discover majesty, magnanimity, and jealousy of power, because these are suitable to the general manners of a king[ ]. the third property of manners is resemblance; and this is founded upon the particular characters of men, as we have them delivered to us by relation or history; that is, when a poet has the known character of this or that man before him, he is bound to represent him such, at least not contrary to that which fame has reported him to have been. thus, it is not a poet's choice to make ulysses choleric, or achilles patient, because homer has described them quite otherwise. yet this is a rock, on which ignorant writers daily split; and the absurdity is as monstrous, as if a painter should draw a coward running from a battle, and tell us it was the picture of alexander the great. the last property of manners is, that they be constant and equal, that is, maintained the same through the whole design: thus, when virgil had once given the name of _pious_ to Æneas, he was bound to show him such, in all his words and actions through the whole poem. all these properties horace has hinted to a judicious observer.-- . _notandi sunt tibi mores;_ . _aut famam sequere,_ . _aut sibi concenientia finge;_ . _sercetur ad imum, qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet._ from the manners, the characters of persons are derived; for, indeed, the characters are no other than the inclinations, as they appear in the several persons of the poem; a character being thus defined,--that which distinguishes one man from another. not to repeat the same things over again, which have been said of the manners, i will only add what is necessary here. a character, or that which distinguishes one man from all others, cannot be supposed to consist of one particular virtue, or vice, or passion only; but it is a composition of qualities which are not contrary to one another in the same person. thus, the same man may be liberal and valiant, but not liberal and covetous; so in a comical character, or humour, (which is an inclination to this or that particular folly) falstaff is a liar, and a coward, a glutton, and a buffoon, because all these qualities may agree in the same man; yet it is still to be observed, that one virtue, vice, and passion, ought to be shown in every man, as predominant over all the rest; as covetousness in crassus, love of his country in brutus; and the same in characters which are feigned. the chief character or hero in a tragedy, as i have already shown, ought in prudence to be such a man, who has so much more of virtue in him than of vice, that he may be left amiable to the audience, which otherwise cannot have any concernment for his sufferings; and it is on this one character, that the pity and terror must be principally, if not wholly, founded: a rule which is extremely necessary, and which none of the critics, that i know, have fully enough discovered to us. for terror and compassion work but weakly when they are divided into many persons. if creon had been the chief character in "oedipus," there had neither been terror nor compassion moved; but only detestation of the man, and joy for his punishment; if adrastus and eurydice had been made more appearing characters, then the pity had been divided, and lessened on the part of oedipus. but making oedipus the best and bravest person, and even jocasta but an underpart to him, his virtues, and the punishment of his fatal crime, drew both the pity, and the terror to himself. by what has been said of the manners, it will be easy for a reasonable man to judge, whether the characters be truly or falsely drawn in a tragedy; for if there be no manners appearing in the characters, no concernment for the persons can be raised; no pity or horror can be moved, but by vice or virtue; therefore, without them, no person can have any business in the play. if the inclinations be obscure, it is a sign the poet is in the dark, and knows not what manner of man he presents to you; and consequently you can have no idea, or very imperfect, of that man; nor can judge what resolutions he ought to take; or what words or actions are proper for him. most comedies, made up of accidents or adventures, are liable to fall into this error; and tragedies with many turns are subject to it; for the manners can never be evident, where the surprises of fortune take up all the business of the stage; and where the poet is more in pain, to tell you what happened to such a man, than what he was. it is one of the excellencies of shakespeare, that the manners of his persons are generally apparent; and you see their bent and inclinations. fletcher comes far short of him in this, as indeed he does almost in every thing. there are but glimmerings of manners in most of his comedies, which run upon adventures; and in his tragedies, rollo, otto, the king and no king, melantius, and many others of his best, are but pictures shown you in the twilight; you know not whether they resemble vice or virtue, and they are either good, bad, or indifferent, as the present scene requires it. but of all poets, this commendation is to be given to ben jonson, that the manners even of the most inconsiderable persons in his plays, are every where apparent. by considering the second quality of manners, which is, that they be suitable to the age, quality, country, dignity, &c. of the character, we may likewise judge whether a poet has followed nature. in this kind, sophocles and euripides have more excelled among the greeks than Æschylus; and terence more than plautus, among the romans. thus, sophocles gives to oedipus the true qualities of a king, in both those plays which bear his name; but in the latter, which is the "oedipus coloneus," he lets fall on purpose his tragic style; his hero speaks not in the arbitrary tone; but remembers, in the softness of his complaints, that he is an unfortunate blind old man; that he is banished from his country, and persecuted by his next relations. the present french poets are generally accused, that wheresoever they lay the scene, or in whatsoever age, the manners of their heroes are wholly french. racine's bajazet is bred at constantinople; but his civilities are conveyed to him, by some secret passage, from versailles into the seraglio. but our shakespeare, having ascribed to henry the fourth the character of a king and of a father, gives him the perfect manners of each relation, when either he transacts with his son or with his subjects. fletcher, on the other side, gives neither to arbaces, nor to his king, in "the maid's tragedy," the qualities which are suitable to a monarch; though he may be excused a little in the latter, for the king there is not uppermost in the character; it is the lover of evadne, who is king only in a second consideration; and though he be unjust, and has other faults which shall be nameless, yet he is not the hero of the play. it is true, we find him a lawful prince, (though i never heard of any king that was in rhodes) and therefore mr rymer's criticism stands good,--that he should not be shown in so vicious a character. sophocles has been more judicious in his "antigona;" for, though he represents in creon a bloody prince, yet he makes him not a lawful king, but an usurper, and antigona herself is the heroine of the tragedy: but when philaster wounds arethusa and the boy; and perigot his mistress, in the "faithful shepherdess," both these are contrary to the character of manhood. nor is valentinian managed much better; for, though fletcher has taken his picture truly, and shown him as he was, an effeminate, voluptuous man, yet he has forgotten that he was an emperor, and has given him none of those royal marks, which ought to appear in a lawful successor of the throne. if it be enquired, what fletcher should have done on this occasion; ought he not to have represented valentinian as he was;--bossu shall answer this question for me, by an instance of the like nature: mauritius, the greek emperor, was a prince far surpassing valentinian, for he was endued with many kingly virtues; he was religious, merciful, and valiant, but withal he was noted of extreme covetousness, a vice which is contrary to the character of a hero, or a prince: therefore, says the critic, that emperor was no fit person to be represented in a tragedy, unless his good qualities were only to be shown, and his covetousness (which sullied them all) were slurred over by the artifice of the poet. to return once more to shakespeare; no man ever drew so many characters, or generally distinguished them better from one another, excepting only jonson. i will instance but in one, to show the copiousness of his invention; it is that of caliban, or the monster, in "the tempest." he seems there to have created a person which was not in nature, a boldness which, at first sight, would appear intolerable; for he makes him a species of himself, begotten by an incubus on a witch; but this, as i have elsewhere proved, is not wholly beyond the bounds of credibility, at least the vulgar still believe it. we have the separated notions of a spirit, and of a witch; (and spirits, according to plato, are vested with a subtle body; according to some of his followers, have different sexes;) therefore, as from the distinct apprehensions of a horse, and of a man, imagination has formed a centaur; so, from those of an incubus and a sorceress, shakespeare has produced his monster. whether or no his generation can be defended, i leave to philosophy; but of this i am certain, that the poet has most judiciously furnished him with a person, a language, and a character, which will suit him, both by father's and mother's side: he has all the discontents, and malice of a witch, and of a devil, besides a convenient proportion of the deadly sins; gluttony, sloth, and lust, are manifest; the dejectedness of a slave is likewise given him, and the ignorance of one bred up in a desert island. his person is monstrous, and he is the product of unnatural lust; and his language is as hobgoblin as his person; in all things he is distinguished from other mortals. the characters of fletcher are poor and narrow, in comparison of shakspeare's; i remember not one which is not borrowed from him; unless you will except that strange mixture of a man in the "king and no king;" so that in this part shakespeare is generally worth our imitation; and to imitate fletcher is but to copy after him who was a copyer. under this general head of manners, the passions are naturally included, as belonging to the characters. i speak not of pity and of terror, which are to be moved in the audience by the plot; but of anger, hatred, love, ambition, jealousy, revenge, &c. as they are shown in this or that person of the play. to describe these naturally, and to move them artfully, is one of the greatest commendations which can be given to a poet: to write pathetically, says longinus, cannot proceed but from a lofty genius. a poet must be born with this quality: yet, unless he help himself by an acquired knowledge of the passions, what they are in their own nature, and by what springs they are to be moved, he will be subject either to raise them where they ought not to be raised, or not to raise them by the just degrees of nature, or to amplify them beyond the natural bounds, or not to observe the crisis and turns of them, in their cooling and decay; all which errors proceed from want of judgment in the poet, and from being unskilled in the principles of moral philosophy. nothing is more frequent in a fanciful writer, than to foil himself by not managing his strength; therefore, as, in a wrestler, there is first required some measure of force, a well-knit body and active limbs, without which all instruction would be vain; yet, these being granted, if he want the skill which is necessary to a wrestler, he shall make but small advantage of his natural robustuousness: so, in a poet, his inborn vehemence and force of spirit will only run him out of breath the sooner, if it be not supported by the help of art. the roar of passion, indeed, may please an audience, three parts of which are ignorant enough to think all is moving which is noisy, and it may stretch the lungs of an ambitious actor, who will die upon the spot for a thundering clap; but it will move no other passion than indignation and contempt from judicious men. longinus, whom i have hitherto followed, continues thus:--if the passions be artfully employed, the discourse becomes vehement and lofty: if otherwise, there is nothing more ridiculous than a great passion out of season: and to this purpose he animadverts severely upon Æschylus, who writ nothing in cold blood, but was always in a rapture, and in fury with his audience: the inspiration was still upon him, he was ever tearing it upon the tripos; or (to run off as madly as he does, from one similitude to another) he was always at high-flood of passion, even in the dead ebb, and lowest water-mark of the scene. he who would raise the passion of a judicious audience, says a learned critic, must be sure to take his hearers along with him; if they be in a calm, 'tis in vain for him to be in a huff: he must move them by degrees, and kindle with them; otherwise he will be in danger of setting his own heap of stubble on fire, and of burning out by himself, without warming the company that stand about him. they who would justify the madness of poetry from the authority of aristotle, have mistaken the text, and consequently the interpretation: i imagine it to be false read, where he says of poetry, that it is [greek: euphuous ê manikou], that it had always somewhat in it either of a genius, or of a madman. 'tis more probable that the original ran thus, that poetry was [greek: euphuous ou manikou], that it belongs to a witty man, but not to a madman. thus then the passions, as they are considered simply and in themselves, suffer violence when they are perpetually maintained at the same height; for what melody can be made on that instrument, all whose strings are screwed up at first to their utmost stretch, and to the same sound? but this is not the worst: for the characters likewise bear a part in the general calamity, if you consider the passions as embodied in them; for it follows of necessity, that no man can be distinguished from another by his discourse, when every man is ranting, swaggering, and exclaiming with the same excess: as if it were the only business of all the characters to contend with each other for the prize at billingsgate; or that the scene of the tragedy lay in bethlem. suppose the poet should intend this man to be choleric, and that man to be patient; yet when they are confounded in the writing, you cannot distinguish them from one another: for the man who was called patient and tame, is only so before he speaks; but let his clack be set a-going, and he shall tongue it as impetuously and as loudly, as the arrantest hero in the play. by this means, the characters are only distinct in name; but, in reality, all the men and women in the play are the same person. no man should pretend to write, who cannot temper his fancy with his judgment: nothing is more dangerous to a raw horseman, than a hot-mouthed jade without a curb. it is necessary therefore for a poet, who would concern an audience by describing of a passion, first to prepare it, and not to rush upon it all at once. ovid has judiciously shown the difference of these two ways, in the speeches of ajax and ulysses: ajax, from the very beginning, breaks out into his exclamations, and is swearing by his maker,--_agimus, proh jupiter, inquit._ ulysses, on the contrary, prepares his audience with all the submissiveness he can practise, and all the calmness of a reasonable man; he found his judges in a tranquillity of spirit, and therefore set out leisurely and softly with them, till he had warmed them by degrees; and then he began to mend his pace, and to draw them along with his own impetuousness: yet so managing his breath, that it might not fail him at his need, and reserving his utmost proofs of ability even to the last. the success, you see, was answerable; for the crowd only applauded the speech of ajax;-- _vulgique secutum ultima murmur erat:--_ but the judges awarded the prize, for which they contended, to ulysses; _mota manus procerum est; et quid facundia posset tum patuit, fortisque viri tulit arma disertus._ the next necessary rule is, to put nothing into the discourse, which may hinder your moving of the passions. too many accidents, as i have said, incumber the poet, as much as the arms of saul did david; for the variety of passions, which they produce, are ever crossing and justling each other out of the way. he, who treats of joy and grief together, is in a fair way of causing neither of those effects. there is yet another obstacle to be removed, which is,--pointed wit, and sentences affected out of season; these are nothing of kin to the violence of passion: no man is at leisure to make sentences and similes, when his soul is in an agony. i the rather name this fault, that it may serve to mind me of my former errors; neither will i spare myself, but give an example of this kind from my "indian emperor." montezuma, pursued by his enemies, and seeking sanctuary, stands parleying without the fort, and describing his danger to cydaria, in a simile of six lines; as on the sands the frighted traveller sees the high seas come rolling from afar, &c. my indian potentate was well skilled in the sea for an inland prince, and well improved since the first act, when he sent his son to discover it. the image had not been amiss from another man, at another time: _sed nunc non erat his locus:_ he destroyed the concernment which the audience might otherwise have had for him; for they could not think the danger near, when he had the leisure to invent a simile. if shakespeare be allowed, as i think he must, to have made his characters distinct, it will easily be inferred, that he understood the nature of the passions: because it has been proved already, that confused passions make distinguishable characters: yet i cannot deny that he has his failings; but they are not so much in the passions themselves, as in his manner of expression: he often obscures his meaning by his words, and sometimes makes it unintelligible. i will not say of so great a poet, that he distinguished not the blown puffy stile, from true sublimity; but i may venture to maintain, that the fury of his fancy often transported him beyond the bounds of judgment, either in coining of new words and phrases, or racking words which were in use, into the violence of a catachresis. it is not that i would explode the use of metaphors from passion, for longinus thinks them necessary to raise it: but to use them at every word, to say nothing without a metaphor, a simile, an image, or description; is, i doubt, to smell a little too strongly of the buskin. i must be forced to give an example of expressing passion figuratively; but that i may do it with respect to shakespeare, it shall not be taken from any thing of his: it is an exclamation against fortune, quoted in his hamlet, but written by some other poet: out, out, thou strumpet fortune! all you gods, in general synod, take away her power; break all the spokes and felleys from her wheel, and bowl the round nave down the hill of heav'n, as low as to the fiends. and immediately after, speaking of hecuba, when priam was killed before her eyes: but who, ah woe! had seen the mobled queen run barefoot up and down, threatening the flame with bisson rheum; a clout about that head, where late the diadem stood; and, for a rob about her lank and all o'er-teemed loins, a blanket in th' alarm of fear caught up. who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep'd 'gainst fortune's state would treason have pronounc'd; but if the gods themselves did see her then, when she saw pyrrhus make malicious sport in mincing with his sword her husband's limbs, the instant burst of clamour that she made (unless things mortal move them not at all) would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven, and passion in the gods. what a pudder is here kept in raising the expression of trifling thoughts! would not a man have thought that the poet had been bound prentice to a wheel-wright, for his first rant? and had followed a rag-man, for the clout and blanket, in the second? fortune is painted on a wheel, and therefore the writer, in a rage, will have poetical justice done upon every member of that engine: after this execution, he bowls the nave down-hill, from heaven, to the fiends: (an unreasonable long mark, a man would think;) 'tis well there are no solid orbs to stop it in the way, or no element of fire to consume it: but when it came to the earth, it must be monstrous heavy, to break ground as low as the center. his making milch the burning eyes of heaven, was a pretty tolerable flight too: and i think no man ever drew milk out of eyes before him: yet, to make the wonder greater, these eyes were burning. such a sight indeed were enough to have raised passion in the gods; but to excuse the effects of it, he tells you, perhaps they did not see it. wise men would be glad to find a little sense couched under all these pompous words; for bombast is commonly the delight of that audience, which loves poetry, but understands it not: and as commonly has been the practice of those writers, who, not being able to infuse a natural passion into the mind, have made it their business to ply the ears, and to stun their judges by the noise. but shakespeare does not often thus; for the passions in his scene between brutus and cassius are extremely natural, the thoughts are such as arise from the matter, the expression of them not viciously figurative. i cannot leave this subject, before i do justice to that divine poet, by giving you one of his passionate descriptions: 'tis of richard the second when he was deposed, and led in triumph through the streets of london by henry of bolingbroke: the painting of it is so lively, and the words so moving that i have scarce read any thing comparable to it, in any other language. suppose you have seen already the fortunate usurper passing through the crowd, and followed by the shouts and acclamations of the people; and now behold king richard entering upon the scene: consider the wretchedness of his condition, and his carriage in it; and refrain from pity, if you can: as in a theatre, the eyes of men, after a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage, are idly bent on him that enters next, thinking his prattle to be tedious: even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes did scowl on richard: no man cry'd, god save him: no joyful tongue gave him his welcome home, but dust was thrown upon his sacred head, which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, his face still combating with tears and smiles, (the badges of his grief and patience) that had not god (for some strong purpose) steel'd the hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, and barbarism itself have pitied him. to speak justly of this whole matter: it is neither height of thought that is discommended, nor pathetic vehemence, nor any nobleness of expression in its proper place; but it is a false measure of all these, something which is like them, and is not them: it is the bristol-stone, which appears like a diamond; it is an extravagant thought, instead of a sublime one; it is roaring madness, instead of vehemence; and a sound of words, instead of sense. if shakespeare were stripped of all the bombasts in his passions, and dressed in the most vulgar words, we should find the beauties of his thoughts remaining; if his embroideries were burnt down, there would still be silver at the bottom of the melting-pot: but i fear (at least let me fear it for myself) that we, who ape his sounding words, have nothing of his thought, but are all outside; there is not so much as a dwarf within our giant's clothes. therefore, let not shakespeare suffer for our sakes; it is our fault, who succeed him in an age which is more refined, if we imitate him so ill, that we copy his failings only, and make a virtue of that in our writings, which in his was an imperfection. for what remains, the excellency of that poet was, as i have said, in the more manly passions; fletcher's in the softer: shakespeare writ better betwixt man and man; fletcher, betwixt man and woman: consequently, the one described friendship better; the other love: yet shakespeare taught fletcher to write love: and juliet and desdemona are originals. it is true, the scholar had the softer soul; but the master had the kinder. friendship is both a virtue and a passion essentially; love is a passion only in its nature, and is not a virtue but by accident: good nature makes friendship; but effeminacy love. shakespeare had an universal mind, which comprehended all characters and passions; fletcher a more confined and limited: for though he treated love in perfection, yet honour, ambition, revenge, and generally all the stronger, passions, he either touched not, or not masterly. to conclude all, he was a limb of shakespeare. i had intended to have proceeded to the last property of manners, which is, that they must be constant, and the characters maintained the same from the beginning to the end; and from thence to have proceeded to the thoughts and expressions suitable to a tragedy: but i will first see how this will relish with the age. it is, i confess, but cursorily written; yet the judgment, which is given here, is generally founded upon experience: but because many men are shocked at the name of rules, as if they were a kind of magisterial prescription upon poets, i will conclude with the words of rapin, in his reflections on aristotle's work of poetry: "if the rules be well considered, we shall find them to be made only to reduce nature into method, to trace her step by step, and not to suffer the least mark of her to escape us: it is only by these, that probability in fiction is maintained, which is the soul of poetry. they are founded upon good sense, and sound reason, rather than on authority; for though aristotle and horace are produced, yet no man must argue, that what they write is true, because they writ it; but 'tis evident, by the ridiculous mistakes and gross absurdities, which have been made by those poets who have taken their fancy only for their guide, that if this fancy be not regulated, it is a mere caprice, and utterly incapable to produce a reasonable and judicious poem." footnote: . the _dictum_ of rymer, concerning the royal prerogative in poetry, is thus expressed: "we are to presume the highest virtues, where we find the highest of rewards; and though it is not necessary that all heroes should be kings, yet, undoubtedly, all crowned heads, by poetical right, are heroes. this character is a flower; a prerogative so certain, so inseparably annexed to the crown, as by no parliament of poets ever to be invaded." _the tragedies of the last age considered,_ p. . dryden has elsewhere given his assent to this maxim, that a king, in poetry, as in our constitution, can do no wrong. the only apology for introducing a tyrant upon the stage, was to make him at the same time an usurper. prologue spoken by mr betterton, representing the ghost of shakespeare. see, my loved britons, see your shakespeare rise, an awful ghost confessed to human eyes! unnamed, methinks, distinguished i had been from other shades, by this eternal green, about whose wreaths the vulgar poets strive, and with a touch, their withered bays revive. untaught, unpractised, in a barbarous age, i found not, but created first the stage. and, if i drained no greek or latin store, 'twas, that my own abundance gave me more. on foreign trade i needed not rely, like fruitful britain, rich without supply. in this my rough-drawn play, you shall behold some master-strokes, so manly and so bold, that he who meant to alter, found 'em such, he shook, and thought it sacrilege to touch. now, where are the successors to my name? what bring they to fill out a poet's fame? weak, short-lived issues of a feeble age; scarce living to be christened on the stage! for humour farce, for love they rhyme dispense, that tolls the knell for their departed sense. dulness might thrive in any trade but this: 'twould recommend to some fat benefice. dulness, that in a playhouse meets disgrace, might meet with reverence, in its proper place. the fulsome clench, that nauseates the town, would from a judge or alderman go down, such virtue is there in a robe and gown! and that insipid stuff which here you hate, might somewhere else be called a grave debate; dulness is decent in the church and state. but i forget that still 'tis understood, bad plays are best decried by showing good. sit silent then, that my pleased soul may see a judging audience once, and worthy me; my faithful scene from true records shall tell, how trojan valour did the greek excell; your great forefathers shall their fame regain, and homer's angry ghost repine in vain[ ]. footnote: . the conceit, which our ancestors had adopted, of their descent from brutus, a fugitive trojan, induced their poets to load the grecian chiefs with every accusation of cowardice and treachery, and to extol the character of the trojans in the same proportion. hector is always represented as having been treacherously slain. dramatis personÆ. hector, } _sons of_ priam. troilus, } priam, _king of troy._ Æneas, _a trojan warrior._ pandarus, _uncle to_ cressida. calchas, _a trojan priest, and father to_ cressida, _a fugitive to the grecian camp._ agamemnon, } ulysses, } achilles, } ajax, } _grecian warriors, engaged in the_ nestor, } _siege of troy._ diomedes, } patroclus, } menelaus, } thersites, _a slanderous buffoon._ cressida, _daughter to_ calchas. andromache, _wife to_ hector. troilus and cressida act i. scene i.--_a camp._ _enter_ agamemnon, ulysses, diomedes, _and_ nestor. _agam._ princes, it seems not strange to us, nor new, that, after nine years siege, troy makes defence, since every action of recorded fame has with long difficulties been involved, not answering that idea of the thought, which gave it birth; why then, you grecian chiefs, with sickly eyes do you behold our labours, and think them our dishonour, which indeed are the protractive trials of the gods, to prove heroic constancy in men? _nest._ with due observance of thy sovereign seat, great agamemnon, nestor shall apply thy well-weighed words. in struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue: on smooth seas, how many bauble-boats dare set their sails, and make an equal way with firmer vessels! but let the tempest once enrage that sea, and then behold the strong-ribbed argosie, bounding between the ocean and the air, like perseus mounted on his pegasus. then where are those weak rivals of the main? or, to avoid the tempest, fled to port, or made a prey to neptune. even thus do empty show, and true-prized worth, divide in storms of fortune. _ulys._ mighty agamemnon! heart of our body, soul of our designs, in whom the tempers, and the minds of all should be inclosed,--hear what ulysses speaks. _agam._ you have free leave. _ulys._ troy had been down ere this, and hector's sword wanted a master, but for our disorders: the observance due to rule has been neglected, observe how many grecian tents stand void upon this plain, so many hollow factions: for, when the general is not like the hive, to whom the foragers should all repair, what honey can our empty combs expect? or when supremacy of kings is shaken, what can succeed? how could communities, or peaceful traffic from divided shores, prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels, but by degree, stand on their solid base? then every thing resolves to brutal force, and headlong force is led by hoodwinked will. for wild ambition, like a ravenous wolf, spurred on by will, and seconded by power, must make an universal prey of all, and last devour itself. _nest._ most prudently ulysses has discovered the malady, whereof our state is sick. _diom._ 'tis truth he speaks; the general's disdained by him one step beneath, he by the next; that next by him below: so each degree spurns upward at superior eminence. thus our distempers are their sole support; troy in our weakness lives, not in her strength. _agam._ the nature of this sickness found, inform us from whence it draws its birth? _ulys._ the great achilles, whom opinion crowns the chief of all our host, having his ears buzzed with his noisy fame, disdains thy sovereign charge, and in his tent lies, mocking our designs; with him patroclus, upon a lazy bed, breaks scurril jests, and with ridiculous and aukward action, which, slanderer, he imitation calls, mimics the grecian chiefs. _agam._ as how, ulysses? _ulys._ even thee, the king of men, he does not spare, (the monkey author) but thy greatness pageants, and makes of it rehearsals: like a player, bellowing his passion till he break the spring, and his racked voice jar to his audience; so represents he thee, though more unlike than vulcan is to venus. and at this fulsome stuff,--the wit of apes,-- the large achilles, on his prest bed lolling, from his deep chest roars out a loud applause, tickling his spleen, and laughing till he wheeze. _nest._ nor are you spared, ulysses; but, as you speak in council, he hems ere he begins, then strokes his beard, casts down his looks, and winks with half an eye; has every action, cadence, motion, tone, all of you but the sense. _agam._ fortune was merry when he was born, and played a trick on nature, to make a mimic prince; he ne'er acts ill, but when he would seem wise: for all he says or does, from serious thought, appears so wretched, that he mocks his title, and is his own buffoon. _ulys._ in imitation of this scurril fool, ajax is grown self-willed as broad achilles. he keeps a table too, makes factious feasts, rails on our state of war, and sets thersites (a slanderous slave of an o'erflowing gall) to level us with low comparisons. they tax our policy with cowardice, count wisdom of no moment in the war, in brief, esteem no act, but that of hand; the still and thoughtful parts, which move those hands, with them are but the tasks cut out by fear, to be performed by valour. _agam._ let this be granted, and achilles' horse is more of use than he; but you, grave pair, like time and wisdom marching hand in hand, must put a stop to these encroaching ills: to you we leave the care; you, who could show whence the distemper springs, must vindicate the dignity of kings. [_exeunt._ scene ii.--_troy._ _enter_ pandarus _and_ troilus. _troil._ why should i fight without the trojan walls, who, without fighting, am o'erthrown within? the trojan who is master of a soul, let him to battle; troilus has none. _pand._ will this never be at an end with you? _troil._ the greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength, fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness wary; but i am weaker than a woman's tears, tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance, and artless as unpractised infancy. _pand_ well, i have told you enough of this; for my part i'll not meddle nor make any further in your love; he, that will eat of the roastmeat, must stay for the kindling of the fire. _troil._ have i not staid? _pand._ ay, the kindling; but you must stay the spitting of the meat. _troil._ have i not staid? _pand._ ay, the spitting; but there's two words to a bargain; you must stay the roasting too. _troil._ still have i staid; and still the farther off. _pand._ that's but the roasting, but there's more in this word stay; there's the taking off the spit, the making of the sauce, the dishing, the setting on the table, and saying grace; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your chaps. _troil._ at priam's table pensive do i sit, and when fair cressid comes into my thoughts-- (can she be said to come, who ne'er was absent!) _pand._ well, she's a most ravishing creature; and she looked yesterday most killingly; she had such a stroke with her eyes, she cut to the quick with every glance of them. _troil._ i was about to tell thee, when my heart was ready with a sigh to cleave in two, lest hector or my father should perceive me, i have, with mighty anguish of my soul, just at the birth, stifled this still-born sigh, and forced my face into a painful smile. _pand._ i measured her with my girdle yesterday; she's not half a yard about the waist, but so taper a shape did i never see; but when i had her in my arms, lord, thought i,--and by my troth i could not forbear sighing,--if prince troilus had her at this advantage and i were holding of the door!--an she were a thought taller,--but as she is, she wants not an inch of helen neither; but there's no more comparison between the women--there was wit, there was a sweet tongue! how her words melted in her mouth! mercury would have been glad to have such a tongue in his mouth, i warrant him. i would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as i did. _troil._ oh pandarus, when i tell thee i am mad in cressid's love, thou answer'st she is fair; praisest her eyes, her stature, and her wit; but praising thus, instead of oil and balm, thou lay'st, in every wound her love has given me, the sword that made it. _pand._ i give her but her due. _troil._ thou giv'st her not so much. _pand._ faith, i'll speak no more of her, let her be as she is; if she be a beauty, 'tis the better for her; an' she be not, she has the mends in her own hands, for pandarus. _troil._ in spite of me, thou wilt mistake my meaning. _pand._ i have had but my labour for my pains; ill thought on of her, and ill thought on of you; gone between and between, and am ground in the mill-stones for my labour. _troil._ what, art thou angry, pandarus, with thy friend? _pand._ because she's my niece, therefore she's not so fair as helen; an' she were not my niece, show me such another piece of woman's flesh: take her limb by limb: i say no more, but if paris had seen her first, menelaus had been no cuckold: but what care i if she were a blackamoor? what am i the better for her face? _troil._ said i she was not beautiful? _pand._ i care not if you did; she's a fool to stay behind her father calchas: let her to the greeks; and so i'll tell her. for my part, i am resolute, i'll meddle no more in your affairs. _troil._ but hear me! _pand._ not i. _troil._ dear pandarus-- _pand._ pray speak no more on't; i'll not burn my fingers in another body's business; i'll leave it as i found it, and there's an end. [_exit._ _troil._ o gods, how do you torture me! i cannot come to cressida but by him, and he's as peevish to be wooed to woo, as she is to be won. _enter_ Æneas. _Æneas._ how now, prince troilus; why not in the battle? _troil._ because not there. this woman's answer suits me, for womanish it is to be from thence. what news, Æneas, from the field to-day? _Æn._ paris is hurt. _troil._ by whom? _Æn._ by menelaus. hark what good sport [_alarm within._ is out of town to-day! when i hear such music, i cannot hold from dancing. _troil._ i'll make one, and try to lose an anxious thought or two in heat of action. thus, coward-like, from love to war i run, seek the less dangers, and the greater shun. [_exit_ troil. _enter_ cressida. _cres._ my lord Æneas, who were those went by? i mean the ladies. _Æn._ queen hecuba and helen. _cres._ and whither go they? _Æn._ up to the western tower, whose height commands, as subject, all the vale, to see the battle. hector, whose patience is fixed like that of heaven, to-day was moved; he chid andromache, and struck his armourer, and, as there were good husbandry in war. before the sun was up he went to field; your pardon, lady, that's my business too. [_exit_ Æneas. _cres._ hector's a gallant warrior. _enter_ pandarus. _pand._ what's that, what's that? _cres._ good-morrow, uncle pandarus. _pand._ good-morrow, cousin cressida. when were you at court? _cres._ this morning, uncle. _pand._ what were you a talking, when i came? was hector armed, and gone ere ye came? hector was stirring early. _cres._ that i was talking of, and of his anger. _pand._ was he angry, say you? true, he was so, and i know the cause. he was struck down yesterday in the battle, but he'll lay about him; he'll cry quittance with them to-day. i'll answer for him. and there's troilus will not come far behind him: let them take heed of troilus, i can tell them that too. _cres._ what, was he struck down too? _pand._ who, troilus? troilus is the better man of the two. _cres._ oh jupiter! there's no comparison! troilus the better man. _pand._ what, no comparison between hector and troilus? do you know a man if you see him? _cres._ no: for he may look like a man, and not be one. _pand._ well, i say troilus is troilus. _cres._ that's what i say; for i am sure he is not hector. _pand._ no, nor hector is not troilus: make your best of that, niece! _cres._ 'tis true, for each of them is himself. _pand._ himself! alas, poor troilus! i would he were himself: well, the gods are all-sufficient, and time must mend or end. i would he were himself, and would i were a lady for his sake. i would not answer for my maidenhead.--no, hector is not a better man than troilus. _cres._ excuse me. _pand._ pardon me; troilus is in the bud, 'tis early day with him; you shall tell me another tale when troilus is come to bearing; and yet he will not bear neither, in some sense. no, hector shall never have his virtues. _cres._ no matter. _pand._ nor his beauty, nor his fashion, nor his wit; he shall have nothing of him. _cres._ they would not become him, his own are better. _pand._ how, his own better! you have no judgment, niece; helen herself swore, the other day, that troilus, for a manly brown complexion,--for so it is, i must confess--not brown neither. _cres._ no, but very brown. _pand._ faith, to say truth, brown and not brown. come, i swear to you, i think helen loves him better than paris: nay, i'm sure she does. she comes me to him the other day, into the bow-window,--and you know troilus has not above three or four hairs on his chin,-- _cres._ that's but a bare commendation. _pand._ but to prove to you that helen loves him, she comes, and puts me her white hand to his cloven chin. _cres._ has he been fighting then? how came it cloven? _pand._ why, you know it is dimpled. i cannot chuse but laugh, to think how she tickled his cloven chin. she has a marvellous white hand, i must needs confess. but let that pass, for i know who has a whiter. well, cousin, i told you a thing yesterday; think on it, think on it. _cres._ so i do, uncle. _pand._ i'll be sworn it is true; he will weep ye, an' it were a man born in april. [_a retreat sounded._ hark, they are returning from the field; shall we stay and see them as they come by, sweet niece? do, sweet niece cressida. _cres._ for once you shall command me. _pand._ here, here, here is an excellent place; we may see them here most bravely, and i'll tell you all their names as they pass by; but mark troilus above the rest; mark troilus, he's worth your marking. Æneas _passes over the stage._ _cres._ speak not so loud then. _pand._ that's Æneas. is it not a brave man that? he's a swinger, many a grecian he has laid with his face upward; but mark troilus: you shall see anon. _enter_ antenor _passing._ that's antenor; he has a notable head-piece i can tell you, and he's the ablest man for judgment in all troy; you may turn him loose, i'faith, and by my troth a proper person. when comes troilus? i'll shew you troilus anon; if he see me, you shall see him nod at me. hector _passes over._ that's hector, that, that, look you that; there's a fellow! go thy way, hector; there's a brave man, niece. o brave hector, look how he looks! there's a countenance. is it not a brave man, niece? _cres._ i always told you so. _pand._ is he not? it does a man's heart good to look on him; look you, look you there, what hacks are on his helmet! this was no boy's play, i'faith; he laid it on with a vengeance, take it off who will, as they say! there are hacks, niece! _cres._ were those with swords? _pand._ swords, or bucklers, faulchions, darts, and lances! any thing, he cares not! an' the devil come, it is all one to him: by jupiter he looks so terribly, that i am half afraid to praise him. _enter_ paris. yonder comes paris, yonder comes paris! look ye yonder, niece; is it not a brave young prince too? he draws the best bow in all troy; he hits you to a span twelve-score level:--who said he came home hurt to-day? why, this will do helen's heart good now! ha! that i could see troilus now! _enter_ helenus. _cres._ who's that black man, uncle? _pand._ that is helenus.--i marvel where troilus is all this while;--that is helenus.--i think troilus went not forth to-day;--that's helenus. _cres._ can helenus fight, uncle? _pand._ helenus! no, yes; he'll fight indifferently well.--i marvel in my heart what's become of troilus:--hark! do you not hear the people cry, troilus?--helenus is a priest, and keeps a whore; he'll fight for his whore, or he's no true priest, i warrant him. _enter_ troilus _passing over._ _cres._ what sneaking fellow comes yonder? _pand._ where, yonder? that's deiphobus: no, i lie. i lie, that's troilus! there's a man, niece! hem! o brave troilus! the prince of chivalry, and flower of fidelity! _cres._ peace, for shame, peace! _pand._ nay, but mark him then! o brave troilus! there's a man of men, niece! look you how his sword is bloody, and his helmet more hacked than hector's, and how he looks, and how he goes! o admirable youth! he never saw two-and-twenty. go thy way, troilus, go thy way! had i a sister were a grace, and a daughter a goddess, he should take his choice of them. o admirable man! paris, paris is dirt to him, and i warrant, helen, to change, would give all the shoes in her shop to boot. _enter common soldiers passing over._ _cres._ here come more. _pand._ asses, fools, dolts, dirt, and dung, stuff, and lumber, porridge after meat; but i could live and die with troilus. ne'er look, niece, ne'er look, the lions are gone: apes and monkeys, the fag end of the creation. i had rather be such a man as troilus, than agamemnon and all greece. _cres._ there's achilles among the greeks, he's a brave man. _pand._ achilles! a carman, a beast of burden; a very camel: have you any eyes, niece? do you know a man? is he to be compared with troilus? _enter page._ _page._ sir, my lord troilus would instantly speak with you. _pand._ where boy, where? _page._ at his own house, if you think convenient. _pand._ good boy, tell him i come instantly: i doubt he's wounded. farewell, good niece. but i'll be with you by and by. _cres._ to bring me, uncle! _pand._ ay, a token from prince troilus. [_exit_ pandar. _cres_. by the same token, you are a procurer, uncle. cressida _alone._ a strange dissembling sex we women are: well may we men, when we ourselves deceive. long has my secret soul loved troilus; i drunk his praises from my uncle's mouth, as if my ears could ne'er be satisfied: why then, why said i not, i love this prince? how could my tongue conspire against my heart, to say i loved him not? o childish love! 'tis like an infant, froward in his play, and what he most desires, he throws away. [_exit._ act ii. scene i.--_troy._ _enter_ priam, hector, troilus, _and_ Æneas. _priam._ after the expence of so much time and blood, thus once again the grecians send to troy;-- deliver helen, and all other loss shall be forgotten.--hector, what say you to it? _hect._ though no man less can fear the greeks than i, yet there's no virgin of more tender heart, more ready to cry out,--who knows the consequence? than hector is; for modest doubt is mixed with manly courage best: let helen go. if we have lost so many lives of ours, to keep a thing not ours, not worth to us the value of a man, what reason is there still to retain the cause of so much ill? _troil._ fye, fye, my noble brother! weigh you the worth and honour of a king, so great as asia's monarch, in a scale of common ounces thus? are fears and reasons fit to be considered, when a king's fame is questioned? _hect._ brother, she's not worth what her defence has cost us. _troil._ what's aught, but as 'tis valued? _hect._ but value dwells not in opinion only: it holds the dignity and estimation, as well, wherein 'tis precious of itself, as in the prizer: 'tis idolatry, to make the service greater than the god. _troil._ we turn not back the silks upon the merchant, when we have worn them; the remaining food throw not away, because we now are full. if you confess, 'twas wisdom paris went;-- as you must needs, for you all cried, _go, go:--_ if you'll confess, he brought home noble prize;-- as you must needs, for you all clapped your hands, and cried, _inestimable!_--why do you now so under-rate the value of your purchase? for, let me tell you, 'tis unmanly theft, when we have taken what we fear to keep. _Æne._ there's not the meanest spirit in our party, without a heart to dare, or sword to draw, when helen is defended: none so noble, whose life were ill bestowed, or death unfamed, when helen is the subject. _priam._ so says paris, like one besotted on effeminate joys; he has the honey still, but these the gall. _Æne._ he not proposes merely to himself the pleasures such a beauty brings with it; but he would have the stain of helen's rape wiped off, in honourable keeping her. _hect._ troilus and Æneas, you have said; if saying superficial things be reason. but if this helen be another's wife, the moral laws of nature and of nations speak loud she be restored. thus to persist in doing wrong, extenuates not wrong, but makes it much more so. hector's opinion is this, in way of truth: yet, ne'ertheless, my sprightly brother, i incline to you in resolution to defend her still: for 'tis a cause on which our trojan honour and common reputation will depend. _troil._ why there you touched the life of our design: were it not glory that we covet more than war and vengeance, (beasts' and women's pleasure) i would not wish a drop of trojan blood spent more in her defence; but oh! my brother, she is a subject of renown and honour; and i presume brave hector would not lose the rich advantage of his future fame for the wide world's revenue:--i have business; but glad i am to leave you thus resolved. when such arms strike, ne'er doubt of the success. _Æn._ may we not guess? _troil._ you may, and be deceived. [_exit_ troil. _hect._ a woman, on my life: even so it happens, religion, state-affairs, whate'er's the theme, it ends in woman still. _enter_ andromache. _priam._ see, here's your wife, to make that maxim good. _hect._ welcome, andromache: your looks are chearful, you bring some pleasing news. _andro._ nothing that's serious. your little son astyanax has employed me as his ambassadress. _hect._ upon what errand? _andro._ no less than that his grandfather this day would make him knight: he longs to kill a grecian: for should he stay to be a man, he thinks you'll kill them all; and leave no work for him. _priam._ your own blood, hector. _andro._ and therefore he designs to send a challenge to agamemnon, ajax, or achilles, to prove they do not well to burn our fields, and keep us cooped like prisoners in a town, to lead this lazy life. _hect._ what sparks of honour fly from this child! the gods speak in him sure: --it shall be so--i'll do't. _priam._ what means my son? _hect._ to send a challenge to the boldest greek. is not that country ours? those fruitful fields washed by yon silver flood, are they not ours? those teeming vines that tempt our longing eyes, shall we behold them? shall we call them ours, and dare not make them so? by heavens i'll know which of these haughty grecians dares to think he can keep hector prisoner here in troy. _priam._ if hector only were a private man, this would be courage; but in him 'tis madness. the general safety on your life depends; and, should you perish in this rash attempt, troy with a groan would feel her soul go out, and breathe her last in you. _Æn._ the task you undertake is hazardous: suppose you win, what would the profit be? if ajax or achilles fell beneath your thundering arm, would all the rest depart? would agamemnon, or his injured brother, set sail for this? then it were worth your danger. but, as it is, we throw our utmost stake against whole heaps of theirs. _priam._ he tells you true. _Æn._ suppose one ajax, or achilles lost, they can repair with more that single loss: troy has but one, one hector. _hect._ no, Æneas! what then art thou; and what is troilus? what will astyanax be? _priam._ an hector one day, but you must let him live to be a hector; and who shall make him such, when you are gone? who shall instruct his tenderness in arms, or give his childhood lessons of the war? who shall defend the promise of his youth, and make it bear in manhood? the young sapling is shrouded long beneath the mother-tree, before it be transplanted from its earth, and trust itself for growth. _hect._ alas, my father! you have not drawn one reason from yourself, but public safety, and my son's green years: in this neglecting that main argument, trust me you chide my filial piety; as if i could be won from my resolves by troy, or by my son, or any name more dear to me than yours. _priam._ i did not name myself, because i know when thou art gone, i need no grecian sword to help me die, but only hector's loss.-- daughter, why speak not you? why stand you silent? have you no right in hector, as a wife? _andro._ i would be worthy to be hector's wife: and had i been a man, as my soul's one, i had aspired a nobler name,--his friend. how i love hector,--need i say i love him?-- i am not but in him: but when i see him arming for his honour, his country and his gods, that martial fire, that mounts his courage, kindles even to me: and when the trojan matrons wait him out with prayers, and meet with blessings his return, the pride of virtue beats within my breast, to wipe away the sweat and dust of war, and dress my hero glorious in his wounds. _hect._ come to my arms, thou manlier virtue, come! thou better name than wife! would'st thou not blush to hug a coward thus? [_embrace._ _priam._ yet still i fear! _andro._ there spoke a woman; pardon, royal sir; has he not met a thousand lifted swords of thick-ranked grecians, and shall one affright him? there's not a day but he encounters armies; and yet as safe, as if the broad-brimmed shield, that pallas wears, were held 'twixt him and death. _hect._ thou know'st me well, and thou shalt praise me more; gods make me worthy of thee! _andro._ you shall be my knight this day; you shall not wear a cause so black as helen's rape upon your breast. let paris fight for helen; guilt for guilt: but when you fight for honour and for me, then let our equal gods behold an act, they may not blush to crown. _hect._ Æneas, go, and bear my challenge to the grecian camp. if there be one amongst the best of greece, who holds his honour higher than his ease, who knows his valour, and knows not his fear; who loves his mistress more than in confession, and dares avow her beauty and her worth, in other arms than hers,--to him this challenge. i have a lady of more truth and beauty, than ever greek did compass in his arms; and will to-morrow, with the trumpet's call, mid-way between their tents and these our walls, maintain what i have said. if any come, my sword shall honour him; if none shall dare, then shall i say, at my return to troy, the grecian dames are sun-burnt, and not worth the splinter of a lance. _Æn._ it shall be told them, as boldly as you gave it. _priam._ heaven protect thee! [_exeunt._ scene ii. _enter_ pandarus _and_ cressida. _pand._ yonder he stands, poor wretch! there stands he with such a look, and such a face, and such begging eyes! there he stands, poor prisoner! _cress._ what a deluge of words do you pour out, uncle, to say just nothing? _pand._ nothing, do you call it! is that nothing, do you call that nothing? why he looks, for all the world, like one of your rascally malefactors, just thrown off the gibbet, with his cap down, his arms tied down, his feet sprunting, his body swinging. nothing do you call it? this is nothing, with a vengeance! _cress._ or, what think you of a hurt bird, that flutters about with a broken wing? _pand._ why go to then, he cannot fly away then; then, that's certain, that's undoubted: there he lies to be taken up: but if you had seen him, when i said to him,--take a good heart, man, and follow me; and fear no colours, and speak your mind, man: she can never stand you; she will fall, an' 'twere a leaf in autumn,-- _cress._ did you tell him all this, without my consent? _pand._ why you did consent, your eyes consented; they blabbed, they leered, their very corners blabbed. but you'll say, your tongue said nothing. no, i warrant it: your tongue was wiser; your tongue was better bred; your tongue kept its own counsel: nay, i'll say that for you, your tongue said nothing.--well, such a shamefaced couple did i never see, days o'my life! so 'fraid of one another; such ado to bring you to the business! well, if this job were well over, if ever i lose my pains again with an aukward couple, let me be painted in the sign-post for the _labour in vain_: fye upon't, fye upon't! there's no conscience in't: all honest people will cry shame on't. _cress._ where is this monster to be shown? what's to be given for a sight of him? _pand._ why, ready money, ready money; you carry it about you: give and take is square-dealing; for in my conscience he's as arrant a maid as you are. i was fain to use violence to him, to pull him hither: and he pulled, and i pulled: for you must know he's absolutely the strongest youth in troy. t'other day he took helen in one hand, and paris in t'other, and danc'd 'em at one another at arms-end an' 'twere two moppets:--there was a back! there were bone and sinews! there was a back for you! _cress._ for these good procuring offices you'll be damned one day, uncle. _pand._ who, i damned? faith, i doubt i shall; by my troth i think i shall: nay if a man be damned for doing good, as thou say'st, it may go hard with me. _cress._ then i'll not see prince troilus; i'll not be accessary to your damnation. _pand._ how, not see prince troilus? why i have engaged, i have promised, i have past my word. i care not for damning, let me alone for damning; i value not damning in comparison with my word. if i am damned, it shall be a good damning to thee, girl, thou shalt be my heir; come, 'tis a virtuous girl; thou shalt help me to keep my word, thou shalt see prince troilus. _cress._ the venture's great. _pand._ no venture in the world; thy mother ventured it for thee, and thou shalt venture it for my little cousin, that must be. _cress._ weigh but my fears: prince troilus is young.-- _pand._ marry is he; there's no fear in that, i hope: the fear were, if he were old and feeble. _cress._ and i a woman. _pand._ no fear yet; thou art a woman, and he's a man; put them together, put them together. _cress._ and if i should be frail-- _pand._ there's all my fear, that thou art not frail: thou should'st be frail, all flesh is frail. _cress._ are you my uncle, and can give this counsel to your own brother's daughter? _pand._ if thou wert my own daughter a thousand times over, i could do no better for thee; what wouldst thou have, girl? he's a prince, and a young prince and a loving young prince! an uncle, dost thou call me? by cupid, i am a father to thee; get thee in, get thee in, girl, i hear him coming. and do you hear, niece! i give you leave to deny a little, 'twill be decent; but take heed of obstinacy, that's a vice; no obstinacy, my dear niece. [_exit_ cressida. _enter_ troilus. _troil._ now, pandarus. _pand._ now, my sweet prince! have you seen my niece? no, i know you have not. _troil._ no, pandarus; i stalk about your doors. like a strange soul upon the stygian banks, staying for waftage. o, be thou my charon, and give me swift transportance to elysium, and fly with me to cressida. _pand._ walk here a moment more: i'll bring her strait. _troil._ i fear she will not come; most sure she will not. _pand._ how, not come, and i her uncle! why, i tell you, prince, she twitters at you. ah poor sweet rogue! ah, little rogue, now does she think, and think, and think again of what must be betwixt you two. oh sweet,--oh sweet--o--what, not come, and i her uncle? _troil._ still thou flatter'st me; but pr'ythee flatter still; for i would hope; i would not wake out of my pleasing dream. oh hope, how sweet thou art! but to hope always, and have no effect of what we hope! _pand._ oh faint heart, faint heart! well, there's much good matter in these old proverbs! no, she'll not come, i warrant her; she has no blood of mine in her, not so much as will fill a flea. but if she does not come, and come, and come with a swing into your arms--i say no more, but she has renounced all grace, and there's an end. _troil._ i will believe thee: go then, but be sure. _pand._ no, you would not have me go; you are indifferent--shall i go, say you? speak the word then:--yet i care not: you may stand in your own light, and lose a sweet young lady's heart--well, i shall not go then. _troil._ fly, fly, thou torturest me. _pand._ do i so, do i so? do i torture you indeed? well, i will go. _troil._ but yet thou dost not go. _pand._ i go immediately, directly, in a twinkling, with a thought: yet you think a man never does enough for you; i have been labouring in your business like any moyle. i was with prince paris this morning, to make your excuse at night for not supping at court; and i found him--faith, how do you think i found him? it does my heart good to think how i found him: yet you think a man never does enough for you. _troil._ will you go then?--what's this to cressida? _pand._ why, you will not hear a man! what's this to cressida? why, i found him a-bed, a-bed with helena, by my troth: 'tis a sweet queen, a sweet queen; a very sweet queen,--but she's nothing to my cousin cressida; she's a blowse, a gipsy, a tawny moor to my cousin cressida; and she lay with one white arm underneath the whoreson's neck: oh such a white, lilly-white, round, plump arm as it was--and you must know it was stripped up to the elbows; and she did so kiss him, and so huggle him!--as who should say-- _troil._ but still thou stayest:--what's this to cressida? _pand._ why, i made your excuse to your brother paris; that i think's to cressida:--but such an arm, such a hand, such taper fingers! t'other hand was under the bed-cloaths; that i saw not, i confess; that hand i saw not. _troil._ again thou torturest me. _pand._ nay, i was tortured too; old as i am, i was tortured too: but for all that, i could make a shift, to make him, to make your excuse, to make your father--by jove, when i think of that hand, i am so ravished, that i know not what i say: i was tortured too. [troilus _turns away discontented._ well, i go, i go; i fetch her, i bring her, i conduct her; not come quotha, and i her uncle! [_exit_ pandarus. _troil._ i'm giddy; expectation whirls me round: the imaginary relish is so sweet, that it enchants my sense; what will it be, when i shall taste that nectar? it must be either death, or joy too fine for the capacity of human powers. i fear it much: and i do fear beside, that i shall lose distinction in my joys; as does a battle, when they charge on heaps a flying enemy. _re-enter_ pandarus. _pand._ she's making her ready; she'll come strait: you must be witty now!--she does so blush, and fetches her breath so short, as if she were frighted with a sprite; 'tis the prettiest villain! she fetches her breath so short, as 'twere a new-ta'en sparrow. _troil._ just such a passion does heave up my breast! my heart beats thicker than a feverish pulse: i know not where i am, nor what i do; just like a slave, at unawares encountering the eye of majesty.--lead on, i'll follow. [_exeunt._ scene iii.--_the camp._ _enter_ nestor, _and_ ulysses. _ulys._ i have conceived an embryo in my brain: be you my time to bring it to some shape. _nest._ what is't, ulysses? _ulys._ the seeded pride, that has to this maturity blown up in rank achilles, must or now be cropped, or, shedding, breed a nursery of like ill, to overtop us all. _nest._ that's my opinion. _ulys._ this challenge which Æneas brings from hector, however it be spread in general terms, relates in purpose only to achilles. and will it wake him to the answer, think you? _nest._ it ought to do: whom can we else oppose, who could from hector bring his honour off, if not achilles? the success of this, although particular, will give an omen of good or bad, even to the general cause. _ulys._ pardon me, nestor, if i contradict you: therefore 'tis fit achilles meet not hector. let us, like merchants, show our coarsest wares, and think, perchance they'll sell; but, if they do not, the lustre of our better, yet unshown, will show the better: let us not consent, our greatest warrior should be matched with hector; for both our honour and our shame in this shall be attended with strange followers. _nest._ i see them not with my old eyes; what are they? _ulys._ what glory our achilles gains from hector, were he not proud, we all should share with him: but he already is too insolent: and we had better parch in afric sun, than in his pride, should he 'scape hector fair. but grant he should be foiled; why then our common reputation suffers in that of our best man. no, make a lottery; and, by device, let blockish ajax draw the chance to fight with hector: among ourselves, give him allowance as the braver man; for that will physic the great myrmidon, who swells with loud applause; and make him fall his crest, if brainless ajax come safe off: if not, we yet preserve a fair opinion, that we have better men. _nest._ now i begin to relish thy advice: come, let us go to agamemnon strait, to inform him of our project. _ulys._ 'tis not ripe. the skilful surgeon will not lance a sore, till nature has digested and prepared the growing humours to her healing purpose; else must he often grieve the patient's sense, when one incision, once well-timed, would serve. are not achilles and dull ajax friends? _nest._ as much as fools can be. _ulys._ that knot of friendship first must be untied, ere we can reach our ends; for, while they love each other, both hating us, will draw too strong a bias, and all the camp will lean that way they draw; for brutal courage is the soldier's idol: so, if one prove contemptuous, backed by t'other, 'twill give the law to cool and sober sense, and place the power of war in madmen's hands. _nest._ now i conceive you; were they once divided, and one of them made ours, that one would check the other's towering growth, and keep both low, as instruments, and not as lords of war. and this must be by secret coals of envy blown in their breast; comparisons of worth; great actions weighed of each; and each the best, as we shall give him voice. _ulys._ here comes thersites, _enter_ thersites. who feeds on ajax, yet loves him not, because he cannot love; but, as a species differing from mankind, hates all he sees, and rails at all he knows; but hates them most from whom he most receives, disdaining that his lot should be so low, that he should want the kindness which he takes. _nest._ there's none so fit an engine:--save ye, thersites. _ulys._ hail, noble grecian! thou relief of toils, soul of our mirth, and joy of sullen war, in whose converse our winter nights are short, and summer days not tedious. _thers._ hang you both. _nest._ how, hang us both! _thers._ but hang thee first, thou very reverend fool! thou sapless oak, that liv'st by wanting thought, and now, in thy three hundredth year, repin'st thou shouldst be felled: hanging's a civil death, the death of men; thou canst not hang; thy trunk is only fit for gallows to hang others. _nest._ a fine greeting. _thers._ a fine old dotard, to repine at hanging at such an age! what saw the gods in thee, that a cock-sparrow should but live three years, and thou shouldst last three ages? he's thy better; he uses life; he treads himself to death. thou hast forgot thy use some hundred years. thou stump of man, thou worn-out broom, thou lumber! _nest._ i'll hear no more of him, his poison works; what, curse me for my age! _ulys._ hold, you mistake him, nestor; 'tis his custom: what malice is there in a mirthful scene? 'tis but a keen-edged sword, spread o'er with balm, to heal the wound it makes. _thers._ thou beg'st a curse? may'st thou quit scores then, and be hanged on nestor, who hangs on thee! thou lead'st him by the nose; thou play'st him like a puppet; speak'st within him; and when thou hast contrived some dark design, to lose a thousand greeks, make dogs-meat of us, thou lay'st thy cuckoo's egg within his nest, and mak'st him hatch it; teachest his remembrance to lie, and say, the like of it was practised two hundred years ago; thou bring'st the brain, and he brings only beard to vouch thy plots. _nest._ i'm no man's fool. _thers._ then be thy own, that's worse. _nest._ he'll rail all day. _ulys._ then we shall learn all day. who forms the body to a graceful carriage, must imitate our aukward motions first; the same prescription does the wise thersites apply, to mend our minds. the same he uses to ajax, to achilles, to the rest; his satires are the physic of the camp. _thers._ would they were poison to't, ratsbane and hemlock! nothing else can mend you, and those two brawny fools. _ulys._ he hits 'em right; are they not such, my nestor? _thers._ dolt-heads, asses, and beasts of burden; ajax and achilles! the pillars, no, the porters of the war. hard-headed rogues! engines, mere wooden engines pushed on to do your work. _nest._ they are indeed. _thers._ but what a rogue art thou, to say they are indeed! heaven made them horses, and thou put'st on their harness, rid'st and spurr'st them; usurp'st upon heaven's fools, and mak'st them thine. _nest._ no; they are headstrong fools, to be corrected by none but by thersites; thou alone canst tame and train them to their proper use; and, doing this, may'st claim a just reward from greece and royal agamemnon's hands. _thers._ ay, when you need a man, you talk of giving, for wit's a dear commodity among you; but when you do not want him, then stale porridge, a starved dog would not lap, and furrow water, is all the wine we taste: give drabs and pimps; i'll have no gifts with hooks at end of them. _ulys._ is this a man, o nestor, to be bought? asia's not price enough! bid the world for him. and shall this man, this hermes, this apollo, sit lag of ajax' table, almost minstrel, and with his presence grace a brainless feast? why they con sense from him, grow wits by rote, and yet, by ill repeating, libel him, making his wit their nonsense: nay, they scorn him; call him bought railer, mercenary tongue! play him for sport at meals, and kick him off. _thers._ yes, they can kick; my buttocks feel they can; they have their asses tricks; but i'll eat pebbles, i'll starve,--'tis brave to starve, 'tis like a soldier,-- before i'll feed those wit-starved rogues with sense. they shall eat dry, and choak for want of wit, ere they be moistened with one drop of mine. ajax and achilles! two mud-walls of fool, that only differ in degrees of thickness. _ulys._ i'd be revenged of both. when wine fumes high, set them to prate, to boast their brutal strength, to vie their stupid courage, till they quarrel, and play at hard head with their empty skulls. _thers._ yes; they shall butt and kick, and all the while i'll think they kick for me; they shall fell timber on both sides, and then logwood will be cheap. _nest._ and agamemnon-- _thers._ pox of agamemnon! cannot i do a mischief for myself, but he must thank me for't? _ulys._ to _nest._ away; our work is done. [_exeunt_ ulys. _and_ nest. _thers._ this agamemnon is a king of clouts, a chip in porridge,-- _enter_ ajax. _ajax._ thersites. _thers._ set up to frighten daws from cherry-trees,-- _ajax._ dog! _thers._ a standard to march under. _ajax._ thou bitch-wolf! can'st thou not hear? feel then. [_strikes him._ _thers._ the plague of greece, and helen's pox light on thee, thou mongrel mastiff, thou beef-witted lord! _ajax._ speak then, thou mouldy leaven of the camp; speak, or i'll beat thee into handsomeness. _thers._ i shall sooner rail thee into wit; thou canst kick, canst thou? a red murrain on thy jades tricks! _ajax._ tell me the proclamation. _thers._ thou art proclaimed a fool, i think. _ajax._ you whorson cur, take that. [_strikes him._ _thers._ thou scurvy valiant ass! _ajax._ thou slave! _thers._ thou lord!--ay, do, do,--would my buttocks were iron, for thy sake! _enter_ achilles _and_ patroclus. _achil._ why, how now, ajax! wherefore do you this? how now, thersites, what's the matter, man? _thers._ i say this ajax wears his wit in's belly, and his guts in's brains. _achil._ peace, fool. _thers._ i would have peace, but the fool will not. _patro._ but what's the quarrel? _ajax._ i bade him tell me the proclamation, and he rails upon me. _thers._ i serve thee not. _ajax._ i shall cut out your tongue. _thers._ 'tis no matter; i shall speak as much sense as thou afterwards. i'll see you hanged ere i come any more to your tent; i'll keep where there's wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools. [_going._ _achil._ nay, thou shalt not go, thersites, till we have squeezed the venom out of thee: pr'ythee, inform us of this proclamation. _thers._ why, you empty fuz-balls, your heads are full of nothing else but proclamations. _ajax._ tell us the news, i say. _thers._ you say! why you never said any thing in all your life. but, since you will know, it is proclaimed through the army, that hector is to cudgel you to-morrow. _achil._ how, cudgel him, thersites! _thers._ nay, you may take a child's part on't if you have so much courage, for hector has challenged the toughest of the greeks; and it is in dispute which of your two heads is the soundest timber. a knotty piece of work he'll have betwixt your noddles. _achil._ if hector be to fight with any greek, he knows his man. _ajax._ yes; he may know his man without art magic. _thers._ so he had need; for, to my certain knowledge, neither of you two are conjurers to inform him. _achil._ to _ajax._ you do not mean yourself, sure? _ajax._ i mean nothing. _thers._ thou mean'st so always. _achil._ umh! mean nothing! _thers._ [_aside._] jove, if it be thy will, let these two fools quarrel about nothing! 'tis a cause that's worthy of them. _ajax._ you said he knew his man; is there but one? one man amongst the greeks? _achil._ since you will have it, but one to fight with hector. _ajax._ then i am he. _achil._ weak ajax! _ajax._ weak achilles. _thers._ weak indeed; god help you both! _patro._ come, this must be no quarrel. _thers._ there's no cause for't _patro._ he tells you true, you are both equal. _thers._ fools. _achil._ i can brook no comparisons. _ajax._ nor i. _achil._ well, ajax. _ajax._ well, achilles. _thers._ so, now they quarrel in monosyllables; a word and a blow, an't be thy will. _achil._ you may hear more. _ajax._ i would. _achil._ expect. _ajax._ farewell. [_exeunt severally._ _thers._ curse on them, they want wine; your true fool will never fight without it. or a drab, a drab; oh for a commodious drab betwixt them! would helen had been here! then it had come to something. dogs, lions, bulls, for females tear and gore; and the beast, man, is valiant for his whore. [_exit_ thersites. act iii. scene i. _enter_ thersites. _thers._ shall the idiot ajax use me thus? he beats me, and i rail at him. o worthy satisfaction! would i could but beat him, and he railed at me! then there's achilles, a rare engineer; if troy be not taken till these two undermine it, the walls will stand till they fall of themselves. now the plague on the whole camp, or rather the pox; for that's a curse dependent on those that fight, as we do, for a cuckold's quean.--what, ho, my lord achilles! _enter_ patroclus. _patro._ who's there, thersites? good thersites, come in and rail. _thers._ if i could have remembered an ass with gilt trappings, thou hadst not slipped out of my contemplation. but it is no matter: thyself upon thyself! the common curse of mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in great abundance! heavens bless thee from a tutor, and discipline come not near thee!--i have said my prayers; and the devil, envy, say amen. where's achilles? _enter_ achilles. _achil._ who's there, thersites? why, my digestion, why hast thou not served thyself to my table so many meals? come, begin; what's agamemnon? _thers._ thy commander, achilles.--then tell me, patroclus, what's achilles? _patro._ thy benefactor, thersites. then tell me, pr'ythee, what's thyself? _thers._ thy knower, patroclus. then tell me, patroclus, what art thou? _patro._ thou mayest tell, that knowest. _achil._ o, tell, tell.--this must be very foolish; and i die to have my spleen tickled. _thers._ i'll decline the whole question. agamemnon commands achilles; achilles is my benefactor; i am patroclus's knower; and patroclus is a fool. _patro._ you rascal! _achil,_ he is a privileged man; proceed, thersites. ha, ha, ha! pr'ythee, proceed, while i am in the vein of laughing. _thers._ and all these foresaid men are fools. agamemnon's a fool, to offer to command achilles; achilles is a fool, to be commanded by him; i am a fool, to serve such a fool; and patroclus is a fool positive. _patro._ why am i a fool? _thers._ make that demand to heaven; it suffices me, thou art one. _acini._ ha, ha, ha! o give me ribs of steel, or i shall split with pleasure.--now play me nestor at a night alarm: mimick him rarely; make him cough and spit, and fumble with his gorget, and shake the rivets with his palsy hand, in and out, in and out; gad, that's exceeding foolish. _patro._ nestor shall not escape so; he has told us what we are. come, what's nestor? _thers._ why, he is an old wooden top, set up by father time three hundred years ago, that hums to agamemnon and ulysses, and sleeps to all the world besides. _achil._ so let him sleep, for i'll no more of him.--o, my patroclus, i but force a smile; ajax has drawn the lot, and all the praise of hector must be his. _thers._ i hope to see his praise upon his shoulders, in blows and bruises; his arms, thighs, and body, all full of fame, such fame as he gave me; and a wide hole at last full in his bosom, to let in day upon him, and discover the inside of a fool. _patro._ how he struts in expectation of honour! he knows not what he does. _thers._ nay, that's no wonder, for he never did. _achil._ pr'ythee, say how he behaves himself? _thers._ o, you would be learning to practise against such another time?--why, he tosses up his head as he had built castles in the air; and he treads upward to them, stalks into the element; he surveys himself, as it were to look for ajax: he would be cried, for he has lost himself; nay, he knows nobody; i said, "good-morrow, ajax," and he replied, "thanks, agamemnon." _achil._ thou shalt be my ambassador to him, thersites. _thers._ no, i'll put on his person; let patroclus make his demands to me, and you shall see the pageant of ajax. _achil._ to him, patroclus; tell him i humbly desire the valiant ajax to invite the noble hector to my tent; and to procure safe conduct for him from our captain general agamemnon. _patro._ jove bless the mighty ajax! _thers._ humh! _patro._ i come from the great achilles. _thers._ ha! _patro._ who most humbly desires you to invite hector to his tent. _thers._ humh! _patro._ and to procure him safe conduct from agamemnon. _thers._ agamemnon? _patro._ ay, my lord. _thers._ ha! _patro._ what say you to it? _thers._ farewell, with all my heart. _patro._ your answer, sir? _thers._ if to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven o'clock it will go one way or the other; however, he shall buy me dearly. fare you well, with all my heart. _achil._ why, but he is not in this tune, is he? _thers._ no; but he's thus out of tune. what music will be in him when hector has knocked out his brains, i know not, nor i care not; but if emptiness makes noise, his head will make melody. _achil._ my mind is troubled, like a fountain stirred; and i myself see not the bottom on't. _thers._ would the fountain of his mind were clear, that he might see an ass in it! i had rather be a tick in a sheep, than such a valiant ignorance. [_aside._ _enter_ agamemnon, ajax, diomedes, _and_ menelaus. _patro._ look, who comes here. _achil._ patroclus, i'll speak with nobody;--come in after me, thersites. [_exeunt_ achilles _and_ thersites. _again._ where's achilles? _patro._ within, but ill disposed, my lord. _men._ we saw him at the opening of his tent. _again._ let it be known to him, that we are here. _patro._ i shall say so to him. [_exit_ patroc. _diom._ i know he is not sick. _ajax._ yes, lion-sick, sick of a proud heart: you may call it melancholy, if you will humour him; but, on my honour, it is no more than pride; and why should he be proud? _men._ here comes patroclus; but no achilles with him. _enter_ patroclus. _patro._ achilles bids me tell you, he is sorry if any thing more than your sport and pleasure did move you to this visit: he's not well, and begs you would excuse him, as unfit for present business. _agam._ how! how's this, patroclus? we are too well acquainted with these answers. though he has much desert, yet all his virtues do in our eyes begin to lose their gloss. we came to speak with him; you shall not err, if you return, we think him over-proud, and under-honest. tell him this; and add, that if he overhold his price so much, we'll none of him; but let him, like an engine not portable, lie lag of all the camp. a stirring dwarf is of more use to us, than is a sleeping giant: tell him so. _patro._ i shall, and bring his answer presently. _agam._ i'll not be satisfied, but by himself: so tell him, menelaus. [_exeunt_ menelaus _and_ patroclus. _ajax._ what's he more than another? _agam._ no more than what he thinks himself. _ajax._ is he so much? do you not think, he thinks himself a better man than me? _diom._ no doubt he does. _ajax._ do you think so? _agam._ no, noble ajax; you are as strong, as valiant but much more courteous. _ajax._ why should a man be proud? i know not what pride is; i hate a proud man, as i hate the engendering of toads. _diom._ [_aside._] 'tis strange he should, and love himself so well. _re-enter_ menelaus. _men._ achilles will not to the field to-morrow. _agam._ what's his excuse? _men._ why, he relies on none but his own will; possessed he is with vanity. what should i say? he is so plaguy proud, that the death-tokens of it are upon him, and bode there's no recovery. _enter_ ulysses _and_ nestor. _agam._ let ajax go to him. _ulys._ o agamemnon, let it not be so. we'll consecrate the steps that ajax makes, when they go from achilles. shall that proud man be worshipped by a greater than himself, one, whom we hold our idol? shall ajax go to him? no, jove forbid, and say in thunder, go to him, achilles. _nest._ [_aside._] o, this is well; he rubs him where it itches. _ajax._ if i go to him, with my gauntlet clenched i'll pash him o'er the face. _agam._ o no, you shall not go. _ajax._ an he be proud with me, i'll cure his pride; a paultry insolent fellow! _nest._ how he describes himself! [_aside._ _ulys._ the crow chides blackness: [_aside._]--here is a man,--but 'tis before his face, and therefore i am silent. _nest._ wherefore are you? he is not envious, as achilles is. _ulys._ know all the world, he is as valiant. _ajax._ a whoreson dog, that shall palter thus with us! would a were a trojan! _ulys._ thank heaven, my lord, you're of a gentle nature; praise him that got you, her that brought you forth; but he, who taught you first the use of arms, let mars divide eternity in two, and give him half. i will not praise your wisdom, nestor shall do't; but, pardon, father nestor,-- were you as green as ajax, and your brain tempered like his, you never should excel him, but be as ajax is. _ajax._ shall i call you father? _ulys._ ay, my good son. _diom._ be ruled by him, lord ajax. _ulys._ there is no staying here; the hart achilles keeps thicket;--please it our great general, i shall impart a counsel, which, observed, may cure the madman's pride. _agam._ in my own tent our talk will be more private. _ulys._ but nothing without ajax; he is the soul and substance of my counsels, and i am but his shadow. _ajax._ you shall see i am not like achilles. let us confer, and i'll give counsel too. [_exeunt._ scene ii. _enter_ pandarus, troilus, _and_ cressida. _pand._ come, come, what need you blush? shame's a baby; swear the oaths now to her, that you swore to me: what, are you gone again? you must be watched ere you are made tame, must you? why don't you speak to her first?--come, draw this curtain and let's see your picture; alas-a-day, how loth you are to offend day-light! [_they kiss._] that's well, that's well; nay, you shall fight your hearts out ere i part you. so so--so so-- _troil._ you have bereft me of all words, fair cressida. _pand._ words pay no debts; give her deeds.--what billing again! here's, in witness whereof the parties interchangeably--come in, come in, you lose time both. _troil._ o cressida, how often have i wished me here! _cres._ wished, my lord!--the gods grant!--o, my lord-- _troil._ what should they grant? what makes this pretty interruption in thy words? _cres._ i speak i know not what! _troil._ speak ever so; and if i answer you i know not what--it shows the more of love. love is a child that talks in broken language, yet then he speaks most plain. _cres._ i find it true, that to be wise, and love, are inconsistent things. _pand._ what, blushing still! have you not done talking yet? _cres._ well, uncle, what folly i commit, i dedicate to you. _pand._ i thank you for that; if my lord get a boy of you, you'll give him me. be true to my lord; if he flinch, i'll be hanged for him.--now am i in my kingdom! [_aside._ _troil._ you know your pledges now; your uncle's word, and my firm faith. _pand._ nay, i'll give my word for her too: our kindred are constant; they are burs, i can assure you; they'll stick where they are thrown. _cres._ boldness comes to me now, and i can speak: prince troilus, i have loved you long. _troil._ why was my cressida then so hard to win? _cres._ hard to seem won; but i was won, my lord-- what have i blabbed? who will be true to us, when we are so unfaithful to ourselves! o bid me hold my tongue; for, in this rapture, sure i shall speak what i should soon repent. but stop my mouth. _troil._ a sweet command, and willingly obeyed. [_kisses._ _pand._ pretty, i'faith! _cres._ my lord, i do beseech you pardon me; 'twas not my purpose thus to beg a kiss. i am ashamed;--o heavens, what have i done! for this time let me take my leave, my lord. _pand._ leave! an you take leave till to-morrow morning, call me cut. _cres._ pray, let me go. _troil._ why, what offends you, madam? _cres._ my own company. _troil._ you cannot shun yourself. _cres._ let me go try; i have a kind of self resides in you. _troil._ oh that i thought truth could be in a woman, (as if it can, i will presume in you,) that my integrity and faith might meet the same return from her, who has my heart, how should i be exalted! but, alas, i am more plain than dull simplicity, and artless as the infancy of truth! _cres._ in that i must not yield to you, my lord. _troil._ all constant lovers shall, in future ages, approve their truth by troilus. when their verse wants similes,--as turtles to their mates, or true as flowing tides are to the moon, earth to the centre, iron to adamant,-- at last, when truth is tired with repetition, as true as troilus, shall crown up the verse, and sanctify the numbers. _cres._ prophet may you be! if i am false, or swerve from truth of love, when time is old, and has forgot itself in all things else, let it remember me; and, after all comparisons of falsehood, to stab the heart of perjury in maids, let it be said--as false as cressida. _pand._ go to, little ones; a bargain made. here i hold your hand, and here my cousin's: if ever you prove false to one another, after i have taken such pains to bring you together, let all pitiful goers-between be called to the world's end after my name, _pandars._ _cres._ and will you promise, that the holy priest shall make us one for ever? _pand._ priests! marry hang them, they make you one! go in, go in, and make yourselves one without a priest; i'll have no priest's work in my house. _cres._ i'll not consent, unless you swear. _pand._ ay, do, do swear; a pretty woman's worth an oath at any time. keep or break, as time shall try; but it is good to swear, for the saving of her credit. hang them, sweet rogues, they never expect a man should keep it. let him but swear, and that's all they care for. _troil._ heavens prosper me, as i devoutly swear, never to be but yours! _pand._ whereupon i will lead you into a chamber; and suppose there be a bed in it, as, ifack, i know not, but you'll forgive me if there be--away, away, you naughty hildings; get you together, get you together. ah you wags, do you leer indeed at one another! do the neyes twinkle at him! get you together, get you together. [_leads them out._ _enter at one door_ Æneas, _with a torch; at another,_ hector _and_ diomede, _with torches._ _hect._ so ho, who goes there? Æneas! _Æn._ prince hector! _diom._ good-morrow, lord Æneas. _hect._ a valiant greek, Æneas; take his hand; witness the process of your speech within; you told how diomede a whole week by days did haunt you in the field. _Æn._ health to you, valiant sir, during all business of the gentle truce; but, when i meet you armed, as black defiance, as heart can think, or courage execute. _diom._ both one and t'other diomede embraces. our bloods are now in calm; and so long, health; but when contention and occasion meet, by jove i'll play the hunter for thy life. _Æn._ and thou shall hunt a lion, that will fly with his face backward. welcome, diomede, welcome to troy. now, by anchises' soul, no man alive can love in such a sort the thing he means to kill more excellently. _diom._ we know each other well. _Æn._ we do; and long to know each other worse.-- my lord, the king has sent for me in haste; know you the reason? _hect._ yes; his purpose meets you. it was to bring this greek to calchas' house, where pandarus his brother, and his daughter fair cressida reside; and there to render for our antenor, now redeemed from prison, the lady cressida. _Æn._ what! has the king resolved to gratify that traitor calchas, who forsook his country, and turned to them, by giving up this pledge? _hect._ the bitter disposition of the time is such, though calchas, as a fugitive, deserve it not, that we must free antenor, on whose wise counsels we can most rely; and therefore cressida must be returned. _Æn._ a word, my lord--your pardon, diomede-- your brother troilus, to my certain knowledge, does lodge this night in pandarus's house. _hect._ go you before. tell him of our approach, which will, i fear, be much unwelcome to him. _Æn._ i assure you, troilus had rather troy were borne to greece, than cressida from troy. _hect._ i know it well; and how he is, beside, of hasty blood. _Æn._ he will not hear me speak; but i have noted long betwixt you two a more than brother's love; an awful homage the fiery youth pays to your elder virtue. _hect._ leave it to me; i'll manage him alone; attend you diomede.--my lord, good-morrow; [_to_ diom. an urgent business takes me from the pleasure your company affords me; but Æneas, with joy, will undertake to serve you here, and to supply my room. _Æn._ [_to_ diom.] my lord, i wait you. [_exeunt severally;_ diomede _with_ Æneas, hector _at another door._ _enter_ pandarus, _a servant, music._ _pand._ softly, villain, softly; i would not for half troy the lovers should be disturbed under my roof: listen, rogue, listen; do they breathe? _serv._ yes, sir; i hear, by some certain signs, they are both awake. _pand._ that's as it should be; that's well o' both sides. [_listens._]--yes, 'faith, they are both alive:--there was a creak! there was a creak! they are both alive, and alive like;--there was a creak! a ha, boys!--is the music ready? _serv._ shall they strike up, sir? _pand._ art thou sure they do not know the parties? _serv._ they play to the man in the moon, for aught they know. _pand._ to the man in the moon? ah rogue! do they so indeed, rogue! i understand thee; thou art a wag; thou art a wag. come, towze rowze! in the name of love, strike up, boys. _music, and then a song; during which_ pandarus _listens._ i. _can life be a blessing, or worth the possessing, can life be a blessing, if love were away? ah, no! though our love all night keep us waking, and though he torment us with cares all the day, yet he sweetens, he sweetens our pains in the taking; there's an hour at the last, there's an hour to repay._ ii. _in every possessing, the ravishing blessing, in every possessing, the fruit of our pain, poor lovers forget long ages of anguish, whate'er they have suffered and done to obtain; 'tis a pleasure, a pleasure to sigh and to languish, when we hope, when we hope to be happy again._ _pand._ put up, and vanish; they are coming out: what a ferrup, will you play when the dance is done? i say, vanish. [_exit music._ [_peeping._] good, i'faith! good, i'faith! what, hand in hand--a fair quarrel, well ended! do, do, walk him, walk him;--a good girl, a discreet girl: i see she will make the most of him. _enter_ troilus _and_ cressida. _troil._ farewell, my life! leave me, and back to bed: sleep seal those pretty eyes, and tie thy senses in as soft a band, as infants void of thought. _pand._ [_shewing himself._] how now, how now; how go matters? hear you, maid, hear you; where's my cousin cressida? _cres._ go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle: you bring me to do ill, and then you jeer me! _pand._ what ill have i brought you to do? say what, if you dare now?--my lord, have i brought her to do ill? _cres._ come, come,--beshrew your heart, you'll neither be good yourself, nor suffer others. _pand._ alas, poor wench! alas, poor devil! has not slept to-night? would a'not, a naughty man, let it sleep one twinkle? a bugbear take him! _cres._ [_knock within._] who's that at door? good uncle, go and see:-- my lord, come you again into my chamber.-- you smile and mock, as if i meant naughtily! _troil._ indeed, indeed! _cres._ come, you're deceived; i think of no such thing.-- [_knock again._ how earnestly they knock! pray, come in: i would not for all troy you were seen here. [_exeunt_ troil. _and_ cres. _pand._ who's there? what's the matter? will you beat down the house there! _enter_ hector. _hect._ good morrow, my lord pandarus; good morrow! _pand._ who's there? prince hector! what news with you so early? _hect._ is not my brother troilus here? _pand._ here! what should he do here? _hect._ come, he is here, my lord; do not deny him: it does import him much to speak with me. _pand._ is he here, say you? it is more than i know, i'll be sworn! for my part, i came in late.--what should he do here? _hect._ come, come, you do him wrong ere you're aware; you'll be so true to him, that you'll be false to him: you shall not know he's here; but yet go fetch him hither; go. [_exit_ pand. _enter_ troilus. i bring you, brother, most unwelcome news; but since of force you are to hear it told, i thought a friend and brother best might tell it: therefore, before i speak, arm well your mind, and think you're to be touched even to the quick; that so, prepared for ill, you may be less surprised to hear the worst. _troil._ see, hector, what it is to be your brother! i stand prepared already. _hect._ come, you are hot; i know you, troilus, you are hot and fiery: you kindle at a wrong, and catch it quick, as stubble does the flame. _troil._ 'tis heat of blood, and rashness of my youth; i'll mend that error: begin, and try my temper. _hect._ can you think of that one thing, which most could urge your anger, drive you to madness, plunge you in despair, and make you hate even me? _troil._ there can be nothing. i love you, brother, with that awful love i bear to heaven, and to superior virtue: and when i quit this love, you must be that, which hector ne'er can be. _hect._ remember well what you have said; for, when i claim your promise, i shall expect performance. _troil._ i am taught: i will not rage. _hect._ nor grieve beyond a man? _troil._ i will not be a woman. _hect._ do not, brother: and i will tell my news in terms so mild, so tender, and so fearful to offend, as mothers use to sooth their froward babes; nay, i will swear, as you have sworn to me, that, if some gust of passion swell your soul to words intemperate, i will bear with you. _troil._ what would this pomp of preparation mean? come you to bring me news of priam's death, or hecuba's? _hect._ the gods forbid i should! but what i bring is nearer you, more close, an ill more yours. _troil._ there is but one that can be. _hect._ perhaps, 'tis that. _troil._ i'll not suspect my fate so far; i know i stand possessed of that. _hect._ 'tis well: consider at whose house i find you. _troil._ ha! _hect._ does it start you? i must wake you more; antenor is exchanged. _troil._ for whom? _hect._ imagine. _troil._ it comes, like thunder grumbling in a cloud, before the dreadful break: if here it fall, the subtle flame will lick up all my blood, and, in a moment, turn my heart to ashes. _hect._ that cressida for antenor is exchanged, because i knew 'twas harsh, i would not tell; not all at once; but by degrees and glimpses i let it in, lest it might rush upon you, and quite o'erpower your soul: in this, i think, i showed a friend: your part must follow next; which is, to curb your choler, tame your grief, and bear it like a man. _troil._ i think i do, that i yet live to hear you. but no more; hope for no more; for, should some goddess offer to give herself and all her heaven in change, i would not part with cressida: so return this answer as my last. _hect._ 'twill not be taken: nor will i bear such news. _troil._ you bore me worse. _hect._ worse for yourself; not for the general state, and all our common safety, which depends on freed antenor's wisdom. _troil._ you would say, that i'm the man marked out to be unhappy, and made the public sacrifice for troy. _hect._ i would say so indeed; for, can you find a fate more glorious than to be that victim? if parting from a mistress can procure a nation's happiness, show me that prince who dares to trust his future fame so far, to stand the shock of annals, blotted thus,-- he sold his country for a woman's love! _troil._ o, she's my life, my being, and my soul! _hect._ suppose she were,--which yet i will not grant,-- you ought to give her up. _troil._ for whom? _hect._ the public. _troil._ and what are they, that i should give up her, to make them happy? let me tell you, brother, the public is the lees of vulgar slaves; slaves, with the minds of slaves; so born, so bred. yet such as these, united in a herd, are called, the public! millions of such cyphers make up the public sum. an eagle's life is worth a world of crows. are princes made for such as these; who, were one soul extracted from all their beings, could not raise a man?-- _hect._ and what are we, but for such men as these? 'tis adoration, some say, makes a god: and who should pay it, where would be their altars, were no inferior creatures here on earth? even those, who serve, have their expectancies, degrees of happiness, which they must share, or they'll refuse to serve us. _troil._ let them have it; let them eat, drink, and sleep; the only use they have of life. _hect._ you take all these away, unless you give up cressida. _troil._ forbear: let paris give up helen; she's the cause, and root, of all this mischief. _hect._ your own suffrage condemns you there: you voted for her stay. _troil._ if one must stay, the other shall not go. _hect._ she shall not? _troil._ once again i say, she shall not. _hect._ our father has decreed it otherwise. _troil._ no matter. _hect._ how! no matter, troilus? a king, a father's will! _troil._ when 'tis unjust. _hect._ come, she shall go. _troil._ she shall? then i am dared. _hect._ if nothing else will do. _troil._ answer me first, and then i'll answer that,--be sure i will,-- whose hand sealed this exchange? _hect._ my father's first; then all the council's after. _troil._ was yours there? _hect._ mine was there too. _troil._ then you're no more my friend: and for your sake,--now mark me what i say,-- she shall not go. _hect._ go to; you are a boy. _troil._ a boy! i'm glad i am not such a man, not such as thou, a traitor to thy brother; nay, more, thy friend: but friend's a sacred name, which none but brave and honest men should wear: in thee 'tis vile; 'tis prostitute; 'tis air; and thus, i puff it from me. _hect._ well, young man, since i'm no friend, (and, oh, that e'er i was, to one so far unworthy!) bring her out; or, by our father's soul, of which no part did e'er descend to thee, i'll force her hence. _troil._ i laugh at thee. _hect._ thou dar'st not. _troil._ i dare more, if urged beyond my temper: prove my daring, and see which of us has the larger share of our great father's soul. _hect._ no more!--thou know'st me. _troil._ i do; and know myself. _hect._ all this, ye gods! and for the daughter of a fugitive, a traitor to his country! _troil._ 'tis too much. _hect._ by heaven, too little; for i think her common. _troil._ how, common! _hect._ common as the tainted shambles, or as the dust we tread. _troil._ by heaven, as chaste as thy andromache. [hector _lays his hand on_ troilus's _arm,_ troilus _does the same to him._ _hect._ what, namest thou them together! _troil._ no, i do not: fair cressida is first; as chaste as she, but much more fair. _hect._ o, patience, patience, heaven! thou tempt'st me strangely: should i kill thee now, i know not if the gods can he offended, or think i slew a brother: but, begone! begone, or i shall shake thee into atoms; thou know'st i can. _troil._ i care not if you could. _hect._ [_walking off._] i thank the gods, for calling to my mind my promise, that no words of thine should urge me beyond the bounds of reason: but in thee 'twas brutal baseness, so forewarned, to fall beneath the name of man; to spurn my kindness; and when i offered thee (thou know'st how loth!) the wholesome bitter cup of friendly counsel, to dash it in my face. farewell, farewell, ungrateful as thou art: hereafter use the name of brother; but of friend no more. [_going out._ _troil._ wilt thou not break yet, heart?--stay, brother, stay; i promised too, but i have broke my vow, and you keep yours too well. _hect._ what would'st thou more? take heed, young man, how you too far provoke me! for heaven can witness, 'tis with much constraint that i preserve my faith. _troil._ else you would kill me? _hect._ by all the gods i would. _troil._ i'm satisfied. you have condemned me, and i'll do't myself. what's life to him, who has no use of life? a barren purchase, held upon hard terms! for i have lost (oh, what have i not lost!) the fairest, dearest, kindest, of her sex; and lost her even by him, by him, ye gods! who only could, and only should protect me! and if i had a joy beyond that love, a friend, have lost him too! _hect._ speak that again,-- for i could hear it ever,--saidst thou not, that if thou hadst a joy beyond that love, it was a friend? o, saidst thou not, a friend! that doubting _if_ was kind: then thou'rt divided; and i have still some part. _troil._ if still you have, you do not care to have it. _hect._ how, not care! _troil._ no, brother, care not. _hect._ am i but thy brother? _troil._ you told me, i must call you friend no more. _hect._ how far my words were distant from my heart! know, when i told thee so, i loved thee most. alas! it is the use of human frailty, to fly to worst extremities with those, to whom we are most kind. _troil._ is't possible! then you are still my friend. _hect._ heaven knows i am! _troil._ and can forgive the sallies of my passion? for i have been to blame, oh! much to blame; have said such words, nay, done such actions too, (base as i am!) that my awed conscious soul sinks in my breast, nor dare i lift an eye on him i have offended. _hect._ peace be to thee, and calmness ever there. i blame thee not: i know thou lov'st; and what can love not do! i cast the wild disorderly account, of all thy words and deeds, on that mad passion: i pity thee, indeed i pity thee. _troil._ do, for i need it: let me lean my head upon thy bosom, all my peace dwells there; thou art some god, or much, much more than man! _hect._ alas, to lose the joys of all thy youth, one who deserved thy love! _troil._ did she deserve? _hect._ she did. _troil._ then sure she was no common creature? _hect._ i said it in my rage; i thought not so. _troil._ that thought has blessed me! but to lose this love, after long pains, and after short possession! _hect._ i feel it for thee: let me go to priam, i'll break this treaty off; or let me fight: i'll be thy champion, and secure both her, and thee, and troy. _troil._ it must not be, my brother; for then your error would be more than mine: i'll bring her forth, and you shall bear her hence; that you have pitied me is my reward. _hect._ go, then; and the good gods restore her to thee, and, with her, all the quiet of thy mind! the triumph of this kindness be thy own; and heaven and earth this testimony yield, that friendship never gained a nobler field. [_exeunt severally._ act iv. scene i. _enter_ pandarus _and_ cressida _meeting._ _pand._ is't possible? no sooner got but lost? the devil take antenor! the young prince will go mad: a plague upon antenor! would they had broke his neck! _cres._ how now? what's the matter? who was here? _pand._ oh, oh! _cres._ why sigh you so? o, where's my troilus? tell me, sweet uncle, what's the matter? _pand._ would i were as deep under the earth, as i am above it! _cres._ o, the gods! what's the matter? _pand._ pr'ythee get thee in; would thou hadst never been born! i knew thou wouldst be his death; oh, poor gentleman! a plague upon antenor! _cres._ good uncle, i beseech you on my knees, tell me what's the matter? _pand._ thou must be gone, girl; thou must be gone, to the fugitive rogue-priest, thy father: (and he's my brother too; but that's all one at this time:) a pox upon antenor! _cres._ o, ye immortal gods! i will not go. _pand._ thou must, thou must. _cres._ i will not: i have quite forgot my father. i have no touch of birth, no spark of nature, no kin, no blood, no life; nothing so near me, as my dear troilus! _enter_ troilus. _pand._ here, here, here he comes, sweet duck! _cres._ o, troilus, troilus! [_they both weep over each other; she running into his arms._ _pand._ what a pair of spectacles is here! let me embrace too. _oh, heart,_--as the saying is,-- _--o heart, o heavy heart, why sigh'st thou without breaking!_ where he answers again, _because thou can'st not ease thy smart, by friendship nor by speaking._ there was never a truer rhyme: let us cast away nothing, for we may live to have need of such a verse; we see it, we see it.--how now, lambs? _troil._ cressid, i love thee with so strange a purity, that the blest gods, angry with my devotions, more bright in zeal than that i pay their altars, will take thee from my sight. _cres._ have the gods envy? _pand._ ay, ay, ay; 'tis too plain a case! _cres._ and is it true, that i must go from troy? _troil._ a hateful truth. _cres._ what, and from troilus too? _troil._ from troy and troilus,--and suddenly; so suddenly, 'tis counted out by minutes. _cres._ what, not an hour allowed for taking leave? _troil._ even that's bereft us too: our envious fates jostle betwixt, and part the dear adieus of meeting lips, clasped hands, and locked embraces. _Æneas._ [_within._] my lord, is the lady ready yet? _troil._ hark, you are called!--some say, the genius so cries,--come, to him who instantly must die. _pand._ where are my tears? some rain to lay this wind, or my heart will be blown up by the roots! _troil._ hear me, my love! be thou but true, like me. _cres._ i true! how now, what wicked thought is this? _troil._ nay, we must use expostulation kindly, for it is parting from us. i spoke not, be thou true, as fearing thee; but be thou true, i said, to introduce my following protestation,--be thou true, and i will see thee. _cres._ you'll be exposed to dangers. _troil._ i care not; but be true. _cres._ be true, again? _troil._ hear why i speak it, love. the grecian youths are full of grecian arts: alas! a kind of holy jealousy, which, i beseech you, call a virtuous sin, makes me afraid how far you may be tempted. _cres._ o heavens, you love me not! _troil._ die i a villain then! in this i do not call your faith in question, but my own merit. _cres._ fear not; i'll be true. _troil._ then, fate, thy worst! for i will see thee, love; not all the grecian host shall keep me out, nor troy, though walled with fire, should hold me in. _Æneas._ [_within._] my lord, my lord troilus! i must call you. _pand._ a mischief call him! nothing but screech-owls? do, do, call again; you had best part them now in the sweetness of their love!--i'll be hanged if this Æneas be the son of venus, for all his bragging. honest venus was a punk; would she have parted lovers? no, he has not a drop of venus' blood in him--honest venus was a punk. _troil._ [_to pand._] pr'ythee, go out, and gain one minute more. _pand._ marry and i will: follow you your business; lose no time, 'tis very precious; go, bill again: i'll tell the rogue his own, i warrant him. [_exit_ pandarus. _cres._ what have we gained by this one minute more? _troil._ only to wish another, and another, a longer struggling with the pangs of death. _cres._ o, those, who do not know what parting is, can never learn to die! _troil._ when i but think this sight may be our last, if jove could set me in the place of atlas, and lay the weight of heaven and gods upon me, he could not press me more. _cres._ oh let me go, that i may know my grief; grief is but guessed, while thou art standing by: but i too soon shall know what absence is. _troil._ why, 'tis to be no more; another name for death: 'tis the sun parting from the frozen north; and i, methinks, stand on some icy cliff, to watch the last low circles that he makes, 'till he sink down from heaven! o only cressida, if thou depart from me, i cannot live: i have not soul enough to last for grief, but thou shalt hear what grief has done with me. _cres._ if i could live to hear it, i were false. but, as a careful traveller, who, fearing assaults of robbers, leaves his wealth behind, i trust my heart with thee; and to the greeks bear but an empty casket. _troil._ then i will live, that i may keep that treasure; and, armed with this assurance, let thee go, loose, yet secure as is the gentle hawk, when, whistled off, she mounts into the wind. our love's like mountains high above the clouds; though winds and tempests beat their aged feet, their peaceful heads nor storm nor thunder know, but scorn the threatening rack that rolls below. [_exeunt._ scene ii. achilles _and_ patroclus _standing in their tent._--ulysses agamemnon, menelaus, nestor, _and_ ajax, _passing over the stage._ _ulys._ achilles stands i' the entrance of his tent: please it our general to pass strangely by him, as if he were forgot; and, princes all, look on him with neglectful eyes and scorn: pride must be cured by pride. _agam._ we'll execute your purpose, and put on a form of strangeness as we pass along; so do each prince; either salute him not, or else disdainfully, which will shake him more than if not looked on. i will lead the way. _achil._ what, comes the general to speak with me? you know my mind; i'll fight no more with troy. _agam._ what says achilles? would he aught with us? _nest._ would you, my lord, aught with the general? _achil._ no. _nest._ nothing, my lord. _agam._ the better. _menel._ how do you, how do you? _achil._ what, does the cuckold scorn me! _ajax._ how now, patroclus? _achil._ good morrow, ajax. _ajax._ ha! _achil._ good morrow. _ajax._ ay; and good next day too. [_exeunt all but_ achilles _and_ patroclus. _achil._ what mean these fellows? know they not achilles? _patro._ they pass by strangely; they were used to bow, and send their smiles before them to achilles; to come as humbly as they used to creep to holy altars. _achil._ am i poor of late? 'tis certain, greatness, once fallen out with fortune, must fall out with men too: what the declined is, he shall as soon read in the eyes of others, as feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies, show not their mealy wings but to the summer. _patro._ 'tis known you are in love with hector's sister, and therefore will not fight; and your not fighting draws on you this contempt. i oft have told you, a woman, impudent and mannish grown, is not more loathed than an effeminate man, in time of action: i am condemned for this: they think my little appetite to war deads all the fire in you; but rouse yourself, and love shall from your neck unloose his folds; or, like a dew-drop from a lion's mane, be shaken into air. _achil._ shall ajax fight with hector? _patro._ yes, and perhaps shall gain much honour by him. _achil._ i see my reputation is at stake. _patro._ o then beware; those wounds heal ill, that men have given themselves, because they give them deepest. _achil._ i'll do something; but what i know not yet.--no more; our champion. _re-enter_ ajax, agamemnon, menelaus, ulysses, nestor, diomede, _trumpet._ _agam._ here art thou, daring combat, valiant ajax. give, with thy trumpet, a loud note to troy, thou noble champion, that the sounding air may pierce the ears of the great challenger, and call him hither. _ajax._ trumpet, take that purse: now crack thy lungs, and split the sounding brass; thou blow'st for hector. [_trumpet sounds, and is answered from within._ _enter_ hector, Æneas, _and other trojans._ _agam._ yonder comes the troop. _Æn._ [_coming to the greeks._] health to the grecian lords:--what shall be done to him that shall be vanquished? or do you purpose a victor should be known? will you, the knights shall to the edge of all extremity pursue each other, or shall be divided by any voice or order of the field? hector bade ask. _agam._ which way would hector have it? _Æn._ he cares not, he'll obey conditions. _achil._ 'tis done like hector, but securely done; a little proudly, and too much despising the knight opposed; he might have found his match. _Æn._ if not achilles, sir, what is your name? _achil._ if not achilles, nothing. _Æn._ therefore achilles; but whoe'er, know this; great hector knows no pride: weigh him but well, and that, which looks like pride, is courtesy. this ajax is half made of hector's blood, in love whereof half hector stays at home. _achil._ a maiden battle? i perceive you then. _agam._ go, diomede, and stand by valiant ajax; as you and lord Æneas shall consent, so let the fight proceed, or terminate. [_the trumpets sound on both sides, while_ Æneas _and_ diomede _take their places, as judges of the field. the trojans and grecians rank themselves on either side._ _ulys._ they are opposed already. [_fight equal at first, then_ ajax _has_ hector _at disadvantage; at last_ hector _closes,_ ajax _falls on one knee,_ hector _stands over him, but strikes not, and_ ajax _rises._ _Æn._ [_throwing his gauntlet betwixt them._] princes, enough; you have both shown much valour. _diom._ and we, as judges of the field, declare, the combat here shall cease. _ajax,_ i am not warm yet, let us fight again. _Æn._ then let it be as hector shall determine. _hect._ if it be left to me, i will no more.-- ajax, thou art my aunt hesione's son; the obligation of our blood forbids us. but, were thy mixture greek and trojan so, that thou couldst say, this part is grecian all, and this is trojan,--hence thou shouldst not bear one grecian limb, wherein my pointed sword had not impression made. but heaven forbid that any drop, thou borrowest from my mother, should e'er be drained by me: let me embrace thee, cousin. by him who thunders, thou hast sinewy arms: hector would have them fall upon him thus:-- [_embrace._ thine be the honour, ajax. _ajax._ i thank thee, hector; thou art too gentle, and too free a man. i came to kill thee, cousin, and to gain a great addition from that glorious act: but thou hast quite disarmed me. _hect._ i am glad; for 'tis the only way i could disarm thee. _ajax._ if i might in intreaty find success, i would desire to see thee at my tent. _diom._ 'tis agamemnon's wish, and great achilles; both long to see the valiant hector there. _hect._ Æneas, call my brother troilus to me; and you two sign this friendly interview. [agamemnon, _and the chief of both sides approach._ _agam._ [_to hect._] worthy of arms, as welcome as to one, who would be rid of such an enemy.-- [_to_ troil.] my well-famed lord of troy, no less to you. _nest._ i have, thou gallant trojan, seen thee often, labouring for destiny, make cruel way through ranks of grecian youth; and i have seen thee as swift as lightning spur thy phrygian steed, and seen thee scorning many forfeit lives, when thou hast hung thy advanced sword i' th' air, not letting it decline on prostrate foes; that i have said to all the standers-by, lo, jove is yonder, distributing life. _hect._ let me embrace thee, good old chronicle, who hast so long walked hand in hand with time: most reverend nestor, i am glad to clasp thee. _ulys._ i wonder now, how yonder city stands, when we have here her base and pillar by us. _hect._ i know your count'nance, lord ulysses, well. ah, sir, there's many a greek and trojan dead, since first i saw yourself and diomede in ilion, on your greekish embassy. _achil._ now, hector, i have fed mine eyes on thee; i have with exact view perused thee, hector, and quoted joint by joint. _hect._ is this achilles? _achil._ i am achilles. _hect._ stand fair, i pr'ythee, let me look on thee. _achil._ behold thy fill. _hect._ nay, i have done already. _achil._ thou art too brief. i will, the second time, as i would buy thee, view thee limb by limb. _hect._ o, like a book of sport, thou read'st me o'er; but there's more in me than thou understand'st. _achil._ tell me, ye heavens, in which part of his body shall i destroy him? there, or there, or there? that i may give the imagined wound a name, and make distinct the very breach, whereout hector's great spirit flew! answer me, heavens! _hect._ wert thou an oracle to tell me this, i'd not believe thee; henceforth guard thee well, i'll kill thee every where. ye noble grecians, pardon me this boast; his insolence draws folly from my lips; but i'll endeavour deeds to match these words, else may i never-- _ajax._ do not chafe thee, cousin;-- and you, achilles, let these threats alone; you may have every day enough of hector, if you have stomach; the general state, i fear, can scarce intreat you to perform your boast. _hect._ i pray you, let us see you in the field; we have had pelting wars, since you refused the grecian cause. _achil._ do'st thou entreat me, hector? to-morrow will i meet thee, fierce as death; to-night, all peace. _hect._ thy hand upon that match. _agam._ first, all you grecian princes, go with me, and entertain great hector; afterwards, as his own leisure shall concur with yours, you may invite him to your several tents. [_exeunt_ agam. hect. menel. nest. diom. _together._ _troil._ my lord ulysses, tell me, i beseech you, in what part of the field does calchas lodge? _ulys._ at menelaus' tent: there diomede does feast with him to-night; who neither looks on heaven or on earth, but gives all gaze and bent of amorous view on cressida alone. _troil._ shall i, brave lord, be bound to you so much, after we part from agamemnon's tent, to bring me thither? _ulys._ i shall wait on you. as freely tell me, of what honour was this cressida in troy? had she no lovers there, who mourn her absence? _troil._ o sir, to such as boasting show their scars, reproof is due: she loved and was beloved; that's all i must impart. lead on, my lord. [_exeunt_ ulysses _and_ troilus. _achil._ [_to_ patro.] i'll heat his blood with greekish wine to-night, which with my sword i mean to cool to-morrow. patroclus, let us feast him to the height. _enter_ thersites. _patro._ here comes thersites. _achil._ how now, thou core of envy, thou crusty batch of nature, what's the news? _thers._ why, thou picture of what thou seemest, thou idol of ideot worshippers, there's a letter for thee. _achil._ from whence, fragment? _thers._ why, thou full dish of fool, from troy. _patro._ well said, adversity! what makes thee so keen to-day? _thers._ because a fool's my whetstone. _patro._ meaning me? _thers._ yes, meaning thy no meaning; pr'ythee, be silent, boy, i profit not by thy talk. now the rotten diseases of the south, gut-gripings, ruptures, catarrhs, loads of gravel in the back, lethargies, cold palsies, and the like, take thee, and take thee again! thou green sarcenet flap for a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigal's purse, thou! ah how the poor world is pestered with such water-flies, such diminutives of nature! _achil._ my dear patroclus, i am quite prevented from my great purpose, bent on hector's life. here is a letter from my love polyxena, both taxing and engaging me to keep an oath that i have sworn; and will not break it to save all greece. let honour go or stay, there's more religion in my love than fame. [_exeunt_ achilles _and_ patroclus. _thers._ with too much blood, and too little brain, these two are running mad before the dog-days. there's agamemnon, too, an honest fellow enough, and loves a brimmer heartily; but he has not so much brains as an old gander. but his brother menelaus, there's a fellow! the goodly transformation of jupiter when he loved europa; the primitive cuckold; a vile monkey tied eternally to his brother's tail,--to be a dog, a mule, a cat, a toad, an owl, a lizard, a herring without a roe, i would not care; but to be menelaus, i would conspire against destiny.--hey day! will with a wisp, and jack a lanthorn! hector, ajax, agamemnon, diomede, ulysses, troilus, _going with torches over the stage._ _agam._ we go wrong, we go wrong. _ajax._ no, yonder 'tis; there, where we see the light. _hect._ i trouble you. _ajax._ not at all, cousin; here comes achilles himself, to guide us. _enter_ achilles. _achil._ welcome, brave hector; welcome, princes all. _agam._ so now, brave prince of troy, i take my leave; ajax commands the guard to wait on you. _men._ good night, my lord. _hect._ good night, sweet lord menelaus. _thers._ [_aside._] sweet, quotha! sweet sink, sweet sewer, sweet jakes! _achil._ nestor will stay; and you, lord diomede, keep hector company an hour or two. _diom._ i cannot, sir; i have important business. _achil._ enter, my lords. _ulys._ [_to_ troil.] follow his torch: he goes to calchas's tent. [_exeunt_ achil. hect. ajax, _one way;_ diomede _another; and after him_ ulysses _and_ troilus. _thers._ this diomede's a false-hearted rogue, an unjust knave; i will no more trust him when he winks with one eye, than i will a serpent when he hisses. he will spend his mouth, and promise, like brabbler the hound; but when he performs, astronomers set it down for a prodigy: though i long to see hector, i cannot forbear dogging him. they say he keeps a trojan drab; and uses calchas's tent, that fugitive priest of troy, that canonical rogue of our side. i'll after him; nothing but whoring in this age; all incontinent rascals! [_exit_ thersites. _enter_ calchas _and_ cressida. _calch._ o, what a blessing is a virtuous child! thou has reclaimed my mind, and calmed my passions of anger and revenge; my love to troy revives within me, and my lost tiara no more disturbs my mind. _cres._ a virtuous conquest! _calch._ i have a woman's longing to return; but yet which way, without your aid, i know not. _cres._ time must instruct us how. _calch._ you must dissemble love to diomede still: false diomede, bred in ulysses' school, can never be deceived, but by strong arts and blandishments of love. put them in practice all; seem lost and won, and draw him on, and give him line again. this argus then may close his hundred eyes, and leave our flight more easy. _cres._ how can i answer this to love and troilus? _calch._ why, 'tis for him you do it; promise largely; that ring he saw you wear, he much suspects was given you by a lover; let him have it. _diom._ [_within._] ho, calchas, calchas! _calch._ hark! i hear his voice. pursue your project; doubt not the success. _cres._ heaven knows, against my will; and yet my hopes, this night to meet my troilus, while 'tis truce, afford my mind some ease. _calch._ no more: retire. [_exit_ cressida. _enter_ diomede: troilus _and_ ulysses _appear listening at one door, and_ thersites _watching at another._ _diom._ i came to see your daughter, worthy calchas. _calch._ my lord, i'll call her to you. [_exit_ calchas. _ulys._ [_to_ troil.] stand where the torch may not discover us. _enter_ cressida. _troil._ cressida comes forth to him! _diom._ how now, my charge? _cres._ now, my sweet guardian; hark, a word with you. [_whisper._ _troil._ ay, so familiar! _diom._ will you remember? _cres._ remember? yes. _troil._ heavens, what should she remember! plague and madness! _ulys._ prince, you are moved: let us depart in time, lest your displeasure should enlarge itself to wrathful terms: this place is dangerous; the time unlit: beseech you, let us go. _troil._ i pray you stay; by hell, and by hell's torments, i will not speak a word. _diom._ i'll hear no more: good night. _cres._ nay, but you part in anger! _troil._ does that grieve thee? o withered truth! _diom._ farewell, cozener. _cres._ indeed i am not: pray, come back again. _ulys._ you shake, my lord, at something: will you go? you will break out. _troil._ by all the gods i will not. there is, between my will and all my actions, a guard of patience: stay a little while. _thers._ [_aside._] how the devil luxury, with his fat rump, and potato-finger, tickles these together!--put him off a little, you foolish harlot! 'twill sharpen him the more. _diom._ but will you then? _cres._ i will, as soon as e'er the war's concluded. _diom_ give me some token, for the surety of it; the ring i saw you wear. _cres._ [_giving it._] if you must have it. _troil._ the ring? nay, then, 'tis plain! o beauty, where's thy faith! _ulys._ you have sworn patience. _thers._ that's well, that's well, the pledge is given; hold her to her word, good devil, and her soul's thine, i warrant thee. _diom._ whose was't? _cres._ by all diana's waiting train of stars, and by herself, i will not tell you whose. _diom._ why then thou lov'st him still: farewell for ever: thou never shalt mock diomede again. _cres._ you shall not go: one cannot speak a word, but straight it starts you. _diom._ i do not like this fooling. _thers._ nor i, by pluto: but that, which likes not you, pleases me best. _diom._ i shall expect your promise. _cres._ i'll perform it. not a word more, good night--i hope for ever: thus to deceive deceivers is no fraud. [_aside._ [_exeunt_ diomede _and_ cressida _severally._ _ulys._ all's done, my lord. _troil_ is it? _ulys._ pray let us go. _troil._ was cressida here? _ulys._ i cannot conjure, trojan. _troil._ she was not, sure! she was not; let it not be believed, for womanhood: think we had mothers, do not give advantage to biting satire, apt without a theme for defamation, to square all the sex by cressid's rule; rather think this not cressida. _thers._ will he swagger himself out on's own eyes? _troil._ this she! no, this was diomede's cressida. if beauty have a soul, this is not she:-- i cannot speak for rage;--that ring was mine:-- by heaven i gave it, in that point of time, when both our joys were fullest!--if he keeps it, let dogs eat troilus. _thers._ he'll tickle it for his concupy: this will be sport to see! patroclus will give me any thing for the intelligence of this whore; a parrot will not do more for an almond, than he will for a commodious drab:--i would i could meet with this rogue diomede too: i would croak like a raven to him; i would bode: it shall go hard but i'll find him out. [_exit_ thersites. _enter_ Æneas. _Æn._ i have been seeking you this hour, my lord: hector by this is arming him in troy. _ulys._ commend me, gallant troilus, to your brother: tell him, i hope he shall not need to arm; the fair polyxena has, by a letter, disarmed our great achilles of his rage. _troil._ this i shall say to hector. _ulys._ so i hope. pray heaven thersites have informed me true!-- [_aside._ _troil._ good night, my lord; accept distracted thanks! [_exit_ ulysses. _enter_ pandarus. _pand._ hear ye, my lord, hear ye; i have been seeing yon poor girl. there have been old doings there, i'faith. _troil._ [_aside._] hold yet, my spirits: let him pour it in: the poison's kind: the more i drink of it, the sooner 'twill dispatch me. _Æn._ to _pand._ peace, thou babbler! _pand._ she has been mightily made on by the greeks: she takes most wonderfully among 'em. achilles kissed her, and patroclus kissed her: nay, and old nestor put aside his grey beard, and brushed her with his whiskers. then comes me agamemnon with his general's staff, diving with a low bow even to the ground, and rising again, just at her lips: and after him came ulysses, and ajax, and menelaus: and they so pelted her, i'faith, pitter patter, pitter patter, as thick as hail-stones. and after that, a whole rout of 'em: never was a woman in phrygia better kissed. _troil._ [_aside._] hector said true: i find, i find it now! _pand._ and, last of all, comes me diomede, so demurely: that's a notable sly rogue, i warrant him! mercy upon us, how he laid her on upon the lips! for, as i told you, she's most mightily made on among the greeks. what, cheer up, i say, man! she has every one's good word. i think, in my conscience, she was born with a caul upon her head. _troil._ [_aside._] hell, death, confusion, how he tortures me! _pand._ and that rogue-priest, my brother, is so courted and treated for her sake: the young sparks do so pull him about, and haul him by the cassock: nothing but invitations to his tent, and his tent, and his tent. nay, and one of 'em was so bold, as to ask him, if she were a virgin; and with that, the rogue, my brother, takes me up a little god in his hand, and kisses it, and swears devoutly that she was; then was i ready to burst my sides with laughing, to think what had passed betwixt you two. _troil._ o i can bear no more! she's falsehood all: false by both kinds; for with her mother's milk she sucked the infusion of her father's soul. she only wants an opportunity; her soul's a whore already. _pand._ what, would you make a monopoly of a woman's lips? a little consolation, or so, might be allowed, one would think, in a lover's absence. _troil._ hence from my sight! let ignominy brand thy hated name; let modest matrons at thy mention start; and blushing virgins, when they read our annals, skip o'er the guilty page that holds thy legend, and blots the noble work. _pand._ o world, world: thou art an ungrateful patch of earth! thus the poor agent is despised! he labours painfully in his calling, and trudges between parties: but when their turns are served, come out's too good for him. i am mighty melancholy. i'll e'en go home, and shut up my doors, and die o' the sullens, like an old bird in a cage! [_exit_ pandarus. _enter_ diomede _and_ thersites. _thers._ [_aside._] there, there he is; now let it work: now play thy part, jealousy, and twinge 'em: put 'em between thy mill-stones, and grind the rogues together. _diom._ my lord, i am by ajax sent to inform you, this hour must end the truce. _Æn._ to _troil._ contain yourself: think where we are. _diom._ your stay will be unsafe. _troil._ it may, for those i hate. _thers._ [_aside._] well said, trojan: there's the first hit. _diom._ beseech you, sir, make haste; my own affairs call me another way. _thers._ [_aside._] what affairs? what affairs? demand that, dolt-head! the rogue will lose a quarrel, for want of wit to ask that question. _troil._ may i enquire where your affairs conduct you? _thers._ [_aside._] well said again; i beg thy pardon. _diom._ oh, it concerns you not. _troil._ perhaps it does. _diom._ you are too inquisitive: nor am i bound to satisfy an enemy's request. _troil._ you have a ring upon your finger, diomede, and given you by a lady. _diom._ if it were, 'twas given to one that can defend her gift. _thers._ [_aside._] so, so; the boars begin to gruntle at one another: set up your bristles now, a'both sides: whet and foam, rogues. _troil._ you must restore it, greek, by heaven you must; no spoil of mine shall grace a traitor's hand: and, with it, give me back the broken vows of my false fair; which, perjured as she is, i never will resign, but with my soul. _diom._ then thou, it seems, art that forsaken fool, who, wanting merit to preserve her heart, repines in vain to see it better placed; but know, (for now i take a pride to grieve thee) thou art so lost a thing in her esteem, i never heard thee named, but some scorn followed: thou wert our table-talk for laughing meals; thy name our sportful theme for evening-walks, and intermissive hours of cooler love, when hand in hand we went. _troil._ hell and furies! _thers._ [_aside._] o well stung, scorpion! now menelaus's greek horns are out o' doors, there's a new cuckold starts up on the trojan side. _troil._ yet this was she, ye gods, that very she, who in my arms lay melting all the night; who kissed and sighed, and sighed and kissed again, as if her soul flew upward to her lips, to meet mine there, and panted at the passage; who, loth to find the breaking day, looked out, and shrunk into my bosom, there to make a little longer darkness. _diom._ plagues and tortures! _thers._ good, good, by pluto! their fool's mad, to lose his harlot; and our fool's mad, that t'other fool had her first. if i sought peace now, i could tell 'em there's punk enough to satisfy 'em both: whore sufficient! but let 'em worry one another, the foolish curs; they think they never can have enough of carrion. _Æn._ my lords, this fury is not proper here in time of truce; if either side be injured, to-morrow's sun will rise apace, and then-- _troil._ and then! but why should i defer till then? my blood calls now, there is no truce for traitors; my vengeance rolls within my breast; it must, it will have vent,-- [_draws._ _diom._ hinder us not, Æneas, my blood rides high as his; i trust thy honour, and know thou art too brave a foe to break it.-- [_draws._ _thers._ now, moon! now shine, sweet moon! let them have just light enough to make their passes; and not enough to ward them. _Æn._ [_drawing too._] by heaven, he comes on this, who strikes the first. you both are mad; is this like gallant men, to fight at midnight; at the murderer's hour; when only guilt and rapine draw a sword? let night enjoy her dues of soft repose; but let the sun behold the brave man's courage. and this i dare engage for diomede,-- for though i am,--he shall not hide his head, but meet you in the very face of danger. _diom._ [_putting up._] be't so; and were it on some precipice, high as olympus, and a sea beneath, call when thou dar'st, just on the sharpest point i'll meet, and tumble with thee to destruction. _troil._ a gnawing conscience haunts not guilty men, as i'll haunt thee, to summon thee to this; nay, shouldst thou take the stygian lake for refuge, i'll plunge in after, through the boiling flames, to push thee hissing down the vast abyss. _diom._ where shall we meet? _troil._ before the tent of calchas. thither, through all your troops, i'll fight my way; and in the sight of perjured cressida, give death to her through thee. _diom._ 'tis largely promised; but i disdain to answer with a boast. be sure thou shalt be met. _troil._ and thou be found. [_exeunt_ troilus _and_ Æneas _one way;_ diomede _the other._ _thers._ now the furies take Æneas, for letting them sleep upon their quarrel; who knows but rest may cool their brains, and make them rise maukish to mischief upon consideration? may each of them dream he sees his cockatrice in t'other's arms; and be stabbing one another in their sleep, to remember them of their business when they wake: let them be punctual to the point of honour; and, if it were possible, let both be first at the place of execution; let neither of them have cogitation enough, to consider 'tis a whore they fight for; and let them value their lives at as little as they are worth: and lastly, let no succeeding fools take warning by them; but, in imitation of them, when a strumpet is in question, let them beneath their feet all reason trample, and think it great to perish by example. [_exit._ act v. scene i. hector, _trojans,_ andromache. _hect._ the blue mists rise from off the nether grounds, and the sun mounts apace. to arms, to arms! i am resolved to put to the utmost proof the fate of troy this day. _andr._ [_aside._] oh wretched woman, oh! _hect._ methought i heard you sigh, andromache. _andr._ did you, my lord? _hect._ did you, my lord? you answer indirectly; just when i said, that i would put our fate upon the extremest proof, you fetched a groan; and, as you checked yourself for what you did, you stifled it and stopt. come, you are sad. _andr._ the gods forbid! _hect._ what should the gods forbid? _andr._ that i should give you cause of just offence. _hect._ you say well; but you look not chearfully. i mean this day to waste the stock of war, and lay it prodigally out in blows. come, gird my sword, and smile upon me, love; like victory, come flying to my arms, and give me earnest of desired success. _andr._ the gods protect you, and restore you to me! _hect._ what, grown a coward! thou wert used, andromache, to give my courage courage; thou would'st cry,-- go hector, day grows old, and part of fame is ravished from thee by thy slothful stay. _andr._ [_aside._] what shall i do to seem the same i was?-- come, let me gird thy fortune to thy side, and conquest sit as close and sure as this. [_she goes to gird his sword, and it falls._ now mercy, heaven! the gods avert this omen! _hect._ a foolish omen! take it up again, and mend thy error. _andr._ i cannot, for my hand obeys me not; but, as in slumbers, when we fain would run from our imagined fears, our idle feet grow to the ground, our struggling voice dies inward; so now, when i would force myself to chear you, my faltering tongue can give no glad presage: alas, i am no more andromache. _hect._ why then thy former soul is flown to me; for i, methinks, am lifted into air, as if my mind, mastering my mortal part, would bear my exalted body to the gods. last night i dreamt jove sat on ida's top, and, beckoning with his hand divine from far, he pointed to a choir of demi-gods, bacchus and hercules, and all the rest, who, free from human toils, had gained the pitch of blest eternity;--lo there, he said, lo there's a place for hector. _andr._ be to thy enemies this boding dream! _hect._ why, it portends me honour and renown. _andr._ such honour as the brave gain after death; for i have dreamt all night of horrid slaughters, of trampling horses, and of chariot wheels wading in blood up to their axle-trees; of fiery demons gliding down the skies, and ilium brightened with a midnight blaze: o therefore, if thou lovest me, go not forth. _hect._ go to thy bed again, and there dream better.-- ho! bid my trumpet sound. _andr._ no notes of sally, for the heaven's sweet sake! 'tis not for nothing when my spirits droop; this is a day when thy ill stars are strong, when they have driven thy helpless genius down the steep of heaven, to some obscure retreat. _hect._ no more; even as thou lovest my fame, no more; my honour stands engaged to meet achilles. what will the grecians think, or what will he, or what will troy, or what wilt thou thyself, when once this ague fit of fear is o'er, if i should lose my honour for a dream? _andr._ your enemies too well your courage know, and heaven abhors the forfeit of rash vows, like spotted livers in a sacrifice. i cannot, o i dare not let you go; for, when you leave me, my presaging mind says, i shall never, never see you more. _hect._ thou excellently good, but oh too soft, let me not 'scape the danger of this day; but i have struggling in my manly soul, to see those modest tears, ashamed to fall, and witness any part of woman in thee! and now i fear, lest thou shouldst think it fear, if, thus dissuaded, i refuse to fight, and stay inglorious in thy arms at home. _andr._ oh, could i have that thought, i should not love thee; thy soul is proof to all things but to kindness; and therefore 'twas that i forbore to tell thee, how mad cassandra, full of prophecy, ran round the streets, and, like a bacchanal, cried,--hold him, priam, 'tis an ominous day; let him not go, for hector is no more. _hect._ our life is short, but to extend that span to vast eternity, is virtue's work; therefore to thee, and not to fear of fate, which once must come to all, give i this day. but see thou move no more the like request; for rest assured, that, to regain this hour, to-morrow will i tempt a double danger. mean time, let destiny attend thy leisure; i reckon this one day a blank of life. _enter_ troilus. _troil._ where are you, brother? now, in honour's name, what do you mean to be thus long unarmed? the embattled soldiers throng about the gates; the matrons to the turrets' tops ascend, holding their helpless children in their arms, to make you early known to their young eyes, and hector is the universal shout. _hect._ bid all unarm; i will not fight to-day. _troil._ employ some coward to bear back this news, and let the children hoot him for his pains. by all the gods, and by my just revenge, this sun shall shine the last for them or us; these noisy streets, or yonder echoing plains, shall be to-morrow silent as the grave. _andr._ o brother, do not urge a brother's fate, but, let this wreck of heaven and earth roll o'er, and, when the storm is past, put out to sea. _troil._ o now i know from whence his change proceeds; some frantic augur has observed the skies; some victim wants a heart, or crow flies wrong. by heaven, 'twas never well, since saucy priests grew to be masters of the listening herd, and into mitres cleft the regal crown; then, as the earth were scanty for their power, they drew the pomp of heaven to wait on them. shall i go publish, hector dares not fight, because a madman dreamt he talked with jove? what could the god see in a brain-sick priest, that he should sooner talk to him than me? _hect._ you know my name's not liable to fear. _troil._ yes, to the worst of fear,--to superstition. but whether that, or fondness of a wife, (the more unpardonable ill) has seized you, know this, the grecians think you fear achilles, and that polyxena has begged your life. _hect._ how! that my life is begged, and by my sister? _troil._ ulysses so informed me at our parting, with a malicious and disdainful smile: 'tis true, he said not, in broad words, you feared; but in well-mannered terms 'twas so agreed, achilles should avoid to meet with hector. _hect._ he thinks my sister's treason my petition; that, largely vaunting, in my heat of blood, more than i could, it seems, or durst perform, i sought evasion. _troil._ and in private prayed-- _hect._ o yes, polyxena to beg my life. _andr._ he cannot think so;--do not urge him thus. _hect._ not urge me! then thou think'st i need his urging. by all the gods, should jove himself descend, and tell me,--hector, thou deservest not life, but take it as a boon,--i would not live. but that a mortal man, and he, of all men, should think my life were in his power to give, i will not rest, till, prostrate on the ground, i make him, atheist-like, implore his breath of me, and not of heaven. _troil._ then you'll refuse no more to fight? _hect._ refuse! i'll not be hindered, brother. i'll through and through them, even their hindmost ranks, till i have found that large-sized boasting fool, who dares presume my life is in his gift. _andr._ farewell, farewell; 'tis vain to strive with fate! cassandra's raging god inspires my breast with truths that must be told, and not believed. look how he dies! look how his eyes turn pale! look how his blood bursts out at many vents! hark how troy roars, how hecuba cries out, and widowed i fill all the streets with screams! behold distraction, frenzy, and amazement, like antiques meet, and tumble upon heaps! and all cry, hector, hector's dead! oh hector! [_exit._ _hect._ what sport will be, when we return at evening, to laugh her out of countenance for her dreams! _troil._ i have not quenched my eyes with dewy sleep this night; but fiery fumes mount upward to my brains, and, when i breathe, methinks my nostrils hiss! i shall turn basilisk, and with my sight do my hands' work on diomede this day. _hect._ to arms, to arms! the vanguards are engaged let us not leave one man to guard the walls; both old and young, the coward and the brave, be summoned all, our utmost fate to try, and as one body move, whose soul am i. [_exeunt._ scene ii--_the camp._ _alarm within. enter_ agamemnon, ulysses, menelaus, _soldiers._ _agam._ thus far the promise of the day is fair. Æneas rather loses ground than gains. i saw him over-laboured, taking breath, and leaning on his spear, behold our trenches, like a fierce lion looking up to toils, which yet he durst not leap. _ulys._ and therefore distant death does all the work; the flights of whistling darts make brown the sky, whose clashing points strike fire, and gild the dusk; those, that reach home, from neither host are vain, so thick the prease; so lusty are their arms, that death seemed never sent with better will. nor was with less concernment entertained. _enter_ nestor. _agam._ now, nestor, what's the news? _nest._ i have descried a cloud of dust, that mounts in pillars upwards, expanding as it travels to our camp; and from the midst i heard a bursting shout, that rent the heaven; as if all troy were swarmed. and on the wing this way. _menel._ let them come, let them come. _agam._ where's great achilles? _ulys._ think not on achilles, till hector drag him from his tent to fight; which sure he will, for i have laid the train. _nest._ but young patroclus leads his myrmidons, and in their front, even in the face of hector, resolves to dare the trojans. _agam._ haste, ulysses, bid ajax issue forth and second him. _ulys._ oh noble general, let it not be so. oppose not rage, while rage is in its force, but give it way awhile, and let it waste. the rising deluge is not stopt with dams; those it o'erbears, and drowns the hopes of harvest; but, wisely managed, its divided strength is sluiced in channels, and securely drained. first, let small parties dally with their fury; but when their force is spent and unsupplied, the residue with mounds may be restrained, and dry-shod we may pass the naked ford. _enter_ thersites. _thers._ ho, ho, ho! _menel._ why dost thou laugh, unseasonable fool? _thers._ why, thou fool in season, cannot a man laugh, but thou thinkest he makes horns at thee? thou prince of the herd, what hast thou to do with laughing? 'tis the prerogative of a man, to laugh. thou risibility without reason, thou subject of laughter, thou fool royal! _ulys._ but tell us the occasion of thy mirth? _thers._ now a man asks me, i care not if i answer to my own kind.--why, the enemies are broken into our trenches; fools like menelaus fall by thousands yet not a human soul departs on either side. troilus and ajax have almost beaten one another's heads off, but are both immortal for want of brains. patroclus has killed sarpedon, and hector patroclus, so there is a towardly springing fop gone off; he might have made a prince one day, but now he's nipt in the very bud and promise of a most prodigious coxcomb. _agam._ bear off patroclus' body to achilles; revenge will arm him now, and bring us aid. the alarm sounds near, and shouts are driven upon us, as of a crowd confused in their retreat. _ulys._ open your ranks, and make these madmen way, then close again to charge upon their backs, and quite consume the relics of the war. [_exeunt all but_ thersites. _thers._ what shoals of fools one battle sweeps away! how it purges families of younger brothers, highways of robbers, and cities of cuckold-makers! there is nothing like a pitched battle for these brisk addle-heads! your physician is a pretty fellow, but his fees make him tedious, he rides not fast enough; the fools grow upon him, and their horse bodies are poison proof. your pestilence is a quicker remedy, but it has not the grace to make distinction; it huddles up honest men and rogues together. but your battle has discretion; it picks out all the forward fools, and sowses them together into immortality. [_shouts and alarms within_] plague upon these drums and trumpets! these sharp sauces of the war, to get fools an appetite to fighting! what do i among them? i shall be mistaken for some valiant ass, and die a martyr in a wrong religion. [_here grecians fly over the stage pursued by trojans; one trojan turns back upon_ thersites _who is flying too._ _troj._ turn, slave, and fight. _thers._ [_turning._] what art thou? _troj._ a bastard son of priam's. _thers._ i am a bastard too, i love bastards, i am bastard in body, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in every thing illegitimate. a bear will not fasten upon a bear; why should one bastard offend another! let us part fair, like true sons of whores, and have the fear of our mothers before our eyes. _troj._ the devil take thee, coward. [_exit troj._ _thers._ now, would i were either invisible or invulnerable! these gods have a fine time on it; they can see and make mischief, and never feel it. [_clattering of swords at both doors; he runs each way, and meets the noise._ a pox clatter you! i am compassed in. now would i were that blockhead ajax for a minute. some sturdy trojan will poach me up with a long pole! and then the rogues may kill one another at free cost, and have nobody left to laugh at them. now destruction! now destruction! _enter_ hector _and_ troilus _driving in the greeks._ _hect._ to _thers._ speak what part thou fightest on! _thers._ i fight not at all; i am for neither side. _hect._ thou art a greek; art thou a match for hector? art thou of blood and honour? _thers._ no, i am a rascal, a scurvy railing knave, a very filthy rogue. _hect._ i do believe thee; live. _thers._ god-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but the devil break thy neck for frighting me. [_aside._ _troil._ (_returning._) what prisoner have you there? _hect._ a gleaning of the war; a rogue, he says. _troil._ dispatch him, and away. [_going to kill him._ _thers._ hold, hold!--what, is it no more but dispatch a man and away! i am in no such haste: i will not die for greece; i hate greece, and by my good will would never have been born there; i was mistaken into that country, and betrayed by my parents to be born there. and besides, i have a mortal enemy among the grecians, one diomede, a damned villain, and cannot die with a safe conscience till i have first murdered him. _troil._ shew me that diomede, and thou shalt live. _thers._ come along with me, and i will conduct thee to calchas's tent, where i believe he is now, making war with the priest's daughter. _hect._ here we must part, our destinies divide us; brother and friend, farewell. _troil._ when shall we meet? _hect._ when the gods please; if not, we once must part. look; on yon hill their squandered troops unite. _troil._ if i mistake not, 'tis their last reserve: the storm's blown o'er, and those but after-drops. _hect._ i wish our men be not too far engaged; for few we are and spent, as having born the burthen of the day: but, hap what can, they shall be charged; achilles must be there, and him i seek, or death. divide our troops, and take the fresher half. _troil._ o brother! _hect._ no dispute of ceremony: these are enow for me, in faith enow. their bodies shall not flag while i can lead; nor wearied limbs confess mortality, before those ants, that blacken all yon hill, are crept into the earth. farewell. [_exit_ hect. _troil._ farewell.--come, greek. _thers._ now these rival rogues will clapperclaw one another, and i shall have the sport of it. [_exit_ troil. _with_ thers. _enter_ achilles _and myrmidons._ _achill._ which way went hector? _myrmid._ up yon sandy hill; you may discern them by their smoking track: a wavering body working with bent hams against the rising, spent with painful march, and by loose footing cast on heaps together. _achil._ o thou art gone, thou sweetest, best of friends! why did i let thee tempt the shock of war, ere yet the tender nerves had strung thy limbs, and knotted into strength! yet, though too late, i will, i will revenge thee, my patroclus! nor shall thy ghost thy murderers long attend, but thou shalt hear him calling charon back, ere thou art wafted to the farther shore.-- make haste, my soldiers; give me this day's pains for my dead friend: strike every hand with mine, till hector breathless on the ground we lay! revenge is honour, the securest way. [_exit with myrm._ _enter_ thersites, troilus, _trojans._ _thers._ that's calchas's tent. _troil._ then, that one spot of earth contains more falsehood, than all the sun sees in his race beside. that i should trust the daughter of a priest! priesthood, that makes a merchandise of heaven! priesthood, that sells even to their prayers and blessings and forces us to pay for our own cozenage! _thers._ nay, cheats heaven too with entrails and with offals; gives it the garbage of a sacrifice, and keeps the best for private luxury. _troil._ thou hast deserved thy life for cursing priests. let me embrace thee; thou art beautiful: that back, that nose, those eyes are beautiful: live; thou art honest, for thou hat'st a priest. _thers._ [_aside._] farewell, trojan; if i escape with life, as i hope, and thou art knocked on the head, as i hope too, i shall be the first that ever escaped the revenge of a priest after cursing him; and thou wilt not be the last, i prophesy, that a priest will bring to ruin. [_exit_ ther. _troil._ methinks, my soul is roused to her last work; has much to do, and little time to spare. she starts within me, like a traveller, who sluggishly outslept his morning hour, and mends his pace to reach his inn betimes. [_noise within,_ follow, follow! a noise of arms! the traitor may be there; or else, perhaps, that conscious scene of love, the tent, may hold him; yet i dare not search, for oh, i fear to find him in that place. [_exit_ troilus. _enter_ calchas _and_ cressida. _cres._ where is he? i'll be justified, or die. _calch._ so quickly vanished! he was here but now. he must be gone to search for diomede; for diomede told me, here they were to fight. _cres._ alas! _calch._ you must prevent, and not complain. _cres._ if troilus die, i have no share in life. _calch._ if diomede sink beneath the sword of troilus we lose not only a protector here, but are debarred all future means of flight. _cres._ what then remains? _calch._ to interpose betimes betwixt their swords; or, if that cannot be, to intercede for him, who shall be vanquished. fate leaves no middle course. [_exit_ calchas. _clashing within._ _cres._ ah me! i hear them, and fear 'tis past prevention. _enter_ diomede, _retiring before_ troilus, _and falling as he enters._ _troil._ now beg thy life, or die. _diom._ no; use thy fortune: i loath the life, which thou canst give, or take. _troil._ scorn'st thou my mercy, villain!--take thy wish.-- _cres._ hold, hold your hand, my lord, and hear me speak. [troilus _turns back; in which time_ diomede _rises, trojans and greeks enter, and rank themselves on both sides of their captains._ _troil._ did i not hear the voice of perjured cressida? com'st thou to give the last stab to my heart? as if the proofs of all thy former falsehood were not enough convincing, com'st thou now to beg my rival's life? whom, oh, if any spark of truth remained, thou couldst not thus, even to my face, prefer. _cres._ what shall i say!--that you suspect me false, has struck me dumb! but let him live, my troilus; by all our loves, by all our past endearments, i do adjure thee, spare him. _troil._ hell and death! _cres._ if ever i had power to bend your mind, believe me still your faithful cressida; and though my innocence appear like guilt, because i make his forfeit life my suit, 'tis but for this, that my return to you would be cut off for ever by his death; my father, treated like a slave, and scorned; myself in hated bonds a captive held. _troil._ could i believe thee, could i think thee true, in triumph would i bear thee back to troy, though greece could rally all her shattered troops, and stand embattled to oppose my way. but, oh, thou syren, i will stop my ears to thy enchanting notes; the winds shall bear upon their wings thy words, more light than they. _cres._ alas! i but dissembled love to him. if ever he had any proof, beyond what modesty might give-- _diom._ no! witness this.-- [_the ring shewn._ there, take her, trojan, thou deserv'st her best; you good, kind-natured, well-believing fools, are treasures to a woman. i was a jealous, hard, vexatious lover, and doubted even this pledge,--till full possession; but she was honourable to her word, and i have no just reason to complain. _cres._ o unexampled, frontless impudence! _troil._ hell, show me such another tortured wretch as troilus! _diom._ nay, grieve not; i resign her freely up; i'm satisfied; and dare engage for cressida, that, if you have a promise of her person, she shall be willing to come out of debt. _cres._ [_kneeling._] my only lord, by all those holy vows, which, if there be a power above, are binding, or, if there be a hell below, are fearful, may every imprecation, which your rage can wish on me, take place, if i am false! _diom._ nay, since you're so concerned to be believed, i'm sorry i have pressed my charge so far: be what you would be thought; i can be grateful. _troil._ grateful! oh torment! now hell's bluest flames receive her quick, with all her crimes upon her! let her sink spotted down! let the dark host make room, and point, and hiss her as she goes! let the most branded ghosts of all her sex rejoice, and cry,--"here comes a blacker fiend!" let her-- _cres._ enough, my lord; you've said enough. this faithless, perjured, hated cressida, shall be no more the subject of your curses: some few hours hence, and grief had done your work; but then your eyes had missed the satisfaction, which thus i give you,--thus-- [_she stabs herself; they both run to her._ _diom._ help! save her, help! _cres._ stand off, and touch me not, thou traitor diomede;-- but you, my only troilus, come near: trust me, the wound, which i have given this breast, is far less painful than the wound you gave it. oh, can you yet believe, that i am true? _troil._ this were too much, even if thou hadst been false! but oh, thou purest, whitest innocence,-- for such i know thee now, too late i know it!-- may all my curses, and ten thousand more, heavier than they, fall back upon my head; pelion and ossa, from the giants' graves be torn by some avenging deity, and hurled at me, a bolder wretch than they, who durst invade the skies! _cres._ hear him not, heavens; but hear me bless him with my latest breath! and, since i question not your hard decree, that doomed my days unfortunate and few, add all to him you take away from me; and i die happy, that he thinks me true. [_dies._ _troil._ she's gone for ever, and she blest me dying! could she have cursed me worse! she died for me, and, like a woman, i lament for her. distraction pulls me several ways at once: here pity calls me to weep out my eyes, despair then turns me back upon myself, and bids me seek no more, but finish here. [_points his sword to his breast._ ha, smilest thou, traitor! thou instruct'st me best, and turn'st my just revenge to punish thee. _diom._ thy worst, for mine has been beforehand with thee; i triumph in thy vain credulity, which levels thy despairing state to mine; but yet thy folly, to believe a foe, makes thine the sharper and more shameful loss. _troil._ by my few moments of remaining life, i did not hope for any future joy; but thou hast given me pleasure ere i die, to punish such a villain.--fight apart; [_to his soldiers._ for heaven and hell have marked him out for me, and i should grudge even his least drop of blood to any other hand. [troilus _and_ diomede _fight, and both parties engage at the same time. the trojans make the greeks retire, and_ troilus _makes_ diomede _give ground, and hurts him. trumpets sound._ achilles _enters with his myrmidons, on the backs of the trojans, who fight in a ring, encompassed round._ troilus, _singling_ diomede, _gets him down, and kills him; and_ achilles _kills_ troilus _upon him. all the trojans die upon the place,_ troilus _last._ _enter_ agamemnon, menelaus, ulysses, nestor, ajax, _and attendants._ _achil._ our toils are done, and those aspiring walls, the work of gods, and almost mating heaven, must crumble into rubbish on the plain. _agam._ when mighty hector fell beneath thy sword, their old foundations shook; their nodding towers threatened from high the amazed inhabitants; and guardian-gods, for fear, forsook their fanes. _achil._ patroclus, now be quiet; hector's dead; and, as a second offering to thy ghost, lies troilus high upon a heap of slain; and noble diomede beneath, whose death this hand of mine revenged. _ajax._ revenged it basely: for troilus fell by multitudes opprest, and so fell hector; but 'tis vain to talk. _ulys._ hail, agamemnon! truly victor now! while secret envy, and while open pride, among thy factious nobles discord threw; while public good was urged for private ends, and those thought patriots, who disturbed it most; then, like the headstrong horses of the sun, that light, which should have cheered the world, consumed it: now peaceful order has resumed the reins, old time looks young, and nature seems renewed. then, since from home-bred factions ruin springs, let subjects learn obedience to their kings. [_exeunt._ epilogue, spoken by thersites. these cruel critics put me into passion; for, in their lowering looks i read damnation: you expect a satire, and i seldom fail; when i'm first beaten, 'tis my part to rail. you british fools, of the old trojan stock, that stand so thick, one cannot miss the flock, poets have cause to dread a keeping pit, when women's cullies come to judge of wit. as we strew rat's-bane when we vermin fear, 'twere worth our cost to scatter fool-bane here; and, after all our judging fops were served, dull poets, too, should have a dose reserved; such reprobates, as, past all sense of shaming, write on, and ne'er are satisfied with damning: next, those, to whom the stage does not belong, such whose vocation only is--to song; at most to prologue, when, for want of time, poets take in for journey-work in rhime. but i want curses for those mighty shoals of scribbling chloris's, and phyllis' fools: those oafs should be restrained, during their lives, from pen and ink, as madmen are from knives. i could rail on, but 'twere a task as vain, as preaching truth at rome, or wit in spain: yet, to huff out our play was worth my trying; john lilburn 'scaped his judges by defying:[ ] if guilty, yet i'm sure o' the church's blessing, by suffering for the plot, without confessing. footnote: . lilburn, the most turbulent, but the boldest and most upright of men, had the merit of defying and resisting the tyranny of the king, of the parliament, and of the protector. he was convicted in the star-chamber, but liberated by the parliament; he was tried on the parliamentary statute for treasons in , and before cromwell's high court of justice in ; and notwithstanding an audacious defence,--which to some has been more perilous than a feeble cause,--he was, in both cases, triumphantly acquitted. * * * * * the spanish friar; or, the double discovery. _ut melius possis fallere, sume togam._ --mart. _--alterna revisens lasit, et in solido rursus fortuna locavit._ --virg. the spanish friar. the spanish friar, or the double discovery, is one of the best and most popular of our poet's dramatic efforts. the plot is, as johnson remarks, particularly happy, for the coincidence and coalition of the tragic and comic plots. the grounds for this eminent critic's encomium will be found to lie more deep than appears at first sight. it was, indeed, a sufficiently obvious connection, to make the gay lorenzo an officer of the conquering army, and attached to the person of torrismond. this expedient could hardly have escaped the invention of the most vulgar playwright, that ever dovetailed tragedy and comedy together. the felicity of dryden's plot, therefore, does not consist in the ingenuity of his original conception, but in the minutely artificial strokes, by which the reader is perpetually reminded of the dependence of the one part of the play on the other. these are so frequent, and appear so very natural, that the comic plot, instead of diverting our attention from the tragic business, recals it to our mind by constant and unaffected allusion. no great event happens in the higher region of the camp or court, that has not some indirect influence upon the intrigues of lorenzo and elvira; and the part which the gallant is called upon to act in the revolution that winds up the tragic interest, while it is highly in character, serves to bring the catastrophe of both parts of the play under the eye of the spectator, at one and the same time. thus much seemed necessary to explain the felicity of combination, upon which dryden justly valued himself, and which johnson sanctioned by his high commendation. but, although artfully conjoined, the different departments of this tragi-comedy are separate subjects of critical remark. the comic part of the spanish friar, as it gives the first title to the play, seems to claim our first attention. indeed, some precedence is due to it in another point of view; for, though the tragic scenes may be matched in all for love, don sebastian, and else where, the spanish friar contains by far the most happy of dryden's comic effusions. it has, comparatively speaking, this high claim to commendation, that, although the intrigue is licentious, according to the invariable licence of the age, the language is, in general, free from the extreme and disgusting coarseness, which our author too frequently mistook for wit, or was contented to substitute in its stead. the liveliness and even brilliancy of the dialogue, shows that dryden, from the stores of his imagination, could, when he pleased, command that essential requisite of comedy; and that, if he has seldom succeeded, it was only because he mistook the road, or felt difficulty in travelling it. the character of dominic is of that broadly ludicrous nature, which was proper to the old comedy. it would be difficult to show an ordinary conception more fully brought out. he is, like falstaff, a compound of sensuality and talent, finely varied by the professional traits with which it suited the author's purpose to adorn his character. such an addition was, it is true, more comic than liberal; but dryden, whose constant dislike to the clerical order glances out in many of his performances, was not likely to be scrupulous, when called upon to pourtray one of their members in his very worst colours. to counterbalance the friar's scandalous propensities of every sort, and to render him an object of laughter, rather than abhorrence, the author has gifted this reprobate churchman with a large portion of wit; by means of which, and by a ready presence of mind, always indicative of energy, he preserves an ascendence over the other characters, and escapes detection and disgrace, until poetical justice, and the conclusion of the play, called for his punishment. we have a natural indulgence for an amusing libertine; and, i believe, that, as most readers commiserate the disgrace of falstaff, a few may be found to wish that dominic's penance had been of a nature more decent and more theatrical than the poet has assigned him[ ]. from the dedication, as well as the prologue, it appears that dryden, however contrary to his sentiments at a future period, was, at present, among those who held up to contempt and execration the character of the roman catholic priesthood. by one anonymous lampoon, this is ascribed to a temporary desertion of the court party, in resentment for the loss, or discontinuance of his pension. this allowance, during the pressure upon the exchequer, was, at least, irregularly paid, of which dryden repeatedly complains, and particularly in a letter to the earl of rochester. but the hardship was owing entirely to the poverty of the public purse; and, when the anonymous libeller affirms, that dryden's pension was withdrawn, on account of his share in the essay on satire, he only shows that his veracity is on a level with his poverty[ ]. the truth seems to be, that dryden partook in some degree of the general ferment which the discovery of the popish plot had excited; and we may easily suppose him to have done so without any impeachment to his monarchial tenets, since north himself admits, that at the first opening of the plot, the chiefs of the loyal party joined in the cry. indeed, that mysterious transaction had been investigated by none more warmly than by danby, the king's favourite minister, and a high favourer of the prerogative. even when writing absalom and achitophel, our author by no means avows an absolute disbelief of the whole plot, while condemning the extraordinary exaggerations, by which it had been rendered the means of much bloodshed and persecution[ ]. it seems, therefore, fair to believe, that, without either betraying or disguising his own principles, he chose, as a popular subject for the drama, an attack upon an obnoxious priesthood, whom he, in common with all the nation, believed to have been engaged in the darkest intrigues against the king and government. i am afraid that this task was the more pleasing, from that prejudice against the clergy, of all countries and religions, which, as already noticed, our author displays, in common with other wits of that licentious age[ ]. the character of the spanish friar was not, however, forgotten, when dryden became a convert to the roman catholic persuasion; and, in many instances, as well as in that just quoted, it was assumed as the means of fixing upon him a charge of inconsistency in politics, and versatility in religion[ ]. the tragic part of the "spanish friar" has uncommon merit. the opening of the drama, and the picture of a besieged town in the last extremity, is deeply impressive, while the description of the noise of the night attack, and the gradual manner in which the intelligence of its success is communicated, arrests the attention, and prepares expectation for the appearance of the hero, with all the splendour which ought to attend the principal character in tragedy. the subsequent progress of the plot is liable to a capital objection, from the facility with which the queen, amiable and virtuous, as we are bound to suppose her, consents to the murder of the old dethroned monarch. we question if the operation of any motive, however powerful, could have been pleaded with propriety, in apology for a breach of theatrical decorum, so gross, and so unnatural. but, in fact, the queen is only actuated by a sort of reflected ambition, a desire to secure to her lover a crown, which she thought in danger; but which, according to her own statement, she only valued on his account. this is surely too remote and indirect a motive, to urge a female to so horrid a crime. there is also something vilely cold-hearted, in her attempt to turn the guilt and consequences of her own crime upon bertran, who, whatever faults he might have to others, was to the queen no otherwise obnoxious, than because the victim of her own inconstancy. the gallant, virtuous, and enthusiastic character of torrismond, must be allowed, in some measure, to counterbalance that of his mistress, however unhappily he has placed his affections. but the real excellence of these scenes consists less in peculiarity of character, than in the vivacity and power of the language, which, seldom sinking into vulgarity, or rising into bombast, maintains the mixture of force and dignity, best adapted to the expression of tragic passion. upon the whole, as the comic part of this play is our author's master-piece in comedy, the tragic plot may be ranked with his very best efforts of that kind, whether in "don sebastian," or "all for love." the "spanish friar" appears to have been brought out shortly after mr thynne's murder, which is alluded to in the prologue, probably early in - . the whimsical caricature, which it presented to the public, in father dominic, was received with rapture by the prejudiced spectators, who thought nothing could be exaggerated in the character of a roman catholic priest. yet, the satire was still more severe in the first edition, and afterwards considerably softened[ ]. it was, as dryden himself calls it, a protestant play; and certainly, as jeremy collier somewhere says, was rare protestant diversion, and much for the credit of the reformation. accordingly, the "spanish friar" was the only play prohibited by james ii. after his accession; an interdict, which may be easily believed no way disagreeable to the author, now a convert to the roman church. it is very remarkable, that, after the revolution, it was the first play represented by order of queen mary, and honoured with her presence; a choice, of which she had abundant reason to repent, as the serious part of the piece gave as much scope for malicious application against herself, as the comic against the religion of her father[ ]. footnotes: . collier remarks the injustice of punishing the agent of lorenzo's vice, while he was himself brought off with flying colours. he observes, "'tis not the fault which is corrected, but the priest. the author's discipline is seldom without a bias. he commonly gives the laity the pleasure of an ill action, and the clergy the punishment." _view of the immorality and profaneness of the stage_, p. . . to satire next thy talent was addressed, fell foul on all thy friends among the rest; nay, even thy royal patron was not spared, but an obscene, a sauntering wretch declared. thy loyal libel we can still produce, beyond example, and beyond excuse. o strange return, to a forgiving king, (but the warmed viper wears the greatest sting,) for pension lost, and justly without doubt; when servants snarl we ought to kick them out. they that disdain their benefactor's bread. no longer ought by bounty to be fed. that lost, the visor changed, you turn about, and straight a true-blue protestant crept out. the friar now was writ, and some will say, they smell a malcontent through all the play. the papist too was damned, unfit for trust, called treacherous, shameless, profligate, unjust, and kingly power thought arbitrary lust. this lasted till thou didst thy pension gain, and that changed both thy morals and thy strain. _the laureat, th october, ._ . from hence began that plot, the nation's curse, bad in itself, but represented worse. raised in extremes, and in extremes decryed, with oaths affirmed, with dying vows denied; nor weighed nor winnowed by the multitude, but swallowed in the mass unchewed and crude. some truth there was, but dashed and bruised with lies, to please the fools, and puzzle all the wise. succeeding times did equal folly call. believing nothing, or believing all. . "thus we see," says collier, "how hearty these people are in their ill-will; how they attack religion under every form, and pursue the priesthood through all the subdivisions of opinion. neither jews nor heathens, turk nor christians, rome nor geneva, church nor conventicle, can escape them. they are afraid lest virtue should have any quarters, undisturbed conscience any corner to retire to, or god worshipped in any place." _short view, &c._ p. . . "i have read somewhere in mons. rapin's _reflections sur la poetique_, that a certain venetian nobleman, andrea naugeria by name, was wont every year to sacrifice a martial to the manes of catullus: in imitation of this, a celebrated poet, in the preface before the spanish friar, is pleased to acquaint the world, that he has indignation enough to burn a bussy d'amboys, annually, to the memory of ben jonson. since the modern ceremony, of offering up one author at the altar of another, is likely to advance into a fashion; and having already the authority of two such great men to recommend it, the courteous reader may be pleased to take notice, that the author of the following dialogue is resolved, (god willing) on the festival of the seven sleepers, as long as he lives, to sacrifice the hind and panther to the memory of mr quarels and john bunyan: or, if a writer that has notoriously contradicted himself, and espoused the quarrel of two different parties, may be considered under two distinct characters, he designs to deliver up the author of the hind and panther, to be lashed severely by, and to beg pardon of, the worthy gentleman that wrote the spanish friar, and the religion laici." _the reason of mr bayes' changing his religion._ preface. . "the revolter," a tragi-comedy, , p. . . it is impossible to avoid transcribing the whole account of this representation, with some other curious particulars, contained in a letter from the earl of nottingham, published by sir john dalrymple, from a copy given him by the bishop of dromore; and also inserted by mr malone in his third volume of dryden's prose works. "i am loth to send blank paper by a carrier, but am rather willing to send some of the tattle of the town, than nothing at all; which will at least serve for an hour's chat,--and then convert the scrawl to its proper use. "the only day her majesty gave herself the diversion of a play, and that on which she designed to see another, has furnished the town with discourse for near a month. the choice of the play was the spanish friar, the only play forbid by the late k[ing], some unhappy expressions, among which those that follow, put her in some disorder, and forced her to hold up her fan, and often look behind her, and call for her palatine and hood, and any thing she could next think of; while those who were in the pit before her, turned their heads over their shoulders, and all in general directed their looks towards her, whenever their fancy led them to make any application of what was said. in one place, where the queen of arragon is going to church in procession, 'tis said by a spectator, 'very good; she usurps the throne, keeps the old king in prison, and, at the same time, is praying for a blessing on her army;'--and when said, 'that 'tis observed at court, who weeps, and who wears black for good king sancho's death,' 'tis said, 'who is that, that can flatter a court like this? can i sooth tyranny? seem pleas'd to see my royal master murthered; his crown usurped; a distaff in the throne?'--and 'what title has this queen, but lawless force; and force must pull her down'--twenty more things are said, which may be wrested to what they were never designed: but however, the observations then made furnished the town with talk, till something else happened, which gave it much occasion for discourse; for another play being ordered to be acted, the queen came not, being taken up with other diversion. she dined with mrs gradens, the famous woman in the hall, that sells fine laces and head-dresses; from thence she went to the jew's, that sells indian things; to mrs ferguson's, de vett's, mrs harrison's, and other indian houses; but not to mrs potter's, though in her way; which caused mrs potter to say, that she might as well have hoped for that honour as others, considering that the whole design of bringing the queen and king was managed at her house, and the consultations held there; so that she might as well have thrown away a little money in raffling there, as well as at the other houses: but it seems that my lord devonshire has got mrs potter to be laundress: she has not much countenance of the queen, her daughter still keeping the indian house her mother had. the same day the queen went to one mrs wise's, a famous woman for telling fortunes, but could not prevail with her to tell anything; though to others she has been very true, and has foretold that king james shall came in again, and the duke of norfolk shall lose his head: the last, i suppose, will naturally be the consequence of the first. these things, however innocent, have passed the censure of the town: and, besides a private reprimand given, the king gave one in _public_; saying to the queen, that he heard she dined at a bawdy-house, and desired the next time she went, he might go. she said, she had done nothing but what the late queen had done. he asked her, if she meant to make her, her example. more was said on this occasion than ever was known before; but it was borne with all the submission of a good wife, who leaves all to the direction of the k----, and diverts herself with walking six or seven miles a-day, and looking after her buildings, making of fringes, and such like innocent things; and does not meddle in government, though she has better title to do it than the late queen had." to the right honourable john, lord haughton[ ]. my lord, when i first designed this play, i found, or thought i found, somewhat so moving in the serious part of it, and so pleasant in the comic, as might deserve a more than ordinary care in both; accordingly, i used the best of my endeavour, in the management of two plots, so very different from each other, that it was not perhaps the talent of every writer to have made them of a piece. neither have i attempted other plays of the same nature, in my opinion, with the same judgment, though with like success. and though many poets may suspect themselves for the fondness and partiality of parents to their youngest children, yet i hope i may stand exempted from this rule, because i know myself too well to be ever satisfied with my own conceptions, which have seldom reached to those ideas that i had within me; and consequently, i may presume to have liberty to judge when i write more or less pardonably, as an ordinary marksman may know certainly when he shoots less wide at what he aims. besides, the care and pains i have bestowed on this, beyond my other tragi-comedies, may reasonably make the world conclude, that either i can do nothing tolerably, or that this poem is not much amiss. few good pictures have been finished at one sitting; neither can a true just play, which is to bear the test of ages, be produced at a heat, or by the force of fancy, without the maturity of judgment. for my own part, i have both so just a diffidence of myself, and so great a reverence for my audience, that i dare venture nothing without a strict examination; and am as much ashamed to put a loose indigested play upon the public, as i should be to offer brass money in a payment; for though it should be taken, (as it is too often on the stage) yet it would be found in the second telling; and a judicious reader will discover, in his closet, that trashy stuff, whose glittering deceived him in the action. i have often heard the stationer sighing in his shop, and wishing for those hands to take off his melancholy bargain, which clapped its performance on the stage. in a playhouse, every thing contributes to impose upon the judgment; the lights, the scenes, the habits, and, above all, the grace of action, which is commonly the best where there is the most need of it, surprise the audience, and cast a mist upon their understandings; not unlike the cunning of a juggler, who is always staring us in the face, and over-whelming us with gibberish, only that he may gain the opportunity of making the cleaner conveyance of his trick. but these false beauties of the stage are no more lasting than a rainbow; when the actor ceases to shine upon them, when he gilds them no longer with his reflection, they vanish in a twinkling. i have sometimes wondered, in the reading, what was become of those glaring colours which amazed me in "bussy d'amboys" upon the theatre; but when i had taken up what i supposed a fallen star, i found i had been cozened with a jelly[ ]; nothing but a cold, dull mass, which glittered no longer than it was shooting; a dwarfish thought, dressed up in gigantic words, repetition in abundance, looseness of expression, and gross hyperboles; the sense of one line expanded prodigiously into ten; and, to sum up all, uncorrect english, and a hideous mingle of false poetry, and true nonsense; or, at best, a scantling of wit, which lay gasping for life, and groaning beneath a heap of rubbish. a famous modern poet used to sacrifice every year a statius to virgil's manes[ ]; and i have indignation enough to burn a d'ambois annually, to the memory of jonson[ ]. but now, my lord, i am sensible, perhaps too late, that i have gone too far: for, i remember some verses of my own maximin and almanzor, which cry vengeance upon me for their extravagance, and which i wish heartily in the same fire with statius and chapman. all i can say for those passages, which are, i hope, not many, is, that i knew they were bad enough to please, even when i wrote them; but i repent of them amongst my sins; and, if any of their fellows intrude by chance into my present writings, i draw a stroke over all those dalilah's of the theatre; and am resolved i will settle myself no reputation by the applause of fools. it is not that i am mortified to all ambition, but i scorn as much to take it from half-witted judges, as i should to raise an estate by cheating of bubbles. neither do i discommend the lofty style in tragedy, which is naturally pompous and magnificent; but nothing is truly sublime, that is not just and proper. if the antients had judged by the same measure, which a common reader takes, they had concluded statius to have written higher than virgil, for, _quæ super-imposito moles geminata colosso_ carries a more thundering kind of sound, than _tityre, tu patulæ recubans sub tegmine fagi:_ yet virgil had all the majesty of a lawful prince, and statius only the blustering of a tyrant. but when men affect a virtue which they cannot easily reach, they fall into a vice, which bears the nearest resemblance to it. thus, an injudicious poet, who aims at loftiness, runs easily into the swelling puffy style, because it looks like greatness. i remember, when i was a boy, i thought inimitable spencer a mean poet, in comparison of sylvester's "dubartas," and was wrapt into an ecstasy when i read these lines: now, when the winter's keener breath began to crystalize the baltic ocean; to glaze the lakes, to bridle up the floods, and periwig with snow the bald-pate woods:--[ ] i am much deceived if this be not abominable fustian, that is, thoughts and words ill-sorted, and without the least relation to each other; yet i dare not answer for an audience, that they would not clap it on the stage: so little value there is to be given to the common cry, that nothing but madness can please madmen, and the poet must be of a piece with the spectators, to gain a reputation with them. but, as in a room, contrived for state, the height of the roof should bear a proportion to the area; so, in the heightenings of poetry, the strength and vehemence of figures should be suited to the occasion, the subject, and the persons. all beyond this is monstrous: it is out of nature, it is an excrescence, and not a living part of poetry. i had not said thus much, if some young gallants, who pretend to criticism, had not told me, that this tragi-comedy wanted the dignity of style; but, as a man, who is charged with a crime of which he thinks himself innocent, is apt to be too eager in his own defence; so, perhaps, i have vindicated my play with more partiality than i ought, or than such a trifle can deserve. yet, whatever beauties it may want, it is free at least from the grossness of those faults i mentioned: what credit it has gained upon the stage, i value no farther than in reference to my profit, and the satisfaction i had, in seeing it represented with all the justness and gracefulness of action. but, as it is my interest to please my audience, so it is my ambition to be read: that i am sure is the more lasting and the nobler design: for the propriety of thoughts and words, which are the hidden beauties of a play, are but confusedly judged in the vehemence of action: all things are there beheld, as in a hasty motion, where the objects only glide before the eye, and disappear. the most discerning critic can judge no more of these silent graces in the action, than he who rides post through an unknown country can distinguish the situation of places, and the nature of the soil. the purity of phrase, the clearness of conception and expression, the boldness maintained to majesty, the significancy and sound of words, not strained into bombast, but justly elevated; in short, those very words and thoughts, which cannot be changed, but for the worse, must of necessity escape our transient view upon the theatre; and yet, without all these, a play may take. for, if either the story move us, or the actor help the lameness of it with his performance, or now and then a glittering beam of wit or passion strike through the obscurity of the poem, any of these are sufficient to effect a present liking, but not to fix a lasting admiration; for nothing but truth can long continue; and time is the surest judge of truth. i am not vain enough to think that i have left no faults in this, which that touchstone will not discover; neither, indeed, is it possible to avoid them in a play of this nature. there are evidently two actions in it; but it will be clear to any judicious man, that with half the pains i could have raised a play from either of them; for this time i satisfied my humour, which was to tack two plays together; and to break a rule for the pleasure of variety. the truth is, the audience are grown weary of continued melancholy scenes; and i dare venture to prophecy, that few tragedies, except those in verse, shall succeed in this age, if they are not lightened with a course of mirth; for the feast is too dull and solemn without the fiddles. but how difficult a task this is, will soon be tried; for a several genius is required to either way; and, without both of them, a man, in my opinion, is but half a poet for the stage. neither is it so trivial an undertaking, to make a tragedy end happily; for it is more difficult to save, than it is to kill. the dagger and the cup of poison are always in a readiness; but to bring the action to the last extremity, and then by probable means to recover all, will require the art and judgement of a writer; and cost him many a pang in the performance. and now, my lord, i must confess, that what i have written, looks more like a preface, than a dedication; and, truly, it was thus far my design, that i might entertain you with somewhat in my own art, which might be more worthy of a noble mind, than the stale exploded trick of fulsome panegyrics. it is difficult to write justly on any thing, but almost impossible in praise. i shall therefore wave so nice a subject; and only tell you, that, in recommending a protestant play to a protestant patron, as i do myself an honour, so i do your noble family a right, who have been always eminent in the support and favour of our religion and liberties. and if the promises of your youth, your education at home, and your experience abroad, deceive me not, the principles you have embraced are such, as will no way degenerate from your ancestors, but refresh their memory in the minds of all true englishmen, and renew their lustre in your person; which, my lord, is not more the wish, than it is the constant expectation, of your lordship's most obedient, faithful servant, john dryden. footnotes: . john, lord haughton, eldest son of the earl of clare. succeeded to his father, was created marquis of clare, and died , leaving an only daughter, who married the eldest son of the famous robert harley, earl of oxford. . see note on oedipus, p. . . dryden appears to have alluded to the following passage in strada, though without a very accurate recollection of its contents: _"sane andreas naugerius valerio martiali acriter infensus, solemne jam habebat in illum aliquanto petulantius jocari. etenim natali suo, accitis ad geniale epulum amicis, postquam prolixe de poeticæ laudibus super mensam disputaverat; ostensurum se aiebat a cæna, quo tandem modo laudari poesim deceret: mox aferri jubebat martialis volumen, (hæc erat mensæ appendix) atque igni proprior factus, illustri conflagratione absumendum flammis imponebat: addebatque eo incendio litare se musis, manibusque virgilij, cujus imitatorem cultoremque prestare se melius haud posset, quam si vilia poetarum capita per undas insecutus ac flammas perpetuo perdidisset. nec se eo loco tenuit, sed cum silvas aliquot ab se conscriptas legisset, audissetque statianu characteri similes videri, iratus sibi, quod a martiale fugiens alio declinasset a virgilio, cum primum se recessit domum, in silvas conjecit ignem."_ _stradæ prolusiones_, lib. ii. pro. . from this passage, it is obvious, that it was martial, not statius, whom andreas navagero sacrificed to virgil, although he burned his own verses when they were accused of a resemblance to the style of the author of the thebaid. in the same prolusion, strada quotes the "blustering" line, afterwards censured by dryden; but erroneously reads, super imposito moles _gemmata_ colosso. . "bussy d'ambois," a tragedy, once much applauded, was the favourite production of george chapman. if dryden could have exhausted every copy of this bombast performance in one holocaust, the public would have been no great losers, as may be apparent from the following quotations: _bussy._ i'll sooth his plots, and strew my hate with smiles, till, all at once, the close mines of my heart rise at full state, and rush into his blood. i'll bind his arm in silk, and rub his flesh, to make the veine swell, that his soule may gush into some kennel, where it loves to lie; and policy be flanked with policy. yet shall the feeling centre, where we meet. groan with the weight of my approaching feet. i'll make the inspired threshold of his court sweat with the weather of my horrid steps, before i enter; yet, i will appear like calm securitie, befor a ruin. a politician must, like lightning, melt the very marrow, and not taint the skin; his wayes must not be seen through, the superficies of the green centre must not taste his feet, when hell is plowed up with the wounding tracts, and all his harvest reap't by hellish facts. montsurry, when he discovers that the friar had acted as confident in the intrigue betwixt his lady and d'ambois, thus elegantly expresses the common idea of the world being turned _upside down._ now, is it true, earth moves, and heaven stands still; even heaven itself must see and suffer ill. the too huge bias of the world hath swayed her back-part upwards, and with _that_ she braves this hemisphere, that long her month hath mocked. the gravity of her religious face, now grown too weighty with her sacrilege, and here discerned sophisticate enough, turns to the antipodes, and all the forms that here allusions have impressed in her, have eaten through her back, and now all see how she is riveted with hypocrisie. yet, i observe, from the prologue to the edition of , that the part of d'ambois was considered as a high test of a players' talents: --field is gone, whose action first did give it name; and one who came the neatest to him, is denied, by his grey beard, to shew the height and pride of d'ambois' youth and braverie. yet to hold our title still a-foot, and not grow cold, by giving't o'er, a third man with his best of care and paines defends our interest. as richard he was liked, nor do we fear, in personating d'ambois, heile appear to faint, or goe lesse, so your free consent, as heretofore, give him encouragement. i believe the successor of field, in this once favourite character, was hart. the piece was revived after the restoration with great success. . dryden has elsewhere ridiculed this absurd passage. the original has "periwig with _wool_." prologue. now, luck for us, and a kind hearty pit; for he, who pleases, never fails of wit: honour is yours; and you, like kings at city-treats, bestow it; the writer kneels, and is bid rise a poet; but you are fickle sovereigns, to our sorrow; you dub to-day, and hang a man to-morrow: you cry the same sense up, and down again, just like brass-money once a year in spain: take you in the mood, whate'er base metal come, you coin as fast as groats at birmingham: though 'tis no more like sense, in antient plays, than rome's religion like st peter's days. in short, so swift your judgments turn and wind, you cast our fleetest wits a mile behind. 'twere well your judgments but in plays did range, but e'en your follies and debauches change with such a whirl, the poets of our age are tired, and cannot score them on the stage; unless each vice in short-hand they indict, even as notch'd prentices whole sermons write[ ]. the heavy hollanders no vices know, but what they used a hundred years ago; like honest plants, where they were stuck, they grow. they cheat, but still from cheating sires they come; they drink, but they were christened first in mum. their patrimonial sloth the spaniards keep, and philip first taught philip how to sleep. the french and we still change; but here's the curse, they change for better, and we change for worse; they take up our old trade of conquering, and we are taking theirs, to dance and sing: our fathers did, for change, to france repair, and they, for change, will try our english air; as children, when they throw one toy away, strait a more foolish gewgaw comes in play: so we, grown penitent, on serious thinking, leave whoring, and devoutly fall to drinking. scowering the watch grows out-of-fashion wit: now we set up for tilting in the pit, where 'tis agreed by bullies chicken-hearted, to fright the ladies first, and then be parted. a fair attempt has twice or thrice been made, to hire night murderers, and make death a trade[ ]. when murder's out, what vice can we advance? unless the new-found poisoning trick of france: and, when their art of rats-bane we have got, by way of thanks, we'll send them o'er our plot. footnotes . it was anciently a part of the apprentice's duty, not only to carry the family bible to church, but to take notes of the sermon for the edification of his master or mistress. . alluding apparently to the assassination of thomas thynne, esq. in pall-mall, by the hired bravoes of count coningsmark. dramatis personÆ. torrismond, _son of_ sancho, _the deposed king, believing himself son of_ raymond. bertran, _a prince of the blood._ alphonso, _a general officer, brother to_ raymond. lorenzo, _his son._ raymond, _a nobleman, supposed father of_ torrismond. pedro, _an officer._ gomez, _an old usurer._ dominick, _the spanish friar._ leonora, _queen of arragon._ teresa, _woman to_ leonora. elvira, _wife to_ gomez. the spanish friar: or the double discovery. act i.--scene i. alphonso _and_ pedro _meet, with soldiers on each side, drums, &c._ _alph._ stand: give the word. _ped._ the queen of arragon. _alph._ pedro?--how goes the night? _ped._ she wears apace. _alph._ then welcome day-light; we shall have warm work on't. the moor will 'gage his utmost forces on this next assault, to win a queen and kingdom. _ped._ pox on this lion-way of wooing, though. is the queen stirring yet? _alph._ she has not been abed, but in her chapel all night devoutly watched, and bribed the saints with vows for her deliverance. _ped._ o, alphonso! i fear they come too late. her father's crimes sit heavy on her, and weigh down her prayers. a crown usurped; a lawful king deposed, in bondage held, debarred the common light; his children murdered, and his friends destroyed,-- what can we less expect than what we feel, and what we fear will follow? _alph._ heaven avert it! _ped._ then heaven must not be heaven. judge the event by what has passed. the usurper joyed not long his ill-got crown:--'tis true, he died in peace,-- unriddle that, ye powers!--but left his daughter, our present queen, engaged upon his death-bed, to marry with young bertran, whose cursed father had helped to make him great. hence, you well know, this fatal war arose; because the moor abdalla, with whose troops the usurper gained the kingdom, was refused; and, as an infidel, his love despised. _alph._ well, we are soldiers, pedro; and, like lawyers, plead for our pay. _ped._ a good cause would do well though: it gives my sword an edge. you see this bertran has now three times been beaten by the moors: what hope we have, is in young torrismond, your brother's son. _alph._ he's a successful warrior, and has the soldiers' hearts: upon the skirts of arragon our squandered troops he rallies. our watchmen from the towers with longing eyes expect his swift arrival. _ped._ it must be swift, or it will come too late. _alph._ no more.--duke bertran. _enter_ bertran _attended._ _bert._ relieve the sentries that have watched all night. [_to ped._] now, colonel, have you disposed your men, that you stand idle here? _ped._ mine are drawn off to take a short repose. _bert._ short let it be: for, from the moorish camp, this hour and more, there has been heard a distant humming noise, like bees disturbed, and arming in their hives. what courage in our soldiers? speak! what hope? _ped._ as much as when physicians shake their heads, and bid their dying patient think of heaven. our walls are thinly manned; our best men slain; the rest, an heartless number, spent with watching, and harassed out with duty. _bert._ good-night all, then. _ped._ nay, for my part, 'tis but a single life i have to lose. i'll plant my colours down in the mid-breach, and by them fix my foot; say a short soldier's prayer, to spare the trouble of my new friends above; and then expect the next fair bullet. _alph._ never was known a night of such distraction; noise so confused and dreadful; jostling crowds. that run, and know not whither; torches gliding, like meteors, by each other in the streets. _ped._ i met a reverend, fat, old gouty friar,-- with a paunch swoll'n so high, his double chin might rest upon it; a true son of the church; fresh-coloured, well thriven on his trade,-- come puffing with his greasy bald-pate choir, and fumbling o'er his beads in such an agony, he told them false, for fear. about his neck there hung a wench, the label of his function, whom he shook off, i'faith, methought, unkindly. it seems the holy stallion durst not score another sin, before he left the world. _enter a captain._ _capt._ to arms, my lord, to arms! from the moors' camp the noise grows louder still: rattling of armour, trumpets, drums, and ataballes; and sometimes peals of shouts that rend the heavens, like victory: then groans again, and howlings, like those of vanquished men; but every echo goes fainter off, and dies in distant sounds. _bert._ some false attack: expect on t'other side. one to the gunners on st jago's tower; bid them, for shame, level their cannon lower: on my soul they are all corrupted with the gold of barbary, to carry over, and not hurt the moor. _enter a second captain._ _ capt._ my lord, here's fresh intelligence arrived. our army, led by valiant torrismond, is now in hot engagement with the moors; 'tis said, within their trenches. _bert._ i think all fortune is reserved for him!-- he might have sent us word though; and then we could have favoured his attempt with sallies from the town. _alph._ it could not be: we were so close blocked up, that none could peep upon the walls and live. but yet 'tis time. _bert._ no, 'tis too late; i will not hazard it: on pain of death, let no man dare to sally. _ped._ oh envy, envy, how it works within him! [_aside._ how now? what means this show? _alph._ 'tis a procession. the queen is going to the great cathedral, to pray for our success against the moors. _ped._ very good: she usurps the throne, keeps the old king in prison, and, at the same time, is praying for a blessing. oh religion and roguery, how they go together! [_a procession of priests and choristers in white, with tapers, followed by the queen and ladies, goes over the stage: the choristers singing,_ _look down, ye blessed above, look down, behold our weeping matrons' tears, behold our tender virgins' fears, and with success our armies crown. look down, ye blessed above, look down: oh! save us, save as, and our state restore; for pity, pity, pity, we implore: for pity, pity, pity, we implore._ [_the procession goes off; and shout within. then_ _enter_ lorenzo, _who kneels to_ alphonso. _bert._ [_to alph._] a joyful cry; and see your son lorenzo. good news, kind heaven! _alph._ [_to lor._] o welcome, welcome! is the general safe? how near our army? when shall we be succoured? or, are we succoured? are the moors removed? answer these questions first, and then a thousand more; answer them all together. _lor._ yes, when i have a thousand tongues, i will. the general's well; his army too is safe, as victory can make them. the moors' king is safe enough, i warrant him, for one. at dawn of day our general cleft his pate, spite of his woollen night-cap: a slight wound; perhaps he may recover. _alph._ thou reviv'st me. _ped._ by my computation now, the victory was gained before the procession was made for it; and yet it will go hard but the priests will make a miracle of it. _lor._ yes, faith; we came like bold intruding guests, and took them unprepared to give us welcome. their scouts we killed, then found their body sleeping; and as they lay confused, we stumbled o'er them, and took what joint came next, arms, heads, or legs, somewhat indecently. but when men want light, they make but bungling work. _bert._ i'll to the queen, and bear the news. _ped._ that's young lorenzo's duty. _bert._ i'll spare his trouble.-- this torrismond begins to grow too fast; he must be mine, or ruined. [_aside, and exit._ _lor._ pedro a word:--[_whisper._] _alph._ how swift he shot away! i find it stung him, in spite of his dissembling. [_to lorenzo._] how many of the enemy are slain? _lor._ troth, sir, we were in haste, and could not stay to score the men we killed; but there they lie: best send our women out to take the tale; there's circumcision in abundance for them. [_turns to_ pedro _again._ _alph._ how far did you pursue them? _lor._ some few miles.-- [_to pedro_] good store of harlots, say you, and dog-cheap? pedro, they must be had, and speedily; i've kept a tedious fast. [_whisper again._ _alph._ when will he make his entry? he deserves such triumphs as were given by ancient rome: ha, boy, what say'st thou? _lor._ as you say, sir, that rome was very ancient. [_to pedro._] i leave the choice to you; fair, black, tall, low, let her but have a nose; and you may tell her, i am rich in jewels, rings, and bobbing pearls, plucked from moors' ears. _alph._ lorenzo. _lor._ somewhat busy about affairs relating to the public.-- a seasonable girl, just in the nick now-- [_to pedro._ [_trumpets within._ _ped._ i hear the general's trumpet. stand and mark how he will be received; i fear, but coldly. there hung a cloud, methought, on bertran's brow. _lor._ then look to see a storm on torrismond's; looks fright not men. the general has seen moors with as bad faces; no dispraise to bertran's. _ped._ 'twas rumoured in the camp, he loves the queen. _lor._ he drinks her health devoutly. _alph._ that may breed bad blood betwixt him and bertran. _ped._ yes, in private. but bertran has been taught the arts of court, to gild a face with smiles, and leer a man to ruin, o here they come.-- _enter_ torrismond _and officers on one side,_ bertran _attended on the other; they embrace,_ bertran _bowing low._ just as i prophesied.-- _lor._ death and hell, he laughs at him!--in his face too. _ped._ o you mistake him; 'twas an humble grin, the fawning joy of courtiers and of dogs. _lor._ here are nothing but lies to be expected: i'll even go lose myself in some blind alley, and try if any courteous damsel will think me worth the finding. [_aside, and exit._ _alph._ now he begins to open. _bert._ your country rescued, and your queen relieved,-- a glorious conquest, noble torrismond! the people rend the skies with loud applause, and heaven can hear no other name but yours. the thronging crowds press on you as you pass, and with their eager joy make triumph slow. _torr._ my lord, i have no taste of popular applause; the noisy praise of giddy crowds, as changeable as winds; still vehement, and still without a cause; servant to chance, and blowing in the tide of swoln success; but veering with its ebb, it leaves the channel dry. _bert._ so young a stoick! _torr._ you wrong me, if you think i'll sell one drop within these veins for pageants; but, let honour call for my blood, and sluice it into streams: turn fortune loose again to my pursuit, and let me hunt her through embattled foes, in dusty plains, amidst the cannons' roar, there will i be the first. _bert._ i'll try him farther.-- [_aside._ suppose the assembled states of arragon decree a statue to you, thus inscribed: "to torrismond, who freed his native land." _alph._ [_to ped._] mark how he sounds and fathoms him, to find the shallows of his soul! _bert._ the just applause of god-like senates, is the stamp of virtue, which makes it pass unquestioned through the world. these honours you deserve; nor shall my suffrage be last to fix them on you. if refused, you brand us all with black ingratitude: for times to come shall say,--our spain, like rome, neglects her champions after noble acts, and lets their laurels wither on their heads. _torr._ a statue, for a battle blindly fought, where darkness and surprise made conquest cheap! where virtue borrowed but the arms of chance, and struck a random blow!--'twas fortune's work, and fortune take the praise. _bert._ yet happiness is the first fame. virtue without success is a fair picture shewn by an ill light; but lucky men are favourites of heaven: and whom should kings esteem above heaven's darlings? the praises of a young and beauteous queen shall crown your glorious acts. _ped._ [_to alph._] there sprung the mine. _torr._ the queen! that were a happiness too great! named you the queen, my lord? _bert._ yes: you have seen her, and you must confess, a praise, a smile, a look from her is worth the shouts of thousand amphitheatres. she, she shall praise you, for i can oblige her: to-morrow will deliver all her charms into my arms, and make her mine for ever.-- why stand you mute? _torr._ alas! i cannot speak. _bert._ not speak, my lord! how were your thoughts employed? _torr._ nor can i think, or i am lost in thought. _bert._ thought of the queen, perhaps? _torr._ why, if it were, heaven may be thought on, though too high to climb. _bert._ o, now i find where your ambition drives! you ought not to think of her. _torr._ so i say too, i ought not; madmen ought not to be mad; but who can help his frenzy? _bert._ fond young man! the wings of your ambition must be clipt: your shame-faced virtue shunned the people's praise, and senate's honours: but 'tis well we know what price you hold yourself at. you have fought with some success, and that has sealed your pardon. _torr._ pardon from thee!--o, give me patience, heaven!-- thrice vanquished bertran, if thou dar'st, look out upon yon slaughtered host, that field of blood; there seal my pardon, where thy fame was lost. _ped._ he's ruined, past redemption! _alph._ [_to_ torr.] learn respect to the first prince of the blood. _bert._ o, let him rave! i'll not contend with madmen. _torr._ i have done: i know, 'twas madness to declare this truth: and yet, 'twere baseness to deny my love. 'tis true, my hopes are vanishing as clouds; lighter than children's bubbles blown by winds: my merit's but the rash result of chance; my birth unequal; all the stars against me: power, promise, choice, the living and the dead; mankind my foes; and only love to friend: but such a love, kept at such awful distance, as, what it loudly dares to tell a rival, shall fear to whisper there. queens may be loved, and so may gods; else why are altars raised? why shines the sun, but that he may be viewed? but, oh! when he's too bright, if then we gaze, 'tis but to weep, and close our eyes in darkness. [_exit._ _bert._ 'tis well; the goddess shall be told, she shall, of her new worshipper. [_exit._ _ped._ so, here's fine work! he has supplied his only foe with arms for his destruction. old penelope's tale inverted; he has unravelled all by day, that he has done by night. what, planet struck! _alph._ i wish i were; to be past sense of this! _ped._ would i had but a lease of life so long, as 'till my flesh and blood rebelled this way, against our sovereign lady;--mad for a queen? with a globe in one hand, and a sceptre in t'other? a very pretty moppet! _alph._ then to declare his madness to his rival! his father absent on an embassy; himself a stranger almost; wholly friendless! a torrent, rolling down a precipice, is easier to be stopt, than is his ruin. _ped._ 'tis fruitless to complain; haste to the court; improve your interest there for pardon from the queen. _alph._ weak remedies; but all must be attempted. [_exit._ scene ii. _enter_ lorenzo. _lor._ well, i am the most unlucky rogue! i have been ranging over half the town; but have sprung no game. our women are worse infidels than the moors: i told them i was one of the knight-errants, that delivered them from ravishment; and i think in my conscience, that is their quarrel to me. _ped._ is this a time for fooling? your cousin is run honourably mad in love with her majesty; he is split upon a rock, and you, who are in chase of harlots, are sinking in the main ocean. i think, the devil's in the family. [_exit._ _lor._ [_solus._] my cousin ruined, says he! hum, not that i wish my kinsman's ruin; that were unchristian: but, if the general is ruined, i am heir; there's comfort for a christian! money i have; i thank the honest moors for it; but i want a mistress. i am willing to be lewd; but the tempter is wanting on his part. _enter_ elvira, _veiled._ _elv._ stranger! cavalier!--will you not hear me? you moor-killer, you matador!-- _lor._ meaning me, madam? _elv._ face about, man! you a soldier, and afraid of the enemy! _lor._ i must confess, i did not expect to have been charged first: i see souls will not be lost for want of diligence in this devil's reign. [_aside._] now, madam cynthia, behind a cloud, your will and pleasure with me? _elv._ you have the appearance of a cavalier; and if you are as deserving as you seem, perhaps you may not repent of your adventure. if a lady like you well enough to hold discourse with you at first sight; you are gentleman enough, i hope, to help her out with an apology, and to lay the blame on stars, or destiny, or what you please, to excuse the frailty of a woman? _lor._ o, i love an easy woman! there's such ado, to crack a thick-shelled mistress; we break our teeth, and find no kernel. 'tis generous in you, to take pity on a stranger, and not to suffer him to fall into ill hands at his first arrival. _elv._ you may have a better opinion of me than i deserve; you have not seen me yet; and, therefore, i am confident you are heart-whole. _lor._ not absolutely slain, i must confess; but i am drawing on apace: you have a dangerous tongue in your head, i can tell you that; and if your eyes prove of as killing metal, there is but one way with me. let me see you, for the safeguard of my honour; 'tis but decent the cannon should be drawn down upon me before i yield. _elv._ what a terrible similitude have you made, colonel, to shew that you are inclining to the wars? i could answer you with another in my profession: suppose you were in want of money, would you not be glad to take a sum upon content in a sealed bag, without peeping?--but, however, i will not stand with you for a sample. [_lifts up her veil._ _lor._ what eyes were there! how keen their glances! you do well to keep them veiled; they are too sharp to be trusted out of the scabbard. _elv._ perhaps now, you may accuse my forwardness; but this day of jubilee is the only time of freedom i have had; and there is nothing so extravagant as a prisoner, when he gets loose a little, and is immediately to return into his fetters. _lor._ to confess freely to you, madam, i was never in love with less than your whole sex before; but now i have seen you, i am in the direct road of languishing and sighing; and, if love goes on as it begins, for aught i know, by to-morrow morning you may hear of me in rhyme and sonnet. i tell you truly, i do not like these symptoms in myself. perhaps i may go shufflingly at first; for i was never before walked in trammels; yet, i shall drudge and moil at constancy, till i have worn off the hitching in my pace. _elv._ oh, sir, there are arts to reclaim the wildest men, as there are to make spaniels fetch and carry: chide them often, and feed them seldom. now i know your temper, you may thank yourself, if you are kept to hard meat. you are in for years, if you make love to me. _lor._ i hate a formal obligation with an _anno domini_ at end on't; there may be an evil meaning in the word years, called matrimony. _elv._ i can easily rid you of that fear: i wish i could rid myself as easily of the bondage. _lor._ then you are married? _elv._ if a covetous, and a jealous, and an old man be a husband. _lor._ three as good qualities for my purpose as i could wish: now love be praised! _enter_ elvira's _duenna, and whispers to her._ _elv._ [_aside._] if i get not home before my husband, i shall be ruined. [_to him._] i dare not stay to tell you where. farewell!--could i once more-- [_exit._ _lor._ this is unconscionable dealing; to be made a slave, and know not whose livery i wear. who have we yonder? _enter_ gomez. by that shambling in his walk, it should be my rich old banker, gomez, whom i knew at barcelona: as i live 'tis he!--what, old mammon here! [_to_ gomez. _gom._ how! young beelzebub? _lor._ what devil has set his claws in thy haunches, and brought thee hither to saragossa? sure he meant a farther journey with thee. _gom._ i always remove before the enemy: when the moors are ready to besiege one town, i shift quarters to the next; i keep as far from the infidels as i can. _lor._ that's but a hair's breadth at farthest. _gom._ well, you have got a famous victory; all true subjects are overjoyed at it: there are bonfires decreed; an the times had not been hard, my billet should have burnt too. _lor._ i dare say for thee, thou hast such a respect for a single billet, thou wouldst almost have thrown on thyself to save it; thou art for saving every thing but thy soul. _gom._ well, well, you'll not believe me generous, 'till i carry you to the tavern, and crack half a pint with you at my own charges. _lor._ no; i'll keep thee from hanging thyself for such an extravagance; and, instead of it, thou shalt do me a mere verbal courtesy. i have just now seen a most incomparable young lady. _gom._ whereabouts did you see this most incomparable young lady?--my mind misgives me plaguily. [_aside._ _lor._ here, man, just before this corner-house: pray heaven, it prove no bawdy-house. _gom._ [_aside._] pray heaven, he does not make it one! _lor._ what dost thou mutter to thyself? hast thou any thing to say against the honesty of that house? _gom._ not i, colonel; the walls are very honest stone, and the timber very honest wood, for aught i know; but for the woman, i cannot say, till i know her better: describe her person, and, if she live in this quarter, i may give you tidings of her. _lor._ she is of a middle stature, dark-coloured hair, the most bewitching leer with her eyes, the most roguish cast! her cheeks are dimpled when she smiles, and her smiles would tempt an hermit. _gom._ [_aside._] i am dead, i am buried, i am damned.--go on, colonel; have you no other marks of her? _lor._ thou hast all her marks; but she has a husband, a jealous, covetous, old hunks: speak! canst thou tell me news of her? _gom._ yes; this news, colonel, that you have seen your last of her. _lor._ if thou help'st me not to the knowledge of her, thou art a circumcised jew. _gom._ circumcise me no more than i circumcise you, colonel hernando: once more, you have seen your last of her. _lor._ [_aside._] i am glad he knows me only by that name of hernando, by which i went at barcelona; now he can tell no tales of me to my father.--[_to him._] come, thou wer't ever good-natured, when thou couldst get by it--look here, rogue; 'tis of the right damning colour: thou art not proof against gold, sure!--do not i know thee for a covetous-- _gom._ jealous old hunks? those were the marks of your mistress's husband, as i remember, colonel. _lor._ oh the devil! what a rogue in understanding was i, not to find him out sooner! [_aside._ _gom._ do, do, look sillily, good colonel; 'tis a decent melancholy after an absolute defeat. _lor._ faith, not for that, clear gomez; but-- _gom._ but--no pumping, my dear colonel. _lor._ hang pumping! i was thinking a little upon a point of gratitude. we two have been long acquaintance; i know thy merits, and can make some interest;--go to; thou wert born to authority; i'll make thee alcaide, mayor of saragossa. _gom._ satisfy yourself; you shall not make me what you think, colonel. _lor._ faith, but i will; thou hast the face of a magistrate already. _gom._ and you would provide me with a magistrate's head to my magistrate's face; i thank you, colonel. _lor._ come, thou art so suspicious upon an idle story! that woman i saw, i mean that little, crooked, ugly woman,--for t'other was a lie,--is no more thy wife,--as i'll go home with thee, and satisfy thee immediately, my dear friend. _gom._ i shall not put you to that trouble; no, not so much as a single visit; not so much as an embassy by a civil old woman, nor a serenade of _twinkledum twinkledum_ under my windows; nay, i will advise you, out of my tenderness to your person, that you walk not near yon corner-house by night; for, to my certain knowledge, there are blunderbusses planted in every loop-hole, that go off constantly of their own accord, at the squeaking of a fiddle, and the thrumming of a guitar. _lor._ art thou so obstinate? then i denounce open war against thee; i'll demolish thy citadel by force; or, at least, i'll bring my whole regiment upon thee; my thousand red locusts, that shall devour thee in free quarters. farewell, wrought night-cap. [_exit_ lorenzo. _gom._ farewell, buff. free quarters for a regiment of red-coat locusts? i hope to see them all in the red-sea first! but oh, this jezabel of mine! i'll get a physician that shall prescribe her an ounce of camphire every morning, for her breakfast, to abate incontinency. she shall never peep abroad, no, not to church for confession; and, for never going, she shall be condemned for a heretic. she shall have stripes by troy weight, and sustenance by drachms and scruples: nay, i'll have a fasting almanack, printed on purpose for her use, in which no carnival nor christmas shall appear, but lents and ember-weeks shall fill the year. [_exit._ act ii. scene i.--_the queen's antechamber._ _enter_ alphonso _and_ pedro. _alph._ when saw you my lorenzo? _ped._ i had a glimpse of him; but he shot by me, like a young hound upon a burning scent; he's gone a harlot-hunting. _alph._ his foreign breeding might have taught him better. _ped._ 'tis that has taught him this. what learn our youth abroad, but to refine the homely vices of their native land? give me an honest home-spun country clown of our own growth; his dulness is but plain, but theirs embroidered; they are sent out fools, but come back fops. _alph._ you know what reasons urged me; but now, i have accomplished my designs, i should be glad he knew them. his wild riots disturb my soul; but they would sit more close, did not the threatened downfal of our house, in torrismond, o'erwhelm my private ills. _enter_ bertran, _attended, and whispering with a courtier, aside._ _bert._ i would not have her think, he dared to love her; if he presume to own it, she's so proud, he tempts his certain ruin. _alph._ [_to_ ped.] mark how disdainfully he throws his eyes on us. our old imprisoned king wore no such looks. _ped._ o! would the general shake off his dotage to the usurping queen, and re-enthrone good venerable sancho, i'll undertake, should bertran sound his trumpets, and torrismond but whistle through his fingers, he draws his army off. _alph._ i told him so; but had an answer louder than a storm. _ped._ now, plague and pox on his smock-loyalty! i hate to see a brave bold fellow sotted, made sour and senseless, turned to whey by love; a drivelling hero, fit for a romance.-- o, here he comes! what will their greetings be? _enter_ torrismond, _attended;_ bertran _and he meet and jostle._ _bert._ make way, my lords, and let the pageant pass. _tor._ i make my way, where'er i see my foe; but you, my lord, are good at a retreat. i have no moors behind me. _bert._ death and hell! dare to speak thus when you come out again. _tor._ dare to provoke me thus, insulting man! _enter_ teresa. _ter._ my lords, you are too loud so near the queen; you, torrismond, have much offended her. 'tis her command you instantly appear, to answer your demeanour to the prince. [_exit_ teresa; bertran, _with his company, follow her._ _tor._ o, pedro, o, alphonso, pity me! a grove of pikes, whose polished steel from far severely shines, are not so dreadful as this beauteous queen. _alph._ call up your courage timely to your aid, and, like a lion, pressed upon the toils, leap on your hunters. speak your actions boldly; there is a time when modest virtue is allowed to praise itself. _ped._ heart! you were hot enough, too hot, but now; your fury then boiled upward to a foam; but since this message came, you sink and settle, as if cold water had been poured upon you. _tor._ alas! thou know'st not what it is to love! when we behold an angel, not to fear, is to be impudent: no, i am resolved, like a led victim, to my death i'll go, and, dying, bless the hand, that gave the blow. [_exeunt._ _the_ scene _draws, and shews the queen sitting in state;_ bertran _standing next to her; then_ teresa, _&c. she rises, and comes to the front._ _leonora._ [_to_ bert.] i blame not you, my lord; my father's will, your own deserts, and all my people's voice, have placed you in the view of sovereign power. but i would learn the cause, why torrismond, within my palace-walls, within my hearing, almost within my sight,--affronts a prince, who shortly shall command him. _bert._ he thinks you owe him more than you can pay; and looks as he were lord of human kind. _enter_ torrismond, alphonso, pedro. torrismond _bows low, then looks earnestly on the queen, and keeps at distance._ _teresa._ madam, the general.-- _leo._ let me view him well. my father sent him early to the frontiers; i have not often seen him; if i did, he passed unmarked by my unheeding eyes:-- but where's the fierceness, the disdainful pride, the haughty port, the fiery arrogance?-- by all these marks, this is not, sure, the man. _bert._ yet this is he, who filled your court with tumult, whose fierce demeanour, and whose insolence, the patience of a god could not support. _leo._ name his offence, my lord, and he shall have immediate punishment. _bert._ 'tis of so high a nature, should i speak it, that my presumption then would equal his. _leo._ some one among you speak. _ped._ now my tongue itches. [_aside._ _leo._ all dumb! on your allegiance, torrismond, by all your hopes, i do command you, speak. _tor._ [_kneeling._] o seek not to convince me of a crime, which i can ne'er repent, nor can you pardon; or, if you needs will know it, think, oh think, that he who, thus commanded, dares to speak, unless commanded, would have died in silence. but you adjured me, madam, by my hopes! hopes i have none, for i am all despair; friends i have none, for friendship follows favour; desert i've none, for what i did was duty:-- oh that it were!--that it were duty all! _leo._ why do you pause? proceed. _tor._ as one, condemned to leap a precipice, who sees before his eyes the depth below, stops short, and looks about for some kind shrub to break his dreadful fall.--so i-- but whither am i going? if to death, he looks so lovely sweet in beauty's pomp, he draws me to his dart.--i dare no more. _bert._ he's mad, beyond the cure of hellebore. whips, darkness, dungeons, for this insolence. _tor._ mad as i am, yet i know when to bear. _leo._ you're both too bold.--you, torrismond, withdraw, i'll teach you all what's owing to your queen.-- for you, my lord,-- the priest to-morrow was to join our hands; i'll try if i can live a day without you.-- so both of you depart, and live in peace. _alph._ who knows which way she points? doubling and turning like an hunted hare;-- find out the meaning of her mind who can. _pedr._ who ever found a woman's? backward and forward, the whole sex in every word. in my conscience, when she was getting, her mother was thinking of a riddle. [_exeunt all but the queen and_ teresa. _leo._ haste, my teresa, haste, and call him back. _ter._ whom, madam? _leo._ him. _ter._ prince bertran? _leo._ torrismond; there is no other he. _ter._ [_aside._] a rising sun, or i am much deceived. [_exit_ teresa. _leo._ a change so swift what heart did ever feel! it rushed upon me like a mighty stream, and bore me, in a moment, far from shore. i loved away myself; in one short hour already am i gone an age of passion. was it his youth, his valour, or success? these might, perhaps, be found in other men: 'twas that respect, that awful homage, paid me; that fearful love, which trembled in his eyes, and with a silent earthquake shook his soul. but, when he spoke, what tender words he said! so softly, that, like flakes of feathered snow, they melted as they fell.-- _enter_ teresa _with_ torrismond. _ter._ he waits your pleasure. _leo._ 'tis well; retire.--oh heavens, that i must speak so distant from my heart!-- [_aside._ [_to_ tor.] how now! what boldness brings you back again? _tor._ i heard 'twas your command. _leo._ a fond mistake, to credit so unlikely a command; and you return, full of the same presumption, to affront me with your love! _tor._ if 'tis presumption, for a wretch condemned, to throw himself beneath his judge's feet: a boldness more than this i never knew; or, if i did, 'twas only to your foes. _leo._ you would insinuate your past services, and those, i grant, were great; but you confess a fault committed since, that cancels all. _tor._ and who could dare to disavow his crime, when that, for which he is accused and seized, he bears about him still! my eyes confess it; my every action speaks my heart aloud: but, oh, the madness of my high attempt speaks louder yet! and all together cry,-- i love and i despair. _leo._ have you not heard, my father, with his dying voice, bequeathed my crown and me to bertran? and dare you, a private man, presume to love a queen? _tor._ that, that's the wound! i see you set so high, as no desert or services can reach.-- good heavens, why gave you me a monarch's soul, and crusted it with base plebeian clay? why gave you me desires of such extent, and such a span to grasp them? sure, my lot by some o'er-hasty angel was misplaced in fate's eternal volume!--but i rave, and, like a giddy bird in dead of night, fly round the fire that scorches me to death. _leo._ yet, torrismond, you've not so ill deserved, but i may give you counsel for your cure. _tor._ i cannot, nay, i wish not to be cured. _leo._ [_aside._] nor i, heaven knows! _tor._ there is a pleasure, sure, in being mad, which none but madmen know! let me indulge it; let me gaze for ever! and, since you are too great to be beloved, be greater, greater yet, and be adored. _leo._ these are the words which i must only hear from bertran's mouth; they should displease from you: i say they should; but women are so vain, to like the love, though they despise the lover. yet, that i may not send you from my sight in absolute despair,--i pity you. _tor._ am i then pitied! i have lived enough!-- death, take me in this moment of my joy; but, when my soul is plunged in long oblivion, spare this one thought! let me remember pity, and, so deceived, think all my life was blessed. _leo._ what if i add a little to my alms? if that would help, i could cast in a tear to your misfortunes. _tor._ a tear! you have o'erbid all my past sufferings, and all my future too! _leo._ were i no queen-- or you of royal blood-- _tor._ what have i lost by my forefathers' fault! why was not i the twentieth by descent from a long restive race of droning kings? love! what a poor omnipotence hast thou, when gold and titles buy thee? _leo._ [_sighs._] oh, my torture!-- _tor._ might i presume,--but, oh, i dare not hope that sigh was added to your alms for me! _leo._ i give you leave to guess, and not forbid you to make the best construction for your love: be secret and discreet; these fairy favours are lost, when not concealed[ ].--provoke not bertran.-- retire: i must no more but this,--hope, torrismond. [_exit._ _tor._ she bids me hope; oh heavens, she pities me! and pity still foreruns approaching love, as lightning does the thunder! tune your harps, ye angels, to that sound; and thou, my heart, make room to entertain thy flowing joy. hence, all my griefs and every anxious care; one word, and one kind glance, can cure despair. [_exit._ scene ii.--_a chamber. a table and wine set out._ _enter_ lorenzo. _lor._ this may hit; 'tis more than barely possible; for friars have free admittance into every house. this jacobin, whom i have sent to, is her confessor; and who can suspect a man of such reverence for a pimp? i'll try for once; i'll bribe him high; for commonly none love money better than they, who have made a vow of poverty. _enter servant._ _serv._ there's a huge, fat, religious gentleman coming up, sir. he says he's but a friar, but he's big enough to be a pope; his gills are as rosy as a turkey cock's; his great belly walks in state before him, like an harbinger; and his gouty legs come limping after it: never was such a ton of devotion seen. _lor._ bring him in, and vanish. [_exit servant._ _enter father_ dominick. _lor._ welcome, father. _dom._ peace be here: i thought i had been sent for to a dying man; to have fitted him for another world. _lor._ no, faith, father, i was never for taking such long journeys. repose yourself, i beseech you, sir, if those spindle legs of yours will carry you to the next chair. _dom._ i am old, i am infirm, i must confess, with fasting. _lor._ 'tis a sign by your wan complexion, and your thin jowls, father. come, to our better acquaintance:--here's a sovereign remedy for old age and sorrow. [_drinks._ _dom._ the looks of it are indeed alluring: i'll do you reason. [_drinks._ _lor._ is it to your palate, father? _dom._ second thoughts, they say, are best: i'll consider of it once again. [_drinks._] it has a most delicious flavour with it. gad forgive me, i have forgotten to drink your health, son, i am not used to be so unmannerly. [_drinks again._ _lor._ no, i'll be sworn, by what i see of you, you are not:--to the bottom;--i warrant him a true church-man.--now, father, to our business: 'tis agreeable to your calling; i do intend to do an act of charity. _dom._ and i love to hear of charity; 'tis a comfortable subject. _lor._ being in the late battle, in great hazard of my life, i recommended my person to good saint dominick. _dom._ you could not have pitched upon a better; he's a sure card; i never knew him fail his votaries. _lor._ troth, i also made bold to strike up a bargain with him, that, if i escaped with life and plunder, i would present some brother of his order with part of the booty taken from the infidels, to be employed in charitable uses. _dom._ there you hit him; saint dominick loves charity exceedingly; that argument never fails with him. _lor._ the spoils were mighty; and i scorn to wrong him of a farthing. to make short my story; i inquired among the jacobins for an almoner, and the general fame has pointed out your reverence as the worthiest man:--here are fifty good pieces in this purse. _dom._ how, fifty pieces? 'tis too much, too much in conscience. _lor._ here, take them, father. _dom._ no, in troth, i dare not; do not tempt me to break my vow of poverty. _lor._ if you are modest, i must force you; for i am strongest. _dom._ nay, if you compel me, there's no contending; but, will you set your strength against a decrepit, poor, old man? [_takes the purse._] as i said, 'tis too great a bounty; but saint dominick shall owe you another scape: i'll put him in mind of you. _lor._ if you please, father, we will not trouble him 'till the next battle. but you may do me a greater kindness, by conveying my prayers to a female saint. _dom._ a female saint! good now, good now, how your devotions jump with mine! i always loved the female saints. _lor._ i mean, a female, mortal, married-woman-saint: look upon the superscription of this note; you know don gomez's wife. [_gives him a letter._ _dom._ who? donna elvira? i think i have some reason; i am her ghostly father. _lor._ i have some business of importance with her, which i have communicated in this paper; but her husband is so horribly given to be jealous,-- _dom._ ho, jealous? he's the very quintessence of jealousy; he keeps no male creature in his house; and from abroad he lets no man come near her. _lor._ excepting you, father. _dom._ me, i grant you; i am her director and her guide in spiritual affairs: but he has his humours with me too; for t'other day he called me false apostle. _lor._ did he so? that reflects upon you all; on my word, father, that touches your copy-hold. if you would do a meritorious action, you might revenge the church's quarrel.--my letter, father,-- _dom._ well, so far as a letter, i will take upon me; for what can i refuse to a man so charitably given? _lor._ if you bring an answer back, that purse in your hand has a twin-brother, as like him as ever he can look; there are fifty pieces lie dormant in it, for more charities. _dom._ that must not be; not a farthing more, upon my priesthood.--but what may be the purport and meaning of this letter? that, i confess, a little troubles me. _lor._ no harm, i warrant you. _dom._ well, you are a charitable man; and i'll take your word: my comfort is, i know not the contents; and so far i am blameless. but an answer you shall have; though not for the sake of your fifty pieces more: i have sworn not to take them; they shall not be altogether fifty. your mistress--forgive me, that i should call her your mistress, i meant elvira,--lives but at next door: i'll visit her immediately; but not a word more of the nine-and-forty pieces. _lor._ nay, i'll wait on you down stairs.--fifty pounds for the postage of a letter! to send by the church is certainly the dearest road in christendom. [_exeunt._ scene iii.--_a chamber._ _enter_ gomez _and_ elvira. _gom._ henceforth i banish flesh and wine: i'll have none stirring within these walls these twelve months. _elv._ i care not; the sooner i am starved, the sooner i am rid of wedlock. i shall learn the knack to fast o' days; you have used me to fasting nights already. _gom._ how the gipsey answers me! oh, 'tis a most notorious hilding. _elv._ [_crying._] but was ever poor innocent creature so hardly dealt with, for a little harmless chat? _gom._ oh, the impudence of this wicked sex! lascivious dialogues are innocent with you! _elv._ was it such a crime to inquire how the battle passed? _gom._ but that was not the business, gentlewoman: you were not asking news of a battle passed; you were engaging for a skirmish that was to come. _elv._ an honest woman would be glad to hear, that her honour was safe, and her enemies were slain. _gom._ [_in her tone._] and to ask, if he were wounded in your defence; and, in case he were, to offer yourself to be his chirurgeon;--then, you did not describe your husband to him, for a covetous, jealous, rich, old hunks. _elv._ no, i need not; he describes himself sufficiently: but, in what dream did i do this? _gom._ you walked in your sleep, with your eyes broad open, at noon-day; and dreamt you were talking to the foresaid purpose with one colonel hernando-- _elv._ who, dear husband, who? _gom._ what the devil have i said?--you would have farther information, would you? _elv._ no; but my dear, little, old man, tell me now, that i may avoid him for your sake. _gom._ get you up into your chamber, cockatrice; and there immure yourself; be confined, i say, during our royal pleasure. but, first, down on your marrowbones, upon your allegiance, and make an acknowledgement of your offences; for i will have ample satisfaction. [_pulls her down._ _elv._ i have done you no injury, and therefore i'll make you no submission: but i'll complain to my ghostly father. _gom._ ay, there's your remedy; when you receive condign punishment, you run with open mouth to your confessor; that parcel of holy guts and garbadge: he must chuckle you and moan you; but i'll rid my hands of his ghostly authority one day, [_enter_ dominick.] and make him know he's the son of a--[_sees him._] so;--no sooner conjure, but the devil's in the circle. _dom._ son of a what, don gomez? _gom._ why, a son of a church; i hope there's no harm in that, father? _dom._ i will lay up your words for you, till time shall serve; and to-morrow i enjoin you to fast, for penance. _gom._ there's no harm in that; she shall fast too: fasting saves money. [_aside._ _dom._ [_to_ elvira.] what was the reason that i found you upon your knees, in that unseemly posture? _gom._ o horrible! to find a woman upon her knees, he says, is an unseemly posture; there's a priest for you! [_aside._ _elv._ [_to_ dom.] i wish, father, you would give me an opportunity of entertaining you in private: i have somewhat upon my spirits that presses me exceedingly. _dom._ this goes well: [_aside._] gomez, stand you at a distance,--farther yet,--stand out of ear shot;--i have somewhat to say to your wife in private. _gom._ was ever man thus priest-ridden? would the steeple of his church were in his belly: i am sure there's room for it. [_aside._ _elv._ i am ashamed to acknowledge my infirmities; but you have been always an indulgent father, and therefore i will venture to--and yet i dare not!-- _dom._ nay, if you are bashful;--if you keep your wound from the knowledge of your surgeon,-- _elv._ you know my husband is a man in years; but he's my husband, and therefore i shall be silent; but his humours are more intolerable than his age: he's grown so froward, so covetous, and so jealous, that he has turned my heart quite from him; and, if i durst confess it, has forced me to cast my affections on another man. _dom._ good:--hold, hold; i meant abominable.--pray heaven this may be my colonel! [_aside._ _elv._ i have seen this man, father, and have encouraged his addresses; he's a young gentleman, a soldier, of a most winning carriage: and what his courtship may produce at last, i know not; but i am afraid of my own frailty. _dom._ 'tis he, for certain;--she has saved the credit of my function, by speaking first; now must i take gravity upon me. [_aside._ _gom._ this whispering bodes me no good, for certain; but he has me so plaguily under the lash, that i dare not interrupt him. [_aside._ _dom._ daughter, daughter, do you remember your matrimonial vow? _elv._ yes, to my sorrow, father, i do remember it; a miserable woman it has made me: but you know, father, a marriage-vow is but a thing of course, which all women take when they would get a husband. _dom._ a vow is a very solemn thing; and 'tis good to keep it: but, notwithstanding, it may be broken upon some occasions. have you striven with all your might against this frailty? _elv._ yes, i have striven; but i found it was against the stream. love, you know, father, is a great vow-maker; but he's a greater vow-breaker. _dom._ 'tis your duty to strive always; but, notwithstanding, when we have done our utmost, it extenuates the sin. _gom._ i can hold no longer.--now, gentlewoman, you are confessing your enormities; i know it, by that hypocritical downcast look:--enjoin her to sit bare upon a bed of nettles, father; you can do no less, in conscience. _dom._ hold your peace; are you growing malapert? will you force me to make use of my authority? your wife's a well disposed and a virtuous lady; i say it, _in verbo sacerdotis._ _elv._ i know not what to do, father; i find myself in a most desperate condition; and so is the colonel, for love of me. _dom._ the colonel, say you! i wish it be not the same young gentleman i know. 'tis a gallant young man, i must confess, worthy of any lady's love in christendom,--in a lawful way, i mean: of such a charming behaviour, so bewitching to a woman's eye, and, furthermore, so charitably given; by all good tokens, this must be my colonel hernando. _elv._ ay, and my colonel too, father:--i am overjoyed!--and are you then acquainted with him? _dom._ acquainted with him! why, he haunts me up and down; and, i am afraid, it is for love of you; for he pressed a letter upon me, within this hour, to deliver to you. i confess i received it, lest he should send it by some other; but with full resolution never to put it into your hands. _elv._ oh, dear father, let me have it, or i shall die! _gom._ whispering still! a pox of your close committee! i'll listen, i'm resolved. [_steals nearer._ _dom._ nay, if you are obstinately bent to see it, use your discretion; but, for my part, i wash my hands of it.--what makes you listening there? get farther off; i preach not to thee, thou wicked eaves dropper. _elv._ i'll kneel down, father, as if i were taking absolution, if you'll but please to stand before me. _dom._ at your peril be it then. i have told you the ill consequences; _et liberavi animam meam._ your reputation is in danger, to say nothing of your soul. notwithstanding, when the spiritual means have been applied, and fail, in that case the carnal may be used. you are a tender child, you are, and must not be put into despair; your heart is as soft and melting as your hand. [_he strokes her face, takes her by the hand, and gives the letter._ _gom._ hold, hold, father, you go beyond your commission; palming is always held foul play amongst gamesters. _dom._ thus good intentions are misconstrued by wicked men; you will never be warned till you are excommunicated. _gom._ ah, devil on him; there's his hold! if there were no more in excommunication than the church's censure, a wise man would lick his conscience whole with a wet finger; but, if i am excommunicated, i am outlawed, and then there is no calling in my money. [_aside._ _elv._ [_rising._] i have read the note, father, and will send him an answer immediately; for i know his lodgings by his letter. _dom._ i understand it not, for my part; but i wish your intentions be honest. remember, that adultery, though it be a silent sin, yet it is a crying sin also. nevertheless, if you believe absolutely he will die, unless you pity him; to save a man's life is a point of charity; and actions of charity do alleviate, as i may say, and take off from the mortality of the sin. farewell, daughter.--gomez, cherish your virtuous wife; and thereupon i give you my benediction. [_going._ _gom._ stay; i'll conduct you to the door,--that i may be sure you steal nothing by the way. friars wear not their long sleeves for nothing.--oh, 'tis a judas iscariot. [_exit after the friar._ _elv._ this friar is a comfortable man! he will understand nothing of the business, and yet does it all. pray, wives and virgins, at your time of need, for a true guide, of my good father's breed. [_exit._ act iii. scene i.--_the street._ _enter_ lorenzo _in a friars habit, meeting_ dominick. _lor._ father dominick, father dominick; why in such haste, man? _dom._ it should seem, a brother of our order. _lor._ no, faith, i am only your brother in iniquity; my holiness, like yours, is mere outside. _dom._ what! my noble colonel in metamorphosis! on what occasion are you transformed? _lor._ love, almighty love; that, which turned jupiter into a town-bull, has transformed me into a friar. i have had a letter from elvira, in answer to that i sent by you. _dom._ you see i have delivered my message faithfully; i am a friar of honour, where i am engaged. _lor._ o, i understand your hint; the other fifty pieces are ready to be condemned to charity. _dom._ but this habit, son! this habit! _lor._ it is a habit, that, in all ages, has been friendly to fornication: you have begun the design in this clothing, and i'll try to accomplish it. the husband is absent, that evil counsellor is removed and the sovereign is graciously disposed to hear my grievances. _dom._ go to, go to; i find good counsel is but thrown away upon you. fare you well, fare you well, son! ah-- _lor._ how! will you turn recreant at the last cast? you must along to countenance my undertaking: we are at the door, man. _dom._ well, i have thought on't, and i will not go. _lor._ you may stay, father, but no fifty pounds without it; that was only promised in the bond: "but the condition of this obligation is such, that if the above-named father, father dominick, do not well and faithfully perform--" _dom._ now i better think on't, i will bear you company; for the reverence of my presence may be a curb to your exorbitancies. _lor._ lead up your myrmidons, and enter. [_exeunt._ scene ii.--elvira's _chamber._ _enter_ elvira. _elv._ he'll come, that's certain; young appetites are sharp, and seldom need twice bidding to such a banquet. well, if i prove frail,--as i hope i shall not till i have compassed my design,--never woman had such a husband to provoke her, such a lover to allure her, or such a confessor to absolve her. of what am i afraid, then? not my conscience, that's safe enough; my ghostly father has given it a dose of church-opium, to lull it. well, for soothing sin, i'll say that for him, he's a chaplain for any court in christendom. _enter_ lorenzo _and_ dominick. o, father dominick, what news?--how, a companion with you! what game have you in hand, that you hunt in couples? _lor._ [_lifting up his hood._] i'll shew you that immediately. _elv._ o, my love! _lor._ my life! _elv._ my soul! [_they embrace._ _dom._ i am taken on the sudden with a grievous swimming in my head, and such a mist before my eyes, that i can neither hear nor see. _elv._ stay, and i'll fetch you some comfortable water. _dom._ no, no; nothing but the open air will do me good. i'll take a turn in your garden; but remember that i trust you both, and do not wrong my good opinion of you. [_exit_ dominick. _elv._ this is certainly the dust of gold which you have thrown in the good man's eyes, that on the sudden he cannot see; for my mind misgives me, this sickness of his is but apocryphal. _lor._ 'tis no qualm of conscience, i'll be sworn. you see, madam, it is interest governs all the world. he preaches against sin; why? because he gets by it: he holds his tongue; why? because so much more is bidden for his silence. _elv._ and so much for the friar. _lor._ oh, those eyes of yours reproach me justly, that i neglect the subject which brought me hither. _elv._ do you consider the hazard i have run to see you here? if you do, methinks it should inform you, that i love not at a common rate. _lor._ nay, if you talk of considering, let us consider why we are alone. do you think the friar left us together to tell beads? love is a kind of penurious god, very niggardly of his opportunities: he must be watched like a hard-hearted treasurer; for he bolts out on the sudden, and, if you take him not in the nick, he vanishes in a twinkling. _elv._ why do you make such haste to have done loving me? you men are all like watches, wound up for striking twelve immediately; but after you are satisfied, the very next that follows, is the solitary sound of a single--one! _lor._ how, madam! do you invite me to a feast, and then preach abstinence? _elv._ no, i invite you to a feast where the dishes are served up in order: you are for making a hasty meal, and for chopping up your entertainment, like a hungry clown. trust my management, good colonel, and call not for your desert too soon: believe me, that which comes last, as it is the sweetest, so it cloys the soonest. _lor._ i perceive, madam, by your holding me at this distance, that there is somewhat you expect from me: what am i to undertake, or suffer, ere i can be happy? _elv._ i must first be satisfied, that you love me. _lor._ by all that's holy! by these dear eyes!-- _elv._ spare your oaths and protestations; i know you gallants of the time have a mint at your tongue's end to coin them. _lor._ you know you cannot marry me; but, by heavens, if you were in a condition-- _elv._ then you would not be so prodigal of your promises, but have the fear of matrimony before your eyes. in few words, if you love me, as you profess, deliver me from this bondage, take me out of egypt, and i'll wander with you as far as earth, and seas, and love, can carry us. _lor._ i never was out at a mad frolic, though this is the maddest i ever undertook. have with you, lady mine; i take you at your word; and if you are for a merry jaunt, i'll try for once who can foot it farthest. there are hedges in summer, and barns in winter, to be found; i with my knapsack, and you with your bottle at your back: we will leave honour to madmen, and riches to knaves; and travel till we come to' the ridge of the world, and then drop together into the next. _elv._ give me your hand, and strike a bargain. [_he takes her hand, and kisses it._ _lor._ in sign and token whereof, the parties interchangeably, and so forth.--when should i be weary of sealing upon this soft wax? _elv._ o heavens! i hear my husband's voice. _enter_ gomez. _gom._ where are you, gentlewoman? there's something in the wind, i'm sure, because your woman would have run up stairs before me; but i have secured her below, with a gag in her chaps.--now, in the devil's name, what makes this friar here again? i do not like these frequent conjunctions of the flesh and spirit; they are boding. _elv._ go hence, good father; my husband, you see, is in an ill humour, and i would not have you witness of his folly. [lorenzo _going._ _gom._ [_running to the door._] by your reverence's favour, hold a little; i must examine you something better, before you go.--heyday! who have we here? father dominick is shrunk in the wetting two yards and a half about the belly. what are become of those two timber logs, that he used to wear for legs, that stood strutting like the two black posts before a door? i am afraid some bad body has been setting him over a fire in a great cauldron, and boiled him down half the quantity, for a recipe. this is no father dominick, no huge overgrown abbey-lubber; this is but a diminutive sucking friar. as sure as a gun, now, father dominick has been spawning this young slender anti-christ. _elv._ he will be found, there's no prevention. [_aside._ _gom._ why does he not speak? what! is the friar possessed with a dumb devil? if he be, i shall make bold to conjure him. _elv._ he is but a novice in his order, and is enjoined silence for a penance. _gom._ a novice, quotha! you would make a novice of me, too, if you could. but what was his business here? answer me that, gentlewoman, answer me that. _elv._ what should it be, but to give me some spiritual instructions. _gom._ very good; and you are like to edify much from a dumb preacher. this will not pass, i must examine the contents of him a little closer.--o thou confessor, confess who thou art, or thou art no friar of this world!--[_he comes to_ lorenzo, _who struggles with him; his habit flies open, and discovers a sword;_ gomez _starts back._]--as i live, this is a manifest member of the church militant. _lor._ [_aside._] i am discovered; now, impudence be my refuge.--yes, faith, 'tis i, honest gomez; thou seest i use thee like a friend; this is a familiar visit. _gom._ what! colonel hernando turned a friar! who could have suspected you of so much godliness? _lor._ even as thou seest, i make bold here. _gom._ a very frank manner of proceeding; but i do not wonder at your visit, after so friendly an invitation as i made you. marry, i hope you will excuse the blunderbusses for not being in readiness to salute you; but let me know your hour, and all shall be mended another time. _lor._ hang it, i hate such ripping up of old unkindness: i was upon the frolic this evening, and came to visit thee in masquerade. _gom._ very likely; and not finding me at home, you were forced to toy away an hour with my wife, or so. _lor._ right; thou speak'st my very soul. _gom._ why, am not i a friend, then, to help thee out? you would have been fumbling half an hour for this excuse. but, as i remember, you promised to storm my citadel, and bring your regiment of red locusts upon me for free quarters: i find, colonel, by your habit, there are black locusts in the world, as well as red. _elv._ when comes my share of the reckoning to be called for? [_aside._ _lor._ give me thy hand; thou art the honestest, kind man!--i was resolved i would not out of thy house till i had seen thee. _gom._ no, in my conscience, if i had staid abroad till midnight. but, colonel, you and i shall talk in another tone hereafter; i mean, in cold friendship, at a bar before a judge, by the way of plaintiff and defendant. your excuses want some grains to make them current: hum, and ha, will not do the business.--there's a modest lady of your acquaintance, she has so much grace to make none at all, but silently to confess the power of dame nature working in her body to youthful appetite. _elv._ how he got in i know not, unless it were by virtue of his habit. _gom._ ay, ay, the virtues of that habit are known abundantly. _elv._ i could not hinder his entrance, for he took me unprovided. _gom._ to resist him. _elv._ i'm sure he has not been here above a quarter of an hour. _gom._ and a quarter of that time would have served the turn. o thou epitome of thy virtuous sex! madam messalina the second, retire to thy apartment: i have an assignation there to make with thee. _elv._ i am all obedience. [_exit_ elvira. _lor._ i find, gomez, you are not the man i thought you. we may meet before we come to the bar, we may; and our differences may be decided by other weapons than by lawyers' tongues. in the mean time, no ill treatment of your wife, as you hope to die a natural death, and go to hell in your bed. bilbo is the word, remember that and tremble.-- [_he's going out._ _enter_ dominick. _dom._ where is this naughty couple? where are you, in the name of goodness? my mind misgave me, and i durst trust you no longer with yourselves: here will be fine work, i'm afraid, at your next confession. _lor._ [_aside._] the devil is punctual, i see; he has paid me the shame he owed me; and now the friar is coming in for his part too. _dom._ [_seeing_ gom.] bless my eyes! what do i see? _gom._ why, you see a cuckold of this honest gentleman's making; i thank him for his pains. _dom._ i confess, i am astonished! _gom._ what, at a cuckoldom of your own contrivance! your head-piece, and his limbs, have done my business. nay, do not look so strangely; remember your own words,--here will be fine work at your next confession. what naughty couple were they whom you durst not trust together any longer?--when the hypocritical rogue had trusted them a full quarter of an hour;--and, by the way, horns will sprout in less time than mushrooms. _dom._ beware how you accuse one of my order upon light suspicions. the naughty couple, that i meant, were your wife and you, whom i left together with great animosities on both sides. now, that was the occasion,--mark me, gomez,--that i thought it convenient to return again, and not to trust your enraged spirits too long together. you might have broken out into revilings and matrimonial warfare, which are sins; and new sins make work for new confessions. _lor._ well said, i'faith, friar; thou art come off thyself, but poor i am left in limbo. [_aside._ _gom._ angle in some other ford, good father, you shall catch no gudgeons here. look upon the prisoner at the bar, friar, and inform the court what you know concerning him; he is arraigned here by the name of colonel hernando. _dom._ what colonel do you mean, gomez? i see no man but a reverend brother of our order, whose profession i honour, but whose person i know not, as i hope for paradise. _gom._ no, you are not acquainted with him, the more's the pity; you do not know him, under this disguise, for the greatest cuckold-maker in all spain. _dom._ o impudence! o rogue! o villain! nay, if he be such a man, my righteous spirit rises at him! does he put on holy garments, for a cover-shame of lewdness? _gom._ yes, and he's in the right on't, father: when a swinging sin is to be committed, nothing will cover it so close as a friar's hood; for there the devil plays at bo-peep,--puts out his horns to do a mischief, and then shrinks them back for safety, like a snail into her shell. _lor._ it's best marching off, while i can retreat with honour. there's no trusting this friar's conscience; he has renounced me already more heartily than e'er he did the devil, and is in a fair way to prosecute me for putting on these holy robes. this is the old church-trick; the clergy is ever at the bottom of the plot, but they are wise enough to slip their own necks out of the collar, and leave the laity to be fairly hanged for it. [_aside and exit._ _gom._ follow your leader, friar; your colonel is trooped off, but he had not gone so easily, if i durst have trusted you in the house behind me. gather up your gouty legs, i say, and rid my house of that huge body of divinity. _dom._ i expect some judgment should fall upon you, for your want of reverence to your spiritual director: slander, covetousness, and jealousy, will weigh thee down. _gom._ put pride, hypocrisy, and gluttony into your scale, father, and you shall weigh against me: nay, an sins come to be divided once, the clergy puts in for nine parts, and scarce leaves the laity a tithe. _dom._ how dar'st thou reproach the tribe of levi? _gom._ marry, because you make us laymen of the tribe of issachar. you make asses of us, to bear your burthens. when we are young, you put panniers upon us with your church-discipline; and when we are grown up, you load us with a wife: after that, you procure for other men, and then you load our wives too. a fine phrase you have amongst you to draw us into marriage, you call it--_settling of a man;_ just as when a fellow has got a sound knock upon the head, they say--_he's settled:_ marriage is a settling-blow indeed. they say every thing in the world is good for something; as a toad, to suck up the venom of the earth; but i never knew what a friar was good for, till your pimping shewed me. _dom._ thou shalt answer for this, thou slanderer; thy offences be upon thy head. _gom._ i believe there are some offences there of your planting. [_exit_ dom.] lord, lord, that men should have sense enough to set snares in their warrens to catch polecats and foxes, and yet-- want wit a priest-trap at their door to lay, for holy vermin that in houses prey. [_exit_ gom. scene iii.--_a bed chamber._ leonora, _and_ teresa. _ter._ you are not what you were, since yesterday; your food forsakes you, and your needful rest; you pine, you languish, love to be alone; think much, speak little, and, in speaking, sigh: when you see torrismond, you are unquiet; but, when you see him not, you are in pain. _leo._ o let them never love, who never tried! they brought a paper to me to be signed; thinking on him, i quite forgot my name, and writ, for leonora, torrismond. i went to bed, and to myself i thought that i would think on torrismond no more; then shut my eyes, but could not shut out him. i turned, and tried each corner of my bed, to find if sleep were there, but sleep was lost. fev'rish, for want of rest, i rose, and walked, and, by the moon-shine, to the windows went; there, thinking to exclude him from my thoughts, i cast my eyes upon the neighbouring fields, and, ere i was aware, sighed to myself,-- there fought my torrismond. _ter._ what hinders you to take the man you love? the people will be glad, the soldiers shout, and bertran, though repining, will be awed. _leo._ i fear to try new love, as boys to venture on the unknown ice, that crackles underneath them while they slide. oh, how shall i describe this growing ill! betwixt my doubt and love, methinks i stand altering, like one that waits an ague fit; and yet, would this were all! _ter._ what fear you more? _leo._ i am ashamed to say, 'tis but a fancy. at break of day, when dreams, they say, are true, a drowzy slumber, rather than a sleep, seized on my senses, with long watching worn: methought i stood on a wide river's bank, which i must needs o'erpass, but knew not how; when, on a sudden, torrismond appeared, gave me his hand, and led me lightly o'er, leaping and bounding on the billows' heads, 'till safely we had reached the farther shore. _ter._ this dream portends some ill which you shall 'scape. would you see fairer visions, take this night your torrismond within your arms to sleep; and, to that end, invent some apt pretence to break with bertran: 'twould be better yet, could you provoke him to give you the occasion, and then, to throw him off. _enter_ bertran _at a distance._ _leo._ my stars have sent him; for, see, he comes. how gloomily he looks! if he, as i suspect, have found my love, his jealousy will furnish him with fury, and me with means, to part. _bert._ [_aside._] shall i upbraid her? shall i call her false? if she be false, 'tis what she most desires. my genius whispers me,--be cautious, bertran! thou walkest as on a narrow mountain's neck, a dreadful height, with scanty room to tread. _leo._ what business have you at the court, my lord? _bert._ what business, madam? _leo._ yes, my lord, what business? 'tis somewhat, sure, of weighty consequence, that brings you here so often, and unsent for. _bert._ 'tis what i feared; her words are cold enough, to freeze a man to death. [_aside._]--may i presume to speak, and to complain? _leo._ they, who complain to princes, think them tame: what bull dares bellow, or what sheep dares bleat, within the lion's den? _bert._ yet men are suffered to put heaven in mind of promised blessings; for they then are debts. _leo._ my lord, heaven knows its own time when to give; but you, it seems, charge me with breach of faith! _bert._ i hope i need not, madam; but as, when men in sickness lingering lie, they count the tedious hours by months and years,-- so, every day deferred, to dying lovers, is a whole age of pain! _leo._ what if i ne'er consent to make you mine? my father's promise ties me not to time; and bonds, without a date, they say, are void. _bert._ far be it from me to believe you bound; love is the freest motion of our minds: o could you see into my secret soul, there might you read your own dominion doubled, both as a queen and mistress. if you leave me, know i can die, but dare not be displeased. _leo._ sure you affect stupidity, my lord; or give me cause to think, that, when you lost three battles to the moors, you coldly stood as unconcerned as now. _bert._ i did my best; fate was not in my power. _leo._ and, with the like tame gravity, you saw a raw young warrior take your baffled work, and end it at a blow. _bert._ i humbly take my leave; but they, who blast your good opinion of me, may have cause to know, i am no coward. [_he is going._ _leo._ bertran, stay. [_aside._] this may produce some dismal consequence to him, whom dearer than my life i love. [_to him._] have i not managed my contrivance well, to try your love, and make you doubt of mine? _bert._ then, was it but a trial? methinks i start as from some dreadful dream, and often ask myself if yet i wake.-- this turn's too quick to be without design; i'll sound the bottom of't, ere i believe. [_aside._ _leo._ i find your love, and would reward it too, but anxious fears solicit my weak breast. i fear my people's faith; that hot-mouthed beast, that bears against the curb, hard to be broken even by lawful kings, but harder by usurpers. judge then, my lord, with all these cares opprest, if i can think of love. _bert._ believe me, madam, these jealousies, however large they spread, have but one root, the old imprisoned king; whose lenity first pleased the gaping crowd; but when long tried, and found supinely good, like Æsop's log, they leapt upon his back. your father knew them well; and, when he mounted, he reined them strongly, and he spurred them hard: and, but he durst not do it all at once, he had not left alive this patient saint, this anvil of affronts, but sent him hence to hold a peaceful branch of palm above, and hymn it in the quire. _leo._ you've hit upon the very string, which, touched. echoes the sound, and jars within my soul;-- there lies my grief. _bert._ so long as there's a head, thither will all the mounting spirits fly; lop that but off, and then-- _leo._ my virtue shrinks from such an horrid act. _bert._ this 'tis to have a virtue out of season. mercy is good, a very good dull virtue; but kings mistake its timing, and are mild, when manly courage bids them be severe: better be cruel once, than anxious ever. remove this threatening danger from your crown, and then securely take the man you love. _leo._ [_walking aside._] ha! let me think of that:--the man i love? 'tis true, this murder is the only means, that can secure my throne to torrismond: nay, more, this execution, done by bertran, makes him the object of the people's hate. _bert._ the more she thinks, 'twill work the stronger in her. [_aside._ _leo._ how eloquent is mischief to persuade! few are so wicked, as to take delight in crimes unprofitable, nor do i: if then i break divine and human laws, no bribe but love could gain so bad a cause. [_aside._ _bert._ you answer nothing. _leo._ 'tis of deep concernment, and i a woman, ignorant and weak: i leave it all to you; think, what you do, you do for him i love. _bert._ for him she loves? she named not me; that may be torrismond, whom she has thrice in private seen this day; then i am fairly caught in my own snare. i'll think again. [_aside._]--madam, it shall be done; and mine be all the blame. [_exit._ _leo._ o, that it were! i would not do this crime, and yet, like heaven, permit it to be done. the priesthood grossly cheat us with free-will: will to do what--but what heaven first decreed? our actions then are neither good nor ill, since from eternal causes they proceed; our passions,--fear and anger, love and hate,-- mere senseless engines that are moved by fate; like ships on stormy seas, without a guide, tost by the winds, and driven by the tide. _enter_ torrismond. _tor._ am i not rudely bold, and press too often into your presence, madam? if i am-- _leo._ no more, lest i should chide you for your stay: where have you been? and how could you suppose, that i could live these two long hours without you? _tor._ o words, to charm an angel from his orb! welcome, as kindly showers to long-parched earth! but i have been in such a dismal place, where joy ne'er enters, which the sun ne'er cheers, bound in with darkness, overspread with damps; where i have seen (if i could say i saw) the good old king, majestic in his bonds, and, 'midst his griefs, most venerably great: by a dim winking lamp, which feebly broke the gloomy vapours, he lay stretched along upon the unwholesome earth, his eyes fixed upward; and ever and anon a silent tear stole down, and trickled from his hoary beard. _leo._ o heaven, what have i done!--my gentle love, here end thy sad discourse, and, for my sake, cast off these fearful melancholy thoughts. _tor._ my heart is withered at that piteous sight, as early blossoms are with eastern blasts: he sent for me, and, while i raised his head, he threw his aged arms about my neck; and, seeing that i wept, he pressed me close: so, leaning cheek to cheek, and eyes to eyes, we mingled tears in a dumb scene of sorrow. _leo._ forbear; you know not how you wound my soul. _tor._ can you have grief, and not have pity too? he told me,--when my father did return, he had a wond'rous secret to disclose: he kissed me, blessed me, nay--he called me son; he praised my courage; prayed for my success: he was so true a father of his country, to thank me, for defending even his foes, because they were his subjects. _leo._ if they be,--then what am i? _tor._ the sovereign of my soul, my earthly heaven. _leo._ and not your queen? _tor._ you are so beautiful, so wond'rous fair, you justify rebellion; as if that faultless face could make no sin, but heaven, with looking on it, must forgive. _leo._ the king must die,--he must, my torrismond, though pity softly plead within my soul; yet he must die, that i may make you great, and give a crown in dowry with my love. _tor._ perish that crown--on any head but yours! o, recollect your thoughts! shake not his hour-glass, when his hasty sand is ebbing to the last: a little longer, yet a little longer, and nature drops him down, without your sin; like mellow fruit, without a winter storm. _leo._ let me but do this one injustice more. his doom is past, and, for your sake, he dies. _tor._ would you, for me, have done so ill an act, and will not do a good one! now, by your joys on earth, your hopes in heaven, o spare this great, this good, this aged king; and spare your soul the crime! _leo._ the crime's not mine; 'twas first proposed, and must be done, by bertran, fed with false hopes to gain my crown and me; i, to enhance his ruin, gave no leave, but barely bade him think, and then resolve. _tor._ in not forbidding, you command the crime: think, timely think, on the last dreadful day; how will you tremble, there to stand exposed, and foremost, in the rank of guilty ghosts, that must be doomed for murder! think on murder: that troop is placed apart from common crimes; the damned themselves start wide, and shun that band, as far more black, and more forlorn than they. _leo._ 'tis terrible! it shakes, it staggers me; i knew this truth, but i repelled that thought. sure there is none, but fears a future state; and, when the most obdurate swear they do not, their trembling hearts belie their boasting tongues. _enter_ teresa. send speedily to bertran; charge him strictly not to proceed, but wait my farther pleasure. _ter._ madam, he sends to tell you, 'tis performed. [_exit._ _tor._ ten thousand plagues consume him! furies drag him, fiends tear him! blasted be the arm that struck, the tongue that ordered!--only she be spared, that hindered not the deed! o, where was then the power, that guards the sacred lives of kings? why slept the lightning and the thunder-bolts, or bent their idle rage on fields and trees, when vengeance called them here? _leo._ sleep that thought too; 'tis done, and, since 'tis done, 'tis past recal; and, since 'tis past recal, must be forgotten. _tor._ o, never, never, shall it be forgotten! high heaven will not forget it; after-ages shall with a fearful curse remember ours; and blood shall never leave the nation more! _leo._ his body shall be royally interred, and the last funeral-pomps adorn his hearse; i will myself (as i have cause too just,) be the chief mourner at his obsequies; and yearly fix on the revolving day the solemn marks of mourning, to atone, and expiate my offence. _tor._ nothing can, but bloody vengeance on that traitor's head,-- which, dear departed spirit, here i vow. _leo._ here end our sorrows, and begin our joys: love calls, my torrismond; though hate has raged, and ruled the day, yet love will rule the night. the spiteful stars have shed their venom down, and now the peaceful planets take their turn. this deed of bertran's has removed all fears, and given me just occasion to refuse him. what hinders now, but that the holy priest in secret join our mutual vows? and then this night, this happy night, is yours and mine. _tor._ be still my sorrows, and be loud my joys. fly to the utmost circles of the sea, thou furious tempest, that hast tossed my mind, and leave no thought, but leonora there.-- what's this i feel, a boding in my soul, as if this day were fatal? be it so; fate shall but have the leavings of my love: my joys are gloomy, but withal are great. the lion, though he sees the toils are set, yet, pinched with raging hunger, scowers away, hunts in the face of danger all the day; at night, with sullen pleasure, grumbles o'er his prey. [_exeunt._ act iv. scene i.--_before gomez's door._ _enter_ lorenzo, dominick, _and two soldiers at a distance._ _dom._ i'll not wag an ace farther: the whole world shall not bribe me to it; for my conscience will digest these gross enormities no longer. _lor._ how, thy conscience not digest them! there is ne'er a friar in spain can shew a conscience, that comes near it for digestion. it digested pimping, when i sent thee with my letter; and it digested perjury, when thou swor'st thou didst not know me: i am sure it has digested me fifty pounds, of as hard gold as is in all barbary. pr'ythee, why shouldest thou discourage fornication, when thou knowest thou lovest a sweet young girl? _dom._ away, away; i do not love them;--pah; no,--[_spits._] i do not love a pretty girl--you are so waggish!-- [_spits again._ _lor._ why thy mouth waters at the very mention of them. _dom._ you take a mighty pleasure in defamation, colonel; but i wonder what you find in running restless up and down, breaking your brains, emptying your purse, and wearing out your body, with hunting after unlawful game. _lor._ why there's the satisfaction on't. _dom._ this incontinency may proceed to adultery, and adultery to murder, and murder to hanging; and there's the satisfaction on't. _lor._ i'll not hang alone, friar; i'm resolved to peach thee before thy superiors, for what thou hast done already. _dom._ i'm resolved to forswear it, if you do. let me advise you better, colonel, than to accuse a church-man to a church-man; in the common cause we are all of a piece; we hang together. _lor._ if you don't, it were no matter if you did. [_aside._ _dom._ nay, if you talk of peaching, i'll peach first, and see whose oath will be believed; i'll trounce you for offering to corrupt my honesty, and bribe my conscience: you shall be summoned by an host of parators; you shall be sentenced in the spiritual court; you shall be excommunicated; you shall be outlawed;--and-- [_here_ lorenzo _takes a purse, and plays with it, and at last lets the purse fall chinking on the ground, which the friar eyes._ [_in another tone._] i say, a man might do this now, if he were maliciously disposed, and had a mind to bring matters to extremity: but, considering that you are my friend, a person of honour, and a worthy good charitable man, i would rather die a thousand deaths than disoblige you. [lorenzo _takes up the purse, and pours it into the friar's sleeve._ nay, good sir;--nay, dear colonel;--o lord, sir, what are you doing now! i profess this must not be: without this i would have served you to the utter-most; pray command me.--a jealous, foul-mouthed rogue this gomez is; i saw how he used you, and you marked how he used me too. o he's a bitter man; but we'll join our forces; ah, shall we, colonel? we'll be revenged on him with a witness. _lor._ but how shall i send her word to be ready at the door? for i must reveal it in confession to you, that i mean to carry her away this evening, by the help of these two soldiers. i know gomez suspects you, and you will hardly gain admittance. _dom._ let me alone; i fear him not. i am armed with the authority of my clothing: yonder i see him keeping sentry at his door:--have you never seen a citizen, in a cold morning, clapping his sides, and walking forward and backward, a mighty pace before his shop? but i'll gain the pass, in spite of his suspicion; stand you aside, and do but mark how i accost him. _lor._ if he meet with a repulse, we must throw off the fox's skin, and put on the lion's.--come, gentlemen, you'll stand by me? _sol._ do not doubt us, colonel. [_they retire all three to a corner of the stage;_ dominick _goes to the door where_ gomez _stands._ _dom._ good even, gomez; how does your wife? _gom._ just as you'd have her; thinking on nothing but her dear colonel, and conspiring cuckoldom against me. _dom._ i dare say, you wrong her; she is employing her thoughts how to cure you of your jealousy. _gom._ yes, by certainty. _dom._ by your leave, gomez; i have some spiritual advice to impart to her on that subject. _gom._ you may spare your instructions, if you please, father; she has no farther need of them. _dom._ how, no need of them! do you speak in riddles? _gom._ since you will have me speak plainer,--she has profited so well already by your counsel, that she can say her lesson without your teaching: do you understand me now? _dom._ i must not neglect my duty, for all that; once again, gomez, by your leave. _gom._ she's a little indisposed at present, and it will not be convenient to disturb her. [dominick _offers to go by him, but t'other stands before him._ _dom._ indisposed, say you? o, it is upon those occasions that a confessor is most necessary; i think, it was my good angel that sent me hither so opportunely. _gom._ ay, whose good angels sent you hither, that you best know, father. _dom._ a word or two of devotion will do her no harm, i'm sure. _gom._ a little sleep will do her more good, i'm sure: you know, she disburthened her conscience but this morning to you. _dom._ but, if she be ill this afternoon, she may have new occasion to confess. _gom._ indeed, as you order matters with the colonel, she may have occasion of confessing herself every hour. _dom._ pray, how long has she been sick? _gom._ lord, you will force a man to speak;--why, ever since your last defeat. _dom._ this can be but some slight indisposition; it will not last, and i may see her. _gom._ how, not last! i say, it will last, and it shall last; she shall be sick these seven or eight days, and perhaps longer, as i see occasion. what? i know the mind of her sickness a little better than you do. _dom._ i find, then, i must bring a doctor. _gom._ and he'll bring an apothecary, with a chargeable long bill of _ana's_: those of my family have the grace to die cheaper. in a word, sir dominick, we understand one another's business here: i am resolved to stand like the swiss of my own family, to defend the entrance; you may mumble over your _pater nosters_, if you please, and try if you can make my doors fly open, and batter down my walls with bell, book, and candle; but i am not of opinion, that you are holy enough to commit miracles. _dom._ men of my order are not to be treated after this manner. _gom._ i would treat the pope and all his cardinals in the same manner, if they offered to see my wife, without my leave. _dom._ i excommunicate thee from the church, if thou dost not open; there's promulgation coming out. _gom._ and i excommunicate you from my wife, if you go to that: there's promulgation for promulgation, and bull for bull; and so i leave you to recreate yourself with the end of an old song-- _and sorrow came to the old friar._ [_exit._ lorenzo _comes to him._ _lor._ i will not ask you your success; for i overheard part of it, and saw the conclusion. i find we are now put upon our last trump; the fox is earthed, but i shall send my two terriers in after him. _sold._ i warrant you, colonel, we'll unkennel him. _lor._ and make what haste you can, to bring out the lady.--what say you, father? burglary is but a venial sin among soldiers. _dom._ i shall absolve them, because he is an enemy of the church.--there is a proverb, i confess, which says, that dead men tell no tales; but let your soldiers apply it at their own perils. _lor._ what, take away a man's wife, and kill him too! the wickedness of this old villain startles me, and gives me a twinge for my own sin, though it comes far short of his.--hark you, soldiers, be sure you use as little violence to him as is possible. _dom._ hold a little; i have thought better how to secure him, with less danger to us. _lor._ o miracle, the friar is grown conscientious! _dom._ the old king, you know, is just murdered, and the persons that did it are unknown; let the soldiers seize him for one of the assassinates, and let me alone to accuse him afterwards. _lor._ i cry thee mercy with all my heart, for suspecting a friar of the least good nature; what, would you accuse him wrongfully? _dom._ i must confess, 'tis wrongful, _quoad hoc_, as to the fact itself; but 'tis rightful, _quoad hunc_, as to this heretical rogue, whom we must dispatch. he has railed against the church, which is a fouler crime than the murder of a thousand kings. _omne majus continet in se minus:_ he, that is an enemy to the church, is an enemy unto heaven; and he, that is an enemy to heaven, would have killed the king if he had been in the circumstances of doing it; so it is not wrongful to accuse him. _lor._ i never knew a churchman, if he were personally offended, but he would bring in heaven by hook or crook into his quarrel.--soldiers, do as you were first ordered. [_exeunt soldiers._ _dom._ what was't you ordered them? are you sure it's safe, and not scandalous? _lor._ somewhat near your own design, but not altogether so mischievous. the people are infinitely discontented, as they have reason; and mutinies there are, or will be, against the queen: now i am content to put him thus far into the plot, that he should be secured as a traitor; but he shall only be prisoner at the soldiers' quarters; and when i am out of reach, he shall be released. _dom._ and what will become of me then? for when he is free, he will infallibly accuse me. _lor._ why then, father, you must have recourse to your infallible church-remedies; lie impudently, and swear devoutly, and, as you told me but now, let him try whose oath will be first believed. retire, i hear them coming. [_they withdraw._ _enter the soldiers with_ gomez _struggling on their backs._ _gom._ help, good christians! help, neighbours! my house is broken open by force, and i am ravished, and like to be assassinated!--what do you mean, villains? will you carry me away, like a pedlar's pack, upon your backs? will you murder a man in plain day-light? _ soldier._ no; but we'll secure you for a traitor, and for being in a plot against the state. _gom,_ who, i in a plot! o lord! o lord! i never durst be in a plot: why, how can you in conscience suspect a rich citizen of so much wit as to make a plotter? there are none but poor rogues, and those that can't live without it, that are in plots. _ soldier._ away with him, away with him. _gom._ o my gold! my wife! my wife! my gold! as i hope to be saved now, i know no more of the plot than they that made it. [_they carry him off, and exeunt._ _lor._ thus far we have sailed with a merry gale, and now we have the cape of good hope in sight; the trade-wind is our own, if we can but double it. [_he looks out._ [_aside._] ah, my father and pedro stand at the corner of the street with company; there's no stirring till they are past. _enter_ elvira _with a casket._ _elv._ am i come at last into your arms? _lor._ fear nothing; the adventure's ended, and the knight may carry off the lady safely. _elv._ i'm so overjoyed, i can scarce believe i am at liberty; but stand panting, like a bird that has often beaten her wings in vain against her cage, and at last dares hardly venture out, though she sees it open. _dom._ lose no time, but make haste while the way is free for you; and thereupon i give you my benediction. _lor._ 'tis not so free as you suppose; for there's an old gentleman of my acquaintance, that blocks up the passage at the corner of the street. _dom._ what have you gotten there under your arm, daughter? somewhat, i hope, that will bear your charges in your pilgrimage. _lor._ the friar has an hawk's eye to gold and jewels. _elv._ here's that will make you dance without a fiddle, and provide better entertainment for us, than hedges in summer, and barns in winter. here's the very heart, and soul, and life-blood of gomez; pawns in abundance, old gold of widows, and new gold of prodigals, and pearls and diamonds of court ladies, till the next bribe helps their husbands to redeem them. _dom._ they are the spoils of the wicked, and the church endows you with them. _lor._ and, faith, we'll drink the church's health out of them. but all this while i stand on thorns. pr'ythee, dear, look out, and see if the coast be free for our escape; for i dare not peep, for fear of being known. [elvira _goes to look, and_ gomez _comes running in upon her: she shrieks out._ _gom._ thanks to my stars, i have recovered my own territories.--what do i see? i'm ruined! i'm undone! i'm betrayed! _dom._ [_aside._] what a hopeful enterprise is here spoiled! _gom._ o, colonel are you there?--and you, friar? nay, then i find how the world goes. _lor._ cheer up, man, thou art out of jeopardy; i heard thee crying out just now, and came running in full speed, with the wings of an eagle, and the feet of a tiger, to thy rescue. _gom._ ay, you are always at hand to do me a courtesy, with your eagle's feet, and your tiger's wings.--and what were you here for, friar? _dom._ to interpose my spiritual authority in your behalf. _gom._ and why did you shriek out, gentlewoman? _elv._ 'twas for joy at your return. _gom._ and that casket under your arm, for what end and purpose? _elv._ only to preserve it from the thieves. _gom._ and you came running out of doors-- _elv._ only to meet you, sweet husband. _gom._ a fine evidence summed up among you; thank you heartily, you are all my friends. the colonel was walking by accidentally, and hearing my voice, came in to save me; the friar, who was hobbling the same way too, accidentally again, and not knowing of the colonel, i warrant you, he comes in to pray for me; and my faithful wife runs out of doors to meet me, with all my jewels under her arm, and shrieks out for joy at my return. but if my father-in-law had not met your soldiers, colonel, and delivered me in the nick, i should neither have found a friend nor a friar here, and might have shrieked out for joy myself, for the loss of my jewels and my wife. _dom._ art thou an infidel? wilt thou not believe us? _gom._ such churchmen as you would make any man an infidel.--get you into your kennel, gentlewoman; i shall thank you within doors for your safe custody of my jewels and your own. [_he thrusts his wife off the stage._ as for you, colonel huffcap, we shall try before a civil magistrate, who's the greater plotter of us two, i against the state, or you against the petticoat. _lor._ nay, if you will complain, you shall for something. [_beats him._ _gom._ murder, murder! i give up the ghost! i am destroyed! help, murder, murder! _dom._ away, colonel; let us fly for our lives: the neighbours are coming out with forks, and fire-shovels, and spits, and other domestic weapons; the militia of a whole alley is raised against us. _lor._ this is but the interest of my debt, master usurer; the principal shall be paid you at our next meeting. _dom._ ah, if your soldiers had but dispatched him, his tongue had been laid asleep, colonel; but this comes of not following good counsel; ah-- [_exeunt_ lor. _and friar severally._ _gom._ i'll be revenged of him, if i dare; but he's such a terrible fellow, that my mind misgives me; i shall tremble when i have him before the judge. all my misfortunes come together. i have been robbed, and cuckolded, and ravished, and beaten, in one quarter of an hour; my poor limbs smart, and my poor head aches: ay, do, do, smart limb, ache head, and sprout horns; but i'll be hanged before i'll pity you:--you must needs be married, must ye? there's for that; [_beats his own head._] and to a fine, young, modish lady, must ye? there's for that too; and, at threescore, you old, doting cuckold! take that remembrance;--a fine time of day for a man to be bound prentice, when he is past using of his trade; to set up an equipage of noise, when he has most need of quiet; instead of her being under covert-baron, to be under covert-femme myself; to have my body disabled, and my head fortified; and, lastly, to be crowded into a narrow box with a shrill treble, that with one blast through the whole house does bound, and first taught speaking-trumpets how to sound. [_exit._ scene ii.--_the court._ _enter_ raymond, alphonso, _and_ pedro. _raym._ are these, are these, ye powers, the promised joys, with which i flattered my long, tedious absence, to find, at my return, my master murdered? o, that i could but weep, to vent my passion! but this dry sorrow burns up all my tears. _alph._ mourn inward, brother; 'tis observed at court, who weeps, and who wears black; and your return will fix all eyes on every act of yours, to see how you resent king sancho's death. _raym._ what generous man can live with that constraint upon his soul, to bear, much less to flatter, a court like this! can i sooth tyranny? seem pleased to see my royal master murdered, his crown usurped, a distaff in the throne, a council made of such as dare not speak, and could not, if they durst; whence honest men banish themselves, for shame of being there: a government, that, knowing not true wisdom, is scorned abroad, and lives on tricks at home? _alph._ virtue must be thrown off; 'tis a coarse garment, too heavy for the sun-shine of a court. _raym._ well then, i will dissemble, for an end so great, so pious, as a just revenge: you'll join with me? _alph._ no honest man but must. _ped._ what title has this queen, but lawless force? and force must pull her down. _alph._ truth is, i pity leonora's case; forced, for her safety, to commit a crime, which most her soul abhors. _raym._ all she has done, or e'er can do, of good, this one black deed has damned. _ped,_ you'll hardly gain your son to our design. _raym._ your reason for't? _ped._ i want time to unriddle it: put on your t'other face, the queen approaches. _enter_ leonora, bertran, _and attendants._ _raym._ and that accursed bertran stalks close behind her, like a witch's fiend, pressing to be employed; stand, and observe them. _leo._ to _bert._ buried in private, and so suddenly! it crosses my design, which was to allow the rites of funeral fitting his degree, with all the pomp of mourning. _bert._ it was not safe: objects of pity, when the cause is new, would work too fiercely on the giddy crowd: had cæsar's body never been exposed, brutus had gained his cause. _leo._ then, was he loved? _bert._ o, never man so much, for saint-like goodness. _ped._ had bad men feared him, but as good men loved him, he had not yet been sainted. [_aside._ _leo._ i wonder how the people bear his death. _bert._ some discontents there are; some idle murmurs. _ped._ how, idle murmurs! let me plainly speak: the doors are all shut up; the wealthier sort, with arms across, and hats upon their eyes, walk to and fro before their silent shops; whole droves of lenders crowd the bankers' doors, to call in money; those, who have none, mark where money goes; for when they rise, 'tis plunder: the rabble gather round the man of news, and listen with their mouths; some tell, some hear, some judge of news, some make it; and he, who lies most loud, is most believed. _leo._ this may be dangerous. _raym._ pray heaven it may! [_aside._ _bert._ if one of you must fall, self-preservation is the first of laws; and if, when subjects are oppressed by kings, they justify rebellion by that law, as well may monarchs turn the edge of right to cut for them, when self-defence requires it. _leo._ you place such arbitrary power in kings, that i much fear, if i should make you one, you'll make yourself a tyrant; let these know by what authority you did this act. _bert._ you much surprise me, to demand that question: but, since truth must be told, 'twas by your own. _leo._ produce it; or, by heaven, your head shall answer the forfeit of your tongue. _raym._ brave mischief towards. [_aside._ _bert._ you bade me. _leo._ when, and where? _bert._ no, i confess, you bade me not in words; the dial spoke not, but it made shrewd signs, and pointed full upon the stroke of murder: yet this you said, you were a woman, ignorant and weak, so left it to my care. _leo._ what, if i said, i was a woman, ignorant and weak, were you to take the advantage of my sex, and play the devil to tempt me? you contrived, you urged, you drove me headlong to your toils; and if, much tired, and frighted more, i paused, were you to make my doubts your own commission? _bert._ this 'tis, to serve a prince too faithfully; who, free from laws himself, will have that done, which, not performed, brings us to sure disgrace; and, if performed, to ruin. _leo._ this 'tis, to counsel things that are unjust; first, to debauch a king to break his laws, which are his safety, and then seek protection from him you have endangered; but, just heaven, when sins are judged, will damn the tempting devil, more deep than those he tempted. _bert._ if princes not protect their ministers, what man will dare to serve them? _leo._ none will dare to serve them ill, when they are left to laws; but, when a counsellor, to save himself, would lay miscarriages upon his prince, exposing him to public rage and hate; o, 'tis an act as infamously base, as, should a common soldier sculk behind, and thrust his general in the front of war: it shews, he only served himself before, and had no sense of honour, country, king, but centered on himself, and used his master, as guardians do their wards, with shews of care, but with intent to sell the public safety, and pocket up his prince. _ped._ well said, i'faith; this speech is e'en too good for an usurper. [_aside._ _bert._ i see for whom i must be sacrificed; and, had i not been sotted with my zeal, i might have found it sooner. _leo._ from my sight! the prince, who bears an insolence like this, is such an image of the powers above, as is the statue of the thundering god, whose bolts the boys may play with. _bert._ unrevenged i will not fall, nor single. [_exit._ _leo._ welcome, welcome! [_to_ raym. _who kisses her hand._ i saw you not before: one honest lord is hid with ease among a crowd of courtiers. how can i be too grateful to the father of such a son as torrismond? _raym._ his actions were but duty. _leo._ yet, my lord, all have not paid that debt, like noble torrismond. you hear, how bertran brands me with a crime, of which, your son can witness, i am free. i sent to stop the murder, but too late; for crimes are swift, but penitence is slow: the bloody bertran, diligent in ill, flew to prevent the soft returns of pity. _raym._ o cursed haste, of making sure of sin!-- can you forgive the traitor? _leo._ never, never: 'tis written here in characters so deep, that seven years hence, ('till then should i not meet him,) and in the temple then, i'll drag him thence, even from the holy altar to the block. _raym._ she's fired, as i would wish her; aid me, justice, [_aside._ as all my ends are thine, to gain this point, and ruin both at once.--it wounds, indeed, [_to her._ to bear affronts, too great to be forgiven, and not have power to punish; yet one way there is to ruin bertran. _leo._ o, there's none; except an host from heaven can make such haste to save my crown, as he will do to seize it. you saw, he came surrounded with his friends, and knew, besides, our army was removed to quarters too remote for sudden use. _raym._ yet you may give commission to some bold man, whose loyalty you trust, and let him raise the train-bands of the city. _leo._ gross feeders, lion talkers, lamb-like fighters. _raym._ you do not know the virtues of your city, what pushing force they have; some popular chief, more noisy than the rest, but cries halloo, and, in a trice, the bellowing herd come out; the gates are barred, the ways are barricadoed, and _one and all's_ the word; true cocks o'the game, that never ask, for what, or whom, they fight; but turn them out, and shew them but a foe, cry--_liberty!_ and that's a cause of quarrel. _leo._ there may be danger in that boisterous rout: who knows, when fires are kindled for my foes, but some new blast of wind may turn those flames against my palace-walls? _raym._ but still their chief must be some one, whose loyalty you trust. _leo._ and who more proper for that trust than you, whose interests, though unknown to you, are mine? alphonso, pedro, haste to raise the rabble; he shall appear to head them. _raym._ [_aside to_ alph. _and_ ped.] first sieze bertran, and then insinuate to them, that i bring their lawful prince to place upon the throne. _alph._ our lawful prince! _raym._ fear not; i can produce him. _ped._ [_to_ alph.] now we want your son lorenzo: what a mighty faction would he make for us of the city-wives, with,--oh, dear husband, my sweet honey husband, wont you be for the colonel? if you love me, be for the colonel; oh, he's the finest man! [_exeunt_ alph. _and_ ped. _raym._ so, now we have a plot behind the plot. she thinks, she's in the depth of my design, and that 'tis all for her; but time shall show, she only lives to help me ruin others, and last, to fall herself. [_aside._ _leo._ now, to you, raymond: can you guess no reason why i repose such confidence in you? you needs must think, there's some more powerful cause than loyalty: will you not speak, to save a lady's blush? need i inform you, 'tis for torrismond, that all this grace is shown? _raym._ by all the powers, worse, worse than what i feared! [_aside._ _leo._ and yet, what need i blush at such a choice? i love a man whom i am proud to love, and am well pleased my inclination gives what gratitude would force. o pardon me; i ne'er was covetous of wealth before; yet think so vast a treasure as your son, too great for any private man's possession; and him too rich a jewel, to be set in vulgar metal, or for vulgar use. _raym._ arm me with patience, heaven! _leo._ how, patience, raymond? what exercise of patience have you here? what find you in my crown to be contemned; or in my person loathed? have i, a queen, past by my fellow-rulers of the world, whose vying crowns lay glittering in my way, as if the world were paved with diadems? have i refused their blood, to mix with yours, and raise new kings from so obscure a race, fate scarce knew where to find them, when i called? have i heaped on my person, crown, and state, to load the scale, and weighed myself with earth, for you to spurn the balance? _raym._ bate the last, and 'tis what i would say: can i, can any loyal subject, see with patience, such a stoop from sovereignty, an ocean poured upon a narrow brook? my zeal for you must lay the father by, and plead my country's cause against my son. what though his heart be great, his actions gallant, he wants a crown to poise against a crown, birth to match birth, and power to balance power. _leo._ all these i have, and these i can bestow; but he brings worth and virtue to my bed; and virtue is the wealth which tyrants want: i stand in need of one, whose glories may redeem my crimes, ally me to his fame, dispel the factions of my foes on earth, disarm the justice of the powers above. _raym._ the people never will endure this choice. _leo._ if i endure it, what imports it you? go, raise the ministers of my revenge, guide with your breath this whirling tempest round, and see its fury fall where i design. at last a time for just revenge is given; revenge, the darling attribute of heaven: but man, unlike his maker, bears too long; still more exposed, the more he pardons wrong; great in forgiving, and in suffering brave; to be a saint, he makes himself a slave. [_exit queen._ _raym._ [_solus._] marriage with torrismond! it must not be, by heaven, it must not be! or, if it be, law, justice, honour, bid farewell to earth, for heaven leaves all to tyrants. _enter_ torrismond, _who kneels to him._ _tor._ o, very welcome, sir! but doubly now! you come in such a time, as if propitious fortune took a care, to swell my tide of joys to their full height, and leave me nothing farther to desire. _raym._ i hope, i come in time, if not to make, at least to save your fortune and your honour. take heed you steer your vessel right, my son; this calm of heaven, this mermaid's melody, into an unseen whirlpool draws you fast, and, in a moment, sinks you. _tor._ fortune cannot, and fate can scarce; i've made the port already, and laugh securely at the lazy storm, that wanted wings to reach me in the deep. your pardon, sir; my duty calls me hence; i go to find my queen, my earthly goddess, to whom i owe my hopes, my life, my love. _raym._ you owe her more, perhaps, than you imagine; stay, i command you stay, and hear me first. this hour's the very crisis of your fate, your good or ill, your infamy or fame, and all the colour of your life, depends on this important now. _tor._ i see no danger; the city, army, court, espouse my cause, and, more than all, the queen, with public favour, indulges my pretensions to her love. _raym._ nay, if possessing her can make you happy, 'tis granted, nothing hinders your design. _tor._ if she can make me blest? she only can; empire, and wealth, and all she brings beside, are but the train and trappings of her love: the sweetest, kindest, truest of her sex, in whose possession years roll round on years, and joys, in circles, meet new joys again; kisses, embraces, languishing, and death, still from each other to each other move, to crown the various seasons of our love; and doubt you if such love can make me happy? _raym._ yes; for, i think, you love your honour more. _tor._ and what can shock my honour in a queen? _raym._ a tyrant, an usurper? _tor._ grant she be; when from the conqueror we hold our lives, we yield ourselves his subjects from that hour; for mutual benefits make mutual ties. _raym._ why, can you think i owe a thief my life, because he took it not by lawless force? what, if he did not all the ill he could? am i obliged by that to assist his rapines, and to maintain his murders? _tor._ not to maintain, but bear them unrevenged. kings' titles commonly begin by force, which time wears off, and mellows into right; so power, which, in one age, is tyranny, is ripened, in the next, to true succession: she's in possession. _raym._ so diseases are: should not a lingering fever be removed, because it long has raged within my blood? do i rebel, when i would thrust it out? what, shall i think the world was made for one, and men are born for kings, as beasts for men, not for protection, but to be devoured? mark those, who dote on arbitrary power, and you shall find them either hot-brained youth, or needy bankrupts, servile in their greatness, and slaves to some, to lord it o'er the rest. o baseness, to support a tyrant throne, and crush your freeborn brethren of the world! nay, to become a part of usurpation; to espouse the tyrant's person and her crimes, and, on a tyrant, get a race of tyrants, to be your country's curse in after ages. _tor._ i see no crime in her whom i adore, or, if i do, her beauty makes it none: look on me as a man abandoned o'er to an eternal lethargy of love; to pull, and pinch, and wound me, cannot cure, and but disturb the quiet of my death. _raym._ o virtue, virtue! what art thou become, that man should leave thee for that toy, a woman, made from the dross and refuse of a man! heaven took him, sleeping, when he made her too; had man been waking, he had ne'er consented. now, son, suppose some brave conspiracy were ready formed, to punish tyrants, and redeem the land, could you so far belie your country's hope, as not to head the party? _tor._ how could my hand rebel against my heart? _raym._ how could your heart rebel against your reason? _tor._ no honour bids me fight against myself; the royal family is all extinct, and she, who reigns, bestows her crown on me: so must i be ungrateful to the living, to be but vainly pious to the dead, while you defraud your offspring of their fate. _raym._ mark who defraud their offspring, you or i? for know, there yet survives the lawful heir of sancho's blood, whom when i shall produce, i rest assured to see you pale with fear, and trembling at his name. _tor._ he must be more than man, who makes me tremble. i dare him to the field, with all the odds of justice on his side, against my tyrant: produce your lawful prince, and you shall see how brave a rebel love has made your son. _raym._ read that; 'tis with the royal signet signed, and given me, by the king, when time should serve, to be perused by you. _tor._ [_reads._] _i, the king. my youngest and alone surviving son, reported dead, to escape rebellious rage, till happier times shall call his courage forth, to break my fetters, or revenge my fate, i will that raymond educate as his, and call him torrismond--_ if i am he, that son, that torrismond, the world contains not so forlorn a wretch! let never man believe he can be happy! for, when i thought my fortune most secure, one fatal moment tears me from my joys; and when two hearts were joined by mutual love, the sword of justice cuts upon the knot, and severs them for ever. _raym._ true, it must. _tor._ o, cruel man, to tell me that it must! if you have any pity in your breast, redeem me from this labyrinth of fate, and plunge me in my first obscurity. the secret is alone between us two; and, though you would not hide me from myself, o, yet be kind, conceal me from the world, and be my father still! _raym._ your lot's too glorious, and the proof's too plain. now, in the name of honour, sir, i beg you,-- since i must use authority no more,-- on these old knees, i beg you, ere i die, that i may see your father's death revenged. _tor._ why, 'tis the only business of my life; my order's issued to recall the army, and bertran's death's resolved. _raym._ and not the queen's? o, she's the chief offender! shall justice turn her edge within your hand? no, if she 'scape, you are yourself the tyrant, and murderer of your father. _tor._ cruel fates! to what have you reserved me? _raym._ why that sigh? _tor._ since you must know,--but break, o break, my heart, before i tell my fatal story out!-- the usurper of my throne, my house's ruin! the murderer of my father,--is my wife! _raym._ o horror, horror!--after this alliance, let tigers match with hinds, and wolves with sheep, and every creature couple with his foe. how vainly man designs, when heaven opposes! i bred you up to arms, raised you to power, permitted you to fight for this usurper, indeed to save a crown, not hers, but yours, all to make sure the vengeance of this day, which even this day has ruined. one more question let me but ask, and i have done for ever;-- do you yet love the cause of all your woes, or is she grown, as sure she ought to be, more odious to your sight than toads and adders? _tor._ o there's the utmost malice of my fate, that i am bound to hate, and born to love! _raym._ no more!--farewell, my much lamented king!-- i dare not trust him with himself so far, to own him to the people as their king, before their rage has finished my designs on bertran and the queen; but in despite, even of himself, i'll save him. [_aside and exit._ _tor._ 'tis but a moment since i have been king, and weary on't already; i'm a lover, and loved, possess,--yet all these make me wretched; and heaven has given me blessings for a curse. with what a load of vengeance am i prest, yet, never, never, can i hope for rest; for when my heavy burden i remove, the weight falls down, and crushes her i love. [_exit._ act v. scene i.--_a bed-chamber._ _enter_ torrismond. _tor._ love, justice, nature, pity, and revenge, have kindled up a wildfire in my breast, and i am all a civil war within! _enter queen and_ teresa, _at a distance._ my leonora there!-- mine! is she mine? my father's murderer mine? o! that i could, with honour, love her more, or hate her less, with reason!--see, she weeps! thinks me unkind, or false, and knows not why i thus estrange my person from her bed! shall i not tell her?--no; 'twill break her heart; she'll know too soon her own and my misfortunes. [_exit._ _leo._ he's gone, and i am lost; did'st thou not see his sullen eyes? how gloomily they glanced? he looked not like the torrismond i loved. _ter._ can you not guess from whence this change proceeds? _leo._ no: there's the grief, teresa: oh, teresa! fain would i tell thee what i feel within, but shame and modesty have tied my tongue! yet, i will tell, that thou may'st weep with me.-- how dear, how sweet his first embraces were! with what a zeal he joined his lips to mine! and sucked my breath at every word i spoke, as if he drew his inspiration hence: while both our souls came upward to our mouths, as neighbouring monarchs at their borders meet; i thought--oh, no; 'tis false! i could not think; 'twas neither life nor death, but both in one. _ter._ then, sure his transports were not less than yours. _leo._ more, more! for, by the high-hung tapers' light, i could discern his cheeks were glowing red, his very eyeballs trembled with his love, and sparkled through their casements humid fires; he sighed, and kissed; breathed short, and would have spoke, but was too fierce to throw away the time; all he could say was--love and leonora. _ter._ how then can you suspect him lost so soon? _leo._ last night he flew not with a bridegroom's haste, which eagerly prevents the appointed hour: i told the clocks, and watched the wasting light, and listened to each softly-treading step, in hope 'twas he; but still it was not he. at last he came, but with such altered looks, so wild, so ghastly, as if some ghost had met him: all pale, and speechless, he surveyed me round; then, with a groan, he threw himself a-bed, but, far from me, as far as he could move, and sighed and tossed, and turned, but still from me. _ter._ what, all the night? _leo._ even all the livelong night. at last, (for, blushing, i must tell thee all,) i pressed his hand, and laid me by his side; he pulled it back, as if he touched a serpent. with that i burst into a flood of tears, and asked him how i had offended him? he answered nothing, but with sighs and groans; so, restless, past the night; and, at the dawn, leapt from the bed, and vanished. _ter._ sighs and groans, paleness and trembling, all are signs of love; he only fears to make you share his sorrows. _leo._ i wish 'twere so; but love still doubts the worst; my heavy heart, the prophetess of woes, forebodes some ill at hand: to sooth my sadness, sing me the song, which poor olympia made, when false bireno left her. song. _farewell, ungrateful traitor! farewell, my perjured swain! let never injured creature believe a man again. the pleasure of possessing surpasses all expressing, but 'tis too short a blessing, and love too long a pain._ _'tis easy to deceive us, in pity of your pain; but when we love, you leave us, to rail at you in vain. before we have descried it, there is no bliss beside it; but she, that once has tried it, will never love again._ _the passion you pretended, was only to obtain; but when the charm is ended, the charmer you disdain. your love by ours we measure, till we have lost our treasure; but dying is a pleasure, when living is a pain._ _re-enter_ torrismond. _tor._ still she is here, and still i cannot speak; but wander, like some discontented ghost, that oft appears, but is forbid to talk. [_going again._ _leo._ o, torrismond, if you resolve my death, you need no more, but to go hence again; will you not speak? _tor._ i cannot. _leo._ speak! oh, speak! your anger would be kinder than your silence. _tor._ oh!-- _leo._ do not sigh, or tell me why you sigh. _tor._ why do i live, ye powers! _leo._ why do i live to hear you speak that word? some black-mouthed villain has defamed my virtue. _tor._ no, no! pray, let me go. _leo._ [_kneeling._] you shall not go! by all the pleasures of our nuptial bed, if ever i was loved, though now i'm not, by these true tears, which, from my wounded heart, bleed at my eyes-- _tor._ rise. _leo._ i will never rise; i cannot chuse a better place to die. _tor._ oh! i would speak, but cannot. _leo._ [_rising._] guilt keeps you silent then; you love me not: what have i done, ye powers, what have i done, to see my youth, my beauty, and my love, no sooner gained, but slighted and betrayed; and, like a rose, just gathered from the stalk, but only smelt, and cheaply thrown aside, to wither on the ground. _ter._ for heaven's sake, madam, moderate your passion! _leo._ why namest thou heaven? there is no heaven for me. despair, death, hell, have seized my tortured soul! when i had raised his grovelling fate from ground, to power and love, to empire, and to me; when each embrace was dearer than the first; then, then to be contemned; then, then thrown off! it calls me old, and withered, and deformed, and loathsome! oh! what woman can bear loathsome? the turtle flies not from his billing mate, he bills the closer; but, ungrateful man, base, barbarous man! the more we raise our love, the more we pall, and kill, and cool his ardour. racks, poison, daggers, rid me of my life; and any death is welcome. _tor._ be witness all ye powers, that know my heart, i would have kept the fatal secret hid; but she has conquered, to her ruin conquered: here, take this paper, read our destinies;-- yet do not; but, in kindness to yourself, be ignorantly safe. _leo._ no! give it me, even though it be the sentence of my death. _tor._ then see how much unhappy love has made us. o leonora! oh! we two were born when sullen planets reigned; when each the other's influence opposed, and drew the stars to factions at our birth. oh! better, better had it been for us, that we had never seen, or never loved. _leo._ there is no faith in heaven, if heaven says so; you dare not give it. _tor._ as unwillingly, as i would reach out opium to a friend, who lay in torture, and desired to die. [_gives the paper._ but now you have it, spare my sight the pain of seeing what a world of tears it costs you. go, silently, enjoy your part of grief, and share the sad inheritance with me. _leo._ i have a thirsty fever in my soul; give me but present ease, and let me die. [_exeunt queen and_ teresa. _enter_ lorenzo. _lor._ arm, arm, my lord! the city bands are up; drums beating, colours flying, shouts confused; all clustering in a heap, like swarming hives, and rising in a moment. _tor._ with design to punish bertran, and revenge the king; 'twas ordered so. _lor._ then you're betrayed, my lord. 'tis true, they block the castle kept by bertran, but now they cry, "down with the palace, fire it, pull out the usurping queen!" _tor._ the queen, lorenzo! durst they name the queen? _lor._ if railing and reproaching be to name her. _tor._ o sacrilege! say quickly, who commands this vile blaspheming rout? _lor._ i'm loth to tell you; but both our fathers thrust them headlong on, and bear down all before them. _tor._ death and hell! somewhat must be resolved, and speedily. how say'st thou, my lorenzo? dar'st thou be a friend, and once forget thou art a son, to help me save the queen? _lor._ [_aside._] let me consider:-- bear arms against my father? he begat me;-- that's true; but for whose sake did he beget me? for his own, sure enough: for me he knew not. oh! but says conscience,--fly in nature's face?-- but how, if nature fly in my face first? then nature's the aggressor; let her look to't.-- he gave me life, and he may take it back: no, that's boys' play, say i. 'tis policy for a son and father to take different sides: for then, lands and tenements commit no treason. [_to_ tor.] sir, upon mature consideration, i have found my father to be little better than a rebel, and therefore, i'll do my best to secure him, for your sake; in hope, you may secure him hereafter for my sake. _tor._ put on thy utmost speed to head the troops, which every moment i expect to arrive; proclaim me, as i am, the lawful king: i need not caution thee for raymond's life, though i no more must call him father now. _lor._ [_aside._] how! not call him father? i see preferment alters a man strangely; this may serve me for a use of instruction, to cast off my father when i am great. methought too, he called himself the lawful king; intimating sweetly, that he knows what's what with our sovereign lady:--well if i rout my father, as i hope in heaven i shall, i am in a fair way to be the prince of the blood.--farewell, general; i will bring up those that shall try what mettle there is in orange tawny. [_exit._ _tor._ [_at the door._] haste there; command the guards be all drawn up before the palace-gate.--by heaven, i'll face this tempest, and deserve the name of king! o leonora, beauteous in thy crimes, never were hell and heaven so matched before! look upward, fair, but as thou look'st on me; then all the blest will beg, that thou may'st live, and even my father's ghost his death forgive. [_exit._ scene ii.--_the palace-yard. drums and trumpets within._ _enter_ raymond, alphonso, pedro, _and their party._ _raym._ now, valiant citizens, the time is come, to show your courage, and your loyalty. you have a prince of sancho's royal blood, the darling of the heavens, and joy of earth; when he's produced, as soon he shall, among you, speak, what will you adventure to reseat him upon his father's throne? _omn._ our lives and fortunes. _raym._ what then remains to perfect our success; but o'er the tyrant's guards to force our way? _omn._ lead on, lead on. [_drums and trumpets on the other side._ _enter_ torrismond _and his party: as they are going to fight, he speaks._ _tor._ [_to his._] hold, hold your arms. _raym._ [_to his._] retire. _alph._ what means this pause? _ped._ peace; nature works within them. [alph. _and_ ped. _go apart._ _tor._ how comes it, good old man, that we two meet on these harsh terms? thou very reverend rebel; thou venerable traitor, in whose face and hoary hairs treason is sanctified, and sin's black dye seems blanched by age to virtue. _raym._ what treason is it to redeem my king, and to reform the state? _tor._ that's a stale cheat; the primitive rebel, lucifer, first used it, and was the first reformer of the skies. _raym._ what, if i see my prince mistake a poison, call it a cordial,--am i then a traitor, because i hold his hand, or break the glass? _tor._ how darest thou serve thy king against his will? _raym._ because 'tis then the only time to serve him. _tor._ i take the blame of all upon myself; discharge thy weight on me. _raym._ o never, never! why, 'tis to leave a ship, tossed in a tempest, without the pilot's care. _tor._ i'll punish thee; by heaven, i will, as i would punish rebels, thou stubborn loyal man! _raym._ first let me see her punished, who misleads you from your fame; then burn me, hack me, hew me into pieces, and i shall die well pleased. _tor._ proclaim my title, to save the effusion of my subjects' blood; and thou shalt still be as my foster-father near my breast, and next my leonora. _raym._ that word stabs me. you shall be still plain torrismond with me; the abettor, partner, (if you like that name,) the husband of a tyrant; but no king, till you deserve that title by your justice. _tor._ then farewell, pity; i will be obeyed.-- [_to the people._] hear, you mistaken men, whose loyalty runs headlong into treason: see your prince! in me behold your murdered sancho's son; dismiss your arms, and i forgive your crimes. _raym._ believe him not; he raves; his words are loose as heaps of sand, and scattering wide from sense. you see he knows not me, his natural father; but, aiming to possess the usurping queen, so high he's mounted in his airy hopes, that now the wind is got into his head, and turns his brains to frenzy. _tor._ hear me yet; i am-- _raym._ fall on, fall on, and hear him not; but spare his person, for his father's sake. _ped._ let me come; if he be mad, i have that shall cure him. there's no surgeon in all arragon has so much dexterity as i have at breathing of the temple-vein. _tor._ my right for me! _raym._ our liberty for us! _omn._ liberty, liberty! _as they are ready to fight, enter_ lorenzo _and his party._ _lor._ on forfeit of your lives, lay down your arms. _alph._ how, rebel, art thou there? _lor._ take your rebel back again, father mine: the beaten party are rebels to the conquerors. i have been at hard-head with your butting citizens; i have routed your herd; i have dispersed them; and now they are retreated quietly, from their extraordinary vocation of fighting in the streets, to their ordinary vocation of cozening in their shops. _tor._ [_to_ raym.] you see 'tis vain contending with the truth; acknowledge what i am. _raym._ you are my king;--would you would be your own! but, by a fatal fondness, you betray your fame and glory to the usurper's bed. enjoy the fruits of blood and parricide, take your own crown from leonora's gift, and hug your father's murderer in your arms! _enter queen,_ teresa, _and women._ _alph._ no more; behold the queen. _raym._ behold the basilisk of torrismond, that kills him with her eyes--i will speak on; my life is of no farther use to me: i would have chaffered it before for vengeance; now let it go for failing. _tor._ my heart sinks in me while i hear him speak, and every slackened fibre drops its hold, like nature letting down the springs of life; so much the name of father awes me still-- [_aside._ send off the crowd; for you, now i have conquered, i can hear with honour your demands. _lor._ [_to_ alph.] now, sir, who proves the traitor? my conscience is true to me; it always whispers right, when i have my regiment to back it. [_exeunt_ lor. alph. ped. &c. _tor._ o leonora, what can love do more? i have opposed your ill fate to the utmost; combated heaven and earth to keep you mine; and yet at last that tyrant justice! oh-- _leo._ 'tis past, 'tis past, and love is ours no more; yet i complain not of the powers above; they made me a miser's feast of happiness, and could not furnish out another meal. now, by yon stars, by heaven, and earth, and men, by all my foes at once, i swear, my torrismond, that to have had you mine for one short day, has cancelled half my mighty sum of woes! say but you hate me not. _tor._ i cannot hate you. _raym._ can you not? say that once more, that all the saints may witness it against you. _leo._ cruel raymond! can he not punish me, but he must hate? o, 'tis not justice, but a brutal rage, which hates the offender's person with his crimes! i have enough to overwhelm one woman, to lose a crown and lover in a day: let pity lend a tear, when rigour strikes. _raym._ then, then you should have thought of tears and pity, when virtue, majesty, and hoary age, pleaded for sancho's life. _leo._ my future days shall be one whole contrition: a chapel will i build, with large endowment, where every day an hundred aged men shall all hold up their withered hands to heaven, to pardon sancho's death. _tor._ see, raymond, see; she makes a large amends: sancho is dead; no punishment of her can raise his cold stiff limbs from the dark grave; nor can his blessed soul look down from heaven, or break the eternal sabbath of his rest, to see, with joy, her miseries on earth. _raym._ heaven may forgive a crime to penitence, for heaven can judge if penitence be true; but man, who knows not hearts, should make examples which, like a warning piece, must be shot off, to fright the rest from crimes. _leo._ had i but known that sancho was his father, i would have poured a deluge of my blood, to save one drop of his. _tor._ mark that, inexorable raymond, mark! 'twas fatal ignorance, that caused his death. _raym._ what! if she did not know he was your father, she knew he was a man, the best of men; heaven's image double-stamped, as man and king. _leo._ he was, he was, even more than you can say; but yet-- _raym._ but yet you barbarously murdered him. _leo._ he will not hear me out! _tor._ was ever criminal forbid to plead? curb your ill-mannered zeal. _raym._ sing to him, syren; for i shall stop my ears: now mince the sin, and mollify damnation with a phrase; say, you consented not to sancho's death, but barely not forbade it. _leo._ hard-hearted man, i yield my guilty cause; but all my guilt was caused by too much love. had i, for jealousy of empire, sought good sancho's death, sancho had died before. 'twas always in my power to take his life; but interest never could my conscience blind, till love had cast a mist before my eyes, and made me think his death the only means which could secure my throne to torrismond. _tor._ never was fatal mischief meant so kind, for all she gave has taken all away. malicious powers! is this to be restored? 'tis to be worse deposed than sancho was. _raym._ heaven has restored you, you depose yourself. oh, when young kings begin with scorn of justice, they make an omen to their after reign, and blot their annals in the foremost page. _tor._ no more; lest you be made the first example, to show how i can punish. _raym._ once again: let her be made your father's sacrifice, and after make me hers. _tor._ condemn a wife! that were to atone for parricide with murder. _raym._ then let her be divorced: we'll be content with that poor scanty justice; let her part. _tor._ divorce! that's worse than death, 'tis death of love. _leo._ the soul and body part not with such pain, as i from you; but yet 'tis just, my lord: i am the accurst of heaven, the hate of earth, your subjects' detestation, and your ruin; and therefore fix this doom upon myself. _tor._ heaven! can you wish it, to be mine no more? _leo._ yes, i can wish it, as the dearest proof, and last, that i can make you of my love. to leave you blest, i would be more accurst than death can make me; for death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene: but i would live without you, to be wretched long; and hoard up every moment of my life, to lengthen out the payment of my tears, till even fierce raymond, at the last, shall say,-- now let her die, for she has grieved enough. _tor._ hear this, hear this, thou tribune of the people! thou zealous, public blood-hound, hear, and melt! _raym._ [_aside._] i could cry now; my eyes grow womanish, but yet my heart holds out. _leo._ some solitary cloister will i chuse, and there with holy virgins live immured: coarse my attire, and short shall be my sleep, broke by the melancholy midnight bell. now, raymond, now be satisfied at last: fasting and tears, and penitence and prayer, shall do dead sancho justice every hour. _raym._ [_aside._] by your leave, manhood! [_wipes his eyes._ _tor._ he weeps! now he is vanquished. _raym._ no: 'tis a salt rheum, that scalds my eyes. _leo._ if he were vanquished, i am still unconquered. i'll leave you in the height of all my love, even when my heart is beating out its way, and struggles to you most. farewell, a last farewell, my dear, dear lord! remember me!--speak, raymond, will you let him? shall he remember leonora's love, and shed a parting tear to her misfortunes? _raym._ [_almost crying._] yes, yes, he shall; pray go. _tor._ now, by my soul, she shall not go: why, raymond, her every tear is worth a father's life. come to my arms, come, my fair penitent! let us not think what future ills may fall. but drink deep draughts of love, and lose them all. [_exeunt_ tor. _with the queen._ _raym._ no matter yet, he has my hook within him. now let him frisk and flounce, and run and roll, and think to break his hold; he toils in vain. this love, the bait he gorged so greedily, will make him sick, and then i have him sure. _enter_ alphonso _and_ pedro. _alph._ brother, there's news from bertran; he desires admittance to the king, and cries aloud,-- this day shall end our fears of civil war!-- for his safe conduct he entreats your presence, and begs you would be speedy. _raym._ though i loath the traitor's sight, i'll go. attend us here. [_exit._ _enter_ gomez, elvira, dominick, _with officers, to make the stage as full as possible._ _ped._ why, how now, gomez? what mak'st thou here, with a whole brotherhood of city-bailiffs? why, thou look'st like adam in paradise, with his guard of beasts about him. _gom._ ay, and a man had need of them, don pedro; for here are the two old seducers, a wife and priest,--that's eve and the serpent,--at my elbow. _dom._ take notice how uncharitably he talks of churchmen. _gom._ indeed, you are a charitable belswagger! my wife cried out,-- "fire, fire!" and you brought out your church-buckets, and called for engines to play against it. _alph._ i am sorry you are come hither to accuse your wife; her education has been virtuous, her nature mild and easy. _gom._ yes! she's easy, with a vengeance; there's a certain colonel has found her so. _alph._ she came a spotless virgin to your bed. _gom._ and she's a spotless virgin still for me--she's never the worse for my wearing, i'll take my oath on't. i have lived with her with all the innocence of a man of threescore, like a peaceable bed-fellow as i am. _elv._ indeed, sir, i have no reason to complain of him for disturbing of my sleep. _dom._ a fine commendation you have given yourself; the church did not marry you for that. _ped._ come, come, your grievances, your grievances. _dom._ why, noble sir, i'll tell you. _gom._ peace, friar! and let me speak first. i am the plaintiff. sure you think you are in the pulpit, where you preach by hours. _dom._ and you edify by minutes. _gom._ where you make doctrines for the people, and uses and applications for yourselves. _ped._ gomez, give way to the old gentleman in black. _gom._ no! the t'other old gentleman in black shall take me if i do; i will speak first!--nay, i will, friar, for all your _verbum sacerdotis_. i'll speak truth in few words, and then you may come afterwards and lie by the clock as you use to do.--for, let me tell you, gentlemen, he shall lie and forswear himself with any friar in all spain; that's a bold word now.-- _dom._ let him alone; let him alone; i shall fetch him back with a _circum-bendibus_, i warrant him. _alph._ well, what have you to say against your wife, gomez? _gom._ why, i say, in the first place, that i and all men are married for our sins, and that our wives are a judgment; that a batchelor-cobler is a happier man than a prince in wedlock; that we are all visited with a household plague, and, _lord have mercy upon us_ should be written on all our doors[ ]. _dom._ now he reviles marriage, which is one of the seven blessed sacraments. _gom._ 'tis liker one of the seven deadly sins: but make your best on't, i care not; 'tis but binding a man neck and heels, for all that. but, as for my wife, that crocodile of nilus, she has wickedly and traitorously conspired the cuckoldom of me, her anointed sovereign lord; and, with the help of the aforesaid friar, whom heaven confound, and with the limbs of one colonel hernando, cuckold-maker of this city, devilishly contrived to steal herself away, and under her arm feloniously to bear one casket of diamonds, pearls, and other jewels, to the value of , pistoles.--guilty, or not guilty? how sayest thou, culprit? _dom._ false and scandalous! give me the book. i'll take my corporal oath point-blank against every particular of this charge. _elv._ and so will i. _dom._ as i was walking in the streets, telling my beads, and praying to myself, according to my usual custom, i heard a foul out-cry before gomez' portal; and his wife, my penitent, making doleful lamentations: thereupon, making what haste my limbs would suffer me, that are crippled with often kneeling, i saw him spurning and listing her most unmercifully; whereupon, using christian arguments with him to desist, he fell violently upon me, without respect to my sacerdotal orders, pushed me from him, and turned me about with a finger and a thumb, just as a man would set up a top. mercy! quoth i.--damme! quoth he;--and still continued labouring me, until a good-minded colonel came by, whom, as heaven shall save me, i had never seen before. _gom._ o lord! o lord! _dom._ ay, and o lady! o lady too!--i redouble my oath, i had never seen him. well, this noble colonel, like a true gentleman, was for taking the weaker part, you may be sure; whereupon this gomez flew upon him like a dragon, got him down, the devil being strong in him, and gave him bastinado upon bastinado, and buffet upon buffet, which the poor meek colonel, being prostrate, suffered with a most christian patience. _gom._ who? he meek? i'm sure i quake at the very thought of him; why, he's as fierce as rhodomont; he made assault and battery upon my person, beat me into all the colours of the rainbow; and every word this abominable priest has uttered is as false as the alcoran. but if you want a thorough-paced liar, that will swear through thick and thin, commend me to a friar. _enter_ lorenzo, _who comes behind the company, and stands at his fathers back unseen, over-against_ gomez. _lor._ how now! what's here to do? my cause a trying, as i live, and that before my own father.--now fourscore take him for an old bawdy magistrate, that stands like the picture of madam justice, with a pair of scales in his hand, to weigh lechery by ounces! [_aside._ _alph._ well--but all this while, who is this colonel hernando? _gom._ he's the first begotten of beelzebub, with a face as terrible as demogorgon. [lorenzo _peeps over_ alphonso's _head, and stares at_ gomez. no! i lie, i lie. he's a very proper handsome fellow! well proportioned, and clean shaped, with a face like a cherubin. _ped._ what, backward and forward, gomez! dost thou hunt counter? _alph._ had this colonel any former design upon your wife? for, if that be proved, you shall have justice. _gom._ [_aside._] now i dare speak,--let him look as dreadfully as he will.--i say, sir, and i will prove it, that he had a lewd design upon her body, and attempted to corrupt her honesty. [lorenzo _lifts up his fist clenched at him._ i confess my wife was as willing--as himself; and, i believe, 'twas she corrupted him; for i have known him formerly a very civil and modest person. _elv._ you see, sir, he contradicts himself at every word; he's plainly mad. _alph._ speak boldly, man! and say what thou wilt stand by: did he strike thee? _gom._ i will speak boldly; he struck me on the face before my own threshold, that the very walls cried shame to him. [lorenzo _holds up again._ 'tis true, i gave him provocation, for the man's as peaceable a gentleman as any is in all spain. _dom._ now the truth comes out, in spite of him. _ped._ i believe the friar has bewitched him. _alph._ for my part, i see no wrong that has been offered him. _gom._ how? no wrong? why, he ravished me, with the help of two soldiers, carried me away _vi et armis,_ and would put me into a plot against government. [lorenzo _holds up again._ i confess, i never could endure the government, because it was tyrannical; but my sides and shoulders are black and blue, as i can strip and show the marks of them. [lorenzo _again._ but that might happen, too, by a fall that i got yesterday upon the pebbles. [_all laugh._ _dom._ fresh straw, and a dark chamber; a most manifest judgment! there never comes better of railing against the church. _gom._ why, what will you have me say? i think you'll make me mad: truth has been at my tongue's end this half hour, and i have not power to bring it out, for fear of this bloody-minded colonel. _alph._ what colonel? _gom._ why, my colonel--i mean my wife's colonel, that appears there to me like my _malus genius_, terrifies me. _alph._ [_turning._] now you are mad indeed, gomez; this is my son lorenzo. _gom._ how? your son lorenzo! it is impossible. _alph._ as true as your wife elvira is my daughter. _lor._ what, have i taken all this pains about a sister? _gom._ no, you have taken some about me; i am sure, if you are her brother, my sides can show the tokens of our alliance. _alph._ to _lor._ you know i put your sister into a nunnery, with a strict command not to see you, for fear you should have wrought upon her to have taken the habit, which was never my intention; and consequently, i married her without your knowledge, that it might not be in your power to prevent it. _elv._ you see, brother, i had a natural affection to you. _lor._ what a delicious harlot have i lost! now, pox upon me, for being so near a-kin to thee! _elv._ however, we are both beholden to friar dominick; the church is an indulgent mother, she never fails to do her part. _dom._ heavens! what will become of me? _gom._ why, you are not like to trouble heaven; those fat guts were never made for mounting. _lor._ i shall make bold to disburden him of my hundred pistoles, to make him the lighter for his journey: indeed, 'tis partly out of conscience, that i may not be accessory to his breaking his vow of poverty. _alph._ i have no secular power to reward the pains you have taken with my daughter; but i shall do it by proxy, friar: your bishop's my friend, and is too honest to let such as you infect a cloister. _gom._ ay, do, father-in-law, let him be stript of his habit, and disordered.--i would fain see him walk in querpo, like a cased rabbit, without his holy fur upon his back, that the world may once behold the inside of a friar. _dom._ farewell, kind gentlemen; i give you all my blessing before i go.--may your sisters, wives, and daughters, be so naturally lewd, that they may have no occasion for a devil to tempt, or a friar to pimp for them. [_exeunt, with a rabble pushing him._ _enter_ torrismond, leonora, bertran, raymond, teresa, &c. _tor._ he lives! he lives! my royal father lives! let every one partake the general joy. some angel with a golden trumpet sound, king sancho lives! and let the echoing skies from pole to pole resound, king sancho lives!-- bertran, oh! no more my foe, but brother; one act like this blots out a thousand crimes. _bert._ bad men, when 'tis their interest, may do good. i must confess, i counselled sancho's murder; and urged the queen by specious arguments: but, still suspecting that her love was changed, i spread abroad the rumour of his death, to sound the very soul of her designs. the event, you know, was answering to my fears; she threw the odium of the fact on me, and publicly avowed her love to you. _raym._ heaven guided all, to save the innocent. _bert._ i plead no merit, but a bare forgiveness. _tor._ not only that, but favour. sancho's life, whether by virtue or design preserved, claims all within my power. _leo._ my prayers are heard; and i have nothing farther to desire, but sancho's leave to authorise our marriage. _tor._ oh! fear not him! pity and he are one; so merciful a king did never live; loth to revenge, and easy to forgive. but let the bold conspirator beware, for heaven makes princes its peculiar care. [_exeunt._ footnotes: . alluding to the common superstition, that the continuance of the favours of fairies depends upon the receiver's secrecy:--"this is fairy gold, boy, and 'twill prove so: up with it, keep it close; home, home, the nearest way. we are lucky, boy, and, to be so still, requires nothing but secrecy;" _winter's tale._ . a red cross, with the words, "lord have mercy upon us," was placed, during the great plague, upon the houses visited by the disease. epilogue. by a friend of the author's. there's none, i'm sure, who is a friend to love, but will our friar's character approve: the ablest spark among you sometimes needs such pious help, for charitable deeds. our church, alas! (as rome objects) does want these ghostly comforts for the falling saint: this gains them their whore-converts, and may be one reason of the growth of popery. so mahomet's religion came in fashion, by the large leave it gave to fornication. fear not the guilt, if you can pay for't well; there is no dives in the roman hell: gold opens the strait gate, and lets him in; but want of money is a mortal sin. for all besides you may discount to heaven, and drop a bead to keep the tallies even. how are men cozened still with shows of good! the bawd's best mask is the grave friar's hood; though vice no more a clergyman displeases, than doctors can be thought to hate diseases. 'tis by your living ill, that they live well, by your debauches, their fat paunches swell. 'tis a mock-war between the priest and devil; when they think fit, they can be very civil. as some, who did french counsels most advance, to blind the world, have railed in print at france, thus do the clergy at your vices bawl, that with more ease they may engross them all. by damning yours, they do their own maintain; a churchman's godliness is always gain: hence to their prince they will superior be; and civil treason grows church loyalty. they boast the gift of heaven is in their power; well may they give the god, they can devour! still to the sick and dead their claims they lay; for 'tis on carrion that the vermin prey. nor have they less dominion on our life, they trot the husband, and they pace the wife. rouse up, you cuckolds of the northern climes, and learn from sweden to prevent such crimes. unman the friar, and leave the holy drone to hum in his forsaken hive alone; he'll work no honey, when his sting is gone. your wives and daughters soon will leave the cells, when they have lost the sound of aaron's bells. * * * * * end of the sixth volume. edinburgh, printed by j. ballantyne & co. proofreading team. the works of john dryden, _now first collected in eighteen volumes_. illustrated with notes, historical, critical, and explanatory, and a life of the author, by walter scott, esq. * * * * * vol. xvi. london: printed for william miller, albemarle street, by james ballantyne and co. edinburgh. . contents of volume sixteenth. page. the life of st francis xavier, of the society of jesus, apostle of the indies, and of japan, ... dedication to the queen, ................... the author's advertisement to the reader, .. book i ..................................... book ii .................................... book iii ................................... book iv .................................... book v ..................................... book vi .................................... the life of st francis xavier, of the society of jesus, apostle of the indies, and of japan. to the queen.[ ] madam, the reverend author of this life, in his dedication to his most christian majesty, affirms, that france was owing for him to the intercession of st francis xavier. that anne of austria, his mother, after twenty years of barrenness, had recourse to heaven, by her fervent prayers, to draw down that blessing, and addressed her devotions, in a particular manner, to this holy apostle of the indies. i know not, madam, whether i may presume to tell the world, that your majesty has chosen this great saint for one of your celestial patrons, though i am sure you will never be ashamed of owning so glorious an intercessor; not even in a country where the doctrine of the holy church is questioned, and those religious addresses ridiculed. your majesty, i doubt not, has the inward satisfaction of knowing, that such pious prayers have not been unprofitable to you; and the nation may one day come to understand, how happy it will be for them to have a son of prayers ruling over them.[ ] not that we are wholly to depend on this particular blessing, as a thing of certainty, though we hope and pray for its continuance. the ways of divine providence are incomprehensible; and we know not in what times, or by what methods, god will restore his church in england, or what farther trials and afflictions we are yet to undergo. only this we know, that if a religion be of god, it can never fail; but the acceptable time we must patiently expect, and endeavour by our lives not to undeserve. i am sure if we take the example of our sovereigns, we shall place our confidence in god alone; we shall be assiduous in our devotions, moderate in our expectations, humble in our carriage, and forgiving of our enemies. all other panegyrics i purposely omit; but those of christianity are such, that neither your majesty, nor my royal master, need be ashamed of them, because their commemoration is instructive to your subjects. we may be allowed, madam, to praise almighty god for making us happy by your means, without suspicion of flattery; and the meanest subject has the privilege of joining his thanksgiving with his sovereigns, where his happiness is equally concerned. may it not be permitted me to add, that to be remembered, and celebrated in after ages, as the chosen vessel, by which it has pleased the almighty goodness to transmit so great a blessing to these nations, is a secret satisfaction, which is not forbidden you to take; the blessings of your people are a prelibation of the joys in heaven, and a lawful ambition here on earth. your majesty is authorized, by the greatest example of a mother, to rejoice in a promised son. the blessed virgin was not without as great a proportion of joy, as humanity could bear, when she answered the salutation of the angel in expressions, which seemed to unite the contradicting terms of calmness, and of transport: "be it to thy hand-maid, according to thy word." it is difficult for me to leave this subject, but more difficult to pursue it as i ought; neither must i presume to detain your majesty by a long address. the life of saint francis xavier, after it had been written by several authors in the spanish and portuguese, and by the famous padre bartoli in the italian tongue, came out at length in french, by the celebrated pen of father bohours, from whom i have translated it, and humbly crave leave to dedicate it to your patronage. i question not but it will undergo the censure of those men, who teach the people, that miracles are ceased. yet there are, i presume, a sober party of the protestants, and even of the most learned among them, who being convinced, by the concurring testimonies of the last age, by the suffrages of whole nations in the indies and japan, and by the severe scrutinies that were made before the act of canonization, will not dispute the truth of most matters of fact as they are here related; nay, some may be ingenuous enough to own freely, that to propagate the faith amongst infidels and heathens, such miraculous operations are as necessary now in those benighted regions, as when the christian doctrine was first planted by our blessed saviour and his apostles. the honourable testimonies which are cited by my author, just before the conclusion of his work, and one of them in particular from a learned divine of the church of england,[ ] though they slur over the mention of his miracles, in obscure and general terms, yet are full of veneration for his person. farther than this i think it needless to prepossess a reader; let him judge sincerely, according to the merits of the cause, and the sanctity of his life, of whom such wonders are related, and attested with such clouds of witnesses; for an impartial man cannot but of himself consider the honour of god in the publication of his gospel, the salvation of souls, and the conversion of kingdoms, which followed from those miracles; the effects of which remain in many of them to this day. but that it is not lawful for me to trespass so far on the patience of your majesty, i should rather enlarge on a particular reflection, which i made in my translation of this book, namely, that the instructions of the saint, which are copied from his own writings, are so admirably useful, so holy, and so wonderfully efficacious, that they seem to be little less than the product of an immediate inspiration. so much excellent matter is crowded into so small a compass, that almost every paragraph contains the value of a sermon. the nourishment is so strong, that it requires but little to be taken at a time. where he exhorts, there is not an expression, but what is glowing with the love of god; where he directs a missioner, or gives instructions to a substitute, we can scarcely have a less idea than of a st paul advising a timothy, or a titus. where he writes into europe, he inspires his ardour into sovereign princes, and seems, with the spirit of his devotion, even to burn his colleagues at the distance of the indies. but, madam, i consider that nothing i can say is worthy to detain you longer from the perusal of this book, in which all things are excellent, excepting only the meanness of my performance in the translation. such as it is, be pleased, with your inborn goodness, to accept it, with the offer of my unworthy prayers for the lasting happiness of my gracious sovereign, for your own life and prosperity, together with the preservation of the son of prayers, and the farther encrease of the royal family; all which blessings are continually implored from heaven, by, madam, your majesty's most humble, and most obedient subject and servant, john dryden. [footnote : mary of este, wife of james ii.] [footnote : the superstitious and, as it proved, fatal insinuation, that the birth of the chevalier de st george was owing to the supernatural intercession of st francis xavier, was much insisted on by the protestants as an argument against the reality of his birth. see the introduction to "britannia rediviva," vol. x. p. . in that piece, our author also alludes to this foolery: hail, son of prayers, by holy violence drawn down from heaven!--] [footnote : the reverend richard hackluyt, editor of the large collection of voyages to which purchas' pilgrim is a continuation.] the author's advertisement to the reader. having already presented you with the life of st ignatius, i thought myself obliged to give you that of st francis xavier. for, besides that it was just that the son should attend the father, it seemed to me, that these two saints being concerned so much together, the history of the apostle of india and japan would give you a clearer knowledge of him who was founder of the jesuits. i may add likewise, that many considerable persons, and particularly of the court, have testified so great a desire to see a complete history of st xavier in our language, that i thought my labour would not be unacceptable to them; and that in satisfying my own private devotion, i might at the same time content the curiosity of others. the writings out of which i have drawn this work, have furnished me with all i could desire for the perfection of it, in what regards the truth and the ornaments of this history: for without speaking of turselline and orlandino, i have diligently read lucena and bartoli; the first of which wrote in portuguese with this title, "the history of the life of father francis xavier, and of what was done in the indies by the religious of the society of jesus." he informs us, that he had in his hands the authentic copies of the informations which were made by order of john iii. king of portugal, concerning the actions of the blessed father xavier, and the originals of many letters, written from the indies on that subject, which are to this day deposited in the archives of the university of coimbra. as for bartoli, who is so famous by his writings, and who is accounted amongst the best of the italian authors, he has extracted from the archives of the casa professa at rome, and from the acts of the canonization, what he relates of our saint in the first part of the history of the society, intitled, asia. though these two historians have in some sort collected all that can be said concerning st francis xavier, i omitted not to take a view of what others have written on that subject; and chiefly the book of nieremberg, which bears for title, "_claros varones_, or illustrious men;" the history of india, by maffeus, and that of jarrio; the church history of japan, by solia; the castilian history of the missions, which the fathers of the society have made to the east indies, and the kingdoms of china and japan, composed by lewis de gusman; and, lastly, the portuguese history of the travels of ferdinand mendez pinto. but seeing st francis xavier himself has written some parts of those accidents which have befallen him in india and japan, i have faithfully copied his letters, and from thence have drawn those particulars which have much conduced to my information, and clearing of the truth. these letters have also furnished me with materials to make the narration appear more lively and moving, when you hear the saint himself speaking in his proper words, and mixing his own thoughts and reflections with his actions. i had almost finished this my work, when i received from spain and italy two other lives of st francis xavier, which before that time i had not seen: the one very new, which was written in italian by father joseph massei; the other more ancient, written in spanish by father francis garcia. i found nothing in those two books which i had not observed in others; but read them with great pleasure, as being most exactly and elegantly written, each in their several tongue. for what remains, amongst all those historians which i have cited, there is only the author of the new italian life, who has not followed the common error, in relation to the age of st francis xavier: for the rest of them not precisely knowing the year and day of his birth, have made him ten years older than he was; placing his nativity about the time when the passage to the east indies was discovered by vasco de gama. but father massei has taken his measures in that particular, from father poussines, that judicious person to whom we are owing for the new letters of st xavier, and who has composed a dissertation in latin, touching the year of our apostle's birth. he produces, in the said treatise, a latin paper, written in all appearance in the year , and found in the records of the house of don juan antonio, count of xavier. that paper,--wherein is treated of the ancestors and birth of the saint, and which very probably, as poussines judges, is the minute of a letter sent to rome, where dr navara then resided, to whom it refers you,--that paper, i say, has these words in it: _non scitur certò annus quo natus est p. franciscus xaverius. vulgo tamen invaluit, a quibusdam natum cum dici anno millesimo quadragintesimo nonagesimo-sexto_: which is to say, the year is not certainly known, in which father francis xavier was born; but it is generally held, that some have reported he was born in the year . but it is to be observed, that these words, _non scitur certò annus quo natus est p. franciscus xaverius_, are dashed out with the stroke of a pen. there is also a line drawn over these other words, _natum eum dici millesimo, quadragintesimo, nonagesimo-sexto_: and this is written over head, _natus est p. franciscus xaverius anno millesimo quingentesimo sexto_. father francis xavier was born in the year . there is also written in the margin, _natus est die aprilis, anni _. he was born on the th of april, . that which renders this testimony more authentic, is, that at the bottom of the letter, these words, in spanish, are written by the same hand which corrected those two passages of which i spoke: _hallo se la razon del tiempo que el s. p. francisco xavier naciò, en un libro manual de su hermano el capitan juan de azpilcueta: la qual sacò de un libro, de su padre don juan jasso; viz_. "the time when the blessed father francis xavier was born, is found in the journal of his brother don juan de azpilcueta, who extracted it from the journal or manual of his father don juan jasso." 'tis on this foundation, that, before i had read the life written by father massei, i had already closed with the opinion of father poussines. as to the precise day of the father's death, i have followed the common opinion, which i take to be the most probable, in conformity to the bull of his canonization. for the historians who have mentioned it, agree not with each other, on what clay he died. 'tis said in herbert's travels to the indies and persia, translated out of the english, "st francis xavier, the jesuit of navarre, died the th of december, ." ferdinand mendez pinto, the portuguese, affirms, that he died at midnight, on saturday the d of december, the same year. a manuscript letter, pretended to be written by anthony de sainte foy, companion to xavier for the voyage of china, the truth of which i suspect, relates, that the saint died on a sunday night at two of the clock, on the d of december, . now 'tis most certain, that in the year , the d of december fell on a friday; so that it is a manifest mistake to say, that st xavier died that year either on saturday or sunday the d of december. i should apprehend, lest a life so extraordinary as this might somewhat shock the profaner sort of men, if the reputation of st francis xavier were not well established in the world, and that the wonderful things he did had not all the marks of true miracles. as the author who made the collection of them has well observed, the mission of the saint gives them an authority, even in our first conceptions of them: for being sent from god for the conversion of infidels, it was necessary that the faith should be planted in the east, by the same means as it had been through all the world, in the beginning of the church. besides which, never any miracles have been examined with greater care, or more judicially than these. they were not miracles wrought in private, and which we are only to believe on the attestation of two or three interested persons, such who might have been surprised into an opinion of them; they were ordinarily public matters of fact, avowed by a whole city or kingdom, and which had for witnesses the body of a nation, for the most part heathen, or mahometan. many of these miracles have been of long continuance; and it was an easy matter for such who were incredulous, to satisfy their doubts concerning them. all of them have been attended by such consequences as have confirmed their truth, beyond dispute: such as were--the conversions of kingdoms, and of kings, who were the greatest enemies to christianity; the wonderful ardency of those new christians, and the heroical constancy of their martyrs. but after all, nothing can give a greater confirmation of the saint's miracles, than his saint-like life; which was even more wonderful than the miracles themselves. it was in a manner of necessity, that a man of so holy a conversation should work those things, which other men could not perform; and that, resigning himself to god, with an entire confidence and trust, in the most dangerous occasions, god should consign over to him some part of his omnipotence, for the benefit of souls. the life of st francis xavier. book i. _his birth. his natural endowments, and first studies. his father purposes to recal him from his studies, and is diverted from that resolution. he continues his studies, and sets up a philosophy lecture. he is preserved from falling into heresy. his change of life. his retirement, and total conversion. he consecrates himself to god, by a vow. what happened to him in his journey to venice. what he did at venice. he goes to rome, and from thence returns to venice. he prepares himself to celebrate his first mass. he celebrates his first mass, and falls sick after it. st jerome appears to him. he goes to bolognia, and labours there with great success. he relapses into his sickness, and yet continues preaching. he is recalled to rome by father ignatius, and labours there with great success. the occasion of the mission into the indies. he is named for the mission of the indies. god mysteriously reveals to him his intended mission to the indies. he takes his leave of the pope, and what his holiness said to him. he departs from rome. how he employed himself during his journey. his letter to ignatius. some remarkable accidents in his journey to lisbon. he passes by the castle of xavier without going to it. he arrives at lisbon, and cures rodriguez immediately after his coming. he is called to court. the manner of his life at lisbon. he refuses to visit his uncle, the duke of navarre. the fruit of his evangelical labours. the reputation he acquired at lisbon. they would retain him in portugal. he is permitted to go to the indies, and the king discourses with him before his departure. he refuses the provisions offered him for his voyage. he goes for the indies, and what he said to rodriguez at parting_. i have undertaken to write the life of a saint, who has renewed, in the last age, the greatest wonders which were wrought in the infancy of the church; and who was himself a living proof of christianity. there will be seen in the actions of one single man, a new world converted by the power of his preaching, and by that of his miracles: idolatrous kings, with their dominions, reduced under the obedience of the gospel; the faith flourishing in the very midst of barbarism; and the authority of the roman church acknowledged by nations the most remote, who were utterly unacquainted with ancient rome. this apostolical man, of whom i speak, is st francis xavier, of the society of jesus, and one of the first disciples of st ignatius loyola. he was of navarre; and, according to the testimony of cardinal antonia zapata, who examined his nobility from undoubted records, he derived his pedigree from the kings of navarre. his father was don juan de jasso, a lord of great merit, well conversant in the management of affairs, and who held one of the first places in the council of state, under the reign of king john iii. the name of his mother was mary azpilcueta xavier, heiress to two of the most illustrious families in that kingdom; for the chief of her house, don martin azpilcueta, less famous by the great actions of his ancestors, than by his own virtue, married juana xavier, the only daughter and remaining hope of her family. he had by her no other child but this mary of whom we spoke, one of the most accomplished persons of her time. this virgin, equally beautiful and prudent, being married to don jasso, became the mother of many children; the youngest of whom was francis, the same whose life i write. he was born in the castle of xavier, on the th of april, in the year . that castle, situated at the foot of the pyrenean mountains, seven or eight leagues distant from pampeluna, had appertained to his mother's house for about two hundred and fifty years; his progenitors on her side having obtained it in gift from king thibald, the first of that name, in recompence of those signal services which they had performed for the crown. 'tis from thence they took the name of xavier, in lieu of asnarez, which was the former name of their family. this surname was conferred on francis, as also on some of the rest of his brothers, lest so glorious a name, now remaining in one only woman, should be totally extinguished with her. that providence, which had selected francis for the conversion of such multitudes of people, endued him with all the natural qualities which are requisite to the function of an apostle. he was of a strong habit of body, his complexion lively and vigorous, his genius sublime and capable of the greatest designs, his heart fearless, agreeable in his behaviour, but above all, he was of a gay, complying, and winning humour: this notwithstanding, he had a most extreme aversion for all manner of immodesty, and a vast inclination for his studies. his parents, who lived a most christian life, inspired him with the fear of god from his infancy, and took a particular care of his education. he was no sooner arrived to an age capable of instruction, than, instead of embracing the profession of arms, after the example of his brothers, he turned himself, of his own motion, on the side of learning; and, as he had a quick conception, a happy memory, and a penetrating mind, he advanced wonderfully in few years. having gained a sufficient knowledge in the latin tongue, and discovered a great propensity to learning, he was sent to the university of paris, the most celebrated of all europe, and to which the gentlemen of spain, italy, and germany, resorted for their studies. he came to paris in the eighteenth year of his age, and fell immediately on the study of philosophy. 'tis scarcely credible with how much ardour he surmounted the first difficulties of logic. whatsoever his inclinations were towards a knowledge so crabbed and so subtle, he tugged at it with incessant pains, to be at the head of all his fellow students; and perhaps never any scholar besides himself could join together so much ease, and so much labour. xavier minded nothing more, than how to become an excellent philosopher, when his father, who had a numerous family of children, and who was one of those men of quality, whose fortunes are not equal to their birth, was thinking to remove him from his studies, after having allowed him a competent maintenance for a year or two. he communicated these his thoughts to magdalen. jasso, his daughter, abbess of the convent of st clare de gandia, famous for the austerity of its rules, and established by some holy frenchwomen of that order, whom the calamities of war had forced to forsake their native country, and to seek a sanctuary in the kingdom of valencia. magdalen, in her younger days, had been maid of honour and favourite to the catholic queen isabella. the love of solitude, and of the cross, had caused her to forsake the court of arragon, and quit for ever the pleasures of this world. having chosen the most reformed monastery of spain for the place of her retreat, she applied herself, avith fervour, to the exercises of penitence and prayer; and became, even from her noviciate, a perfect pattern of religious perfection. during the course of her life, she had great communications with god; and one day he gave her to understand, that she should die a sweet and easy death; but, on the contrary, one of her nuns was pre-ordained to die in strange torments. the intention of god was not thereby to reveal to the abbess what was really to happen, but rather to give her an opportunity of exercising an heroic act of charity. she comprehended what her heavenly father exacted from her, and petitioned him for an exchange. god granted to her what himself had inspired her to demand; and was pleased to assure her, by a new revelation, that he had heard her prayers. she made known to her ghostly father what had passed betwixt god and her, and time verified it: for the sister above mentioned died without sickness, and appeared in dying to have had a foretaste of the joys to come. on the other side, the abbess was struck with a terrible disease, which took all her body, as it were, in pieces, and made her suffer intolerable pains; yet even those pains were less cruel to her, than those inward torments which god at the same time inflicted on her. she endured all this with wonderful patience and resignation; being well assured, that in the whole series of these dispensations there was somewhat of divine. for what remains concerning her, from the first years of her entry into a religious life, the gift of prophecy shone so visibly in her, that none doubted but that she was full of the spirit of god; and 'tis also probable, that she left a legacy of her prophetic gifts to her spiritual daughters. for, after her decease, the nuns of gandia foretold many things, which afterward the event confirmed; as, amongst others, the unhappy success of the expedition to algier; of which the duke of borgia, viceroy of catalonia, gave the advertisement from them to charles v. when he was making his preparations for that enterprize. it was six years before the death of magdalen, that don jasso, her father, writ to her concerning xavier. after she had received the letter, she was illuminated from above; and, according to the dictates of that divine light, she answered don jasso, that he should beware of recalling her brother francis, whatsoever it might cost him for his entertainment in the university of paris. that he was a chosen vessel, pre-ordained to be the apostle of the indies, and that one day he should become a great pillar of the church. these letters have been preserved for a long time afterwards, and have been viewed by many persons, who have deposed the truth judicially in the process of the canonization of the saint. don jasso received this answer from his daughter as an oracle from heaven; and no longer thought of recalling his son from his studies. xavier, thereupon, continued his philosophy; and succeeded so well in it, that having maintained his thesis, at the end of his course, with a general applause, and afterwards taking his degree of master of arts, he was judged worthy to teach philosophy himself. his parts appeared more than ever in this new employment; and he acquired an high reputation in his public lectures on aristotle. the praises, which universally were given him, were extremely pleasing to his vanity. he was not a little proud to have augmented the glory of his family by the way of learning, while his brothers were continually adorning it by that of arms; and he flattered himself, that the way which he had taken, would lead him onward to somewhat of greater consequence. but god almighty had far other thoughts than those of xavier; and it was not for these fading honours that the divine providence had conducted him to paris. at the same time, when this young master of philosophy began his course, ignatius loyola, who had renounced the world, and cast the model of a learned society, wholly devoted to the salvation of souls, came into france to finish his studies, which the obstacles he found in spain, after his conversion, had constrained him to interrupt. he had not continued long in the university of paris, before he heard talk of xavier, and grew acquainted with him. our new professor, who taught at the college of beauvois, though he dwelt in the college of st barbe, with peter le fevre, a savoyard, was judged by ignatius to be very proper for the preaching of the gospel, as well as his companion. to gain the better opportunity of insinuating himself into their acquaintance, he took lodgings with them, and was not wanting to exhort them to live up to the rules of christianity. le fevre, who was of a tractable nature, and was not enamoured of the world, resigned himself without opposition. but xavier, who was of a haughty spirit, and whose head was filled with ambitious thoughts, made a fierce resistance at the first. the discipline and maxims of ignatius, who lived in a mean equipage, and valued nothing but that poverty, made him pass for a low-minded fellow in the opinion of our young gentleman. and accordingly xavier treated him with much contempt; rallying him on all occasions, and making it his business to ridicule him. this notwithstanding, ignatius omitted no opportunities of representing to him the great consequence of his eternal welfare, and urging the words of our blessed saviour, "what profit is it to a man to gain the whole world, and to lose his own, soul?" but perceiving that he could make no impression on a heart where self-conceit was so very prevalent, and which was dazzled with vain-glory, he bethought, himself of assaulting him on the weaker side. when he had often congratulated with him for those rare talents of nature with which he was endowed, and particularly applauded his great wit, he made it his business to procure him scholars, and to augment his reputation by the crowd of his auditors. he conducted them even to his chair; and in presenting them to their master, never failed to make his panegyric. xavier was too vain, not to receive, with a greedy satisfaction, whatever incense was given him of that kind: applause was welcome from whatever hands it came; and withal he was too grateful, not to acknowledge those good offices which were done him, by a person whom he had used so very ill: he was the more sensible of such a kindness, by being conscious to himself how little he had deserved it. he began to look with other eyes on him who had the appearance of so mean a creature; and at the same time was informed, that this man, of so despicable a presence, was born of one of the noblest families in guypuscoa; that his courage was correspondent to his birth; and that only the fear of god had inspired him with the choice of such a life, so distant from his inclination, and his quality. these considerations, in favour of ignatius, led him to hearken, without repugnance, to those discourses which were so little suitable to his natural bent; as if the quality and virtue of him who made them, had given a new charm and weight to what he said. while things were passing in this manner, xavier's money began to fail him, as it frequently happens to foreigners, who are at a great distance from their own country; and ignatius, who was newly returned from the voyages which he had made into flanders and england, from whence he had brought back a large contribution of alms, assisted him in so pressing an occasion, and thereby made an absolute conquest of his affections. the heresy of luther began to spread itself in europe: and it was an artifice of those sectaries, to procure proselytes in the catholic universities, who, by little and little, might insinuate their new opinions into the scholars, and their masters. many knowing men of germany were come on that design to paris, though under the pretence of seconding the intentions of francis the first, who was desirous to restore learning in his kingdom. they scattered their errors in so dexterous a manner, that they made them plausible; and principally endeavoured to fasten on young scholars, who had the greatest reputation of wit. xavier, who was naturally curious, took pleasure in these novelties, and had run into them of his own accord, if ignatius had not withdrawn him. he gave an account of this very thing not long afterwards in a letter to his elder brother, don azpilcueta, of which ignatius himself was the bearer; who made a voyage into spain, for those reasons which i have set down in another place. and these are his words, which well deserve to be related. "he has not only relieved me, by himself, and by his friends, in those necessities to which i was reduced; but, which is of more importance, he has withdrawn me from those occasions which i had to contract a friendship with young men of my own standing, persons of great wit, and well accomplished, who had sucked in the poison of heresy, and who hid the corruptions of their heart under a fair and pleasing outside. he alone has broken off that dangerous commerce in which my own imprudence had engaged me; and has hindered me from following the bent of my easy nature, by discovering to me the snares which were laid for me. if don ignatius had given me no other proof of his kindness, i know not how i could be able to return it, by any acknowledgments i could make: for, in short, without his assistance, i could not have defended myself from those young men, so fair in their outward carriage, and so corrupt in the bottom of their hearts." we may conclude, from this authentic testimony, that xavier, far from carrying the faith to the remotest nations of idolaters, was in danger to make shipwreck of his own; had he not fallen into the hands of such a friend as was ignatius, who detested even the least appearance of heresy, and whose sight was sharp enough to discover heretics, how speciously soever they were disguised. it was not sufficient to have only preserved xavier from error, but it was farther necessary to wean him altogether from the world: these favourable dispositions which appeared in him, encouraged ignatius to pursue his design, and gave him hope of a fortunate success. having one day found xavier more than ordinarily attentive, he repeated to him these words more forcibly than ever: "what will it profit a man to gain the whole world, and to lose his own soul?" after which he told him, that a mind so noble and so great as his, ought not to confine itself to the vain honours of this world; that celestial glory was the only lawful object of his ambition; and that right reason would require him to prefer that which was eternally to last, before what would vanish like a dream. then it was that xavier began to see into the emptiness of earthly greatness, and found himself touched with the love of heavenly things. but these first impressions of grace had not all their effect immediately: he made frequent reflections within himself, of what the man of god had said to him; and it was not without many serious thoughts, and after many a hard struggling, that, being overcome at length by the power of those eternal truths, he took up a solid resolution, of living according to the maxims of the gospel, and of treading in his footsteps, who had made him sensible of his being gone astray. he resigned himself therefore to the conduct of ignatius, after the example of le fevre, who had already reformed his life, and was inflamed with the zeal of edifying others. the directions of a guide so well enlightened, made easy to xavier the paths of that perfection which were hitherto unknown to him. he learnt from his new master, that the first step which a sincere convert is to make, is to labour in the subduing of his darling passion. as vainglory had the greatest dominion over him, his main endeavours, from the very beginning, were to humble himself, and to confound his own pride in the sense of his emptiness, and of his sins. but well knowing that he could not tame the haughtiness of the soul without mortifying the flesh, he undertook the conquest of his body, by haircloth, by fasting, and other austerities of penance. when his time of vacancies was come, he performed his spiritual exercises, which his lectures of philosophy had till then hindered. those very exercises i mean, which ignatius, inspired of god, had composed at manreze; and of which i have drawn the model, in the life of that holy founder of the society of jesus. he began his retirement with an extraordinary fervour, even to the passing of four days entire without taking any nourishment. his contemplations were wholly busied, day and night, on divine matters. and an ancient memorial assures us, that he went to his devotions with his hands and feet tied; either to signify, that he was desirous to do nothing, but by the inspiration of the holy spirit, or to give himself the same usage which was given to the man in the parable of the gospel; "who dared to appear in the wedding-room, without cloathing himself in wedding-garments." by meditating at his leisure on the great truths of christianity, and especially on the mysteries of our saviour, according to the method of ignatius, he was wholly changed into another man; and the humility of the cross appeared to him more amiable than all the glories of the world. these new insights caused him, without the least repugnance, to refuse a canonry of pampeluna, which was offered him at that time, and was very considerable, both in regard of the profits and of the dignity. he formed also, during his solitude, the design of glorifying god by all possible means, and of employing his whole life for the salvation of souls. on these foundations, having finished the course of philosophy which he read, and which had lasted three years and a half, according to the custom of those times, he studied in divinity, by the counsel of ignatius, whose scholar he openly declared himself to be. in the mean time, ignatius, who found in himself an inward call to the holy-land, for the conversion of jews and infidels, discovered his intentions to xavier, which he had already communicated to le fevre, and four other learned young men, who had embraced his form of life. all the seven engaged themselves, by promise to each other, and by solemn vows to god almighty, to forsake their worldly goods, and undertake a voyage to jerusalem; or in case that, in the compass of a year, they could not find an accommodation of passing the seas, that they would cast themselves at the feet of our holy father, for the service of the church, into whatever part of the world he would please to send them. they made these vows at montmartre, on the day of our lady's assumption, in the year . that holy place, which has been watered with the blood of martyrs, and where their bodies are still deposited, inspired a particular devotion into xavier, and possessed him with a fervent desire of martyrdom. towards the end of the year following, he went from paris, in the company of le fevre, laynez, salmeron, rodriguez, bobadilla, and three other divines, whom le fevre had gained in the absence of ignatius, who, for important reasons, was obliged to go before, and who was waiting for them at venice. somewhat before their departure, xavier, who was sometimes too far transported by the fervency of his soul, had tied his arms and thighs with little cords, to mortify himself, for some kind of vain satisfaction which he took in out-running and over-leaping his young companions; for he was very active; and, amongst all the recreations used by scholars, he liked none but the exercises of the body. though the cords were very straight about him, yet he imagined they would not hinder him from travelling on foot. but he had scarcely begun his journey, when he was taken with extreme pains. he bore them as well as he was able; and dissembled them, till his strength failed him. his motion had swelled his thighs, and indented the cords so deep into his flesh, that they were hardly visible; insomuch that the chirurgeons, to whom his fellows discovered them, plainly said, that any incisions which could be made, would serve only to increase his pains, and that the ill was incurable. in this dangerous conjuncture, le fevre, laynez, and the rest, had recourse to almighty god, and not in vain. xavier waking the next morning, found the cords fallen down, the swelling wholly taken away from his thighs, and the marks of the cords only remaining on his flesh. they joined in actions of thanksgiving to the almighty, for his providential care already shewn in their behalf; and though the ways were very rugged, in the inclemency of that season, yet they cheerfully pursued their journey. xavier was serviceable to his companions on all occasions, and was always beforehand with them in the duties of charity; whether it were, that, being naturally officious, and of a warm temper, he was more eager to employ himself for them; or that his health, miraculously restored, rendered him more obliging and charitable towards those by whose prayers it was recovered. when they were arrived at venice, their breathings were only after the holy places. ignatius, whom they were ravished to see again, and whom they acknowledged for their common father, was of opinion, that while they were waiting the opportunity of going to receive the pope's blessing for their voyage to jerusalem, each of them should employ himself on works of charity, in the hospitals of the town. xavier, whose lot fell in the hospital of the incurable, was not satisfied only with busying himself all day, in dressing sick men's sores, in making their beds, and doing them more inferior service, but also passed whole nights in watching by them. but his care and pains were not confined to the succour of their bodies. though he was wholly ignorant of the italian tongue, he frequently spoke of god to them; and, above all things, exhorted the greatest libertines to repentance, by causing them to comprehend, in the best manner he was able, that though their corporal maladies were incurable, yet the diseases of their souls were not so; that how enormous soever our offences were, we ought always to rely on god's mercy; and that a desire of being sincerely converted, was only requisite in sinners for obtaining the grace of their conversion. one of these sick alms-men had an ulcer, which was horrible to the sight, but the noisomeness of the stench was yet more insupportable; every one shunned the miserable creature, not enduring so much as to approach him; and xavier once found a great repugnance in himself to attend him: but at the same time, he called to his remembrance a maxim of ignatius, that we make no progress in virtue, but by vanquishing ourselves; and that the occasion of making a great sacrifice, was too precious to be lost. being fortified with these thoughts, and encouraged by the example of st catharine de sienna, which came into his mind, he embraced the sick person, applied his mouth to the ulcer, surmounted his natural loathing, and sucked out the corruption. at the same moment his repugnance vanished; and after that, he had no farther trouble in the like cases: of so great importance it is to us, once to have thoroughly overcome ourselves. two months were passed away in these exercises of charity. after which he set forward on his journey to rome with the other disciples of ignatius, who himself stayed behind alone at venice. they underwent great hardships in their way. it rained continually, and bread was often wanting to them, even when their strength was wasted. xavier encouraged his companions, and sustained himself by that apostolic spirit with which god replenished him from that time forwards, and which already made him in love with pain and sufferings. being arrived at rome, his first care was to visit the churches, and to consecrate himself to the ministry of the gospel, upon the sepulchre of the holy apostles. he had the opportunity of speaking more than once before the pope: for the whole company of them being introduced into the vatican, by pedro ortiz, that spanish doctor whom they had formerly known at paris, and whom the emperor had sent to rome for the affair concerning the marriage of catharine of arragon, queen of england, paul the third, who was a lover of learning, and who was pleased to be entertained at his table with the conversation of learned men, commanded that these strangers, whose capacity he had heard so extremely praised, should be admitted to see him for many days successively; and that in his presence they should discourse concerning divers points of school-divinity. having received the benediction of our holy father for their voyage to the holy land, and obtained the permission for those amongst them who were not in sacred orders, to receive them, they returned to venice. xavier there made his vows of poverty and perpetual chastity, together with the rest, in the hands of jeronimo veralli, the pope's nuncio; and having again taken up his post in the hospital of the incurable, he resumed his offices of charity, which his journey to rome had constrained him to interrupt, and continued in those exercises till the time of his embarkment. in the mean time, the war which was already kindled betwixt the venetians and the turk, had broken the commerce of the levant, and stopt the passage to the holy land; insomuch, that the ship of the pilgrims of jerusalem went not out that year, according to the former custom. this disappointment wonderfully afflicted xavier; and the more, because he not only lost the hope of seeing those places which had been consecrated by the presence and the blood of jesus christ, but was also bereft of an occasion of dying for his divine master. yet he comforted himself in reflecting on the method of god's providence; and at the same time, not to be wanting in his duty to his neighbour, he disposed himself to receive the orders of priesthood, and did receive them with those considerations of awful dread, and holy confusion, which are not easy to be expressed. the town appeared to him an improper place for his preparation, in order to his first mass. he sought out a solitary place, where, being separated from the communication of man, he might enjoy the privacies of god. he found this convenience of a retirement near monteselice, not far from padua: it was a miserable thatched cottage, forsaken of inhabitants, and out of all manner of repair. thus accommodated, he passed forty days, exposed to the injuries of the air, lying on the cold hard ground, rigidly disciplining his body, fasting all the day, and sustaining nature only with a little pittance of bread, which he begged about the neighbourhood; but tasting all the while the sweets of paradise, in contemplating the eternal truths of faith. as his cabin did not unfitly represent to him the stable of bethlehem, so he proposed to himself frequently the extreme poverty of the infant jesus, as the pattern of his own; and said within himself, that, since the saviour of mankind had chosen to be in want of all things, they who laboured after him for the salvation of souls, were obliged, by his example, to possess nothing in this world. how pleasing soever this loneliness were to him, yet, his forty days being now expired, he left it, to instruct the villages and neighbour-towns, and principally monteselice, where the people were grossly ignorant, and knew little of the duties of christianity. the servant of god made daily exhortations to them, and his penitent aspect gave authority to all his words; insomuch, that only looking on his face, none could doubt but he was come from the wilderness to instruct them in the way to heaven. he employed himself during the space of two or three months in that manner: for, though there was no appearance that any vessel should set sail for the holy land, yet ignatius and his disciples, who had obliged themselves to wait one year in expectation of any such opportunity, would not depart from the territories of the republic till it was totally expired, that they might have nothing to upbraid themselves, in relation to the vow which they had made. xavier being thus disposed, both by his retirement, and his exterior employments, at length said his first mass at vicenza; to which place ignatius had caused all his company to resort; and he said it with tears flowing in such abundance, that his audience could not refrain from mixing their own with his. his austere, laborious life, joined with so sensible a devotion, which often makes too great an impression on the body, so much impaired the strength of his constitution, that he fell sick, not long after his first mass. he was carried into one of the own hospitals, which was so crowded, and so poor, that xavier had in it but the one half of a wretched bed, and that too in a chamber which was open on every side. his victuals were no better than his lodging, and never was sick man more destitute of human succours. but, in requital, heaven was not wanting to him. he was wonderfully devoted to st jerome; and had often had recourse to that blessed doctor of the church for the understanding of difficult places in the scripture. the saint appeared to him one night, refulgent in his beams of glory, and gave him consolation in his sickness; yet, at the same time, declaring to him, that a far greater affliction than the present was waiting for him at bolognia, where himself and one of his companions were to pass the winter; that some of them should go to padua, some to rome, others to ferrara, and the remainder of them to sienna. this apparition fortified xavier so much, that he recovered suddenly; yet whether he had some doubts concerning it, or was of opinion that he ought to keep it secret, he said nothing of it at that time. but that which then happened to him made it evident, that the vision was of god: for ignatius, who was ignorant of what had been revealed to xavier, having assembled his disciples, gave them to understand, that since the gate of the holy land was shut against them, they ought not any longer to defer the offering of their service to the pope; that it was sufficient if some of them went to rome, while the rest of them dispersed themselves in the universities of italy, to the end, they might inspire the fear of god into the scholars, and gather up into their number some young students of the greatest parts. ignatius appointed them their several stations, just as they had been foreshewn by st jerome; and that of bolognia fell to the share of xavier and bobadilla. after their arrival at bolognia, xavier went to say a mass at the tomb of st dominic; for he had a particular veneration for the founder of that order, whose institution was for the preaching of the gospel. a devout virgin, whose name was isabella casalini, seeing him at the altar, judged him to be a man of god; and was led by some interior motion to speak to this stranger priest when his mass was ended. she was so much edified, and so satisfied with the discourse of xavier, that she immediately informed her uncle, at whose house she lodged, of this treasure which she had discovered. jerome casalini, who was a very considerable clergyman, both in regard of his noble blood, and of his virtue, went in search of this spanish priest, upon the account which was given of him by his niece; and, having found him at the hospital, he importuned him so much to take a lodging in his house, that xavier could not in civility refuse him. but the holy man would never accept of his table, of whose house he had accepted. he begged his bread from door to door according to his usual custom; and lived on nothing but the alms which was given him in the town. every day, after having celebrated the divine mysteries in st lucy's church, of which casalini was curate, he there heard the confessions of such as presented themselves before him: after which he visited the prisons and the hospitals, catechised the children, and preached to the people. 'tis true, he spoke but very ill; and his language was only a kind of lingua franca, a confused medley of italian, french, and spanish: but he pronounced it with so much vehemence, and the matter of his sermons was so solid, that his ill accent and his improper phrases were past by. his audience attended to him, as to a man descended from above, and his sermon being ended, came to cast themselves at his feet, and make confession. these continual labours, during a very sharp winter, threw him into a relapse of sickness, much more dangerous than the former; as it were to verify the prediction of st jérome; for he was seized with a quartan ague, which was both malignant and obstinate; insomuch that it cast him into an extreme faintness, and made him as meagre as a skeleton. in the mean time, lean and languishing as he was, he ceased not to crawl to the public places, and excite passengers to repentance. when his voice failed him, his wan and mortified face, the very picture of death, seemed to speak for him, and his presence alone had admirable effects. jerome casalini profited so well by the instructions and example of the holy man, that he arrived in a short space to a high degree of holiness: the greater knowledge he had of him, he the more admired him, as he himself related. and it is from this virtuous churchman chiefly, that we have this account of xavier, that having laboured all the day, he passed the night in prayer; that on friday saying the mass of the passion, he melted into tears, and was often ravished in his soul; that he spoke but seldom, but that all his words were full of sound reason, and heavenly grace. while xavier was thus employing his labours at bolognia, he was recalled to rome by father ignatius; who had already presented himself before the pope, and offered him the service both of himself and his companions. pope paul the third accepted the good will of these new labourers; enjoining them to begin their work in rome, and preach under the authority of the holy see. the principal churches were assigned them; and that of st laurence in damaso was allotted to xavier. being now freed from his quartan ague, and his strength being again restored, he preached with more vigour and vehemence than ever. death, the last judgment, and the pains of hell, were the common subject of his sermons. he proposed those terrible truths after a plain manner, but withal so movingly, that the people, who came in crowds to hear him preach, departed out of the church in a profound silence; and thought less of giving praises to the preacher, than of converting their own souls to god. the famine, which laid waste the city of rome at that time, gave opportunity to the ten stranger-priests, to relieve an infinite number of miserable people, oppressed with want, and unregarded. xavier was ardent above the rest, to find them places of accommodation, and to procure alms for their subsistence. he bore them even upon his shoulders to the places which were provided for them, and attended them with all imaginable care. in the mean time, james govea, a portuguese, who had been acquainted with ignatius, xavier, and le fevre, at paris, and who was principal of the college of saint barbe, when they lived together there, being come to rome on some in portant business, for which he was sent thither by john iii. king of portugal, and seeing the wonderful effects of their ministry, wrote to the king, as he had formerly done from paris, on the reports which were spread of them, that such men as these, knowing, humble, charitable, inflamed with zeal, indefatigable in labour, lovers of the cross, and who aimed at nothing but the honour of almighty god, were fit to be employed in the east-indies, to plant and propagate the faith. he adjoined, that if his majesty were desirous of these excellent men, he had only to ask them from the pope, who had the absolute disposition of them. john iii., the most religious prince then living, wrote thereupon to his ambassador, don pedro mascaregnas, and ordered him to obtain from his holiness, six at least of those apostolic men, which had been commended to him by govea. the pope having heard the proposition of mascaregnas, remitted the whole business to father ignatius, for whom he had already a great consideration, and who had lately presented to his holiness the model of the new order, which he and his companions were desirous to establish. ignatius, who had proposed to himself no less a design than the reformation of the whole world, and who saw the urgent necessities of europe, infected with heresy on every side, returned this answer to mascaregnas, that often, which was their whole number, he could spare him at the most but two persons. the pope approved this answer, and ordered ignatius to make the choice himself. thereupon ignatius named simon rodriguez, a portuguese, and nicholas bobadilla, a spaniard. the first of these was, at that time, employed at sienna, and the other in the kingdom of naples, as they had been commissioned by the holy father. though rodriguez was languishing under a quartan ague, when he was recalled from sienna, yet he failed not to obey the summons; and shortly after embarking on a ship of lisbon which went off from civita vecchia, carried with him paul de camerin, who, some months before, had joined himself to their society. as for bobadilla, he was no sooner come to rome, than he fell sick of a continued fever; and it may be said, that his distemper was the hand of heaven, which had ordained another in his stead for the mission of the indies. for sometimes that which appears but chance, or a purely natural effect in the lives of men, is a disposition of the divine providence which moves by secret ways to its own proposed ends; and is pleased to execute those designs, by means as easy as they are powerful. mascaregnas, who had finished his embassy, and was desirous to carry with him into portugal the second missioner who had been promised him, was within a day of his departure, when bobadilla arrived. ignatius seeing him in no condition to undertake a voyage, applied himself to god for his direction, in the choice of one to fill his place, or rather to make choice of him whom god had chosen; for he was immediately enlightened from above, and made to understand, that xavier was that vessel of election. he called for him at the same instant, and being filled with the divine spirit, "xavier," said he, "i had named bobadilla for the indies, but the almighty has nominated you this day. i declare it to you from the vicar of jesus christ. receive an employment committed to your charge by his holiness, and delivered by my mouth, as if it were conferred on you by our blessed saviour in person. and rejoice for your finding an opportunity, to satisfy that fervent desire, which we all have, of carrying the faith into remote countries. you have not here a narrow palestine, or a province of asia, in prospect, but a vast extent of ground, and innumerable kingdoms. an entire world is reserved for your endeavours, and nothing but so large a field is worthy of your courage and your zeal. go, my brother, where the voice of god has called you; where the holy see has sent you, and kindle those unknown nations, with the flame that burns within you." xavier, wholly confounded in himself with these expressions of ignatius, with tears of a tender affection in his eyes, and blushing in his countenance, answered him, that he could not but be astonished, that he should pitch upon a man, so weak, and pusillanimous as himself, for an enterprize which required no less than an apostle: that nevertheless he was ready to obey the commands of heaven; and that he offered himself, with the whole power of his soul, to do and suffer all things for the salvation of the indies. after which, giving leave to his internal joy to break out, and to diffuse itself, he more confidently said to father ignatius, that his desires were now accomplished; that for a long time he had sighed after the indies without daring to declare it; and that he hoped, from those idolatrous nations, to have the honour of dying for jesus christ, which had been denied him in the holy land. he added, in the height of these transports, that at length he saw that clearly, of which god had often given him a glimpse, under some mysterious figures. in effect, xavier had frequently dreamed by night, that he carried on his shoulders a gigantic and very swarthy indian; and opprest with this strong imagination, he groaned and sighed, in that uneasy slumber, as one out of breath, and labouring under an intolerable burden; insomuch that the noise of his groans and heavings waked those who were lodged in the same chamber; and, one night it happening that father laynez being awakened by it, asked him what it was that troubled him: xavier immediately told his dream, and added, that it put him into a sweat, with big drops over all his body. besides this, he once beheld, either in a dream, or in a trance, vast oceans full of tempests and of rocks, desart islands, barbarous countries, hunger and thirst raging every where, nakedness, multiplicity of labours, with bloody persecution, and imminent dangers of death and of destruction. in the midst of this ghastly apparition, he cried aloud, "yet more, o my god, yet more!" and father simon rodriguez heard these words distinctly; but however he importuned him to declare their meaning, he would discover nothing at that time, till embarking for the indies, he revealed the mystery. such ideas, always present in his imagination, filled his familiar discourses with notions of a new world, and the conversion of infidels. while he was speaking on that subject, his face was on a fire, and the tears came into his eyes. this was testified of him by father jerome dominic, who, before he entered into the society, had conversed with him at bolognia, where a strict friendship was made betwixt them. as xavier was advertised of this voyage to the indies but the day before mascaregnas departed, he had but time enough to piece up his cassock, bid his friends farewell, and go to kiss the feet of our holy father. paul iii., overjoyed, that under his pontificate a gate should be opened to the gospel, in the oriental indies, received him with a most fatherly affection, and excited him to assume such thoughts, as were worthy of so high an undertaking; telling him for his encouragement, that the eternal wisdom is never failing to supply us with strength, to prosecute the labours to which it has ordained us, even though they should surpass all human abilities. he must, indeed, prepare himself for many sufferings; but the affairs of god succeeded not but by the ways of suffering, and that none could pretend to the honour of an apostleship, but by treading in the steps of the apostles, whose lives were but one continual cross, and a daily death; that heaven had employed him in the mission of st thomas, the apostle of the indies, for the conquest of souls; that it became him to labour generously, in reviving the faith in those countries, where it had been planted by that great apostle; and that if it were necessary for him to shed his blood, for the glory of christ jesus, he should account it his happiness to die a martyr. it seemed that god himself had spoken by the mouth of his vicegerent, such impression had these words on the mind and heart of xavier. they inspired into him a divine vigour; and in his answer to his holiness, there shone through a profound humility such a magnanimity of soul, that paul iii. had from that very minute a certain presage of those wonderful events which afterwards arrived. therefore the most holy father, having wished him the special assistance of god in all his labours, tenderly embraced him, more than once, and gave him a most ample benediction. xavier departed in the company of mascaregnas the th of march, in the year , without any other equipage besides his breviary. in giving his last adieu to father ignatius, he cast himself at his feet, and with all humility desired his blessing; and, in taking leave of laynez, he put into his hands a small memorial, which he had written, and signed. this memorial, which is still preserved at rome, contains, that he approves, as much as depends on him, the rules and constitutions, which shall be drawn up, by ignatius and his companions; that he elects ignatius to be their general, and, in failure of him, le fevre; that he consecrates himself to god, by the three vows, of poverty, chastity, and obedience, in the society of jesus, when it shall be raised into a religious order, by the apostolical authority. the conclusion of that affair was daily expected; and indeed it was happily finished, before the ending of the year, in that almost miraculous manner, as is related in the life of st ignatius. his journey from rome to lisbon was all the way by land, and was above three months. xavier had a horse allowed him, by order from the ambassador; but they were no sooner on their way, than he made him common. the father often alighted to ease the servants who followed on foot; or exchanged his horse with others, who were not so well mounted. at the inns he was every man's servant, even to the rubbing of the horses, by an excess of humility, which, on those occasions, caused him to forget the dignity of his character. he resigned his chamber and his bed to those who wanted them; and never lodged but either on the ground, or on the litter in the stable. in the rest of his actions, ever cheerful, and pleasant in discourse, which made all men desirous of his company; but always mixing somewhat with that gaiety, which was edifying both to the masters and the servants, and inspired them alike with thoughts of piety. they went by loretto, where they rested at the least eight days; after which they continued their journey by bolognia. from thence, xavier wrote to ignatius, in this manner: "i received, on the holiday of easter, the letter which you wrote and inclosed in the packet of my lord ambassador. god only knows my joy in receiving it. believing, as i do, that we shall never entertain each other in this world, by any other way than that of writing, and that we shall never see each other but in heaven, it concerns us, that little time we have to live in this place of exile, to give ourselves the mutual consolation of frequent letters. the correspondence, on my part, shall be exactly kept; for being convinced, by the reasons which you gave me at our parting, that a commerce of this nature ought to be established, in a regular method, betwixt the colonies and the mother country, i have resolved, that in whatever parts of the world i shall reside, or any members of our society with me, to maintain a strict communication with you, and with the fathers at rome, and send you as large an account, as possibly i can, of any news concerning us. i have taken my opportunity of seeing the cardinal of invrea, as you gave me in command, and have discoursed at leisure with him. he received me with much goodness, and offered me, with great civility, his interest, for our common cause. in the midst of the discourse, which we had together, i threw myself at his feet, and kissed his hand, in the name of all our society. as much as i can gather by his words, he extremely approves the manner of our living. "as concerning my lord ambassador, he loads me with so many favours, that i should never conclude, if i began to relate them. and i know not how i could suffer the many good offices he does me, if i had not some hope of repaying him in the indies, at the expence of my life itself. on palm-sunday i heard his confession, and after him many of his domestic servants; i communicated them afterwards, in the holy chapel of loretto, where i said mass. i likewise confessed them, and gave them the communion, on easter sunday. my lord ambassador's almoner recommends himself to your good prayers, and has promised to bear me company to the indies. i am more taken up with confessions here, than i was in rome, at st lewis. i heartily salute all our fathers; and if i name not every one of them in particular, i desire them to believe, 'tis neither from my want of memory, or affection. "your brother and servant in jesus christ, francis." _from bolognia, march_ . . the whole town of bolognia was in motion at the approach of father xavier: they were wonderfully affected to him, and in a manner esteemed him their apostle: both great and small were desirous of seeing him, and most of them discovered the state of their conscience to him; many of them proffered themselves to go along with him to the indies; all of them shed tears at his departure, as thinking they should never more behold him. jerome casalini, curate of st lucy, who had lodged him the year before, was most particularly kind to him at his return: he obliged him to accept of his house once more; and his church became as it were the public rendezvous, where xavier heard an infinite number of confessions. in the rest of this long journey, there happened two or three passages, which were sufficiently remarkable. a domestic servant to the ambassador, who rode before as harbinger, to take up lodgings for the train, a violent and brutal man, being reprehended by his lord for having been negligent in his duty, fell into a horrible fit of passion, as soon as he was out of mascaregnas his presence. xavier heard him, but took no notice of it at that time, for fear of provoking him to any farther extravagance. but the next morning, when the same person set out before the company, according to his custom, he spurred after him at full speed. he found him lying under his horse, who was fallen with him from a precipice, the man sorely bruised, and the horse killed outright. "wretched creature," said the father to him, "what had become of thee, if thou hadst died of this fall?" these few words made him sensible of his furious expressions, for which he sincerely asked pardon of almighty god; and xavier alighting, mounted him on his own horse, and walked on foot by him, to their lodging. another time, the gentleman of the horse attempting to pass a small river, which was very deep and rapid, the current carried away both man and horse, and the whole company gave him for lost. xavier, moved with compassion for the danger of his soul, because, having had a call from heaven to enter into a religious life, he had not followed the motions of grace, but remained in the world, began to implore god in his behalf. the ambassador, who had a great kindness for him, joined in that devout action, and commanded the whole train to follow their example. they had scarcely opened their mouths for him, when the man and horse, who were both drowning, came again above water, and were carried to the bank. the gentleman was drawn out, pale in his countenance, and half dead. when he had recovered his senses, xavier demanded of him, what thoughts he had, when he was at the point of perishing? he freely acknowledged, that the religious life, to which god had called him, then struck upon his soul; with dismal apprehensions, for having neglected the means of his salvation. he protested afterwards, as xavier himself relates, in one of his letters, that, in that dreadful moment, the remorse of his conscience, and the sense of god's judgments on souls unfaithful to their vocation, were more terrible to him, than the horrors even of death itself. he spoke of eternal punishments, with expressions so lively and so strong, as if he had already felt them, and was returned from hell. he frequently said, (as the saint has assured us,) that, by a just judgment of eternal god, those who, during their life, made no preparations for their death, had not the leisure to think on god when death surprised them. the ambassador, and all his people, doubted not, but the safety of this gentleman was to be ascribed to the merits of the saint: but xavier himself believed it to be the pure effect of the ambassador's devotion; for thus he writes to father ignatius concerning it--"our lord was pleased to give ear to the fervent prayers of his servant mascaregnas, which he made with tears in his eyes, for the deliverance of the poor creature, whom he looked upon as lost; and who was taken from the jaws of death by a most evident miracle." in passing over the alps, the ambassador's secretary alighting to walk in a difficult way, which he could not well observe, by reason of the snows, his foot happened to slip on a sharp descent, and he rolled down into a precipice: he had tumbled to the very bottom, if, in falling, his clothes had not taken hold on one of the crags of the rock, where he remained hanging over the depths without ability, either to disengage himself, or get up again. those who followed, made towards him, but the horror of that abyss stopt short the most daring: xavier only made not the least demur; he descended the precipice, and lending his hand to the secretary, by little and little dragged him up. being gotten out of france, and having passed the pyreneans, on the side of navarre, when they were now approaching pampeluna, mascaregnas bethought himself, that father francis, for by that name xavier was usually called, had not spoken one word of going to the castle of xavier, which was but little distant from their road: he remembered him of it, and was even so importunate with him, as to say, that since he was about to leave europe, and perhaps never more to see it, he could not in decency dispense with giving a visit to his family, and taking his last leave of his mother, who was yet living. but all the arguments of mascaregnas wrought no effect upon a man, who, having forsaken all things for the love of god, was of opinion, that he had nothing remaining in this world; and who also was persuaded, that flesh and blood are enemies to the apostolical spirit. he turned not out of the road, but only said to the ambassador, that he deferred the sight of his relations till he should visit them in heaven; that this transient view would be accompanied but with melancholy and sadness, the common products of a last farewell, but in heaven he should eternally behold them with pleasure, and without the least allay of sorrow. mascaregnas had already a high idea of xavier's virtue; but this wonderful disengagement from the world yet more increased the esteem which he had of him; insomuch, that before they reached portugal, he sent an express to king john iii. with no other errand, than to inform him of the holiness of this second missioner to the indies. they arrived at lisbon towards the end of june; and xavier retired to the hospital of all saints, where rodriguez, who came by sea, had taken up his lodging. he found him much weakened with a quartan ague, which had not left him; and embraced him just at the moment when his fit was coming on him. but whether it were, that the extreme joy which rodriguez found, so unexpectedly to see him, dissipated the humour which caused his disease, or that the embraces of xavier had from that time an healing virtue; certain it is that the fit came not, and from thenceforward the sick man entirely recovered of that distemper. three or four days after, they were both called to court. the king and queen, who were in company together, received xavier as a saint, on the report of mascaregnas, and entertained him with all imaginable shews of kindness. they asked them diverse questions concerning their way of living; by what accident their new society came to be formed; and what was the ground and ultimate design of it; and at last desired to be informed by them, from whence proceeded that strange persecution, which was raised in rome against their body, which had made so great a noise over all europe. xavier made answer to all these demands in few words, but so very pertinently, as much satisfied both their majesties: they gave great approbation, (as himself relates in his letter from lisbon to ignatius,) to what he said, concerning the discipline of our houses, the quality of our ministry, and the spirit and model of our foundation. in the midst of the conversation, the king sent for the prince of portugal, his son don juan, and the infanta maria, his daughter, that the two missioners might see them. and from thence his majesty took occasion of relating to them, how many children he had still living, and how many he had lost, which turned the discourse on the education of youth; and before the fathers were dismissed, the king recommended to their care, an hundred young gentlemen, who were bred at court. though an officer of the palace had orders to prepare an handsome lodging, with good accommodation, for xavier and rodriguez, they returned to their hospital, and there continued. they would not so much as receive their entertainment of diet, which was assigned them from court, but went the round of the city begging alms at their appointed hours, and lived in poverty, according to the manner of life which they had prescribed themselves. the fleet not being to set sail till the next spring, and these apostolical persons not knowing what it was to live in idleness, xavier was not satisfied only to instruct those young gentlemen in piety, whom the king had committed to his charge; he gave himself an employment, and did at lisbon what he had done at venice, bolognia, and rome, for the space of two years and more. but, besides that he assisted the sick in the hospital day and night, visited the prisoners every day, and catechised the children many times in the week, he often discoursed with the principal persons of the court, and engaged them in the spiritual exercises of ignatius. at first he preached not in the churches, judging, that the ministries of the gospel ought to begin with less public actions; and went not into the pulpit, without being first requested by the king, who one day sending for him to the palace, acquainted him with the desire he had to hear him preach; and told him, "that the bishop of lisbon was of opinion, that they ought not any longer to defer his public exhortations." father simon rodriguez laboured also on his part, in the service of his neighbour, according to the same method, and with the same spirit. in the mean time, martin d'azpilcueta, surnamed the doctor of navarre, who was uncle to xavier, on the mother's side, and who was chief professor of divinity in the university of coimbra, having heard the news of his nephew's arrival, wrote earnestly to the king, that it would please him to send father francis to him. he added, that in case the father might have leave to remain with him till the departure of the fleet, he would oblige himself to make two new lectures, at his own expence, the one in canon-law, the other in mystical divinity. and farther, that in few years afterwards he would follow xavier to the indies, and preach the gospel in conjunction with him, to the eastern idolaters. these letters prevailed nothing; the man, who had refused so much as to turn out of his way to see his mother, was bent against the taking of a journey, and forsaking his important business to visit one of his relations. the king retained xavier at lisbon, at the request of xavier himself; and the father wrote a letter of excuse to the doctor of navarre, who had written two to him full of tenderness and friendship. as that doct&r was unsatisfied with that kind of life, which his nephew had embraced, so xavier resolved him, on that point, in this manner. "for what concerns our institute, of which so many reports are now raised, i have but one word, at present, to say of it. 'tis of little consequence, illustrious doctor, to be judged by men, especially by such, who will needs be judging before they understand the matter, and know the merits of the cause." as to his intention of going to the indies, he desired him to think no farther of it; for thus navarre relates that passage in his manual: "i had resolved to have ended my days in those parts, if xavier, in consideration of my great age, had not thought me incapable of those labours which attend his mission: and if he had not written to me at his departure, that i should comfort myself for his absence, by the hope of seeing each other in the celestial kingdom." our two missioners laboured not in vain at lisbon. from the very beginning of their ministry, devotion began to spread amongst the people. all men ran to the blessed sacrament, which before was never thought on but in lent: and this holy custom diffused itself insensibly through all the towns of portugal many, who had deferred their conversion from time to time, now on the sudden gave themselves up to god, and even renounced the world. the most inveterate enemies were sincerely reconciled, and the most impudent harlots abandoned their prostitute way of living. but this change of manners was most particularly apparent at the court: the king, who was truly religious, and full of goodness, was the first to declare himself against those vices which usually infect the palaces of princes. and that he might introduce a reformation by degrees, not only into his house, bat also dilate it through his whole kingdom, he obliged all the young courtiers to confess themselves once a week; for he said, "that if the lords and gentlemen would accustom themselves, from their tender years, to the service and fear of god, they would live with greater christianity in their riper age: and if persons of quality came once to give good examples of religion, the commonalty, who form themselves according to their model, would not fail to regulate their manners; and therefore the reformation of all degrees in the kingdom consisted chiefly in the virtuous education of young noblemen." the example of the prince and the young courtiers drew the rest; and thereupon xavier writes to ignatius in these terms: "nothing can be more regular than the court of portugal: it resembles rather a religious society, than a secular court. the number of courtiers who come to confession, and are afterwards communicated, every eight days, is so very great, that we are in admiration of it," and are in perpetual thanksgiving for it. we are so taken up with hearing confessions, that if we were twice so many as we are, there would be employment more than enough for us. we are sitting on the confession-seat all the day long, and part of the night, though none but courtiers are permitted to come to us. "i remember, that i observed, when the king was at almerin, those who waited on him, from all parts of the kingdom, about their own affairs, as the custom is, were in great admiration at this new court-mode; and when they beheld the young gentlemen at the sacrament of the altar, every sunday and holiday, with great reverence, they thought themselves in another world. but the greatest part of them imitating that which they admired, drew near to the tribunal of penance, and the holy table. had we confessors enow to attend the crowds that come to court, no man would venture to apply himself to the king for any business, before he had been first with god, and were well with him." the two labourers in god's harvest were so exhausted with their pains, that at length they were constrained to accept of the diet which was provided for them by the king's appointment; for they judged their time was better employed in the service of souls, than in begging their daily bread about the streets. yet they omitted not to ask alms once or twice a-week, that they might not disuse themselves from the spirit of mortification and poverty. with these considerations, they reserved but little of what was sent them from the palace, and distributed the rest among the poor. on the other side, the perpetual labour of confessions reduced them to preach but very seldom, for want of leisure. but, all things duly examined, they thought it of more consequence to god's service, to administer the sacrament of penance, than to preach the word; because the court of portugal was furnished with able preachers, but was much wanting in judicious confessors; which was the very observation that xavier made in the letter above cited. these visible and wonderful operations caused the two missioners to be respected as men sent down from heaven, and replenished with the spirit of the most high; insomuch that all men gave them the surname of apostles, which glorious title still remains with their successors in portugal. the king, on all occasions, shewed them a most particular affection; and xavier, ravished with so many expressions of his goodness to them, gives this account of it to father ignatius. "our whole society stands obliged to his majesty, for his singular favour to us; as well the rest of you at rome, as we in portugal. i am given to understand, from the ambassador mascaregnas, that the king told him, he should be very glad, that all the members of our company might be gathered together, and established here; though on that condition he employed a good part of his revenue for our entertainment." "this pious prince," says xavier in another of his letters, "who has so tender an inclination for our society, and who wishes our advancement as much as if he were one of us, has thereby engaged us for ever to his service; and we should be guilty of a most horrible ingratitude, even to be unworthy of life, if we made not a public profession of our service to him, and if every day of our lives we endeavoured not to acknowledge, by our prayers, as far as our weakness will give us leave, all the favours of so generous a protector, and so magnificent a benefactor." the prince, don henry, who was nominated cardinal not long after, and in process of time came to the crown by the death of don sebastian, had not less affection for them than the king his brother. being grand inquisitor, he gave the fathers an absolute power in his tribunal; and permitted them to discourse freely with all the prisoners of the inquisition. some of the greatest quality in the court were so much edified with the apostolic life of xavier and rodriguez, that they were desirous to embrace their institute; as some learned persons of the city had already done. in short, every thing succeeded with them so, that xavier had some apprehensions concerning this tide of happiness: he bemoaned it sometimes to himself, and said, that prosperity was always formidable, even in the most pious undertakings; that persecution was more desirable, and a much surer mark of christ's disciples. the two missioners appointed for the indies lived in this manner; and impatiently waited for the proper season of navigation. but the king weighing in his mind the great good which they had done, in so short a time, both amongst the nobility and the common people, was desirous to retain them still in portugal. it seemed reasonable to him, that the interest of his own kingdom ought to be dearer to him than that of foreign nations; and that these new labourers would produce a larger increase in catholic countries, than amongst barbarians. yet that he might undertake nothing without mature deliberation, he called a council, and himself proposed it to them. all of them approved the king's opinion, excepting only the prince don henry; who strongly urged, that xavier and rodriguez having been nominated for the new world, by the vicar of our saviour, it was in a manner to disturb the order of providence, if he thwarted their intended voyage; that the indies were equally to be considered with portugal itself, since they had been conquered by the portuguese, and were annexed to the imperial crown; that those idolaters had better inclinations towards christianity than was generally thought; and that they would come over to the faith of their own accord, when they should see amongst them disinterested preachers, free from avarice and ambition. as the opinions of kings are always prevalent, the reasons of don henry were slighted; and it was concluded in council, that the two missioners should not depart the realm. this resolution afflicted them the more sensibly, because they both breathed after those eastern countries; their last recourse was to write to rome, and interpose the mediation of father ignatius. he accordingly moved the pope in their behalf; but his holiness refused to make an absolute decision, and remitted the whole affair to portugal: insomuch that ignatius sent word to the two fathers, that the king was to them in the place of god, and that it was their duty to pay him a blind obedience. at the same time he also wrote to don pedro mascaregnas, that xavier and rodriguez were wholly at the king's command; and that they should always remain in portugal, in case his majesty desired it. notwithstanding which, he thought a temperament might be found, which was, that rodriguez might be retained in portugal, and xavier permitted to go for india. the king was satisfied with this proposal of ignatius; and believed it to be inspired by god himself. xavier, transported with joy at the news of it, gave thanks to the divine goodness, which had chosen him anew for the mission of the oriental parts, or rather which had executed its eternal purpose, notwithstanding human opposition. the time of embarkment being come, he was called one day to the palace: the king discoursed fully with him concerning the present condition of the indies, and recommended particularly to him the affairs of religion. he likewise gave him in charge, to visit the fortresses of the portuguese, and take notice how god was served in them; and withal to give him an account of what more was requisite to be done for the establishment of christianity in those new conquests; and to write frequently on that subject, not only to his ministers, but to his own person. after this he presented him the four briefs, which had been expedited from home the same year; in two of which, our holy father had constituted xavier apostolical nuncio, and endued him with ample power for the extending and maintenance of the faith throughout the east; in the third, his holiness recommended him to david emperor of ethiopia; and in the fourth, to all the princes who possessed the isles of the sea, or the continent from the cape of good hope, even beyond the ganges. john iii. had requested these briefs, and the pope had freely granted them, with design thereby to make the mission of father francis the more illustrious and authentic. the father received them from the hands of the king with profound respect; saying, that as much as his weakness was capable of performing, he should endeavour to sustain the burden, which god and man had laid upon him. some few days before he went to sea, don antonio d'ataida, count of castagnera, who supervised the provisions of the naval army, advertised xavier to make a note of what things were necessary for him in order to his voyage; assuring him from his majesty, that he should be furnished to his own desire. they want nothing, replied the father with a smile, who have occasion for nothing. i am much obliged to the king for his liberality, and to you for your care of me; but i owe more to the divine providence, and you would not wish me to distrust it. the count of castagnera, who had an express order from the king, to make a large provision for father xavier, was very urgent with him, and importuned him so strongly to take something, for fear, said he, of tempting providence, which does not every day work miracles, that xavier, not to appear either obstinate or, presumptuous, demanded some few little books of devotion, for which he foresaw he should have occasion in the indies, and a thick eloth habit against the excessive colds, which are to be endured in doubling the cape. the count, amazed that the father asked for nothing more, besought him to make a better use of the king's offers; but seeing that all his intreaties prevailed nothing, "you shall not be master in every thing," said he, with some kind of heat, "and at the least you cannot possibly refuse a servant to attend you, because i am sure you cannot be without one." "so long as i have the use of these two hands," replied xavier, "i will have no other servant." "but decency," rejoined the count, "requires, that you should have one, if it were but to maintain the dignity of your character. how shameful would it seem to behold an apostolical legate washing his own linen on the deck, and dressing his own victuals?" "i will take upon me for once," said xavier, "to serve myself, and others too, without dishonouring my character. so long as i do no ill, i am in no fear of scandalizing my neighbour; nor of debasing that authority with which i am entrusted by the holy see. they are these human considerations, and false notions of decencies and punctilios, which have reduced the church to that condition in which we now see it." this positive answer stopped castagnera's mouth; but afterwards, he gave great commendations of xavier, and publicly said, "that he found it much more difficult to combat the denials of father francis, than to satisfy the craving desires of other men." the day of his departure being come at length, and all things in a readiness to set sail, xavier went to the port, with his two companions, whom he carried with him to the indies; namely, father paul de camerino, an italian, and francis mansilla, a portuguese, who was not yet in priests orders. simon rodriguez bore him company to the fleet; and then it was, that, embracing each other with much tenderness, "my brother," said xavier, "these are the last words which i shall ever say to you: we shall see each other no more in this present world; let us endure our separation with patience; for most certain it is, that, being well united with our lord, we shall be united in ourselves; and that nothing shall be able to divide us from the society which we have in jesus christ. "as to what remains, i will, for your satisfaction," added he, "discover to you a secret, which hitherto i have concealed from your knowledge: you may remember, that when we lodged as chamber-fellows, in the hospital at rome, you heard me crying out one night, 'yet more, o my lord, yet more!' you have often asked what that exclamation meant; and i have always answered you, that you should not trouble yourself about it: i must now tell you, that i then beheld, (but whether sleeping or waking, god only knows,) all i was to suffer for the glory of jesus christ; our lord infused into me so great a delight for sufferings, that not being able to satiate, myself with those troubles which he had presented to my imagination, i begged of him yet more; and that was the sense of what i pronounced with so much fervency, 'yet more, yet more!' i hope the divine goodness will grant me that in india, which he has foreshewn to me in italy, and that the desires which he inspired into me shall be shortly satisfied." after these words they embraced each other anew, and parted both of them in tears. when rodriguez was returned on shore, they gave the signal of departure, and set sail. this was on the th of april, in the year , under the command of don martin alphonso de sosa, viceroy of the indies; a man of known integrity, and consummate experience in what related to those parts, where he had formerly lived for many years. he was desirous of xavier's company, in the admiral, which was called the st james. xavier went aboard on his own birth-day, entering then on his six-and-thirtieth year. he had resided eight months entire at lisbon; and forseven years, and somewhat more, had been the professed disciple of ignatius loyola. * * * * * the life of st francis xavier. book ii. _by what way he passes to the indies. his employment in the ship. he arrives at mozambique, and what he does there. he falls sick himself, and yet continues to serve the sick. his first prediction verified by the success. he arrives at melinda, and there confers with the mahometans. he passes over to socotora; his opinion concerning that people. he arrives at goa. he visits the bishop of the indies. the estate of religion in the india at his arrival. his first work at goa. the first fruits of his labours. his industry to gain the concubinarians. he is told of the coast of fishery, and goes thither. this coast is called in the maps la pescaria. he works a miracle at cape comorin. he labours in the salvation of the paravas. his manner of teaching the christian faith. he establishes catechists and teachers of the faith to supply ids place. the fruit of his labours on the coast of fishery. he makes use of children to cure the sick. the zeal of the children against idols and idolaters. the punishment of a pagan, who had despised the admonitions of father xavier. the original and character of the brachmans. he treats with the brachmans. the conference of xavier with a famous brachman. he works divers miracles. he declares himself against the brachmans. the means whereby he destroyed idolatry. he returns to goa, and for what reason. the beginning and establishment of the seminary of holy faith. the seminary of holy faith new named the college of st paul. he returns to the coast of fishery; his actions there. he goes to the relief of the christians, on the coast of fishery. he goes to the kingdom of travancore, and there labours with great success. god communicates to him the gift of tongues. he is persecuted by the brachmans. he goes to meet the army of the badages, and puts them to flight. he prevails upon the king of travancore to favour the gospel. he raises two from death._ while the christian religion flourished in asia, under the emperors of constantinople, there were two ordinary passages, and both of them short enough towards the indies: the one by syria, over the euphrates and the persian gulph; the other by egypt, over the arabian gulph, commonly called the red sea. but after the saracens had possessed themselves of those places, the european christians finding those passages unsecure for travelling, sought out ways of a larger circuit, to avoid falling into the hands of their most mortal enemies. the portuguese were the first who bethought themselves of coasting all africa, and one part of arabia and persia; by taking this compass, the indies are distant from portugal about four thousand leagues, and the passengers are constrained to suffer twice the scorching heats of the torrid zone, in going under the equinoctial line, which divides africa almost in two equal parts. don henry, son of king john i., the most skilful prince of that age in the mathematics, was he who attempted the discovery of those seas, and undertook to double the cape of good hope, upon the account of traffic, which he desired to establish betwixt the crown of portugal and the emperor of ethiopia, commonly called prester john. this enterprise having succeeded, the kings of portugal, alphonso v., john ii., and emanuel i., followed it so happily, that, by little and little, they completed the passage to the indies. this was the course that father xavier held with the fleet of portugal. he found himself sufficient employment, during the time of the navigation: his first study was to put a stop to those disorders which are commonly occasioned by an idle life on ship-board; and he began with gaming, which is the only recreation, or rather the whole employment, of the seamen. that he might banish games of chance, which almost always occasion quarrels and swearing, he proposed some little innocent diversions, capable of entertaining the mind, without stirring up the passions. but seeing that, in spite of his endeavours, they were bent on cards and dice, he thought it not convenient to absent himself, but became a looker on, that he might somewhat awe them by his presence; and when they were breaking out into any extravagance, he reclaimed them by gentle and soft reproofs. he shewed concernment in their gains, or in their losses, and offered sometimes to hold their cards. there were at least a 'thousand persons in the admiral, men of all conditions: the father made himself all to all, thereby to gain some to jesus christ; entertaining every man with such discourse as was most suitable to his calling. he talked of sea affairs to mariners, of war to the soldiery, of commerce to merchants, and of affairs of state to men of quality. his natural gaiety, and obliging humour, gained him a general esteem; the greatest libertines, and most brutal persons, sought his conversation, and were even pleased to hear him speak of god. he instructed the seamen daily in the principles of religion, of which the greater part were wholly ignorant, or had at the best but a smattering of it; and preached to them on every holiday, at the foot of the main mast. all of them profited by his sermons, and in little time nothing was heard amongst them, which was offensive to the honour of god, or that wounded christian charity; or touched upon obsceneness, or ill manners. they had a profound veneration for him; with one word only, he appeased their quarrels, and put an end to all their differences. the viceroy, don martin alphonso de sosa, invited him from the very first clay to eat at his table; but xavier humbly excused it, with great acknowledgments, and during all the voyage lived only on what he begged about the ship. in the mean time, the insufferable colds of cabo verde, and the excessive heats of guinea, together with the stench of the fresh waters, and putrifaction of their flesh provisions under the line, produced many dangerous distempers. the most common was a pestilential fever, accompanied with a kind of cancer, which bred in the mouth, and ulcerated all the gums; the sick being crowded together, spread the infection amongst themselves; and as every one was apprehensive of getting the disease, they had been destitute of all succour, if father francis had not taken compassion on them. he wiped them in their sweats, he cleansed their ulcers, he washed their linen, and rendered them all the most abject services; but, above all things, he had care of their consciences, and his principal employment was to dispose them to a christian death. these were his perpetual employments; being at the same time himself seized with continued fits of vomiting, and extreme languishments, which lasted two whole months. for his ease and refreshment, sosa caused him to be accommodated with a larger cabin than was first appointed for him: he accepted of it, but it was only to lodge in it those who were most desperately ill; as for himself, he lay bare upon the deck, without other pillow than the tackling. he received also the dishes which the viceroy sent him from his table, and divided them amongst those who had most need of nourishment. so many actions of charity gained him the surname of the holy father from thenceforward, which continued to him all his life, even, amongst mahometans and idolaters. while xavier employed his time in this manner, the navy following its course, met with rocks and tempests, and contrary tides. after five months of perpetual navigation, it arrived at mozambique, towards the end of august. mozambique is a kingdom situated on the eastern coasts of africa, inhabited by negroes; a barbarous people, but less savage than their neighbours the cafres, by reason of the trade which they continually maintain with the ethiopians and arabs. there is no port on all the shore to secure shipping from the winds; only one little island is shaped into a haven, both convenient and safe. this isle, which is but a mile distant from the main land, bears the name of mozambique, together with the whole kingdom. it was formerly subject to the saracens, and a xeriffe moor commanded it; but since, the portuguese have made themselves masters of it, and built a fort, to secure the passage of their vessels, and refresh their sea-beaten men, who commonly stay there for some time. the army under sosa was constrained to winter in this island, not only because the season was far spent, but also because the sick passengers could no longer support the incommodities of the sea. the place notwithstanding was not very proper for infirm persons, for the air is unwholesome; which proceeds from hence, that the sea overflowing the low-lands of the isle, at the spring tides, the mass of waters there gathered and inclosed is corrupted by the heats; for which reason, the inhabitants are commonly short-lived, but more especially strangers; upon which occasion, mozambique is generally called the sepulchre of the portuguese. besides the intemperance of the air, at the same time, an infectious disease was raging in the country. being come ashore, sosa gave immediate orders to carry the sick of every ship to the hospital, which is in the island, of which the kings of portugal are founders. father xavier followed them; and, with the assistance of his two companions, undertook to attend them all. the undertaking was beyond his strength; but the soul sustains the body of apostolical men, and charity can do all things. animated with this new fervour, he went from chamber to chamber, and from bed to bed, giving remedies to some, and administering the last sacrament to others. every one desired to have him by him; and all acknowledged, that only the sight of his countenance availed them more than a thousand medicines. having passed the day in continual labour, he watched all night with dying men, or laid himself down by those who were in most danger, to steal a short unquiet slumber, which was interrupted almost every moment: at the least complaint, or even at a sigh, he was awake, and ran to their relief. so many fatigues at the length overwhelmed nature, and he fell sick himself of a fever, so violent, and so malignant, that he was blooded seven times in a little space, and was three days in a delirium. at the beginning of his sickness, many were desirous to have withdrawn him from the hospital, where the contagion was frightful, and offered him their own lodgings. he constantly refused their offers, and told them, "that, having made a vow of poverty, he would live and die amongst the poor." but when the violence of his distemper was somewhat abated, the saint forgot himself to think on others. sometimes, not being able to sustain his body, and burning with his fever, he visited his dear patients, and attended them as much as his weakness would permit him. the physician having one day met him, going hither and thither as his charity called him, in the middle of his fit, after having felt his pulse, plainly told him, that in all the hospital, there was not one man in more danger than himself, and prayed him that he would take some small repose, and but give himself a breathing time until his fever were on the declension. "i will punctually obey you," replied the father, "when i have satisfied one part of my duty which calls upon me; it concerns the salvation or a soul, and there is no time to be lost on such an occasion." immediately he ordered to be carried to his own bed a poor ship-boy, who lay stretched out on a little straw, with a burning fever upon him, without speech or knowledge. the youth was no sooner placed upon the saint's bed, but he came to himself: xavier made use of the opportunity, and laying himself by the sick person, who had led a most dissolute life, exhorted him so strongly all that night to abominate his sins, and to rely on the mercy of almighty god, that he saw him die in great contrition, mixed with saving hope. after this, the father kept the promise which he had made to the physician, and took a greater care of his own preservation; insomuch that his fever abated by degrees, and at length left him of itself; but his strength was not yet recovered, when the navy put to sea again. the viceroy, who began to find himself indisposed, would make no longer stay upon a place so much infected, nor attend the recovery of his people, to continue his voyage. he desired xavier to accompany him, and to leave paul de camerino, and francis mansilla, to attend the sick in the hospital; where indeed they both, performed their duty as became them. thus having made a six months residence on mozambique, they embarked once more on the th of march, and in the year . but they went not aboard the st james, in which they came thither, changing her for a lighter vessel, which made better sail. it is here proper to observe, that the father, according to the report of the passengers who came with him from portugal to mozambique, began to manifest that spirit of prophecy, which he had to the end of his days in so eminent a degree. for hearing those of the st james commend that ship, as a vessel of the strongest built, and the best equipped of all the fleet, he said in express words, that she would prove unfortunate. and in effect, that ship, which the viceroy left behind him at mozambique, in the company of some others, pursuing her course afterwards to the indies, was driven against the rocks, and dashed in pieces towards the island of salseta. the galeon, which carried sosa and xavier, had the wind so favourable, that in two or three days she arrived at melinda, on the coast of africa, towards the equinoctial line. it is a town of saracens, on the sea side, in a flat country, well cultivated, planted all along with palm-trees, and beautified with fair gardens. it has a large enclosure, and is fortified with walls, after the european fashion. though the building is moresque, the houses notwithstanding are both pleasantand convenient. the inhabitants are warlike, they are black, and go naked; excepting only that they are covered with a kind of an apron of cotton or linen, from the waist to the mid thigh. and indeed the heat of their climate will permit them to wear no more; melinda being distant from the line but three degrees and some few minutes. they have always maintained a good correspondence with the portuguese, by reason of the commerce established betwixt them. the flag of portugal was no sooner seen, but the saracen king came down to the port, attended by the most honourable persons of his court, to receive the new governor of the indies. the first object which presented itself to father francis when he stept ashore, drew tears from his eyes; but they were tears of joy and pity mingled together. the portuguese having there a constant trade, and now and then some of them happening to die, are allowed a burying-place near the town, full of crosses set upon their graves, according to ihe custom of the catholics: and above the rest there was a very large one of hewn stone placed in the middle, and all over gilded. the saint ran to it, and adored before it; receiving an inward consolation, to behold it raised so high, and, as it were, triumphing amongst the enemies of jesus christ. but at the same time, he was sensibly afflicted, that this sign of our salvation served less to edify the living, than to honour the memory of the dead. and lifting up his hands to heaven, he besought the father of all mercies to imprint in the hearts of the infidels, that cross, which they had suffered to be planted on their ground. his next thoughts prompted him to confer of religion with the moors, that he might endeavour to shew them the extravagances of the mahometan belief, and gain an opportunity of revealing to them the eternal truths of christian faith. one of the principal inhabitants, and wonderfully bigotted to his sect, prevented him, and immediately demanded of him, if piety were not wholly extinguished in the towns of europe, as it was in melinda. "for, to confess the truth," said he, "of seventeen mosques which we have, fourteen are quite forsaken; there are but three remaining, at which we pay our devotions; and even those three are but little visited, and by few persons. "this proceeds, without all question," added the mahometan, "from some enormous sin, but what it is, i know not: and whatsoever reflections i can make, i am not able to find what has drawn upon us so dreadful a misfortune." "there is nothing more clear," replied xavier; "god, who detests the prayer of infidels, has permitted a worship to moulder away, which is displeasing to him; and gives you thence to understand, that he condemns your sect." the saracen was not satisfied with this reason, nor with any other argument which xavier used against the alcoran. while they were thus disputing, a caciz, or doctor of the law, joined company with them, having made the same complaint concerning the mosques, how little they were frequented, and how cold was grown the devotion of the people. "i have taken my measures," said he, "and if in two years mahomet comes not in person to visit the congregations of the faithful, who acknowledge him for god's true prophet, i will certainly look out for some other religion." xavier took pity on the folly of the caciz, and endeavoured all he could to convert him at that instant from mahometanism; but he could not prevail upon an obstinate mind, blinded with the opinion of its own reason; and therefore the father acquiesced in the decrees of that providence, which has fixed the times and revolutions for the conversion of infidels and sinners. having left melinda, where they continued but few days, and still coasting africa, they cast anchor at socotora, which is beyond cape guardafu, and over against the strait of mecca. the moors of that country call it the isle of amazons; and the reason they allege is, because it is governed by women. the inhabitants believe their isle to be the earthly paradise; which notwithstanding, there is scarcely to be found in all the world, a spot of ground less deserving that glorious title. the air is in a perpetual sultry heat, the soil is dry and barren, and, excepting only for the aoes which is there produced, and is indeed the best which grows in those eastern parts, even the name of socotora would not be mentioned. it is not certainly known what religion they profess, so monstrous is their belief. they hold from the saracens the worship of mahomet, from the jews the use of circumcision and sacrifices, and yet give themselves the name of christians. the males bear the name of some or other of the apostles, the most part of the women are called mary, and yet they have no knowledge of baptism. they adore the cross, and hang it in little about their necks. they chiefly venerate st thomas; and it is an ancient tradition amongst them, that this holy apostle, in going to the indies, was cast by a tempest on their coast; that being come ashore, he preached jesus christ to those of socotora; and that from the wreck of that ship which brought him thither, they built a chapel in the middle of their island. the condition of these islanders sensibly afflicted father xavier; yet he despaired not of reducing them to a right understanding of the faith, because, as barbarous as they were, they still preserved some footsteps of christianity amongst them. having no knowledge of their tongue, which bears not the least resemblance to any of our european languages, and is also wholly different from the ethiopian and arabic, at the first he was constrained to testify his sorrow to them by dumb signs, for their ignorance and errors. afterwards, whether it were that some one amongst them understood the portuguese, and served as interpreter to all the rest, or that counting from this very time he began to receive from above, the first fruits of the gift of tongues, which was so abundantly bestowed on him in the indies on sundry occasions, he spoke to them concerning the necessity of baptism, and let them know, that there was no possibility of salvation without a sincere belief in jesus christ: but that the faith allowed of no mixture, and that to become christians, they must of necessity cease to be jews or mahometans. his words made a wonderful impression on the souls and hearts of those barbarians: some of them made him presents of their wild fruits, in token of their good will; others offered him their children to be baptised; all promised him to receive baptism themselves, and to lead the life of true christians, on condition he would remain with them. but when they beheld the portuguese galleon ready to depart, they ran in crowds to the water-side, and besought the holy man, with tears in their eyes, not to forsake them. so moving a spectacle wrought compassion in xavier; he was earnest with the viceroy for leave to stay upon the isle, at least till the arrival of the vessels, which he had left at mozambique, but he could obtain no part of his request: and sosa told him, that heaven having designed him for the indies, it was to be wanting to his vocation if he endeavoured this exchange, and stopped in the beginning of his race; that his zeal would find a more ample field, wherein to exercise itself, than in socotora, and people of better inclination than those islanders, naturally inconstant, and as ready to forsake the faith, as they were easy to receive it. xavier submitted to these reasons of the viceroy, which on this occasion seemed to interpret to him the good pleasure of almighty god. instantly they hoisted sail; but the saint was pierced with sorrow to behold those poor creatures, who followed him with their eyes, and held up their hands from afar to him; while the vessel was removing into the deep, he turned his head towards them, breathing out profound sighs, and looking mournfully upon them. but that he might leave nothing upon his conscience to upbraid him concerning the socotorins, he engaged himself solemnly before almighty god to return to them, so soon as possibly he could; or in case he could not, to procure for them some preachers of the gospel, to instruct them in the way of their salvation. this last part of his navigation was not long. after having crossed the sea of arabia, and part of that which belongs to india, the fleet arrived at the port of goa, on the th of may, in the year , being the thirteenth month since their setting out from the port of lisbon. the town of goa is situated on this side of the ganges, in an island bearing the same name. it is the capital city of the indies, the seat of the bishop and the viceroy, and the most considerable place of all the east for traffic. it had been built by the moors forty years before the europeans had passed into the indies; and in the year , don alphonso de albuquerque, surnamed the great, took it from the infidels, and subjected it to the crown of portugal. at that time was verified the famous prophecy of st thomas the apostle, that the christian faith, which he had planted in divers kingdoms of the east, should one day flourish there again; which very prediction he left graven on a pillar of living stone, for the memory of future ages. the pillar was not far distant from the walls of meliapore, the metropolis of the kingdom of coromandel; and it was to be read in the characters of the country, that when the sea, which was forty miles distant from the pillar, should come up to the foot of it, there should arrive in the indies white men and foreigners, who should there restore the true religion. the infidels had laughed at this prediction for a long time, not believing that it would ever be accomplished, and indeed looking on it as a kind of impossibility that it should; yet it was accomplished, and that so justly, that when don vasco de gama set foot on the indies, the sea, which sometimes usurps upon the continent, and gains by little and little on the dry land, was by that time risen to the pillar, so as to bathe its lower parts. yet it may be truly said, that the prophecy of st thomas had not its full effect, till after the coming of father xavier; according to another prediction of that holy man peter de couillan, a religious of the trinity, who, going to the indies with vasco de gama, in quality of his ghostly father, was martyred by the indians on the seventh of july , forty-three years before the beginning of the society of jesus, who being pierced through with arrows, while he was shedding his blood for christ, distinctly pronounced these following words: "in few years there shall be born in the church of god, a new religious order of clergymen, which shall bear the name of jesus: and one of its first fathers, conducted by the spirit of god, shall pass into the most remote countries of the east indies, the greatest part of which shall embrace the orthodox faith, through the ministry of this evangelical preacher." this is related by juan de figueras carpi, in his history of the order of the redemption of captives, from the manuscripts of the trinity convent in lisbon, and the memoirs of the king of portugal's library. after xavier was landed, he went immediately to the hospital, and there took his lodging, notwithstanding the instances of the viceroy, who was desirous to have had him in his palace. but he would not begin his missionary function, till he had paid his respects to the bishop of goa; whose name was juan d'albuquerque, of the order of st francis, a most excellent person, and one of the most virtuous prelates which the church has ever had. the father having informed him of the reasons for which his holiness and the king of portugal had sent him to the indies, presented to him the briefs of pope paul iii., at the same time declaring to him, that he pretended not to use them without his approbation and good-liking: after this, he cast himself at his feet, and desired his blessing. the prelate, edified with the modesty of the father, and struck with that venerable air of sanctity which appeared in his countenance, took him up immediately, and embraced him with great tenderness. having often kissed the briefs, he restored them to the father, with these words: "an apostolical legate, sent from the vicar of jesus christ, has no need of receiving his mission from any other hand; use freely that power, which the holy seat has conferred upon you; and rest assured, that if the episcopal authority be needful to maintain, it shall never be wanting to you." from that moment they contracted a most sacred friendship, whose union was so strict, that ever after they seemed to have but one heart and one soul: insomuch that father xavier undertook not any thing without consulting the bishop first; and the bishop, on his side, imparted all his designs to father xavier: and it is almost incredible, how much this holy correspondence contributed to the salvation of souls, and exaltation of the faith. before we pass farther, it is of consequence to know the estate of religion at that time in the indies. it is true, that, according to the prophecy of st. thomas, they who discovered the east indies, had new planted christianity in some parts of them, where all was in a manner quite forgotten. but ambition and avarice, in short time after, cooled the zeal of these new conquerors; instead of extending the kingdom of jesus christ, and of gaining souls to him, they thought of nothing more than of enlarging their dominion, and enriching themselves. it happened also, that many indians newly converted to the faith, being neither cultivated by wholesome instructions, nor edified by good examples, forgot insensibly their baptism, and returned to their ancient superstitions. and if any amongst them kept constant to his christianity, and declared himself a believer, the mahometans, who were uppermost in many places along the coast, and very wealthy, persecuted him with great cruelty, without any opposition on the part of the portuguese governor or magistrates. whether the power of portugal were not yet sufficiently established, or that interest was predominant over justice and religion, this cruel usage deterred the new christians fom professing jesus christ, and was the reason, that, amongst the infidels, all thoughts of conversion were laid aside. but what yet appears more wonderful, the portuguese themselves lived more like idolaters than christians. for, to speak somewhat more particularly of their corrupt manners, according to the relation which was sent to king john iii. of portugal from the indies, by a man in power, and worthy of belief; some few months before the arrival of father xavier, every man kept as many mistresses as he pleased, and maintained them openly in his own house, even in the quality of lawful wives. they bought women, or took them away by force, either for their service, or to make money of them. their masters taxed them at a certain sum by the day, and, for fault of payment, inflicted on them ail sorts of punishment; insomuch, that those unhappy creatures, not being able sometimes to work out the daily rate imposed on them, were forced upon the infamous traffic of their bodies, and became public prostitutes, to content the avarice of their masters. justice was sold at the tribunals, and the most enormous crimes escaped from punishment, when the criminals had wherewithal to corrupt their judges. all methods for heaping up money were accounted lawful, how indirect soever, and extortion was publicly protest. murder was reckoned but a venial trespass, and was boasted as a piece of bravery. the bishop of goa, to little purpose, threatened them with the wrath of heaven, and the thunder of excommunications. no dam was sufficient for such a deluge; their hearts were hardened against spiritual threatening and anathemas; or, to speak more properly, the deprivation of sacraments was no punishment to such wicked wretches, who were glad to be rid of them. the use of confessions, and the communion, were in a manner abolished; and if any one by chance was struck with a remorse of conscience, and desired to reconcile himself to god, at the foot of a priest, he was constrained to steal to his devotions by night, to avoid the scandal to his neighbour. so strange a depravation of manners proceeded from these causes. its rise was taken from the licence of arms, which permit, and almost authorize, the greatest disorders in a conquered country. the pleasures of asia, and the commerce of infidels, aided not a little to debauch the portuguese, as starched and regular as they naturally are. the want of spiritual directors contributed largely to this growing mischief. there were not four preachers, in all the indies, nor any one priest without the walls of goa; insomuch, that in many fortified places whole years were passed without hearing a sermon or a mass. behold a draught, not unresembling the face of christianity in this new world, when father xavier arrived in it. the author of the relation from whence mine is copied, seems to have had some kind of foresight of his coming; for, in the conclusion of his memorial, he prays almighty god, and earnestly desires the king of portugal, to send some holy man to the indies, who might reform the manners of the europeans, by his apostolic instructions, and his exemplary virtues. as for the gentiles, the life they led resembled that of beasts rather than of men. uncleanness was risen to the last excess amongst them; and the least corrupt were those who had no religion. the greatest part of them adored the devil under an obscene figure, and with ceremonies which modesty forbids to mention. some amongst them changed their deity every day; and the first living creature which happened to meet them in the morning was the object of their worship, not excepting even dogs or swine. in this they were uniform, that they all offered bloody sacrifices to their gods; and nothing was more common, than to see bleeding infants on the altars, slaughtered by the hands of their own parents. such manifold abominations inflamed the zeal of father xavier. he wished himself able at the same time, to have applied remedies to them all; yet thought himself obliged to begin with the household of faith, according to the precept of st paul; that is to say, with the christians: and amongst them he singled out the portuguese, whose example was like to be most prevalent with the baptised indians. behold in what manner he attempted this great enterprise of reformation. to call down the blessing of heaven on this difficult employment, he consecrated the greatest part of the night to prayers, and allowed himself at the most but four hours of sleep; and even this little repose was commonly disturbed: for, lodging in the hospital, and lying always near the sick, as his custom had been at mozambique, his slumber was broken by their least complaint, and he failed not to rise to their relief. he returned to his prayers at break of day, after which he celebrated mass. he employed the forenoon in the hospitals, particularly in that of the lepers, which is in one of the suburbs of goa. he embraced those miserable creatures one after the other, and distributed amongst them those alms which he had been begging for them from door to door. after this he visited the prisons, and dealt amongst them the same effects of charity. in coming back, he made a turn about the town, with his bell in his hand, and gave a loud summons to the fathers of families, that, for the love of god, they would send their children and their slaves to catechism. the holy man was convinced in his heart, that if the portuguese youth were well instructed in the principles of religion, and formed betimes to the practice of good life, christianity, in a little time, would be seen to revive in goa; but in case the children grew up without instruction or discipline, there was no remaining hope, that they who sucked in impiety and vice, almost with their milk, should ever become sincere christians. the little children gathered together in crowds about him, whether they came of their own accord, through a natural curiosity, or that their parents sent them, out of the respect which they already had for the holy man, howsoever vicious themselves. he led them to the church, and there expounded to them the apostles' creed, the commandments of god, and all the practices of devotion which are in use amongst the faithful. these tender plants received easily the impressions which the father made on them, and it was through these little babes that the town began to change its face. for, by daily hearing the man of god, they became modest and devout; their modesty and devotion was a silent censure of that debauchery which appeared in persons of riper age. sometimes they even reproved their fathers, with a liberty which had nothing of childish in it, and their reproofs put the most dissolute libertines to the blush. xavier then proceeded to public preaching, whither all the people flocked; and to the end that the indians might understand, as well as the portuguese, he affected to speak that language in a gross and clownish dialect, which passed at that time amongst the natives of the country. it was immediately seen what power a preacher, animated by the spirit of god, had over the souls of perverted men. the most scandalous sinners, struck with the horror of their crimes, and the fear of eternal punishment, were the first who came to confession. their example took away from others the shame of confessing; insomuch, that every one now strove who should be foremost to throw himself at the father's feet, knocking their breasts, and bitterly lamenting their offences. the fruits of penitence accompanying these tears, were the certain proofs of a sincere conversion. they cancelled their unlawful bonds and covenants of extortion; they made restitution of their ill-gotten goods; they set at liberty their slaves, whom they had opprest, or had acquired unjustly; and lastly, turned away their concubines, whom they were unwilling to possess by a lawful marriage. the saint acted with the concubinarians almost in the same manner as our saviour dealt with the publicans and harlots. far from treating them severely, the deeper they were plunged in that darling vice, the more tenderly he seemed to use them. on all occasions he declared himself their friend; he made them frequent visits, without fear of being upbraided with so infamous a conversation. he invited himself sometimes to eat with them; and then, assuming an air of gaiety, he desired the master to bring down the children to bear him company. when he had a little commended their prettiness, he asked to see their mother, and shewed her the same countenance, as if he had taken her for an honest woman. if she were beautiful or well shaped, he praised her, and said "she looked like a portuguese:" after which; in private conversation, "you have," said he to her master, "a fair slave, who well deserves to be your wife." but if she were a swarthy, ugly indian, "good god!" he cried out, "what a monster do you keep within your doors! and how are you able to endure the sight of her?" such words, spoken in all appearance without design, had commonly their full effect: the keeper married her whom the saint had commended, and turned off the others. this so sudden a change of manners was none of those transient fits of devotion, which pass away almost as soon as they are kindled; piety was established in all places, and they who formerly came to confession once a year, to speak the best of it, now performed it regularly once a month. they were all desirous of confessing themselves to father xavier; so that, writing from goa to rome on that subject, he said, "that if it had been possible for him to have been at once in ten places, he should not have wanted for employment." his catechising having had that wonderful success which we have mentioned, the bishop don john d'albuquerque ordained, that, from thenceforward, the children should be taught the christian doctrine, in all the churches of the town. the gentlemen and merchants applied themselves to the regulation of their families, and banishment of vice. they gave the father considerable sums of money, which he distributed in their presence, in the hospitals and prisons. the viceroy accompanied the saint thither once a week, to hear the complaints of the prisoners, and to relieve the poor. this christian practice was so pleasing to the king of portugal, john iii, that afterwards he writ to don john de castro, governor of the indies, expressly ordering him to do that once a month, which don martin alphonso de sosa never failed of doing every week; in short, the portuguese of goa had gained such an habitude of good life, and such an universal change of manners had obtained amongst them, that they seemed another sort of people. this was the state of affairs, when michael vaz, vicar general of the indies, a man of rare virtue, and wonderful zeal for the propagation of the faith, gave xavier to understand, that on the oriental coast, which lies extended from cape comorin to the isle of manar, and is called the coast of fishery, there were certain people called paravas, that is to say, fishers, who had caused themselves to be baptized some time since, on occasion of succours which had been given them by the portuguese against the moors, by whom they were cruelly opprest; that these people had nothing more of christianity than baptism, and the name, for want of pastors to instruct them; and that it would be a work well-pleasing in the sight of god to accomplish their conversion. he concealed not from him, that the land was barren, and so destitute of the conveniences of life, that no stranger was willing to settle there; that interest alone drew the merchants thither, in the season of pearl-fishing, and otherwise the heats were insupportable. there could not have been made to xavier a proposition more according to his heart's desire. he offered himself, without the least hesitation, to go and instruct that people; and he did it so much the more freely, because his presence was no longer so necessary at goa, where piety was now grown into a habit, by a settled form of five months standing. having received the benediction of the bishop, he embarked about the midst of october, in the year , in a galiot, which carried the new captain of comorin; and took with him two young ecclesiastics of goa, who had a tolerable insight into the language of the malabars, which is spoken in the coast of fishery. sosa offered to have furnished him with money for all his occasions; but apostolic men have no greater treasures than their poverty, nor any fund more certain than that of providence. he accepted only a pair of shoes, to defend him in some measure from the burning sands upon the coasts; and, at parting, desired the viceroy to send him his two companions, who were left behind at mozambique, so soon as they should arrive at goa. the cape of cornorin is at the distance of about six hundred miles from goa. it is a high promontory, jutting out into the sea, and facing the isle of ceylon. the father being there arrived, immediately fell in with a village of idolaters. he could bear to go no farther without preaching the name of jesus to the gentiles; but all he could declare, by the mouth of his interpreters, signified nothing; and those pagans plainly told him, that they could not change their faith without consent of the lord of whom they held. their obstinacy, however, was of no long continuance; and that omnipotence, which had pre-ordained xavier to the conversion of idolaters, would not that his first labours should be unsuccessful. a woman of the village had been three days in the pains of childbirth, and had endured great torments, without being eased, either by the prayers of the brachmans, or any natural remedies. xavier went to visit her, accompanied by one of his interpreters; "and then it was," says he, in one of his letters, "that, forgetting i was in a strange country, i began to call upon the name of the lord; though, at the same time, i could not but remember, that all the earth is equally his, and all its inhabitants are belonging to him." the father expounded to the sick woman the principles of our faith, and exhorted her to repose her trust in the god of the christians. the holy ghost, who, by her means, had decreed to save that people, touched her inwardly; insomuch, that being asked if she believed in jesus christ, and if she desired to be baptized? she answered, yes; and that she spake from the bottom of her heart. xavier then read the gospel to her, and baptized her:--she was immediately delivered of her child, and perfectly recovered. this visible miracle immediately filled that poor cabin with astonishment and gladness: the whole family threw themselves at the father's feet, and asked to be instructed; and, being sufficiently taught, not one amongst them but received baptism. this news being blown abroad through all the country, the chief of the place had the curiosity to see a person so wonderful in his works and in his words. he preached to them the words of eternal life, and convinced their reason of the truth of christianity; but convinced though they were, they durst not, as they said, become christians, without the permission of their prince. there was at that time in the village an officer, sent expressly from the prince to collect a certain annual tribute. father xavier went to see him, and expounded so clearly to him all the law of jesus christ, that the pagan presently acknowledged there was nothing in it which was ill; and after that gave leave to the inhabitants to embrace it. there needed no more to a people, whom nothing but fear withheld from it; they all offered themselves to be baptized, and promised thenceforth to live in christianity. the holy man, encouraged by so happy a beginning, followed his way with more cheerfulness, and came to tutucurin, which is the first town belonging to the paravas. he found, in effect, that this people, excepting only their baptism, which they had received, rather to shake off the moorish yoke than to subject themselves to that of jesus christ, were wholly infidels; and he declared to them the mysteries of our faith, of which before they had not received the least tincture. the two churchmen who accompanied him served him in the nature of interpreters; but xavier, reflecting within himself, that these churchmen frequently altered those things which passed through their mouths, and that our own words, when spoken by ourselves, have more vigour in them, bethought himself of finding some expedient, whereby to be understood without the assistance of another. the way he took, was to get together some people of the country, who understood the portuguese language, and to join them with the two ecclesiastics who were knowing in the malabar. he consulted both parties for many days together, and, drudging at his business, translated into the paravas tongue, the words of the sign of the cross, the apostles' creed, the commandments, the lord's prayer, the salutation of the angel, the confiteor, the salve regina, and, in fine, the whole catechism. the translation being finished, the father got, without book, what he could of it, and took his way about the villages of the coast, in number thirty, about half of which were baptized, the rest idolaters. "i went about, with my bell in my hand," says he himself, "and gathering together all i met, both men and children, i instructed them in the christian doctrine. the children learnt it easily by heart in the compass of a month; and when they understood it, i charged them to teach it their fathers and mothers, all of their own family, and even their neighbours. "on sundays i assembled the men and women, little boys and girls, in the chapel; all came to my appointment with an incredible joy, and most ardent desire to hear the word of god. i began with the confessing god to be one in nature, and trine in persons; i afterwards repeated distinctly, and with an audible voice, the lord's prayer, the angelical salutation, and the apostles' creed. all of them together repeated after me; and it is hardly to be imagined what pleasure they took in it. this being done, i repeated the creed singly; and, insisting on every particular article, asked, if they certainly believed it? they all protested to me, with loud cries, and their hands across their breasts, that they firmly believed it. my practice is, to make them repeat the creed oftener than the other prayers; and i declare to them, at the same time, that they who believe the contents of it are true christians. "from the creed i pass to the ten commandments, and give them to understand, that the christian law is comprised in those ten precepts; that he who keeps them all according to his duty is a good christian, and that eternal life is decreed to him; that, on the contrary, whoever violates one of these commandments is a bad christian, and that he shall be damned eternally in case he repent not of his sin. both the new christians and the pagans admire our law as holy, and reasonable, and consistent with itself. "having done as i told you, my custom is, to repeat with them the lord's prayer, and the angel's salutation. once again we recite the creed; and at every article, besides the paternoster and the ave maria, we intermingle some short prayer; for having pronounced aloud the first article, i begin thus, and they say after me,--' jesus, thou son of the living god, give me the grace to believe firmly this first article of thy faith, and with that intention we offer thee that prayer of which thou thyself art author.' we add,--' holy mary, mother of our lord jesus christ, obtain for us, from thy beloved son, to believe this article, without any doubt concerning it.' the same method is observed in all the other articles; and almost in the same manner we run over the ten commandments. when we have jointly repeated the first precept, which is, to love god, we pray thus: 'o jesu christ, thou son of the living god, grant us thy grace to love thee above all things!' and immediately after we say the lord's prayer; then immediately we subjoin: 'o holy mary, mother of jesus, obtain for us, from thy son, that we may have the grace to keep this first commandment.' after which we say the ave maria. we observe the same method through the other nine commandments, with some little variation, as the matter requires it. "these are the things which i accustom them to beg of god in the common prayers; omitting not sometimes to assure them, that if they obtain the thing for which they pray, even that is a means for them to obtain other things more amply than they could demand them. "i oblige them all to say the confiteor, but principally those who are to receive baptism, whom i also enjoin to say the belief. at every article, i demand of them, if they believe it without any scruple; and when they have assured me, that they do, i commonly make them an exhortation, which i have composed in their own language,--being an epitome of the christian faith, and of the necessary duties incumbent on us in order to our salvation. in conclusion, i baptize them, and shut up all in singing the salve regina, to implore the assistance of the blessed virgin." it is evident, by what we have already said concerning the instruction of the paravas, that xavier had not the gift of tongues when he began to teach them: but it appears also, that, after he had made the translation, which cost him so much labour, he both understood and spoke the malabar tongue, whether he had acquired it by his own pains, or that god had imprinted the species of it in his mind after a supernatural manner. it is at least probable, that, being in the indies when he studied any tongue, the holy spirit seconded his application, and was in some sort his master; for it is constantly believed, that in a very little time he learnt the most difficult languages, and, by the report of many persons, spoke them so naturally, that he could not have been taken for a foreigner. father xavier having, for the space of a month, instructed the inhabitants of one village, in the manner above said, before he went farther, called together the most intelligent amongst them, and gave them in writing what he had taught, to the end, that as masters of the rest, on sundays and saints-days, they might congregate the people, and cause them to repeat, according to his method, that which they had learnt formerly. he committed to these catechists, (who in their own tongue are called canacopoles,) the care of the churches, which he caused to be built in peopled places; and recommended to them the ornament of those sacred buildings, as far as their poverty would allow. but he was not willing to impose this task on them, without some kind of salary; and therefore obtained from the viceroy of the indies, a certain sum for their subsistence, which was charged upon the annual tribute, payable to the crown of portugal, from the inhabitants of that coast. it is hardly to be expressed, what a harvest of souls was reaped from his endeavours; and how great was the fervour of these new christians. the holy man, writing to the fathers at rome, confesses himself, that he wanted words to tell it. he adds, "that the multitude of those who had received baptism, was so vast, that, with the labour of continual christenings, he was not able to lift up his arms; and that his voice often failed him, in saying so many times over and over, the apostles' creed, and the ten commandments, with a short instruction, which he always made concerning the duties of a true christian, before he baptized those who were of age." the infants alone, who died after baptism, amounted, according to his account, to above a thousand. they who lived, and began to have the use of reason, were so affected with the things of god, and so covetous of knowing all the mysteries of faith, that they scarcely gave the father time to take a little nourishment, or a short repose. they sought after him every minute; and he was sometimes forced to hide himself from them, to gain the leisure of saying his prayers, and his breviary. by the administration of these children, who were so fervently devout, he performed divers extraordinary works, even many of those miraculous cures, which it pleased god to perate by his means. the coast of fishery was never so full of diseases, as when the father was there. it seemed, as he himself has expressed it in a letter, that god sent those distempers amongst that people, to draw them to him almost in their own despite. for coming to recover on an instant, and against all human appearance, so soon as they had received baptism, or invoked the name of jesus christ, they clearly saw the difference betwixt the god of the christians and the pagods, which is the name given in the indies, both to the temples and the images of their false gods. no one fell sick amongst the gentiles, but had immediate recourse to father xavier. as it was impossible for him to attend them all, or to be in many places at the same time, he sent there christian children where he could not go himself. in going from him, one took his chaplet, another his crucifix, a third his reliquiary, and all being animated with a lively faith, dispersed themselves through the towns and villages. there gathering about the sick as many people as they could assemble, they repeated often the lord's prayer, the creed, the commandments, and all they had learnt by heart of the christian faith; which being done, they asked the sick, "if he believed unfeignedly in jesus christ, and if he desired to be baptized?" when he had answered "yes," they touched him with the chaplet, or crucifix belonging to the father, and he was immediately cured. one day, while xavier was preaching the mysteries of faith to a great multitude, some came to bring him word from manapar, that one of the most considerable persons of that place was possessed by the devil, desiring the father to come to his relief. the man of god thought it unbecoming of his duty to break off the instruction he was then making. he only called to him some of those young christians, and gave them a cross which he wore upon his breast; after which he sent them to manapar with orders to drive away the evil spirit. they were no sooner arrived there, than the possessed person fell into an extraordinary fury, with, wonderful contortions of his limbs, and hideous yellings. the little children, far from being terrified, as usually children are, made a ring about him, singing the prayers of the church. after which they compelled him to kiss the cross; and at the same moment, the devil departed out of him. many pagans there present, visibly perceiving the virtue of the cross, were converted on the instant, and became afterwards devout christians. these young plants, whom xavier employed on such occasions, were in perpetual disputations with the gentiles, and broke in pieces as many idols as they could get into their power; and sometimes burnt them, throwing their ashes into the air. when they discovered any bearing the name of christianity, and yet keeping a pagod in reserve to adore in secret, they reproved them boldly; and when those rebukes were of no effect, they advertised the holy man, to the end, he might apply some stronger remedy. xavier went often in their company, to make a search in those suspected houses; and if he discovered any idols, they were immediately destroyed. being informed, that one who was lately baptized, committed idolatry sometimes in private, and that the admonitions which he had received were useless, he bethought himself to frighten him; and in his presence commanded the children to set fire to his house, that thereby he might be given to understand, how the worshippers of devils deserved eternal burning like the devils. they ran immediately to their task, taking the command in a literal sense, which was not xavier's intention. but the effect of it was, that the infidel, detesting and renouncing his idolatry, gave up his pagods to be consumed by fire, which was all the design of the holy man. another infidel was more unhappy; he was one of the first rank in manapar; a man naturally violent and brutal. xavier one day going to visit him, desired him, in courteous words, that he would listen to what he had to say to him concerning his eternal welfare. the barbarian vouchsafed not so much as to give him the hearing, but rudely thrust him out of his house, saying, "that if ever he went to the christians' church, he was content they should shut him out." few days after, he was assaulted by a troop of armed men, who designed to kill him: all he could do was to disengage himself from them, and fly away. seeing at a distance a church open, he made to it as fast as he could run, with his enemies at his heels pursuing him. the christians, who were assembled for their exercises of devotion, alarmed at the loud cries they heard, and fearing the idolaters were coming to plunder the church, immediately shut their doors, insomuch that he, who hoped for safety in a holy place, fell into the hands of murderers, and was assassinated by them, without question by a decree of the divine justice, which revenged the saint, and suffered the wretch to be struck with that imprecation which he had wished upon himself. these miracles, which xavier wrought by the means of children, raised an admiration of him, both amongst christians and idolaters; but so exemplary a punishment caused him to be respected by all the world: and even amongst the brachmans there was not one who did not honour him. as it will fall in our way to make frequent mention of those idol-priests, it will not be from our purpose to give the reader a description of them. the brachmans are very considerable amongst the indians, both for their birth and their employment. according to the ancient fables of the indies, their original is from heaven. and it is the common opinion, that the blood of the gods is running in their veins. but to understand how they were born, and from what god descended, it is necessary to know the history of the gods of that country, which in short is this: the first, and lord of all the others, is parabrama; that is to say, a most perfect substance, who has his being from himself, and who gives being to the rest. this god being a spirit free from matter, and desirous to appear once under a sensible figure, became man; by the only desire which he had to shew himself, he conceived a son, who came out at his mouth, and was called maiso. he had two others after him, one of them whose name was visnu, was born out of his breast, the other called brama, out of his belly. before he returned to his invisibility, he assigned habitations and employments to his three children. he placed the eldest in the first heaven, and gave him an absolute command over the elements and mixed bodies. he lodged visnu beneath his elder brother, and established him the judge of men, the father of the poor, and the protector of the unfortunate. brama had for his inheritance the third heaven, with the superintendance of sacrifices, and other ceremonies of religion. these are the three deities which the indians represent by one idol, with three heads growing out of one body, with this mysterious signification, that they all proceed from the same principle. by which it may be inferred, that in former times they have heard of christianity; and that their religion is an imperfect imitation, or rather a corruption of ours. they say that visnu has descended a thousand times on earth, and every time has changed his shape; sometimes appearing in the figure of a beast, sometimes of a man, which is the original of their pagods, of whom they relate so many fables. they add, that brama, having likewise a desire of children, made himself visible, and begot the brachmans, whose race has infinitely multiplied. the people believe them demi-gods, as poor and miserable as they are. they likewise imagine them to be saints, because they lead a hard and solitary life; having very often no other lodging than the hollow of a tree, or a cave, and sometimes living exposed to the air on a bare mountain, or in a wilderness, suffering all the hardships of the weather, keeping a profound silence, fasting a whole year together, and making profession of eating nothing which has had life in it. but after all, there was not perhaps a more wicked nation under the canopy of heaven. the fruit of those austerities which they practice in the desart, is to abandon themselves in public to the most brutal pleasures of the flesh, without either shame or remorse of conscience. for they certainly believe, that all things, how abominable soever, are lawful to be done, provided they are suggested to them by the light which is within them. and the people are so infatuated with them, that they believe they shall become holy by partaking in their crimes, or by suffering any outrage from them. on the other side, they are the greatest impostors in the world; their talent consists in inventing new fables every day, and making them pass amongst the vulgar for wonderful mysteries. one of their cheats is to persuade the simple, that the pagods eat like men; and to the end they may be presented with good cheer, they make their gods of a gigantic figure, and are sure to endow them with a prodigious paunch. if those offerings with which they maintain their families come to fail, they denounce to the people, that the offended pagods threaten the country with some dreadful judgment, or that their gods, in displeasure, will forsake them, because they are suffered to die of hunger. the doctrine of these brachmans is nothing better than their life. one of their grossest errors is to believe that kine have in them somewhat of sacred and divine; that happy is the man who can be sprinkled over with the ashes of a cow, burnt by the hand of a brachman; but thrice happy be, who, in dying, lays hold of a cow's tail, and expires with it betwixt his hands; for, thus assisted, the soul departs out of the body purified, and sometimes returns into the body of a cow. that such a favour, notwithstanding, is not conferred but on heroic souls, who contemn life, and die generously, either by casting themselves headlong from a precipice, or leaping into a kindled pile, or throwing themselves under the holy chariot wheels, to be crushed to death by the pagods, while they are carried in triumph about the town. we are not to wonder, after this, that the brachmans cannot endure the christian law; and that they make use of all their credit and their cunning to destroy it in the indies. being favoured by princes, infinite in number, and strongly united amongst themselves, they succeed in all they undertake; and as being great zealots for their ancient superstitions, and most obstinate in their opinions, it is not easy to convert them. father xavier, who saw how large a progress the gospel had made amongst the people, and that if there were no brachmans in the indies, there would consequently be no idolaters in all those vast provinces of asia, spared no labour to reduce that perverse generation to the true knowledge of almighty god. he conversed often with those of that religion, and one day found a favourable occasion of treating with them: passing by a monastery, where above two hundred brachmans lived together, he was visited by some of the chiefest, who had the curiosity to see a man whose reputation was so universal. he received them with a pleasing countenance, according to his custom; and having engaged them by little and little, in a discourse concerning the eternal happiness of the soul, he desired them to satisfy him what their gods commanded them to do, in order to it after death. they looked a while on one another without answering. at length a brachman, who seemed to be fourscore years of age, took the business upon himself, and said in a grave tone, that two things brought a soul to glory, and made him a companion to the gods; the one was to abstain from the murder of a cow, the other to give alms to the brachmans. all of them confirmed the old man's answer by their approbation and applause, as if it had been an oracle given from the mouths of their gods themselves. father xavier took compassion on this their miserable blindness, and the tears came into his eyes. he rose on the sudden, (for they had been all sitting,) and distinctly repeated, in an audible tone, the apostles' creed, and the ten commandments, making a pause at the end of every article, and briefly expounding it, in their own language; after which he declared to them what were heaven and hell, and by what actions the one and other were deserved. the brachmans, who had never heard any thing of christianity before, and had been listening to the father with great admiration, rose up, as soon as he had done speaking, and ran to embrace him, acknowledging, that the god of the christians was the true god, since his law was so conformable to the principles of our inward light. every one of them proposed divers questions to him; if the soul were immortal, or that it perished with the body, and in case that the soul died not, at what part of the body it went out; if in our sleep we dreamed we were in a far country, or conversed with an absent person, whether the soul went not out of the body for that time; of what colour god was, whether black or white; their doctors being divided on that point, the white men maintaining he was of their colour, the black of theirs: the greatest part of the pagods for that reason being black. the father answered all their questions in a manner so suitable to their gross understanding, which was ignorant alike of things divine and natural, that they were highly satisfied with him. seeing them instructed and disposed in this sort, he exhorted them to embrace the faith of jesus christ, and gave them to understand, that the truth being made known to them, ignorance could no longer secure them from eternal punishment. but what victory can truth obtain over souls which find their interest in following error, and who make profession of deceiving the common people? "they answered," said the saint in one of his letters, "that which many christians answer at this day, what will the world say of us if they see us change? and after that, what will become of our families, whose only subsistence is from the offerings which are made to the pagods? thus, human interest, and worldly considerations, made the knowledge of the truth serve only to their greater condemnation." not long afterwards, xavier had another conference with a brachman, who lived in the nature of an hermit. he passed for the oracle of the country, and had been instructed in his youth at one of the most famous academies of the east. he was one of those who was knowing in their most hidden mysteries, which are never intrusted by the brachmans, but to a certain select number of their wise men. xavier, who had heard speak of him, was desirous to see him; and he, on his side, was as desirous to see xavier. the intention of the saint was to try, in bringing over this brachman, if he could gain the rest, who were proud of being his disciples. after the first civilities which commonly pass betwixt two men, who mutually covet an acquaintance, and know each other by reputation, the discourse fell upon religion; and the brachman found in himself, at the very first, so great an inclination for xavier, that he could not conceal from him those secrets which a religious oath had bound him never to disclose to any. he confest plainly to him, that the idols were devils, and that there was only one god, creator of the world, and that this god alone deserved the adoration of men: that those who held the rank of wisdom amongst the brachmans, solemnized the sunday in his honour as a holiday; and that day they only said this prayer, "o god, i adore thee at this present, and for ever:" that they pronounced those words softly, for fear of being overheard, and to preserve the oath which they had made, to keep them secret. "in fine," said he, "it is to be read in our ancient writings, that all the false religions should one day cease, and the whole world should observe one only law." the brachman having disclosed these mysteries to father xavier, desired him, in his turn, to reveal to him what was most mysterious in the christian law; and to engage him to deal the more freely with him, and without the least disguise, swore, that he would inviolably, and for ever, keep the secret. "i am so far," said the father, "from obliging you to silence, that i will inform you of nothing you desire to know, but on condition that you shall publish in all places what i tell you." the brachman having given him his word, he began to instruct him by these words of jesus christ; "he who will believe, and be baptized, shall be saved." this he expounded to him at large; at the same time, declaring to him how baptism was necessary to salvation: and passing from one article of faith to another, he placed the truth of the gospel in so advantageous a light before him, that the brachman declared upon the place he would become a christian, provided he might be so in secret; and that he might have a dispensation from some certain duties of christianity. this so wicked a disposition made him unworthy of the grace of baptism; he remained unconverted. notwithstanding which, he desired to have in writing the apostles' creed, together with our saviour's words, which had been expounded to him. he saw father xavier a second time, and told him he had dreamed he was baptized, and that afterwards he became his companion, and that they travelled together preaching the gospel in far countries; but this dream had no effect, and the brachman would never promise to teach the people, that there was one only god, creator of the world, "or fear," says he, "that if he broke that oath which obliged him to secrecy, the devil should punish him with death." thus the master, though convinced, yet not submitting, the scholars all stood out; and in the sequel, of so great a multitude of idol-priests, not one embraced the christian doctrine from the heart. nevertheless, xavier, in their presence, wrought many miracles which were capable of converting them. having casually met a poor creature all naked, and full of ulcers from head to foot, he washed him with his hands, drank part of the water wherewith he had washed him, and prayed by him with wonderful fervency; when he had ended his prayer, the flesh of the diseased person was immediately healed, and appeared as clean as that of an infant. the process of the saint's canonization makes mention of four dead persons, to whom god restored their life, at this time, by the ministry of his servant. the first was a catechist, called antonio miranda, who had been stung in the night by one of those venomous serpents of the indies, whose stings are always mortal. the second was a child, who fell into a pit, and was drowned. the two others were a young man and a maid, whom a pestilential fever had carried off after a short sickness. but these miracles, which gave to the father the name of saint among the christians, and caused him to be called the god of nature amongst the gentiles, had no other effect upon the brachmans than to harden their hearts, and blind their understandings. xavier, despairing of their conversion, thought himself bound to publish all their wicked actions, and bring them into disrepute. and he performed it so successfully, that those men, who were had in veneration by the people, came to be despised by all the world; insomuch, that even the children laughed at them, and publicly upbraided them with their cheats. they began at first to threaten the people, according to their custom, with the anger of their pagods; but seeing their menaces turned to scorn, they made use of another artifice, to regain their credit. what malice soever they harboured in their hearts against father xavier, they managed it so well, that, to see their conduct, they might have been taken for his friends. they made him visits; desired him to have some kindness for them; they gave him many commendations; they presented him sometimes with pearls and money. but the father was inexorable; and for their presents, he returned them without so much as looking on them. the decrying of those idol-priests contributed not a little to the destruction of idolatry through all that coast. the life which xavier led, contributed full as much. his food was the same with that of the poorest people, rice and water. his sleep was but three hours at the most, and that in a fisher's cabin on the ground: for he had soon made away with the mattress and coverlet, which the viceroy had sent him from goa. the remainder of the night he passed with god, or with his neighbour. he owns himself, that his labours were without intermission; and that he had sunk under so great hardships, if god had not supported him. for, to say nothing of the ministry of preaching, and those other evangelical functions, which employed him day and night, no quarrel was stirring, no difference on foot, of which he was not chosen umpire. and because those barbarians, naturally choleric, were frequently at odds, he appointed certain hours, for clearing up their misunderstandings, and making reconciliations. there was not any man fell sick, who sent not for him; and as there were always many, and for the most part distant from each other, in the scattering villages, his greatest sorrow was, that he could not be present with them all. in the midst of all this hurry, he enjoyed those spiritual refreshments and sweets of heaven, which god only bestows on souls, who regard nothing but the cross; and the excess of those delights was such, that he was often forced to desire the divine goodness to moderate them; according to what himself testifies in a letter to his father ignatius, though written in general terms, and in the third person. having related what he had performed in the coast of the fishery, "i have no more to add," says he, "concerning this country, but only that they who come hither to labour in the salvation of idolaters, receive so much consolation from above, that if there be a perfect joy on earth, it is that they feel." he goes on, "i have sometimes heard a man saying thus to god, o my lord, give me not so much comfort in this life; or if, by an excess of mercy, thou wilt heap it on me, take me to thyself, and make me partaker of thy glory, for it is too great a punishment to live without the sight of thee." a year and more was already past since xavier had laboured in the conversion of the paravas; and in all this time, his two companions, paul de camerine, and francis mansilla, were not come to his assistance, though they had been arrived at goa some months since. the number of christians daily multiplying to a prodigy, and one only priest not being sufficient to cultivate so many new converts in the faith, or advance them in christian piety, the saint thought it his duty to look out for succour. and besides, having selected some young men, well-natured, and of a good understanding, qualified for the studies of divinity, and human sciences, who being themselves well modelled, might return with him to instruct their countrymen; he was of opinion, that he ought to conduct them himself, without deferring his voyage any longer. on these considerations he put to sea, on his return, about the conclusion of the year ; and having got to cochin by mid-january, he arrived at goa not long after. for the better understanding of what relates to the education of those young indians, whom xavier brought, it will be necessary to trace that matter from its original. before the coming of father francis to the indies, christianity had made but little progress in those countries; and of an infinite number of pagans, inhabiting the isle of goa, and the parts adjoining, scarce any man thought of forsaking his idolatry. in the year , james de borba, a portuguese preacher and divine, whom king john iii. had sent to india, searching out the cause of so great a misfortune, found, that it was not only because the europeans could not easily learn the indian tongue, but also, because if an indian happened to be converted, they exercised no charity towards him; and that the children of the faithful, who died poor, were destitute of succour in their wants. he gave notice of this to the grand vicar, michael vaz, to the auditor general, pedro fernandez, to the deputy-governor, rodriguez de castel blanco, and to the secretary of state, cosmo annez, who were all of them his particular friends, and virtuous men. these being in the government, considered of the means to remedy the growing evil, the foundation of which had been discovered to them by borba; and he himself excited the people to be instrumental in so good a work. for, one day preaching, he passionately bemoaned the damnation of so many indians, and charged it on the conscience of his auditory, that the salvation of that idolatrous people depended, in some sort, on them. "i pretend not," said he, "that you should go yourselves to the conquest of souls, nor learn barbarous languages on purpose, to labour in the conversion of gentiles. what i beg of you, in the name of jesus christ, is, that each of you would contribute something towards the maintenance of the new christians. you will perform by that, what it is not in your power to do by the preaching of the gospel; and gain, by your temporal goods, those immortal souls, for which the saviour of the world has shed his blood." the holy spirit, who had inspired his tongue, gave efficacy to his words, by touching the hearts of those who heard them. many of them being joined together, it was resolved to form a company, which should provide for the subsistence of those young indians newly converted; and that society at first was called, the brotherhood of st mary of the light, (or illumination,) from the name of that church where the fraternity assembled, to regulate that new establishment. it is true, that, as great works are not accomplished all at once, in the beginning of this, there was only founded a small seminary, for the children of goa, and those of the neighbourhood; but the revenues were increased so much afterwards by the liberality of don estevan de gama, governor of the indies, and by the bounty of john iii., king of portugal, that all the idolatrous children, who turned christians, of what country soever, were received into it. there was also a fund sufficient for the building a fair house and a magnificent church in a larger plot: and the seminary, over which borba presided, was then called, the seminary of holy faith. matters being thus disposed, above threescore children, of divers kingdoms, and nine or ten different languages, were assembled, to be educated in piety and learning. but it was soon perceived, that these children wanted masters, capable of instructing and forming them, according to the intention of the institute. god almighty had pre-ordained the seminary of holy faith, for the society of jesus; and it was by a particular disposition of the divine providence, that the same year, wherein the seminary was established, brought over the sons of ignatius to the indies. accordingly, when xavier first arrived at goa, borba offered him the conduct of this new establishment, and used his best endeavours to engage him in it. xavier, who found an inward call to something more important, and who already was conceiving in his mind the conversion of a heathen world, would not coop himself up within a town, but in his secret intentions, designed one of his companions for that employment, which was presented to himself. in the meantime, borba wrote into portugal, to simon rodriguez, and earnestly desired from him some fathers of the new society, "for whom" he said, "the almighty had prepared a house in the new world, before their coming." during these transactions, paul de camerin and francis mansilla arrived at goa, from mozambique: borba retained them both in the seminary, by permission from the viceroy; and that was the reason why they followed not father xavier to the coast of fishery. xavier put into the seminary those young indians whom he had brought along with him; and whatever want he had otherwise of his companions, he gave the charge of the seminarists to father paul de camerin, at the request of borba, who had the chief authority in the seminary. for it was not till the year , after the death of borba, that the company possest it in propriety, and without dependence. it then received the name of a college, and was called the college of st paul, from the title of the church, which was dedicated to the conversion of the apostle of the gentiles. from thence it also proceeded, that the jesuits were called in that country, the fathers of st paul, or the fathers paulists, as they are called in that country even at this day. father xavier remained but a little time at goa; and returned with all expedition to his paravas, with the best provision of gospel labourers, which he could make. he was then desirous of sending a missioner of the company to the isle of socotora, not being in circumstances of going thither in person; for he had not forgotten the promise, which he made to god in behalf of that people, when he left them. but the small number of companions which he had, was not sufficient for the indies; and it was not till three or four years afterwards that he sent father alphonso ciprian to socotora. besides mansilla, who had not yet received the order of priesthood, he carried with him to the coast of fishery two priests, who were indians by nation, and one biscayner, called john dortiaga. when they were arrived there, he visited all the villages with them; and taught them the method of converting idolaters to the faith, and of confirming those who were already christians, in it. after which, having assigned to each of them a division at his particular province in the coast, he entered farther into the country; and, without any other guide than the spirit of god. penetrated into a kingdom, the language of which was utterly unknown to him, as he wrote to mansilla in these, terms. "you may judge, what manner of life head here, by what i shall relate to you. i am wholly ignorant of the language of the people, and they understand as little of mine; and i have no interpreter. all i can perform, is to baptize children, and serve the sick, an employment easily understood, without the help of an interpreter, by only minding what they want." this was the preaching by which he declared jesus christ, and made the christian law appear amiable in that kingdom. for amongst those barbarians, who reduce all humanity to the notion of not being inhuman, and who acknowledge no other duties of charity, than forbearing to do injuries, it was a thing of admiration, to see a stranger, who, without any interest, made the sufferings of another man his own; and performed all sorts of services to the poor, as if he had been their father, or their slave. the name of the country is neither known, nor the fruits which these works of charity produced. it is only certain, that the saint continued not there any long time; and that a troublesome affair recalled him to the coast of fishery, when it was least in his intentions to return. the badages, who are a great multitude of robbers, in the kingdom of bisnagar, idolaters, and enemies of the christian name, naturally fierce, always quarrelling amongst themselves, and at war with their neighbours, after they had seized, by force of arms, on the kingdom of pande, which is betwixt malabar and the coasts of fishery, made an irruption into the said coast, in the absence of xavier. the paravas were under a terrible consternation at the sight of those robbers, whose very name was formidable to them, not daring so much as to gather into a body, nor to hazard the first brunt of war. they took flight, and abandoned their country, without any other thought than of saving their lives. in order to which, they threw themselves by heaps into their barks, some of them escaping into little desart islands, others hiding amongst the rocks and banks of sand, betwixt cape comorin, and the isle of ceylon. these were the places of their retreat, together with their wives and children, while the badages overran the coast, and destroyed their country. but what profits it to have escaped the sword, when, they must die of hunger? those miserable creatures, exposed to the burning heats of the sun, wanted nourishment in their isles, and on their rocks, and numbers of them daily perished. in the mean time, the news of this excursion of the robbers, and the flight of the christians, was spread about, and xavier heard it in the country where he then resided. the misfortunes of his dear paravas touched him in the most tender part. he made haste to their relief; and, having been informed that they were pressed with famine, he passed speedily to the western coast, and earnestly solicited the portuguese to supply them in this their extreme necessity. he obtained twenty barks, laden with all manner of provision, and himself brought it to their places of retreat, where the poor paravas, as many as were left alive of them, were languishing without hope of comfort, and expecting death to end their misery. the sight of the holy man, whom all of them regarded as their common father, caused them to forget some part of their misfortune, and seemed to restore them to life. he gave them all imaginable consolation; and, when they had somewhat recovered their strength, he brought them back to their habitations, from whence the badages were retired. those plunderers had swept all away, and the christians were more poor than ever; he therefore procured alms for them, and wrote a letter earnestly to the christians of another coast, to supply their brethren in distress. the paravas being resettled by degrees, xavier left them under the conduct of the missioners, whom he had brought for them, and turned his thoughts elsewhere. he was desirous to have carried the sound of the gospel into the more inland countries, which had never heard of jesus christ; yet he forbore it at that time, upon this account, that in those kingdoms where there were no portuguese to protect the new christians, the idolaters and saracens would make war on them, or constrain them to renounce their christianity to buy their peace. returning therefore by the western coasts, which were in the possession of the portuguese, he travelled by land, and on foot, according to his custom, towards the coast of travancore, which beginning from the point of comorin, lies extended thirty leagues along by the sea, and is full of villages. being come thither, and having, by the good offices of the portuguese, obtained permission from the king of travancore to publish the law of the true god, he followed the same method which he had used at the fishery; and that practice was so successful, that all that coast was converted to christianity in a little space of time, insomuch, that forty-five churches were immediately built. he writes himself, "that in one month he baptized, with his own hand, ten thousand idolaters; and that, frequently, in one day, he baptized a well peopled village." he says also, "that it was to him a most pleasing object, to behold, that so soon as those infidels had received baptism, they ran, vying with each other to demolish the temples of the idols." it was at that time, properly speaking, when god first communicated to xavier the gift of tongues in the indies; according to the relation of a young portuguese of coimbra, whose name was vaz, who attended him in many of his travels, and who being returned into europe, related those passages, of which himself had been an eye witness. the holy man spoke very well the language of those barbarians, without having learnt it, and had no need of an interpreter when he instructed. there being no church which was capable of containing those who came to hear him, he led them into a spacious plain, to the number of five or six thousand persons, and there getting up into a tree, that he might the farther extend his voice, he preached to them the words of eternal truth. there it was also, that to the end the compass of the plain might serve in the nature of a church, he sometimes celebrated the divine mysteries under the sails of ships, which were spread above the altar, to be seen on every side. the brachmans could not suffer the worship of the pagods to be abandoned in this manner; but were resolved to be revenged on the author of so strange an alteration. in order to execute their design, they secretly engaged some idolaters to lie in wait for him, and dispatch him privately. the murderers lay in ambush more than once, and in the silence of the night endeavoured to shoot him with their arrows. but divine providence would not suffer their malice to take place; of all their arrows, one only wounded him, and that but slightly; as it were rather to give him the satisfaction of shedding some blood in testimony of the faith, than to endanger his life. enraged and desperate for having missed their aim, they sought him everywhere; and not finding him, they set fire on three or four houses, where they thought he might possibly be lodged. the man of god was constrained one day to hide in the covert of a forest, and passed the following night upon a tree, to escape the fury of his enemies, who searched the whole forest to have found him. there was a necessity sometimes that the faithful should keep guard about him day and night, and to that purpose they placed themselves in arms about the house where he was retired. in the meantime, the badages, who had ravaged the coast of fishery the year before, animated of themselves against the christians, and perhaps pushed forward by the devils, who saw their empire decaying day by day, excited also by the desire of glory, and above all things by the hope of booty, entered into the kingdom of travancore, on the side of one of those mountains-which confine on the cape of comorin. their former success had rendered them so haughty and so insolent, that they flattered themselves with an imagination that every thing would bend before them. but not having now to do, as they had before, with simple fishers, they were come in good order, and well armed, under the conduct of the naiche, or lord of modure, a valiant and experienced captain. the inhabitants of the maritime villages took fright at the noise of an hostile army; and retiring, for the most part with great haste and confusion into the inland country, carried even to the court the news of the invasion. the king of travancore, whom the portuguese call the great monarch, because indeed he is the most powerful of all the kings of malabar, collecting his army with all speed, put himself at the head of it, and marched towards the enemy. the battle, in all appearance, was likely to be bloody, and the victory seemed assured to those vagabond robbers, who were more in number, and better disciplined. father xavier, so soon as he understood that the badages were drawing near, falling prostrate on the ground, "o lord," said he; "remember that thou art the god of mercies, and protector of the faithful: give not up to the fury of these wolves that flock, of which thou hast appointed me the pastor; that these new christians, who are yet so feeble in the faith, may not repent their embracing it, and that the infidels may not have the advantage of oppressing those, who repose their confidence in none but thee." his prayer being ended, he arose, and inspired with a more than human courage, which made him incapable of fear, he takes a troop of fervant christians, and, with a crucifix in his hand, runs with them towards the plain, where the enemies were marching in battalia. when he arrived within distance of being heard, he stopped and said to them, in a threatening voice, "i forbid you, in the name of the living god, to pass farther, and on his part, command you to return the way you came." these few words cast a terror into the minds of those soldiers who were at the head of the army; they remained confounded, and without motion. they, who marched after them, seeing the foremost advanced not, asked the reason of it; answer was returned from the first ranks, that they had before their eyes an unknown person habited in black, of a more than human stature, of a terrible aspect, and darting fire from his eyes. the most hardy were desirous to satisfy themselves concerning what was told them; they were seized with amazement at the sight, and all of them fled with a precipitate confusion. the new christians who had followed xavier, ran to declare to the neighbouring villages this wonderful event. the fame of it was suddenly spread abroad, and the king, who was marching towards the enemy with great speed, heard the report of it on his way. he caused xavier to be brought into his presence, and embraced him as the redeemer of travancore; and after he had publicly thanked him for so eminent a service, he said thus to him: "i am called the great monarch; and, from henceforth, you shall be called the great father." the saint gave the king to understand, that it was only jesus christ to whom he ought to pay his acknowledgments; and, as for himself, he ought only to be regarded as a weak instrument, who could do nothing of his own power. the pagan king comprehended nothing of his meaning; and the two vices which are the common obstacles to the conversion of the great, that is to say, the concupiscence of the flesh, and pride of heart, hindered him afterwards from embracing of the faith; which notwithstanding, he caused an edict to be published throughout his kingdom, whereby all men were commanded to obey the great father, as they would his proper person; and that whoever desired to be a christian, might be so without any apprehension of danger to ensue. he went so far as even to call xavier his brother; and bestowed on him large sums of money, all which the servant of god employed in charities on the poor. an edict so favourable to the law of our belief, made many christians even in the court, though contrary to the example of the prince. but the miraculous actions of xavier finished the conversion of the whole kingdom. besides his curing all sorts of diseases, he raised four persons from the dead, two women and two men. the act of canonization relates no more of the resurrection of the women, but the bare matter of fact, without any circumstances; but the resurrection of the men is related at large, of which the substance is in the ensuing account. xavier preached in one of the maritime villages of travancore, called coulan, near cape comoriu. some were converted by his first sermons; but the greater party remained in their ancient superstition, after having often heard him. the most obstinate, it is true, listened to him with delight, and found the maxims of the gospel to be most conformable to the light of reason: but the pleasure which they took in hearing, produced nothing; and they satisfied themselves with admiring the christian law, without troubling themselves to follow it. the father one day finding, that he spoke to them of god without working any thing upon their hearts, prayed fervently to the almighty in their behalf; and, with his eyes lifted up to heaven, his countenance more than ordinarily inflamed, and with abundance of tears, besought him to take pity on those obstinate idolaters. "o lord," said he, "all hearts are in thy hands; thou canst bend, as it pleases thee, the most stubborn, and soften the most obdurate; do that honour, on this day, to the blood and the name of thy beloved son." scarcely had he ended his prayer, when he was assured it was answered: turning himself to his audience, with the air of one inspired, "well," said he, "since you will not believe me on my word, behold that which will make me be believed. what testimony do you desire from me, of those truths which i have declared to you?" at the same instant he recalled to his remembrance, that a man had been there buried the day before. then resuming his discourse in the same tone that he began it, "open," said he, "the sepulchre which you closed yesterday, and bring out the body; but observe carefully, whether he who was buried be truly dead." the most incredulous ran hastily to take up the corpse; far from finding any the least sign of life, they perceived it began to putrify with a noisome scent. they took off the linen in which he was wrapped, and laid the dead man at the feet of the father, who was come to the place of burial. the barbarians gazed with astonishment on the dead body, and impatiently expected the event. the saint fell upon his knees, and, after a short prayer, addressing himself to the dead, "i command thee," said he, "in the holy name of the living god, to arise, for the confirmation of that religion which i preach." at these words, the dead arose of himself, and appeared not only living, but vigorous, and in perfect health. all who were present cried out, with a loud voice, "that the god of the christians was omnipotent; and that the law which the great father preached was true." in consequence of which, they threw themselves at his feet, desired baptism, and received it on the place. the other dead person whom the apostle raised to life, was a young man, and a christian, who died at mutan, on the same coast, betwixt carjapatan and alicale. he had been dead above four-and-twenty hours, of a pestilential fever. xavier met the corpse by chance, as they were carrying it to the grave. the parents of the dead man, who were of the greatest quality in all the country, accompanied the funeral pomp, with all their kindred, according to the custom of that nation. as comfortless as they were, yet upon sight of the saint, they recovered courage, and, embracing his knees, implored him to restore their son to life; being persuaded, that what was not to be effected by the power of nature, would cost him only a word speaking. xavier, moved by their affliction, and excited by their faith, begged the assistance of the most high, made the sign of the cross, and threw holy water on the dead, after which he took him by the hand, raised him up in the name of the lord, and restored him living to his father and mother. to preserve the memory of an action so wonderful and so authentic, the parents of the man they raised erected a great cross on the place where the miracle was done; and were accustomed afterwards to go often thither, and pray to god before it. these resurrections were so famous through all the country, and made so great impressions on the souls of the inhabitants, that the people came thronging from all parts to behold the great father, and to receive baptism from his hands; insomuch, that the whole kingdom of travancore was subjected to christ jesus in few months; and the king, with some few of his chief courtiers, were the only remaining idolaters in the land, by a terrible judgment of almighty god, who sometimes abandons princes to their unruly passions, and departs from the great, while he communicates himself to those of the lowest quality. the life of st francis xavier. book iii. _he writes into europe for a supply of missioners. the saint's letter to the doctors of sorbonne. ambassadors from the isle of manar to the saint. he sends a missioner to the isle of manar. the constancy of the christians of manar. a miraculous cross, and its effects. the enterprise of xavier against the persecutor. new motives for his journey to cambaya. he persuades michael vaz to go to portugal. his letter to the king of portugal. the success of the voyage undertaken by michael vaz. he converts a debauched portuguese. he engages the viceroy of the indies to make war on the king of jafanatapan. divers predictions of the saint. he goes to join the portuguese fleet, and raises one from the dead. he frees the island of manar from the plague. the enterprise of jafanatapan defeated. he designs the voyage of macassar, and the conversion of many kingdoms. he goes to the sepulchre of st thomas, to consult god concerning his voyage to macassar. what happened to him in his passage to meliapor. he comes to meliapor; the monuments which he there finds of the apostle st thomas. he is threatened by devils, and afterwards beaten by them. he learns the will of god concerning his design. the conversions which he makes at meliapor. he brings a great sinner to repentance. divers wonderful events which encrease his fame. he persuades a rich merchant to evangelical perfection. the new convert falls from grace, and becomes suspected to the saint. his charity to a soldier, who had lost all his money at play. he arrives at malacca; a digression concerning it. in what condition he found the town, and what he did in order to reform it. he labours with success at malacca. he revives a dead maid. he receives letters from europe by the new missioners who are sent him. he defers the voyage to macassar, and designs another. he foreknows, and foretels the ruin of malacca. he goes to amboyna, and what happens to him in his voyage. he arrives at amboyna: what he performs there. he converts the idolaters and moors of amboyna. a spanish fleet arrives at amboyna. he assists the spanish fleet during the contagion amongst them. he passes into divers islands. he recovers his crucifix, which was fallen into the sea. he foretels the holy death of a new convert. he goes to the island of ulate, and the miracle there wrought by him. he goes to the moluccas. what happens to him in his way. he declares to the people the death of john araus. he makes many converts at ternate. conversion of a queen at ternate. he hears of the isles del moro. great endeavours are used to dissuade the saint from going to the isles del moro. he complains of those who make opposition to his voyage to the isle del moro. he goes for the isle del moro, and writes to rome. god reveals to him what is doing in a distant island. he arrives at del moro; the condition in which he found it. he gains the inhabitants of the isle del moro. he speaks to them of hell. he exhorts them to repentance. he says mass in the midst of an earthquake. he is admired by the barbarians. he is persecuted by a cruel and savage people. his sufferings in the isle del moro; and the consolations which he there received. he goes for goa; and the reason that induced him. he returns to ternate. his proceedings at ternate. he endeavours the conversion of the king of ternate. what hindered the king of ternate's conversion. he labours with great fruit in the court of ternate. he leaves to the islanders a christian instruction written with his own hand. the counsel he gave the ternatines at parting. he renews his labours at amboyna. he is endued with the supernatural knowledge of some things. a cross, erected by xavier, becomes famous. the constancy of the christians in amboyna_. the reputation of xavier was not confined to the kingdom of travancore; it was spread abroad through all the indies; and the god of the christians, at the same time, was had in so great veneration, that the most idolatrous nations sent to desire the saint, that he would come and give them baptism. his joy was infinite, to find the gentiles, of their own free motion, searching after the way of eternal life; but, on the other side, he was afflicted that he was not sufficient alone to instruct so many vast countries as were gone astray from it. seeing the harvest so great, and the labourers so few, he wrote earnestly to father ignatius in italy, and to simon rodriguez in portugal, for a supply of missioners. he had such transports of zeal on that occasion, as to say, in one of his letters, "i have often thoughts to run over all the universities of europe, and principally that of paris, and to cry aloud to those who abound more in learning than, in charity, ah, how many souls are lost to heaven through your default! it were to be wished, that those people would apply themselves as diligently to the salvation of souls, as they do to the study of sciences; to the end they might render to almighty god a good account of their learning, and the talents which he has bestowed on them. many, without doubt, moved with thoughts like these, would make a spiritual retreat, and give themselves the leisure of meditating on heavenly things, that they might listen to the voice of god. they would renounce their passions, and, trampling under foot all worldly vanities, would put themselves in condition of following the motions of the divine will. they would say, from the bottom of their hearts, behold me in readiness, o my lord; send me wheresoever thou shalt please, even to the indies, if thou commandest me. "good god, how much more happily would those learned men then live, than now they do! with how much more assurance of their salvation! and, in the hour of death, when they are ready to stand forth before the dreadful judgment-seat, how much greater reason would they have, to hope well of god's eternal mercy, because they might say, o lord, thou hast given me five talents, and behold i have added other five. "i take god to witness, that, not being able to return into europe, i have almost resolved to write to the university of paris, and namely to our masters, cornet and picard, that millions of idolaters might be easily converted, if there were more preachers, who would sincerely mind the interests of jesus christ, and not their own concernments." it is pity that his letter to the doctors of sorbonne is irrecoverably lost; for certain it is, he wrote to them from the midst of the indies, to engage them to come, and preach the gospel. and for this we have the testimony of don john derada, one of the chief magistrates of the kingdom of navarre, who, studying at paris, saw the letter sent from father xavier, admired the apostolical charity with which it was replenished, and took a copy of it, as did also many divines, to whom it was directed. amongst those idolatrous nations, which breathed after baptism, and desired to be instructed, the manarois were the first, who made a deputation to the saint. the isle of manar is situate towards the most northern point of ceylon, and at the head of the sands of remanancor. it has a very convenient port, and is a place of great traffic. but the soil is so sandy and so dry, that it produces nothing, unless in some few places, which also are cultivated with much care and labour. for manar has no resemblance to ceylon, though placed so near it: ceylon being the most delicious and most fruitful part of all the east; where the trees are always green, and bear fruits and flowers in every season; where there are discovered mines of gold and silver, crystal, and precious stones; which is encompassed with forests of ebony, cinnamon, and cocoa; and where the inhabitants live to an extreme old age, without any of the incommodities which attend it, the wonder is, that, being distant from the equinoctial but six degrees, the air is temperate and pure, and the rains, which water it from heaven regularly once a month, joined with the springs and rivers which pass through it, refresh the ground in a greater measure than the scorching heats can parch it. father xavier was employed in establishing christianity in travancore, when he received this embassy from manar. as he could not forsake an infant church without a reasonable apprehension of its ruin, he sent to manar one of the priests whom he had left on the coast of fishery. and god so blessed the labours of that missioner, that the manarois not only became christians, but died generously for the faith; and this was the occasion of their martyrdom. the isle of manar was at that time under the dominion of the king of jafanatapan; for by that name the northern part of ceylon is called. this prince had usurped the crown from his elder brother, and enslaved his subjects. above all things, he was an implacable enemy of the christian faith; though in appearance he was a friend to the portuguese, whose forces only could set bounds to his tyranny. when he understood that the manarois were converted to christianity, he entered into that fury of which tyrants only can be capable; for he commanded, that his troops should immediately pass over into the island, and put all to the sword, excepting only the idolaters. his orders were punctually executed; and men, women, and children, were all destroyed, who had embraced the christian faith. it was wonderful to behold, that the faithful being examined, one by one, concerning their religion, and no more required for the saving of their lives, than to forsake their new belief, there was not one amongst them, who did not openly declare himself a christian. the fathers and mothers answered for the newly baptized infants, who were not able to give testimony of their faith; and offered them to the death, with a resolution, which was amazing to their executioners. six or seven hundred of these islanders gave up their lives for the name of jesus christ; and the principal place which was consecrated by so noble blood, from pasim, which it was called before, now took the name of the field of martyrs. this dreadful massacre, far from abolishing the christian law, served only to render it more flourishing. the tyrant had even the shame of seeing his officers and domestic servants forsake their ancient superstition in despite of him. but what most enraged him, was the conversion of his eldest son. this young prince, inspired of god, caused himself to be instructed by a portuguese merchant, who had dealings at the court; which yet could not be so secretly performed, but that the king had notice of it. at the first news, he cut his throat, and threw the body into the fields, to serve for food to savage beasts. but heaven permitted not, that a death which was so precious in the sight of god, should be without honour in the sight of men, the portuguese merchant buried his disciple by night; and on the next morning, there appeared a beautiful cross, printed on the ground, which covered the body of the martyr. the spectacle extremely surprised the infidels. they did what they were able, to deface, and (if i may so say) to blot out the cross, by treading over it, and casting earth upon it. it appeared again the day following, in the same figure, and they once more endeavoured to tread it out. but then it appeared in the air, all resplendent with light, and darting its beams on every side. the barbarians who beheld it, were affrighted; and, being touched in their hearts, declared themselves christians. the king's sister, a princess naturally virtuous, having privately embraced the faith, instructed both her own son, and her nephew, who was brother to the martyr. but, while she directed them in the way of heaven, she took care to preserve them from the cruelty of the tyrant. to which purpose she addressed herself to the merchant above mentioned, and intrusting him with the lives of the two princes, ordered him to convey them to the seminary of goa. this portuguese managed all things so discreetly, with the concurrence of the princess, that he escaped out of the island, with the two princes, undiscovered. he took his way by the kingdom of travancore, that he might behold father xavier, and present to him these two illustrious new converts. the father received them as angels descended from above, and gave immortal thanks to god, for so noble a conquest. he fortified them in the faith, gave them excellent instructions, and promised so to mediate in their favour, with the viceroy of the indies, that they should have no occasion of repenting themselves for having abandoned all things for the sake of jesus christ. when the king of jafanatapan had notice of the flight of his son and nephew, he broke out into new fury against the christians, and put to death great numbers of them. being apprehensive that his brother, from whom he had usurped the crown, and who now led a wandering life, might possibly change his religion also, and beg protection from the portuguese, he sent officers round about, with orders to bring him into his hands, or, at the least, to bring back his head. but he failed of getting him in his power either alive or dead; for this unhappy prince, attended by ten horsemen, having passed to negapatan, came by land to goa, after having suffered extreme hardships, in a journey of more than two hundred leagues. father xavier, who was informed of all these proceedings, thought it necessary to make advantage of these favourable opportunities without loss of time. he considered with what perfection christians might live in a kingdom where they died so generously for the faith, with so imperfect a knowledge of it. on the other side, he judged, that if the injustice and cruelty of the tyrant remained unpunished, what an inducement it might be to other idolatrous kings, for them to persecute the new converts in their turn; that the only means for repairing the past, and obviating future mischiefs, was to dispossess the tyrant of the crown, which he so unjustly wore, and restore it to his brother, to whom it rightfully belonged; that, for these considerations, recourse ought to be had to the portuguese to engage them, by a principle of religion, to take arms against the usurper of the kingdom, and the persecutor of the christians. in order to this, the father caused mansilla to be recalled from the coast of fishery; and having intrusted him with the care of christianity in travancore, took his way by land to cambaya, where the viceroy of the indies then resided. besides these reasons, relating to the king of jafanatapan, the saint had other motives which obliged him to take this journey. the greatest part of the europeans, who were in the indies, and chiefly the officers of the crown of portugal, lived after so infamous a manner, that they made the christian faith appear odious, and scandalised alike both the idolaters and the faithful. the public worship of the pagods was tolerated at goa, and the sect of the brachmans daily increased in power; because those pagan priests had bribed the portuguese officers. the people professed heathenism freely, provided they made exact payments of their tribute, as if they had been conquered only for the sake of gain. public offices were sold to saracens, and the christian natives stood excluded, for want of money, which does all things with corrupt ministers. the receivers of the king's revenues, who were to pay the paravas of the coast of fishery, constrained those poor fishers to deliver their pearls almost for nothing; and thus the exaction of a lawful tribute, in the constitution, became tyranny and oppression in the management. men were sold like beasts, and christians enslaved to pagans at cheap pennyworths. to conclude, the king of cochin, an idolater, but tributary to the crown of portugal, was suffered to confiscate the goods of his subjects, who had received baptism. father francis was wonderfully grieved to perceive, that the greatest hindrance to the growth of christianity, in those vast dominions of asia, proceeded only from the christians. he bewailed it sometimes to god, in the bitterness of his heart; and one day said, "that he would willingly return to portugal to complain of it to the king, not doubting, but so religious and just a prince would order some remedy for this encroaching evil, if he had notice how it spread." xavier had taken the way of cochin, along by the sea coast. he arrived there the th of december, , where he happened to meet with michael vaz, vicar-general of the indies. in acquainting him with the reasons of his journey, he made him sensible, that the weakness of the government was the principal cause of the avarice and violence of the officers; that don alphonso de sosa was indeed a religious gentleman, but wanted vigour; that it was not sufficient to will good actions, if, at the same time, he did not strongly oppose ill ones; in a word, that it was absolutely necessary for the king of portugal to be informed of all the disorders in the indies, by a person who was an eye-witness of them, and whose integrity was not liable to suspicion. vaz immediately entered into the opinions of the father, and his zeal carried him to pass himself into portugal, in a vessel which was just ready to set sail. xavier praised god for those good intentions; and wrote a letter by him to king john the third, the beginning of which i have here transcribed:-- "your majesty ought to be assured, and often to call into your mind, that god has made choice of you, amongst all the princes of the world, for the conquest of india, to the end he may make trial of your faith, and see what requital you will make to him for all his benefits. you ought also to consider, that, in conferring on you the empire of a new world, his intention was, not so much that you should fill your coffers with the riches of the east, as that you should have an opportunity of signalizing your zeal, by making known to idolaters, through the means of those who serve you, the creator and redeemer of mankind." the saint, after this beginning, gave the king to understand the good intentions of michael vaz, and the ill conduct of the portuguese, who were in the government of the indies. he suggested to him the means of putting a stop to those disorders, and advised him, above all things, not only to recommend, by letters, the interest of religion, but rigorously to punish all those officers, who were wanting to their duty in that respect; "for there is danger," said he, "that when god shall summon your majesty to judgment, that will then come to pass which you least expect, and which is not to be avoided; there is danger, great prince, that you may then hear these words of an offended god. why have you not punished those who, under your authority, have made war against me in the indies, you who have punished them so severely, when they were negligent in gathering your revenues? your cause will be little helped by your return of this answer to jesus christ;--lord, i have not wanted yearly to recommend, by letters to my subjects, all that concerns thy honour and thy service. for, doubt not, it will be thus answered;--but your orders were never put in execution, and you left your ministers, at their own disposal, to do whatever they thought good. "i therefore beg your majesty, by that fervent zeal which you have for the glory of our lord, and by the care which you have always testified of your eternal salvation, to send hither a vigilant and resolute minister, who will bend his actions to nothing more than to the conversion of souls; who may act independently to the officers of your treasury; and who will not suffer himself to be led and governed by the politics of worldly men, whose foresight is bounded with the profit of the state. may your majesty be pleased a little to inspect your incomes from the indies, and, after that, look over the expences which are made for the advancement of religion; that, having weighed all things equally on either side, you may make a judgment, if that which you bestow bears any proportion with that which you receive; and then, perhaps, you will find a just subject to apprehend, that, of those immense treasures, which the divine goodness has heaped upon you, you have given to god but an inconsiderable pittance. "for what remains, let not your majesty defer any longer the payment of so just a debt, to so bountiful a giver, nor the healing of so many public wounds. what remedy soever you can apply, what diligence soever you can make, all will be too little, and of the latest. the sincere and ardent charity of my heart, towards your majesty, has constrained me to write to you in this manner, especially when my imagination represents to me, in a lively sort, the complaints which the poor indians send up to heaven, that out of so vast a treasure, with which your estate is enriched by them, you employ so little for their spiritual necessities." the letter ended, in begging this favour of almighty god, "that the king, in his lifetime, might have those considerations, and that conduct, which he would wish to have had when he was dying." michael vaz negotiated so well with king john the third, pursuant to the instructions of father xavier, that he obtained another governor of the indies, and carried back such orders and provisions, signed by his majesty's own hand, as were in a manner the same which the father had desired. these orders contained, that no toleration should be granted for the superstition of the infidels in the isle of goa, nor in that of salseta; that they should break in pieces all the pagods which were there, and make search, in the houses of the gentiles, for concealed idols, and whosoever used or made them should be punished according to the quality of his crime; that as many of the brachmans as were found to oppose the publication of the gospel, should be banished; that out of a yearly rent of three thousand crowns, charged on a mosque at bazain, a subsistence should be made for the poor, newly converted from idolatry; that hereafter no public employment should be given to pagans; that no exaction should remain unpunished; that no slaves should henceforth be sold, either to mahometans or gentiles; that the pearl fishing should only be in the hands of christians, and that nothing should be taken from them, without paying them the due value; that the king of cochin should not be suffered to despoil or oppress the baptized indians; and, last of all, that if sosa had not already revenged the murder of the christians in manar, who were massacred by the king of jafanatapan's command, castro, who succeeded in his place, should not fail to see it done. to return to father xavier;--he put to sea at cochin, and sailed towards cambaya. in the ship there was a portuguese gentleman, much a libertine, and one of those declared atheists who make a boast of their impiety. this was motive enough for the holy man to make acquaintance with him. he kept him company, and was even so complaisant as to entertain him with pleasant conversation. the portuguese was much delighted with his good humour, and took pleasure in hearing him discourse on many curious subjects. but if xavier offered to let fall a word concerning the salvation of his soul, he laughed at it, and would hear no more. if the father mildly reproved him for his profane and scandalous way of living, he flew out into a fury against the holy practice of the church, and swore he would never more come to confession. these ill inclinations did not at all discourage xavier from his undertaking. he treated this hardened sinner after the manner that physicians use a patient raving in his sickness, with all manner of compassion and soft behaviour. in the meantime, they came to an anchor before the port of cananor, and, going ashore together, they took a walk into a wood of palm-trees which was near their place of landing. after they had made a turn or two, the saint stripped himself to the waist, and taking a discipline, pointed at the ends with wire, struck so hard and so often on his naked body, that, in a very little time, his back and shoulders were all bloody. "it is for your sake," said he to the gentleman who accompanied him, "that i do what you see, and all this is nothing to what i would willingly suffer for you. but," added he, "you have cost christ jesus a much dearer price. will neither his passion, his death, nor all his blood, suffice to soften the hardness of your heart?" after this, addressing himself to our blessed saviour, "o lord," said he, "be pleased to look on thy own adorable blood, and not on that of so vile a sinner as myself." the gentleman, amazed and confounded, both at once, at such an excess of charity, cast himself at the feet of xavier, beseeching him to forbear, and promising to confess himself and totally to change his former life. in effect, before they departed out of the wood, he made a general confession to the father, with sincere contrition for his sins, and afterwards lived with the exemplary behaviour and practice of a good christian. being returned to the port, they went again on shipboard, and continued their voyage to cambaya. when they were arrived at that place, xavier went to wait on the viceroy, and easily persuaded him to what he desired, in reference to jafanatapan; for, besides that sosa reposed an entire confidence in father xavier, and was himself zealous for the faith, the expedition, which was proposed to him, was the most glorious that the portuguese could undertake, since the consequence of it was to punish a tyrant, to dispossess an usurper, and to restore a lawful king. the viceroy, therefore, wrote letters, and dispatched couriers, to the captains of comorin and of the fishery, commanding them to assemble all the forces they could make at negapatan, and make a sudden irruption into the tyrant's country, without giving him time to provide for his defence. he gave them also in charge to take the tyrant alive, if possibly they could, and put him into the hands of father francis, who desired his conversion, not his death, and hoped the blood of the martyrs of manar might obtain the forgiveness of his crimes. xavier, encouraged by these hopes, returned towards cochin, where he proposed to himself to follow his ministerial vocation, while the preparations of war were making. coming back by cananor, he lodged in the house of a christian, who himself was religious, but his son debauched, and subject to all sorts of vices. the good man, sensibly afflicted at the ill conduct of his graceless son, wept day and night; and xavier began at first to comfort him, saying, those vices were ordinary in youth, and riper age would reclaim him from them. having done speaking, he stood mute awhile, and recollected himself; then, suddenly lifting up his eyes to heaven, "know," said he, "that you are the most happy father in the world. this libertine son, who has given you so many disquiets, shall one day change his manners, he shall be a religious of the order of st francis, and at last shall die a martyr." the event verified the prediction. the young man afterwards took the habit of st francis, and went to preach the faith in the kingdom of cande,[ ] where he received martyrdom from the barbarians. [footnote : cande is a kingdom in the island of ceylon.] father xavier, being come back to cochin, was very kindly received by the secretary of state, cosmo annez, his intimate friend, who was there on some important business. being one day together, and talking familiarly, xavier asked annez, if the year had been good for the portugal merchants? annez answered him, that it could not have been better: that not long since, seven vessels had been sent off, which were now in their passage to europe, and richly laden. he added, that himself had sent the king of portugal a rare diamond, which had cost six thousand ducats at goa, and avould be worth more than thirty thousand at lisbon. xavier had a farther curiosity to enquire, which of the ships had carried the diamond; and annez told him, it was the ship called the atoghia, and that he had entrusted the jewel to john norogna, who was captain of the ship. xavier then entered into a profound meditation; and after he had kept silence for some time, all on the sudden thus replied; "i could have wished that a diamond of so great value had not been entrusted to that ship." "and for what reason?" answered annez; "is it not because the atoghia has once formerly sprung a leak? but, father, she is now so well refitted, that she may be taken for a new vessel." the saint explained himself no farther; and annez, upon a second consideration, began to conjecture, both from the father's words, and afterwards from, his silence, that there was some danger in the matter, whereupon he desired him to recommend that ship to the protection of almighty god; "for in conclusion," said he, "the atoghia cannot be lost without a very considerable damage to me. i have had no order," said he, "to buy that diamond; so that in case it should miscarry, the loss will be wholly mine." sitting one day together at the table, and xavier observing annez to be in great concernment, "give thanks to god," said he, "your diamond is safe, and at this very time in the hands of the queen of portugal." annez believed xavier on his word; and understood afterwards, by letters from norogna, that the ship opened in the midst of her voyage, and let in so much water, that being upon the point of sinking, the mariners had resolved to have forsaken her, and thrown themselves into the sea, but after having cut down the main mast, they changed their thoughts without any apparent reason; that the leak stopped of itself, and the ship pursuing her course, with only two sails, arrived safely in the port of lisbon. the man of god remained about three months in cochin, and towards the end of may set sail for negapatan, where the portuguese fleet was now in a readiness. passing by the isle of de las vaccas, which is near the flats of ceylon, towards the north, he raised to life a saracen's child, which is all that is known of that miracle. he was desirous in his passage to see the isle of manar, where so many christians had been massacred for the faith; and going ashore, he often kissed the ground, which had been sprinkled with the blood of martyrs at pasim. while he rejoiced at the happy destiny of the dead, he had cause to be afflicted for the misfortune of the living: a contagious disease laid waste the island, and there died an hundred every day. when the manarois had notice, that the great father, so famous in the indies, was at pasim, they assembled together, above three thousand of them, for the most part gentiles, and being come to the village, besought him humbly to deliver them from the pestilence. xavier asked three days, wherein to implore of god, for that which they had begged from him. during all which time, he only offered up to our lord, and set before him the merits of those blessed martyrs, who had suffered for his name at pasim. before those days were ended, his prayers were heard, the plague ceased, and all the sick were restored to health at the same moment. so visible a miracle wrought on all of them to believe in jesus christ; and the apostle baptized them with his own hand. he could make no longer stay with them; for the naval army then expected him, and his presence was necessary to encourage the soldiers, and mind the captains of the performance of their duty. he passed over from manar to negapatan; but there he found all things in a far different condition from what he hoped. the portuguese navy diminished daily; and the commanders, who at the beginning had been so zealous for the holy war, were now the first to condemn it. it was in vain for him to set before their eyes the honour of their nation, and that of god: interest did so blind their understanding, that they forgot they were either portuguese or christians: behold, in short, what overthrew so glorious an expedition. while they were equipping the fleet, it happened that a portuguese vessel, coming from the kingdom of pegu, and laden with rich merchandise, was driven by tempest upon the coast of jafanatapan. the king made seizure of it, and possessed himself of all within it, according to the custom of the barbarians. the captain and the ship's company foreseeing, that if, in this conjuncture, war should be made against the heathen prince, they should never be able to retrieve their wealth out of his hands, corrupted the officers of the fleet with large presents, to desist from their undertaking. thus the tyrant, whom father xavier designed to drive out from his ill-gotten kingdom, was maintained in it, by the covetousness of christians; or rather by the secret decrees of providence, which sometimes permits the persecutors of the church to reign in peace, to the end a trial may be made of such as dare to continue constant in their faith. as holy men resign their will to that of god, xavier wholly abandoned the enterprize of jafanatapan, and thought only of returning to the kingdom of travancore. being now on sea, he cast back his eyes on the isle of ceylon, which he saw from far; and cried out, lamenting for it, "ah! unhappy island, with how many carcases do i behold thee covered, and what rivers of blood are making inundations on all sides of thee!" these words were prophetical of what happened afterwards, when on constantine de braganza at one time, and don hurtado de mendoca at another, destroyed all those islanders with the sword; and the king of jafanatapan being himself taken, together with his eldest son, was put to death in his own palace; as if the divine justice had not deferred the death of this persecutor, but only to render it more terrible, and more memorable. father xavier was very desirous of returning to travancore; but the winds blew so contrary, that they always drove him from the coast. by this he judged that god had called him to some other place; and thereupon formed a resolution of carrying the light of the gospel from isle to isle, and from kingdom to kingdom, even to the utmost limits of the east. the news he heard, during his navigation, caused him suddenly to cast his thoughts on an island situate under the equinoctial, betwixt the moluccas and borneo, stretched in length two hundred leagues from north to south, and divided into sundry kingdoms, called by the geographers celebes, by the historians macassar, from the names of the two capital cities, of the two principal kingdoms; as to the rest, well peopled, and abounding in all sorts of riches. it was related to him, that about the year , two brothers, both idolaters, as were all the inhabitants of macassar, going on their private business to ternate, the chief of the moluccas, had some conference, relating to religion, with the governor, antonio galvan, a portuguese, one of the most famous warriors of his age, and celebrated in history both for his piety and valour: that having learnt from him the vanity of their idols, they embraced the christian faith, and at their baptism took the names of antonio and michael: that being returned into their country, they themselves taught publicly the faith of jesus christ: that all their countrymen, with one accord, sent their ambassadors to the governor of ternate, desiring him to send them some to instruct them in the principles of faith; and that the heads of this embassy were the two brothers, known to galvan: that these ambassadors found a very kind reception; and that for want of a priest, galvan gave them a soldier for their teacher, whose name was francis de castro; a man knowing in religion, and of exemplary piety. in conclusion, that castro, who was thus chosen to instruct that people, embarking for macassar, was driven by a tempest another way. besides this, xavier was likewise informed, that not long before, a portuguese merchant, called antonio payva, going to macassar in the name of ruys vaz pereyra, captain of malacca, for a ship's lading of sandal, a precious wood growing in that island, the king of supa, which is one of the kingdoms of macassar, came in person to see him, and asked divers questions relating to the christian faith: that this honest merchant, better acquainted with his traffic than his religion, yet answered very pertinently, and discoursed of the mysteries of faith after so reasonable a manner, that the king, then threescore years of age, was converted, with all his family and court: that another king of the same island, called the king of sion, followed his example; and that these two princes, who were solemnly baptized by the hand of payva, not being able to retain him with them, desired him to send them some priests, who might administer the sacraments, and baptize their subjects. these pious inclinations appeared to father xavier as an excellent groundwork for the planting of the gospel. he wept for joy at the happy news; and adored the profound judgments of the divine providence, which, after having refused the grace of baptism to the king of travancore, when all his subjects had received it, began the conversion of sion and of supa by that of their sovereigns. he even believed, that his evangelical ministry exacted from him, to put the last hand to the conversion of those kingdoms. in the mean time, he thought it his duty, that, before he resolved on the voyage of macassar, he should ask advice from heaven concerning it; and to perform it as he ought, it came into his mind to implore the enlightnings of god's spirit at the sepulchre of st thomas, the ancient founder, and first father of christianity in the indies, whom he had taken for his patron and his guide, in the course of all his travels. he therefore resolved to go in pilgrimage to meliapor, which is distant but fifty leagues from negatapan, where the wind had driven him back. and embarking in the ship of michael pereyra, on palm-sunday, which fell that year, , on the th of march, they shaped their course along-the coasts of coromandel, having at first a favourable wind; but they had not made above twelve or thirteen leagues, when the weather changed on a sudden, and the sea became so rough, that they were forced to make to land, and cast anchor under covert of a mountain, to put their ship into some reasonable security. they lay there for seven days together, in expectation of a better wind; and all that time the holy man passed in contemplation, without taking any nourishment, either of meat or drink, as they observed who were in the vessel with him, and as james madeira, who was a witness of it, has deposed in form of law. he only drank on easter-eve, and that at the request of the said madeira, a little water, in which an onion had been boiled, according to his own direction. on that very day, the wind came about into a favourable quarter, and the sea grew calm, so that they weighed anchor, and continued their voyage. but xavier, to whom god daily imparted more and more of the spirit of prophecy, foreseeing a furious tempest, which was concealed under that fallacious calm, asked the pilot, "if his ship were strong enough to endure the violence of bad weather, and ride out a storm?" the pilot confessed she was not, as being an old crazy vessel. "then," said xavier, "it were good to carry her back into the port." "how, father francis," said the pilot, "are you fearful with so fair a wind? you may assure yourself of good weather by all manner of signs, and any little bark may be in safety." it was in vain for the saint to press him farther, not to believe those deceitful appearances; neither would the passengers follow his advice, but they soon repented of their neglect. for far they had not gone, when a dreadful wind arose, the sea was on a foam, and mounted into billows. the ship was not able to withstand the tempest, and was often in danger of sinking, and the mariners were constrained to make towards the port of negapatan, from whence they set out, which, with much ado, they at length recovered. the impatience of father xavier to visit the tomb of the apostle st thomas, caused him to make his pilgrimage by land; and he travelled with so much ardour, through the rough and uncouth ways, that in few days he arrived at meliapor. that city is now commonly known by the name of st thomas; because that blessed apostle lived so long in it, and there suffered martyrdom. if we will give credit to the inhabitants, it was once almost swallowed by the sea; and for proof of this tradition, there are yet to be seen under water, the ruins of great buildings. the new town of meliapor was built by the portuguese; near the walls there is a hill, which they called the little mount, and in it a grotto, wherein they say st thomas hid himself during the persecution. at the entry of this cave there is a cross cut in the rock; and at the foot of the mountain there arises a spring, the waters of which are of such virtue, that sick people drinking of them are ordinarily cured. from this small ascent you pass to a higher and much larger mountain, which seems formed by nature for a lonely contemplative life; for on one side it looks upon the sea, and on the other is covered with old trees, always green, which at once make a fruitful and a pleasing object. hither st thomas retired to pray with his disciples; and here it was also that he was slain by a brachman with the thrust of a spear. the portuguese, who rebuilt meliapor, found on the top of the mountain a little chapel, of stonework, all in ruins. they were desirous to repair it, in memory of the holy apostle; and, as they were rummaging all about, even to the foundations of it, they drew out a white marble, whereon was a cross, with characters graved round about it, which declared, "that god was born of the virgin mary; that this god was eternal; that the same god taught his law to his twelve apostles; and that one of them came to meliapor with a palmer's staff in his hand; that he built a church there; that the kings of malabar, coromandel, and pandi, with many other nations, submitted themselves to the law preached by st thomas, a man holy and penitent." this marble, of which we make mention, having on it divers stains of blood, the common opinion is, that the apostle suffered martyrdom upon it. howsoever it be, the marble was placed upon the altar when the chapel was rebuilt; and the first time that a solemn mass was said there, the cross distilled some drops of blood, in the sight of all the people; which also happened many times in the following years, on the day whereon his martyrdom is celebrated. when xavier was come into the town, the vicar of meliapor, who had heard speak of him as a successor of the apostles, and a man sent from god, for the conversion of the indies, came to offer him a lodging in his house. the father accepted of it, because it was adjoining to the church, wherein were kept the relicks of st thomas; and that he could easily step from thence by night, to consult the will of god concerning his intended voyage to macassar. in effect, as soon as the vicar was laid to sleep, for they were lodged in the same chamber, xavier rose as softly as he could, and went to the church, through a church-yard which parted it from the house. the vicar perceived it, and advertised xavier, that this passage was not over-safe by night, and that horrible phantoms had been often seen in it. the saint believed this only said to frighten him, and hinder him from rising before day; so he continued his usual prayers; but it was not long before he found that the advice was true: for, the nights ensuing, as he passed through the church-yard, he saw those dreadful spectres, which endeavoured to have stopped him; yet he saved himself from them, and even laughed at them as vain illusions. the demons are too proud to bear contempt without revenge, when god permits them. one night, when the saint was at his devotions before the image of the blessed virgin, they assaulted him in great numbers, and beat him so violently, that he was all over bruised, and forced to keep his bed for some days together. he said nothing of his adventure to the vicar; but it was discovered by a young man of malabar, who lodged near the church, and was awakened with the noise; rising from his bed, he heard the blows distinctly, and what father xavier said to the holy virgin, invoking her assistance against the infernal powers, insomuch, that the vicar, to whom the young man had related the words which he had heard, sometimes repeated them to xavier with an inoffensive kind of raillery. the servant of god having recovered some little strength, returned to the church, and there continued all the night. what rage soever the devils had against him, they durst no more attempt his person, nor so much as endeavour to affright him. they only made a noise to distract him in his prayers; and one time, disguised in the habit of canons, they counterfeited so well the midnight matins, that he asked the vicar, "who were those chanters who sung so admirably?" but the favours which xavier received from heaven, made him large amends for all the injuries of hell; for though the particulars of what passed betwixt god and him were kept secret, it is known, at least in regard of the principal affair, for which he consulted god, that he had an interior light, which gave him clearly to understand, that he was commanded to pass to the more southern islands, and to labour in their conversion. the christian, strength, with which he found himself animated at the same time, caused all the dangers, which naturally he might apprehend, to disappear, as is manifest by what he wrote from meliapor on that occasion, to two of his friends at goa, paul de camerin, and james borba, of whom we have made so frequent mention. "i hope that god will confer many favours on me in this voyage; since, through his infinite mercy, i have learned, with so much spiritual joy, that it is his holy pleasure i should go to those kingdoms of macassar, where so many christians have been made in these latter years. for what remains, i am so much resolved on executing what our lord has revealed to me, that if i should be wanting on my part, i should go, to my thinking, in direct opposition to his orders, and render myself unworthy of his favour, both in this life and in the next. if i cannot find this year any portuguese vessel bound for malacca, i will embark myself on any ship belonging to the gentiles or the saracens. i repose, withal, so great a confidence in god, for the love of whom i undertake this voyage, that if there should only pass this way some little bark of malacca, i should go aboard without the least deliberation. all my hope is in god; and i conjure you by his love, to remember always in your prayers so great a sinner as myself." though his intentions in coming to meliapor were only to receive the instructions of heaven in his solitude, yet he employed some part of his time in the good of others. his holy life gave a lustre and value to his discourse; and the sight of him alone was of efficacy to touch the heart. the people had received it as a maxim, "that whoever followed not the counsel of father francis, should die an enemy of god." and they related the unhappy end of some sinners, who, being urged by xavier to make a speedy repentance, had deferred the work of their conversion. this popular opinion contributed much to the change of manners in the town; and the fear of a disastrous death served frequently to break off in one moment the criminal commerce of many years. there was in meliapor a portuguese gentleman, who lived a debauched and scandalous life. his house was a seraglio, in little; and the greatest part of his business was making a collection of beautiful slaves. xavier went one day to visit him about dinner time: "are you willing," said the father, "that we should begin an acquaintance by dining together?" the portuguese was somewhat discomposed, both at the visit and the compliment; yet he forced himself into good humour, and made shew of being very glad of the honour which the father had done him. while they were at table, xavier spoke not one word to him concerning his debauchery, and only entertained him with ordinary talk, though they had been served by young damsels whose habit was not over modest, and whose air was very impudent. he continued in the same way he had began, after they were risen from dinner, and, in conclusion, took his leave, without making him the least reproach. the gentleman, surprised at the conduct of father francis, believed his silence to be a bad omen to him; and that he had nothing else to expect but an unhappy death, and a more unhappy eternity. in this thought, he went with all diligence to find the father, and falling down before him, "your silence," said he, "has spoken powerfully to my heart: i have not enjoyed one moment of repose since you parted from me: ah, father, if my everlasting damnation be not already fixed, i put myself into your hands; do with me what you shall judge necessary for the salvation of my soul, behold me ready to pay you a blind obedience." xavier embraced him; and after he had given him to understand that the mercies of the lord are infinite, that it is our duty never to despair, that he who sometimes refuses to sinners the hour of repentance, always grants pardon to the penitent; he caused him to put away those occasions of his sin, and disposed him to a general confession, the fruit of which was a chaste and christian life. in short, the father did what he could desire to be done at meliapor; and witnesses of known integrity have deposed on oath, that he left the town so different from what it was, at his coming thither, that it was hardly to be known for the same place; which also gave him so entire a satisfaction, that giving it a thousand benedictions, he said that there was not in all the indies a more christian town. and at the same time he prophecied, that one day it should become flourishing and wealthy; which prediction was accomplished some few years afterward. though all these conversions drew the public veneration on father francis, it seemed that god took pleasure in making the name of his servant yet more illustrious, by certain wonderful events. a merchant of meliapor being just ready to embark for malacca, went to take his leave of him. in receiving his blessing, he begged of him some little token of his friendship. the father, who was very poor, could find nothing to give him but the chaplet which was hanging at his neck: "this chaplet,"[ ] said he to the merchant, "shall not be unprofitable to you, provided you repose your trust in the virgin mary." the merchant went away in full assurance of the divine protection, and without fear of pirates, winds, or rocks; but god would make a trial of his faith. he had already almost crossed, without the least hazard, the great gulph which is betwixt meliapor and malacca, when suddenly there blew a furious storm, the sails were torn, the rudder broken, and the mast came by the board, and the vessel afterwards being driven against the rocks, was split: the greatest part of the seamen and passengers were drowned; some of them held upon the rocks, where they were cast away, and the merchant himself was of that number; but, being upon the wide sea, and not having wherewithal to supply nature, to avoid dying by hunger, they took a resolution which only despair could have inspired; having gathered up some floating planks of their wrecked vessel, and joining them together the best they could, they put themselves upon them, and abandoned their safety to the mercy of the waves, without other hope than of lighting on some current which might possibly carry them on shore. [footnote : or beads.] the merchant, full of confidence in the blessed virgin, had still preserved the chaplet of xavier, and feared not drowning while he held it in his hand. the float of planks was hardly adrift upon the waves, when he found he was transported out of himself, and believed he was at meliapor with father francis. returning from his extacy, he was strangely surprised to find himself on an unknown coast, and not to see about him the companions of his fortunes, nor the planks to which he had entrusted his life. he understood, from some people who casually came that way, that it was the coast of negapatan, and, in a transport mixed with joy and amazement, he told them, in how miraculous a manner god had delivered him from death. another portuguese, by profession a soldier, called jerome fernandez de mendoza, received a considerable assistance from xavier, in a different manner, but full as marvellous. fernandez, having put off from the coast of coromandel, in a ship belonging to him, wherein was all his wealth, to go to another coast more westward, was taken near the cape of comorin, by the malabar pirates, equally covetous and cruel. to save his life, in losing his goods, he threw himself into the sea, and was happy enough, in spite of his ill fortune, to swim to land, on the coast of meliapor. meeting there father francis, he related his misfortune to him, and begged an alms. the father was almost sorry, at that time, for his being so poor himself, that he had not wherewithal to relieve the miserable man; yet he put his hand into his pocket, as if he were searching there for something, but finding nothing, he lifted up his eyes to heaven, and afterwards turning to fernandez, with looks full of compassion, "have courage, brother," said he to him, "heaven will provide for you." after which, walking forward four or five paces, he once more put his hands into his pockets, and pulled out fifty pieces of gold: "receive," added he, "what heaven sends you; make use of it, but speak not of it." the surprise and joy of fernandez were so great, that it was impossible for him to keep silence. he published, in all places, the bounty of his benefactor; and the pieces of gold were found to be so pure and fine, that it was not doubted but they were miraculous. but perhaps nothing is more admirable, than what passed betwixt the father and john duro, or deyro, as some have called him. he was a man of about five-and-thirty years of age, who had formerly borne arms; afterwards became a merchant and owner of a ship, very wealthy and fortunate in all his traffic; all which notwithstanding, he was ill satisfied with the world, uneasy to himself, unquiet in the midst of all his wealth, and persuaded that god alone could content his soul. he went one day to see the holy man, and told him, that for many years he had a desire of changing his condition, and of serving god as perfectly as he was able, but that two reasons had always hindered him: the one was, that he never yet could meet with any person, who was capable of shewing him the way of perfection; the other was, that he was afraid of falling into poverty. he added, that he was now out of pain concerning those two points. that for the first, he hoped he should walk surely in the way of heaven, having so able a guide as he; and for the second, he had got sufficiently for his maintenance in an honest and comfortable way, during the remainder of his life. he begged leave of father xavier, that he might follow him, and promised, on all occasions, to defray his charges. the father made deyro understand, how far he was yet from the kingdom of heaven; that, to arrive at perfection, he must perform what our saviour counselled the young man, who seemed willing to follow him, that is to say, he must practise these words in the literal sense, "sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor." deyro, thus undeceived, immediately desired the father to take all his goods, and distribute them amongst the poor; but the father would neither do what deyro had proposed to him, nor permit that he should himself dispose of any thing, before he had made confession to him. foreseeing, without doubt, that being so rich, he should be obliged to make restitution of some part of that which he had gained. the confession of the merchant was three days in making; after which, having sold his ship and his merchandise, he restored what he had got unjustly, and gave great alms. and in consequence of this, under the direction of the saint, he gave himself to the exercises of piety and penitence, thereby to lay a solid foundation of that perfection to which he aspired. but these fair beginnings were not attended with any answerable fruit; and that spirit of retirement, of mortification, and of poverty, was soon extinguished in a man accustomed to the turmoils of the world, who had always lived in plenty, and who passionately loved his profit. he returned to the thoughts of his former condition, and having recovered some jewels, and bought a small vessel in secret, he set himself to follow his former way of living. when he was just on the point of setting sail, a catechist, called antonio, came and told him, that father xavier desired to speak with him. deyro, who thought of nothing more than of making his escape, and who had not entrusted his design to the knowledge of any person, made as if he took him for another. but antonio persisting in it, that it was himself whom the father meant, he durst not dissemble any longer, and went to find him; resolved, however, of denying all, as thinking the father at most could have but a bare suspicion of his change and intended flight. he therefore assumed an air of confidence, and presented himself boldly before the saint; but god had given him knowledge of deyro's intentions. "you have sinned," said xavier, as soon as he beheld him; "you have sinned." these few words so deeply struck him, that he threw himself at the feet of the father, all trembling, and crying out, "it is true, my father, i have sinned:" "penitence then, my son," replied the father, "penitence!" deyro confessed himself immediately, went to sell off his ship, and distributed all the money to the poor. he returned afterwards, and put himself once more under the conduct of the father, with a firm resolution of following his counsels more sincerely, and of serving god more faithfully. how unfeigned soever the repentance of deyro seemed, xavier had no confidence in it; and these new fervours were suspected by him. he would not receive him into the company of jesus, which requires solid spirits, and such as are firm to their vocation. yet he refused not to admit him for his companion, in quality of a catechist, and carried him with him to malacca: for having continued four months at meliapor, he parted thence in september , notwithstanding the tears of the people, who were desirous of retaining him; and held the course of malacca, designing from thence to pass to macassar. before he went on board, he wrote to father paul de camerine at goa, that when the fathers of the society, who were daily expected from portugal, should arrive, two of those new missioners should accompany the princes of jafanatapan, whensoever the portuguese should think fit to re-establish the lawful king. for there was a report, that the expedition should be renewed, which a base interest had set aside. but this project was not put in execution; and both the princes died, one after the other, in less than two years after their conversion, which was only profitable to their souls. while the ship that carried xavier was crossing the gulph of ceylon, an occasion of charity was offered to the saint, which he would not suffer to escape. the mariners and soldiers passed their lime, according to their custom, in playing at cards. two soldiers set themselves to it, more out of avarice than pleasure, and one of them played with such ill fortune, that he lost not only all his own money, but the stock which others had put into his hands to traffic for them. having nothing more to lose, he withdrew, cursing his luck, and blaspheming god. his despair prevailed so far over him, that he had thrown himself into the sea, or run upon the point of his sword, if he had not been prevented. xavier had notice of these his mad intentions and execrable behaviour, and immediately came to his relief. he embraced him tenderly, and said all he could to comfort him; but the soldier, who was still in the transports of his fury, thrust him away, and forbore not even ill language to him. xavier stood recollected for some time, imploring god's assistance and counsel; then went and borrowed fifty royals of a passenger, brought them to the soldier, and advised him once more to try his fortune. at this the soldier took heart, and played so luckily, that he recovered all his losses with great advantage. the saint, who looked on, took out of the overplus of the winnings, what he had borrowed for him; and seeing the gamester now returned to a calm temper, wrought upon him so successfully, that he, who before refused to hear him, was now overpowered by his discourse, never after handled cards, and became exemplary in his life. they arrived at malacca the th of september. as this is one of those places in the indies, where the saint, whose life i write, had most business, and whither he made many voyages, it will not be unprofitable to say somewhat of it. it is situate beyond the gulph of bengal, towards the head of that great peninsula, which, from the mouth of the ara, is extended to the south, almost to the equinoctial line; and is of two degrees and a half of elevation, over against the island of sumatra, which the ancients, who had not frequented this channel, believed to be joined to the continent. malacca was under the dominion of the kings of siam, until the saracens, who traded thither, becoming powerful, first made it mahometan, then caused it to revolt against the lawful prince, and set up a monarch of their own sect, called mahomet. there was not, at that time, any more famous mart town than this, and where there was a greater concourse of different nations. for, besides the people of guzuratte, aracan, malabar, pegu, sumatra, java, and the moluccas, the arabs, the persians, the chinese, and the japonians, trafficked there; and accordingly the town lay extended all along by the sea side, for the convenience of trade. amongst all the nations of asia there is not any more inclined to pleasure; and this seems chiefly to proceed from the mild temper of the air. for there is an eternal spring, notwithstanding the neighbourhood of the line. the inhabitants follow the natural bent of their complexion; their whole business is perfumes, feasts, and music; to say nothing of carnal pleasures, to which they set no bound. even the language which they speak participates of the softness of the country: it is called the malaya tongue, and, of all the orient, it is the most delicate and sweet of pronunciation. don alphonso albuquerque conquered malacca in the year , and thirty thousand men, with eight thousand pieces of artillery, and an infinite number of elephants and ships, were not able to defend it. it was taken by force, at the second assault, by eight hundred brave portuguese, seconded by some few malabars. it was given up to pillage for three days; and the moor king, after all his endeavours, was forced to fly with only fifty horsemen to attend him. the portuguese built a citadel, which the succeeding governors took care to fortify; yet not so strongly, as to be proof against the attempts of the barbarians, who many times attacked it, and half ruined it. as soon as xavier came on shore, he went to visit the governor of the town, to inform him of his intended voyage to macassar. the governor told him, that he had lately sent thither a priest of holy life, with some portuguese soldiers, and that he expected to hear of them very suddenly: that, in the mean time, he was of opinion, that the father and his companion should stay at malacca, till the present condition of the christians in macassar were fully known. xavier gave credit to the governor, and retired to the hospital, which he had chosen for the place of his abode. the people ran in crowds to behold the countenance of that great apostle, whose fame was spread through all the indies, and over all the east. the parents showed him to their children; and it was observed, that the man of god, in caressing those little portuguese, called every one of them by their proper names, as if he had been of their acquaintance, and were not a stranger newly come on shore. for what remains, he found the town in a most horrible corruption of manners. the portuguese who lived there, at a distance both from the bishop and the viceroy of the indies, committed all manner of crimes, without fear of laws, either ecclesiastical or civil. avarice, intemperance, uncleanness, and forgetfulness of god, were every where predominant; and the habit only, or rather the excess and number of their vices, distinguished the christians from the unbelievers. this terrible prospect of a sinful town, gave xavier to comprehend, that his stay in malacca was necessary, and might possibly turn to a good account; but before he would undertake the reformation of a town so universally corrupted, he employed some days in serving of the sick; he passed many nights in prayer, and performed extraordinary austerities. after these preparatives, he began his public instructions, according to the methods which he had frequently practised at goa. walking the streets at evening with his bell in his hand, he cried, with a loud voice, "pray to god for those who are in the state of mortal sin;" and by this, he brought into the minds of sinners, the remembrance and consideration of their offences. for, seeing the ill habits of their minds, and that the disease was like to be inflamed, if violent remedies were applied, he tempered more than ever the ardour of his zeal. though he had naturally a serene countenance, and was of a pleasing conversation, yet all the charms of his good humour seemed to be redoubled at malacca, insomuch, that his companion, john deyro, could not but wonder at his gaiety and soft behaviour. by this procedure, the apostle gained the hearts of all and became in some manner, lord of the city. at the very first, he rooted out an established custom, which permitted the young maids to go in the habit of boys whenever they pleased, which occasioned a world of scandal. he drove out of doors the concubines, or turned them into lawful wives, according to his former method. as for the children, who had no knowledge of god, and who learnt songs of ribaldry and obsceneness as soon as they began to speak, he formed them so well in a little time, that they publicly recited the christian doctrine, and set up little altars in the streets, about which they sung together the hymns of the catholic church. but that in which he was most successful, was to restore the practice of confession, which was almost entirely lost. but now men and women crowded the tribunal of holy penitence, and the father was not able to supply the necessities of so many. he laboured in the knowledge of the malaya tongue, which is spoken in all the isles beyond malacca, and is as it were the universal language. his first care was to have a little catechism translated into it, being the same he had composed on the coast of fishery; together with a more ample instruction, which treated of the principal duties of christianity. he learnt all this without book; and, to make himself the better understood, he took a particular care of the pronunciation. with these helps, and the assistance of interpreters, who were never wanting to him at his need, he converted many idolaters, as also mahometans and jews; amongst the rest, a famous rabbi, who made a public adjuration of judaism. this rabbi, who before had taken for so many fables, or juggling tricks, all those wonders which are reported to have been done by xavier, now acknowledged them for truths by the evidence of his own eyes: for the saint never wrought so many miracles as at malacca. the juridical depositions of witnesses then living, have assured us, that all sick persons whom he did but touch, were immediately cured, and that his hands had an healing virtue against all distempers. one of his most famous cures, was that of antonio fernandez, a youth not above fifteen years of age, who was sick to death. his mother, a christian by profession, but not without some remainders of paganism in her heart, seeing that all natural remedies were of no effect, had recourse to certain enchantments frequently practised amongst the heathens, and sent for an old sorceress, who was called nai. the witch made her magical operations on a lace braided of many threads, and tied it about the arm of the patient. but instead of the expected cure, fernandez lost his speech, and was taken with such violent convulsions, that the physicians were called again, who all despaired of his recovery. it was expected every moment he should breath his last, when a christian lady, who happened to come in, said to the mother of the dying youth, "why do you not send for the holy father? he will infallibly cure him." she gave credit to her words, and sent for xavier. he was immediately there: fernandez, who had lost his senses, and lay gasping in death, began to cry out, and make violent motions, so soon as the father had set his foot within the doors; but when he came into the room, and stood before the youth, he fell into howlings and dreadful wreathings of his body, which redoubled at the sight of the cross that was presented to him. xavier doubted not but there was something of extraordinary in his disease, nor even that god, for the punishment of the mother, who had made use of diabolical remedies, had delivered her son to the evil spirits. he fell on his knees by the bed-side, read aloud the passion of our lord, hung his reliquiary about the neck of the sick person, and sprinkled him with holy water. this made the fury of the devil cease; and the young man, half dead, lay without motion as before. then xavier rising up, "get him somewhat to eat," said he, and told them what nourishment he thought proper for him. after which, addressing himself to the father of the youth, "when your son," added he, "shall be in condition to walk, lead him yourself, for nine days successively, to the church of our lady of the mount, where to-morrow i will say mass for him." after this he departed, and the next day, while he was celebrating the divine sacrifice, fernandez on the sudden came to himself, spoke very sensibly, and perfectly recovered his former health. but how wonderful soever the cure of this youth appeared in the eyes of all men, the resurrection of a young maid was of greater admiration. xavier was gone on a little journey, somewhere about the neighbourhood of malacca, to do a work of charity when this girl died. her mother, who had been in search of the holy man during her daughter's sickness, came to him after his return, and throwing herself at his feet all in tears, said almost the same words to him which martha said formerly to our lord, "that if he had been in town, she, who was now dead, had been alive; but if he would call upon the name of jesus christ, the dead might be restored to life." xavier was overjoyed to behold so great faith in a woman, who was but lately baptized, and judged her worthy of that blessing which she begged. after having lifted up his eyes to heaven, and silently prayed to god some little space, he turned towards her, and said to her, with much assurance, "go, your daughter is alive." the poor mother seeing the saint offered not to go with her to the place of burial, replied, betwixt hope and fear, "that it was three days since her daughter was interred." "it is no matter," answered xavier, "open the sepulchre, and you shall find her living." the mother, without more reply, ran, full of confidence, to the church, and, in presence of many persons, having caused the grave-stone to be removed, found her daughter living. while these things passed at malacca, a ship from goa brought letters to father xavier from italy and portugal; which informed him of the happy progress of the society of jesus, and what it had already performed in germany for the public service of the church. he was never weary of reading those letters; he kissed them, and bedewed them with his tears, imagining himself either with his brethren in europe, or them present with himself in asia. he had news at the same time, that there was arrived a supply of three missioners, whom father ignatius had sent him; and that don john de castro, who succeeded alphonso de sosa, in the government of the indies, had brought them in his company. these missioners were antonio criminal, nicholas lancilotti, and john beyra, all three priests; the two first italians, and the last a spaniard: apostolical men, and of eminent virtue, particularly criminal, who, of all the children of ignatius, was the first who was honoured with the crown of martyrdom. xavier disposed of them immediately, commanding, by his letters, "that lancilotti should remain in the seminary of holy faith, there to instruct the young indians in the knowledge of the latin tongue, and that the other two should go to accompany francis mansilla on the coast of fishery." for himself, having waited three months for news from macassar, when he saw the season proper for the return of the ship, which the governor of malacca had sent, was now expired, and that no vessel was come from those parts, he judged, that providence would not make use of him at present, for the instruction of those people, who had a priest already with them. nevertheless, that he might be more at hand to succour them, whenever it pleased god to furnish him with an occasion, it was in his thoughts to go to the neighbouring islands of that coast, which were wholly destitute of gospel ministers. god almighty at that time revealed to him the calamities which threatened malacca; both the pestilence and the war, with which it was to be afflicted in the years ensuing; and the utter desolation, to which it should one day be reduced for the punishment of its crimes. for the inhabitants, who, since the arrival of the father, had reformed their mariners, relapsed insensibly into their vices, and became more dissolute than ever, as it commonly happens to men of a debauched life, who constrain themselves for a time, and whom the force of ill habits draws backward into sin. xavier failed not to denounce the judgments of god to them, and to exhort them to piety, for their own interest. but his threatenings and exhortations were of no effect: and this it was that made him say of malacca the quite contrary of what he had said concerning meliapor, that he had not seen, in all the indies, a more wicked town. he embarked for amboyna the st of january, , with john deyro, in a ship which was bound for the isle of banda. the captain of the vessel was a portuguese; the rest, as well mariners as soldiers, were indians; all of them almost of several countries, and the greatest part mahometans, or gentiles. the saint converted them to jesus christ during the voyage; and what convinced the infidels of the truth of christianity, was, that when father xavier expounded to them the mysteries of christianity in one tongue, they understood him severally, each in his own language, as if he had spoken at once in many tongues. they had been already six weeks at sea, without discovering amboyna; the pilot was of opinion they had passed it, and was in pain concerning it, not knowing how to tack about, because they had a full fore-wind. xavier perceiving the trouble of the pilot, "do not vex yourself," said he, "we are yet in the gulph; and to-morrow, at break of day, we shall be in view of amboyna." in effect, at the time mentioned, the next morning, they saw that island. the pilot being unwilling to cast anchor, father xavier, with some of the passengers, were put into a skiff, and the ship pursued its course. when the skiff was almost ready to land, two light vessels of pirates, which usually cruised on that coast, appeared on the sudden, and pursued them swiftly. not hoping any succour from the ship, which was already at a great distance from them, and being also without defence, they were forced to put off from shore, and ply their oars towards the main sea, insomuch that the pirates soon lost sight of them. after they had escaped the danger, they durst not make to land again, for fear the two vessels should lie in wait to intercept them at their return. but the father assured the mariners, they had no further cause of fear: turning therefore towards the island, they landed there in safety, on the th of february. the isle of amboyna is distant from malacca about two hundred and fifty leagues; it is near thirty leagues in compass, and is famous for the concourse of merchants, who frequent it from all parts. the portuguese, who conquered it during the time that antonio galvan was governor of ternate, had a garrison in it; besides which, there were in the island seven villages of christians, natives of the place, but without any priest, because the only one in the island was just dead. xavier began to visit these villages, and immediately baptized many infants, who died suddenly after they were christened. "as if," says he himself in one of his letters, "the divine providence had only so far prolonged their lives, till the gate of heaven were opened to them." having been informed, that sundry of the inhabitants had retired themselves from the sea-side into the midst of the woods, and caves of the mountains, to shelter themselves from the rage of the barbarians, their neighbours and their enemies, who robbed the coasts, and put to the sword, or made slaves of all who fell into their hands, he went in search of those poor savages, amidst the horror of their rocks and forests; and lived with them as much as was necessary, to make them understand the duties of christianity, of which the greatest part of them was ignorant. after having instructed the faithful, he applied himself to preach the gospel to the idolaters and moors; and god so blessed the endeavours of his servant, that the greatest part of the island became christians. he built churches in every village, and made choice of the most reasonable, the most able, and the most fervent, to be masters over the rest, till there should arrive a supply of missioners. to which purpose he wrote to goa, and commanded paul de camerine to send him francis mansilla, john beyra, and one or two more of the first missioners which should arrive from europe: he charged mansilla, in particular, to come. his design was to establish in one of those isles a house of the company, which should send out continual supplies of labourers, for the publication of the gospel, through all that archipelago. while xavier laboured in this manner at amboyna, two naval armies arrived there; one of portugal with three ships, the other of spaniards with six men of war. the spaniards were come from nueva espagna, or mexico, for the conquest of the moluccas, in the name of the emperor charles the fifth, as they pretended; but their enterprise succeeded not. after two years cruising, and long stay with the king of tidore, who received them, to give jealousy to the portuguese, who were allied to the king of ternate, his enemy, they took their way by amboyna, to pass into the indies, and from thence to europe. they were engaged in an unjust expedition against the rights of portugal, and without order from charles the fifth; for that emperor, to whom king john the third addressed his complaints thereupon, disavowed the proceedings of his subjects, and gave permission, that they should be used like pirates. yet the portuguese proceeded not against them with that severity. but it seems that god revenged their quarrel, in afflicting the spaniards with a contagious fever, which destroyed the greatest part of their fleet. it was a sad spectacle to behold the mariners and soldiers, lying here and there in their ships, or on the shore, in cabins, covered only with leaves. the disease which consumed them, kept all men at a distance from them; and the more necessity they had of succour, the less they found from the people of the island. at the first report which came to xavier of this pestilence, he left all things to relieve them; and it is scarce to be imagined, to what actions his charity led him on this occasion. he was day and night in a continual motion, at the same time administering to their bodies and their souls; assisting the dying, burying the dead, and interring them even with his own hands. as the sick bad neither food nor physic, he procured both for them from every side; and he who furnished him the most, was a portuguese, called john d'araus, who came in his company from malacca to amboyna. nevertheless the malady still increasing day by day, araus began to fear he should impoverish himself by these charities; and from a tender-hearted man, became so hard, that nothing more was to be squeezed out of him. one day xavier sent to him for some wine, for a sick man who had continual faintings: araus gave it, but with great reluctance, and charged the messenger to trouble him no more; that he had need of the remainder for his own use; and when his own was at an end, whither should he go for a supply? these words were no sooner related to father francis, than inflamed with a holy indignation, "what," says he, "does araus think of keeping his wine for himself, and refusing it to the members of jesus christ! the end of his life is very near, and after his death all his estate shall be distributed amongst the poor." he denounced death to him with his own mouth; and the event verified the prediction, as the sequel will make manifest. though the pestilence was not wholly ceased, and many sick were yet aboard the vessels, the spanish fleet set sail for goa, forced to it by the approach of winter, which begins about may in those quarters. father xavier made provisions for the necessities of the soldiers, and furnished them, before their departure, with all he could obtain from the charity of the portuguese. he recommended them likewise to the charity of his friends at malacca, where the navy was to touch; and wrote to father paul de camerine at goa, that he should not fail to lodge in the college of the company, those religious of the order of st augustin, who came along with the army from mexico, and that he should do them all the good offices, which their profession, and their virtue, claimed from him. after the spaniards were departed, xavier made some little voyages to places near adjoining to amboyna; and visited some islands, which were half unpeopled, and desart, waiting the convenience of a ship to transport him to the moluccas, which are nearer to macassar than amboyna. one of those isles is baranura, where he miraculously recovered his crucifix, in the manner i am going to relate, according to the account which was given of it by a portuguese, called fausto rodriguez, who was a witness of the fact, has deposed it upon oath, and whose juridical testimony is in the process of the saint's canonization. "we were at sea," says rodriguez, "father francis, john raposo, and myself, when there arose a tempest, which alarmed all the mariners. then the father drew from his bosom a little crucifix, which he always carried about him, and leaning over deck, intended to have dipt it into the sea; but the crucifix dropt out of his hand, and was carried off by the waves. this loss very sensibly afflicted him, and he concealed not his sorrow from us. the next morning we landed on the island of baranura; from the time when the crucifix was lost, to that of our landing, it was near twenty-four hours, during which we were in perpetual danger. being on shore, father francis and i walked along by the sea side, towards the town of tamalo, and had already walked about paces, when both of us beheld, arising out of the sea, a crab-fish, which carried betwixt his claws the same crucifix raised on high. i saw the crab-fish come directly to the father, by whose side i was, and stopped before him. the father, falling on his knees, took his crucifix, after which the crab-fish returned into the sea. but the father still continuing in the same humble posture, hugging and kissing the crucifix, was half an hour praying with his hands across his breast, and myself joining with him in thanksgiving to god for so evident a miracle; after which we arose, and continued on our way." thus you have the relation of rodriguez. they staid eight days upon the island, and afterwards set sail for rosalao, where xavier preached at his first coming, as he had done at baranura. but the idolaters, who inhabited these two islands, being extremely vicious, altogether brutal, and having nothing of human in them besides the figure, gave no credit to his words; and only one man amongst them, more reasonable than all the rest, believed in jesus christ. insomuch, that the holy apostle, at his departure from rosalao, took off his shoes, and shook off the dust, that he might not carry any thing away with him, which belonged to that execrable land. truly speaking, the conversion of that one man was worth that of many. the saint gave him in baptism his own name of francis; and foretold him, that he should die most piously, in calling upon the name of jesus. the prophecy was taken notice of, which has recommended the fame of this new convert to posterity, and which was not accomplished till after forty years. for this christian, forsaking his barbarous island, and turning soldier, served the portuguese, on divers occasions, till in the year he was wounded to death in a battle given by don sancho vasconcellos, governor of amboyna, who made war with the saracen hiamo. francis was carried off into the camp; and many, as well indians as portuguese, came about him, to see the accomplishment of the prediction, made by the blessed francis xavier. all of them beheld the soldier dying, with extraordinary signs of piety, and crying, without ceasing, "jesus, assist me!" the island of ulate, which is better peopled, and less savage than those of baranura and rosalao, was not so deaf nor so rebellious to the voice of the holy man. he found it all in arms, and the king of it besieged in his town, ready to be surrendered, neither through want of courage, nor of defendants, but of water; because the enemy had cut off the springs, and there was no likelihood of rain; insomuch, that during the great heats, both men and horses were in danger of perishing by thirst. the opportunity appeared favourable to father xavier, for gaining the vanquished party to jesus christ, and perhaps all the conquerors. full of a noble confidence in god, he found means to get into the town; and being presented to the king, offered to supply him with what he most wanted. "suffer me," said he, "to erect a cross, and trust in the god, whom i come to declare to you. he is the lord and governor of nature, who, whenever he pleases, can open the fountains of heaven, and water the earth. but, in case the rain should descend upon you, give me your promise, to acknowledge his power, and that you, with your subjects, will receive his law." in the extremity to which the king was then reduced, he consented readily to the father's conditions; and also obliged himself, on the public faith, to keep his word, provided xavier failed not on his part of the promised blessing. then xavier causing a great cross to be made, set it up, on the highest ground of all the town; and there, on his knees, amongst a crowd of soldiers, and men, women, and children, attracted by the novelty of the sight, as much as by the expected succour, he offered to god the death of his only son, and prayed him, by the merits of that crucified saviour, who had poured out his blood for the sake of all mankind, not to deny a little water, for the salvation of an idolatrous people. scarcely had the saint begun his prayer, when the sky began to be overcast with clouds; and by that time he had ended it, there fell down rain in great abundance, which lasted so long, till they had made a plentiful provision of water. the enemy, now hopeless of taking the town, immediately decamped; and the king, with all his people, received baptism from the hand of father xavier. he commanded also, that all the neighbouring islands, who held of him should adore christ jesus, and engaged the saint to go and publish the faith amongst them. xavier employed three months and more in these little voyages; after which, returning to amboyna, where he had left his companion, john deyro, to cultivate the new-growing christianity, and where he left him also for the same intention, embarked on a portuguese vessel, which was setting sail for the moluccas. that which is commonly called by the name of the moluccas, is a country on the oriental ocean, divided into many little islands, situated near, the equator, exceeding fruitful in cloves, and famous for the trade of spices. there are five principal islands of them, ternate, tidor, motir, macian, and bacian. the first of these is a degree and a half distant from the equinoctial to the north, the rest follow in the order above named, and all five are in sight of one another. these are those celebrated islands, concerning which ferdinand magellan raised so many disputes amongst the geographers, and so many quarrels betwixt spain and portugal. for the portuguese having discovered them from the east, and the spaniards from the west, each of them pretended to inclose them, within their conquests, according to the lines of longitude which they drew. ternate is the greatest of the moluccas, and it was on that side that father xavier took his course. he had a gulph to pass of ninety leagues, exceedingly dangerous, both in regard of the strong tides, and the uncertain winds, which are still raising tempests, though the sea be never so calm. the ship which carried the father was one of those vessels, which, in those parts, are called caracores, of a long and narrow built, like gallies, and which use indifferently sails and oars. another vessel of the same make carried a portuguese, called john galvan, having aboard her all his goods. they set out together from amboyna, keeping company by the way, and both of them bound for the port of ternate. in the midst of the gulph, they were surprised with a storm, which parted them so far, that they lost sight of each other. the caracore of xavier, after having been in danger of perishing many times, was at length saved, and recovered the port of ternate by a kind of miracle: as for that of galvan, it was not known what became of her, and the news concerning her was only brought by an evident revelation. the first saint's day, when the father preached to the people, he stopped short in the middle of his discourse, and said, after a little pause, "pray to god for the soul of john galvan, who is drowned in the gulph." some of the audience, who were friends of galvan, and interested in the caracore, ran to the mariners, who had brought the father, and demanded of them, if they knew any certain news of this tragical adventure? they answered, "that they knew no more than that the storm had separated the two vessels." the portuguese recovered courage at those words, and imagined that father francis had no other knowledge than the seamen. but they were soon undeceived by the testimony of their own eyes; for three days after, they saw, washed on the shore, the corpse of galvan, and the wreck of the vessel, which the sea had thrown upon the coast. very near this time, when xavier was saying mass, turning to the people to say the orate fratres, he added, "pray also for john araus, who is newly dead at amboyna." they who were present observed punctually the day and hour, to see if what the father had said would come to pass: ten or twelve days after, there arrived a ship from amboyna, and the truth was known not only by divers letters, but confirmed also by a portuguese, who had seen araus die at the same moment when xavier exhorted the people to pray to god to rest his soul. this araus was the merchant which refused to give wine for the succour of the sick, in the spanish fleet, and to whom the saint had denounced a sudden death. he fell sick after xavier's departure; and having neither children nor heirs, all his goods were distributed amongst the poor, according to the custom of the country. the shipwreck of galvan, and the death of araus, gave great authority to what they had heard at ternate, concerning the holiness of father francis, and from the very first gained him an exceeding reputation. and indeed it was all necessary; i say not for the reformation of vice in that country, but to make him even heard with patience by a dissolute people, which committed, without shame, the most enormous crimes, and such as modesty forbids to name. to understand how profitable the labours of father xavier were to those of ternate, it is sufficient to tell what he has written himself: "that of an infinite number of debauched persons living in that island when he landed there, all excepting two had laid aside their wicked courses before his departure. the desire of riches was extinguished with the love of pleasures. restitutions were frequently made, and such abundant alms were given, that the house of charity, set up for the relief of the necessitous, from very poor, which it was formerly, was put into stock, and more flourishing than ever." the change of manners, which was visibly amongst the christians, was of no little service to the conversion of saracens and idolaters. many of those infidels embraced christianity. but the most illustrious conquest of the saint, was of a famous saracen lady, called neachile pocaraga, daughter to almanzor, king of tidore, and wife to boliefe, who was king of ternate, before the portuguese had conquered the island. she was a princess of great wit and generosity, but extremely bigotted to her sect, and a mortal enemy to the christians, that is to say, to the portuguese. her hatred to them was justly grounded; for, having received them into her kingdom with great civility, and having also permitted them to establish themselves in one part of the island, for the convenience of their trade, she was dealt with so hardly by them, that, after the death of the king, her husband, she had nothing left her but the bare title of a queen; and by their intrigues, the three princes, her sons, lost the crown, their liberty, and their lives. her unhappy fortune constrained her to lead a wandering life, from isle to isle. but providence, which would accomplish on her its good designs, brought her back at last to ternate, about the time when xavier came thither. she lived there in the condition of a private person, without authority, yet with splendour; and retaining still in her countenance and behaviour, somewhat of that haughty air, which the great sometimes maintain, even in their fetters. the saint gained access to her, and found an opportunity of conversing with her. in his first discourse, he gave her a great idea of the kingdom of god; yet withal informed her, that this kingdom, was not difficult to obtain; and that being once in possession of it, there was no fear of being after dispossessed. insomuch, that the saracen princess, who had no hopes remaining of aught on earth, turned her thoughts and her desires towards heaven. it is true, that, as she was endued with a great wit, and was very knowing in the law of mahomet, there was some need of argumentation; but the father still clearing all her doubts, the dispute only served to make her understand more certainly the falseness of the alcoran, and the truth of the gospel. she submitted to the saint's reasons, or rather to the grace of jesus christ, and was publicly baptized by the apostle himself, who gave her the name of isabella. he was not satisfied with barely making her a christian. he saw in her a great stock of piety, an upright heart, a tenderness of mind, inclinations truly great and noble, which he cultivated with admirable care, and set her forward, by degrees, in the most sublime and solid ways of a spiritual life: so that neachile, under the conduct of father xavier, arrived to a singular devotion; that is to say, she grew humble and modest, from disdainful; and haughty as she was, mild to others, and severe to herself, suffering her misfortunes without complaint of injuries; united to god in her retirements, and not appearing publicly, but to exercise the deeds of charity to her neighbour; but more esteemed and honoured, both by the indians and portuguese, than when she sat upon the throne, in all the pomp and power of royalty. during the abode which xavier made in ternate, he heard speak of certain isles, which are distant from it about sixty leagues eastward; and which take their name from the principal, commonly called the isle del moro. it was reported to him, that those islanders, barbarians as they were, had been most of them baptized, but that the faith had been abolished there immediately after it was introduced, and this account he heard of it. the inhabitants of momoya, which is a town in the isle del moro, would never embrace the law of mahomet, though all the neighbouring villages had received it. and the prince, or lord of that town, who chose rather to continue an idolater, than to become a mahometan, being molested by the saracens, had recourse to the governor of ternate, who was called tristan d'atayda, promising, that himself and his subjects would turn christians, provided the portuguese would take them into their protection. atayda receiving favourably those propositions of the prince of momoya, the prince came in person to ternate, and desired baptism; taking then, the name of john, in honour of john iii., king of portugal. at his return to momoya, he took along with him a portuguese priest, called simon vaz, who converted many idolaters to the faith. the number of christians, thus daily increasing more and more, another priest, called francis alvarez, came to second vaz, and both of them laboured so happily in conjunction, that the whole people of momoya renounced idolatry, and professed the faith of jesus christ. in the mean time, the portuguese soldiers, whom the governor of ternate had promised to send, came from thence to defend the town against the enterprizes of the saracens. but the cruelty which he exercised on the mother of cacil aerio, bastard son to king boliefe, so far exasperated those princes and the neighbouring people, that they conspired the death of all the portuguese, who were to be found in those quarters. the inhabitants of momoya, naturally changeable and cruel, began the massacre by the murder of simon vaz, their first pastor; and had killed alvarez, whom they pursued with flights of arrows to the sea side, if accidentally he had not found a bark in readiness, which bore him off, all wounded as he was, and saved him from the fury of those christian barbarians. the saracens made their advantage of these disorders, and mastering mamoya, changed the whole religion of the town. the prince himself was the only man, who continued firm in the christian faith, notwithstanding all their threatening, and the cruel usage which he received from them. not long after this, antonio galvan, that portuguese, who was so illustrious for his prudence, his valour, and his piety, succeeding to tristan d'atayda in the government of ternate, sent to the isle del moro a priest, who was both able and zealous, by whose ministry the people were once more reduced into the fold of christ, and the affairs of the infidels were ruined. but this priest remained not long upon the island, and the people, destitute of all spiritual instructions, returned soon after, through their natural inconstancy, to their original barbarism. in this condition was the isle del moro when it was spoken of to father xavier; and for this very reason, he determined to go, and preach the gospel there, after he had stayed for three months at ternate. when his design was known, all possible endeavours were used to break it. his friends were not wanting to inform him, that the country was as hideous as it was barren: that it seemed accursed by nature, and a more fitting habitation for beasts than men: that the air was so gross, and so unwholesome, that strangers could not live in the country: that the mountains continually vomited flakes of fire and ashes, and that the ground itself was subject to terrible and frequent earthquakes. and besides, it was told him, that the people of the country surpassed in cruelty and faithlessness all the barbarians of the world: that christianity had not softened their manners; that they poisoned one another; that they fed themselves with human flesh; and that, when any of their relations happened to die, they cut off his hands and feet, of which they made a delicate ragou: that their inhumanity extended so far, that when they designed a sumptuous feast, they begged some of their friends to lend them an old unprofitable father, to be served up to the entertainment of their guests, with promise to repay them, in kind, on the like occasion. the portuguese and indians, who loved xavier, added, that since those savages spared not their own countrymen and their parents, what would they not do to a stranger, and an unknown person? that they were first to be transformed into men, before they could be made christians. and how could he imprint the principles of the divine law into their hearts, who had not the least sense of humanity? who should be his guide through those thick entangled forests, where the greatest part of them were lodged like so many wild beasts; and when, by rare fortune, he should atchieve the taming of them, and even convert them, how long would that conversion last? at the longest, but while he continued with them: that no man would venture to succeed him in his apostleship to those parts, for that was only to be exposed to a certain death; and that the blood of simon vaz was yet steaming. to conclude, there were many other isles, which had never heard of jesus christ, and who were better disposed to receive the gospel. these reasons were accompanied with prayers and tears; but they were to no purpose, and xavier was stedfast to his resolution. his friends perceiving they could gain nothing upon him by intreaties, had recourse, in some measure, to constraint; so far as to obtain from the governor of ternate a decree, forbidding, on severe penalties, any vessel to carry the father to the isle del moro. xavier then resented this usage of his friends, and could not forbear to complain publicly of it. "where are those people," said he, "who dare to confine the power of almighty god, and have so mean an apprehension of our saviour's love and grace? are there any hearts hard enough to resist the influences of the most high, when it pleases him to soften and to change them? can they stand in opposition to that gentle, and yet commanding force, which can make the dry bones live, and raise up children to abraham from stones? what! shall he, who has subjected the whole world to the cross, by the ministry of the apostles, shall he exempt from that subjection this petty corner of the universe? shall then the isle del moro be the only place, which shall receive no benefit of redemption? and when jesus christ has offered to the eternal father, all the nations of the earth as his inheritance, were these people excepted out of the donation? i acknowledge them to be very barbarous and brutal; and let it be granted they were more inhuman than they are, it is because i can do nothing of myself, that i have the better hopes of them. i can do all things in him who strengthens me, and from whom alone proceeds the strength of those who labour in the gospel." he added, "that other less savage nations would never want for preachers; that these only isles remained for him to cultivate, since no other man would undertake them." in sequel, suffering himself to be transported with a kind of holy choler, "if these isles," pursued he, "abounded with precious woods and mines of gold, the christians would have the courage to go thither, and all the dangers of the world would not be able to affright them; they are base and fearful because there are only souls to purchase: and shall it then be said, that charity is less daring than avarice? you tell me they will take away my life, either by the sword or poison; but those are favours too great for such a sinner as i am to expect from heaven; yet i dare confidently say, that whatever torment or death they prepare for me, i am ready to suffer a thousand times more for the salvation of one only soul. if i should happen to die by their hands, who knows but all of them might receive the faith? for it is most certain, that since the primitive times of the church, the seed of the gospel has made a larger increase in the fields of paganism, by the blood of martyrs, than by the sweat of missioners." he concluded his discourse, by telling them, "that there was nothing really to fear in his undertaking; that god had called him to the isles del moro; and that man should not hinder him from obeying the voice of god." his discourse made such impressions on their hearts, that not only the decree against his passage was revoked, but many offered themselves to accompany him in that voyage, through all the dangers which seemed to threaten him. having thus disengaged himself from all the incumbrances of his voyage, he embarked with some of his friends, passing through the tears of the people, who attended him to the shore, without expectation of seeing him again. before he set sail, he wrote to the fathers of the company at rome, to make them acquainted with his voyage. "the country whither i go," says he in his letter, "is full of danger, and terrible to strangers, by the barbarity of the inhabitants, and by their using divers poisons, which they mingle with their meat and drink; and it is from hence that priests are apprehensive of coming to instruct them: for myself, considering their extreme necessity, and the duties of my ministry, which oblige to free them from eternal death, even at the expence of my own life, i have resolved to hazard all for the salvation of their souls. my whole confidence is in god, and all my desire is to obey, as far as in me lies, the word of jesus christ: 'he who is willing to save his life shall lose it, and he who will lose it for my sake shall find it.' believe me, dear brethren, though this evangelical maxim, in general, is easily to be understood, when the time of practising it calls upon us, and our business is to die for god, as clear as the text seems, it becomes obscure; and he only can compass the understanding of it, to whom god, by his mercy, has explained it; for then it will be seen, how frail and feeble is human nature. many here, who love me tenderly, have done what possibly they could to divert me from this voyage; and, seeing that i yielded not to their requests, nor to their tears, would have furnished me with antidotes; but i would not take any, lest, by making provision of remedies, i might come to apprehend the danger; and also, because, having put my life into the hands of providence, i have no need of preservatives from death: for it seems to me, that the more i should make use of remedies, the less assurance i should repose in god." they went off with a favourable wind, and had already made above an hundred and fourscore miles, when xavier, on the sudden, with a deep sigh, cried out, "ah, jesus, how they massacre the poor people!" saying these words, and oftentimes repeating them, he had turned his countenance, and fixed his eyes towards a certain part of the sea. the mariners and passengers, affrighted, ran about him. inquiring what massacre he meant, because, for their part, they could see nothing; but the saint was ravished in spirit, and, in this extacy, god had empowered him to see this sad spectacle. he was no sooner come to himself, than they continued pressing him to know the occasion of his sighs and cries; but he, blushing for the words which had escaped him in his transport, would say no more, but retired to his devotions. it was not long before they beheld, with their own eyes, what he refused to tell them: having cast anchor before an isle, they found on the shore the bodies of eight portuguese, all bloody; and then comprehended, that those unhappy creatures had moved the compassion of the holy man. they buried them in the same place, and erected a cross over the grave; after which they pursued their voyage, and in little time arrived at the isle del moro. when they were come on shore, xavier went directly on to the next village. the greatest part of the inhabitants were baptized; but there remained in them only a confused notion of their baptism; and their religion was nothing more than a mingle of mahometanism and idolatry. the barbarians fled at the sight of the strangers, imagining they were come to revenge the death of the portuguese, whom they had killed the preceding years. xavier followed them into the thickest of their woods; and his countenance, full of mildness, gave them to believe, that he was not an enemy who came in search of them. he declared to them the motive of his voyage, speaking to them in the malaya tongue: for though in the isle del moro there were great diversity of languages, insomuch, that those of three leagues distance did not understand each other in their island tongues, yet the malaya was common to them all. notwithstanding the roughness and barbarity of these islanders, neither of those qualities were of proof against the winning and soft behaviour of the saint. he brought them back to their village, using all expressions of kindness to them by the way, and began his work by singing aloud the christian doctrine through the streets; after which he expounded it to them, and that in a manner so suitable to their barbarous conceptions, that it passed with ease into their understanding. by this means he restored those christians to the faith, who had before forsaken it; and brought into it those idolaters who had refused to embrace it when it was preached to them by simon vaz and francis alvarez. there was neither town nor village which the father did not visit, and where those new converts did not set up crosses and build churches. tolo, the chief town of the island, inhabited by twenty-five thousand souls, was entirely converted, together with momoya. thus the isle del moro was now to the holy apostle the island of divine hope,[ ] as he desired it thenceforth to be named; both because those things which were there accomplished by god himself, in a miraculous manner, were beyond all human hope and expectation; and also because the fruits of his labours surpassed the hopes which had been conceived of them, when his friends of ternate would have made him fear that his voyage would prove unprofitable. to engage these new christians, who were gross of apprehension, in the practice of a holy life, he threatened them with eternal punishments, and made them sensible of what hell was, by those dreadful objects which they had before their eyes: for sometimes he led them to the brink of those gulphs which shot out of their bowels vast masses of burning stones into the air, with the noise and fury of a cannon; and at the view of those flames, which were mingled with a dusky smoke that obscured the day, he explained to them the nature of those pains, which were prepared in an abyss of fire, not only for idolaters and mahometans, but also for the true believers, who lived not according to their faith. he even told them, the gaping mouths of those flaming mountains were the breathing places of hell; as appears by these following words, extracted out of one of his letters on that subject, written to his brethren at rome: "it seems that god himself has been pleased, in some measure, to discover the habitation of the damned to people had otherwise no knowledge of him." [footnote :_divina esperanya_.] during their great earthquakes, when no man could be secure in any place, either in his house, or abroad in the open air, he exhorted them to penitence; and declared to them, that those extraordinary accidents were caused, not by the souls of the dead hidden under ground, as they imagined, but by the devils, who were desirous to destroy them, or by the omnipotent hand of god, who adds activity to natural causes, that he may imprint more deeply in their hearts the fear of his justice and his wrath. one of those wonderful earthquakes happened on the th of september; on that day, consecrated to the honour of st michael, the christians were assembled in great numbers, and the father said mass. in the midst of the sacrifice, the earth was so violently shaken, that the people ran in a hurry out of the church. the father feared lest the altar might be overthrown, yet he forsook it not, and went through with the celebration of the sacred mysteries, thinking, as he said himself, that the blessed archangel, at that very time, was driving the devils of the island down to hell; and that those infernal spirits made all that noise and tumult, out of the indignation which they had to be banished from that place where they had held dominion for so many ages. the undaunted resolution of father xavier amazed the barbarians; and gave them to believe, that a man who remained immovable while the rocks and mountains trembled, had something in him of divine; but that high opinion which most of them had conceived of him, gave him an absolute authority over them; and, with the assistance of god's grace, which operated in their souls while he was working by outward means, he made so total a change in them, that they who formerly, in respect of their manners, were like wolves and tygers, now became tractable and mild, and innocent as lambs. notwithstanding this, there were some amongst them who did not divest themselves fully, and at once, of their natural barbarity; either to signify, that divine grace, how powerful soever, does not work all things in a man itself alone, or to try the patience of the saint. the most rebellious to god's spirit were the javares,--a rugged and inhuman people, who inhabit only in caves, and in the day-time roam about the forests. not content with not following the instructions of the father, they laid divers ambushes for him; and one day, while he was explaining the rules of morality to them out of the gospel, by a river side, provoked by the zeal wherewith he condemned their dissolute manners, they cast stones at him with design to kill him. the barbarians were on the one side of him, and the river on the other, which was broad and deep; insomuch, that it was in a manner impossible for xavier to escape the fury of his enemies: but nothing is impossible to a man whom heaven protects. there was lying on the bank a great beam of wood; the saint pushed it without the least difficulty into the water, and placing himself upon it, was carried in an instant to the other side, where the stones which were thrown could no longer reach him. for what remains, he endured in this barren and inhospitable country all the miseries imaginable, of hunger, thirst, and nakedness. but the comforts which he received from heaven, infinitely sweetened all his labours; which may be judged by the letter he wrote to father ignatius. for, after he had made him a faithful description of the place, "i have," said he, "given you this account of it, that from thence you may conclude, what abundance of celestial consolations i have tasted in it. the dangers to which i am exposed, and the pains i take for the interest of god alone, are the inexhaustible springs of spiritual joys; insomuch, that these islands, bare of all worldly necessaries, are the places in the world, for a man to lose his sight with the excess of weeping; but they are tears of joy. for my own part, i remember not ever to have tasted such interior delights; and these consolations of the soul, are so pure, so exquisite, and so perpetual, that they take from me all sense of my corporeal sufferings." xavier continued for three months in the isle del moro; after which, he repassed to the moluccas, with intention from thence to sail to goa; not only that he might draw out missioners from thence, to take care of the new christianity which he had planted in all those isles, and which he alone was not sufficient to cultivate, but also to provide for the affairs of the company, which daily multiplied in this new world. being arrived at ternate, he lodged by a chapel, which was near the port, and which, for that reason, is called "our lady of the port." he thought not of any long stay in that place, but only till the ship which was intended for malacca should be ready to set out. the christians, more glad of his return, because they had despaired of seeing him again, begged of him to continue longer with them, because lent was drawing near; and that he must, however, stay all that holy time, in the island of amboyna, for the proper season of navigation to malacca. the captain of the fortress of ternate, and the brotherhood of the mercy, engaged themselves to have him conducted to amboyna, before the setting out of the ships. so that xavier could not deny those people, who made him such reasonable propositions; and who were so desirous to retain him, to the end they might profit by his presence, in order to the salvation of their souls. he remained then almost three months in ternate; hearing confessions day and night, preaching twice on holidays, according to his custom; in the morning to the portuguese, in the afternoon to the islanders newly converted; catechising the children every day in the week, excepting wednesday and friday, which he set apart for the instruction of the portuguese wives. for, seeing those women, who were either mahometans or idolaters by birth, and had only received baptism in order to their marrying with the portuguese, were not capable of profiting by the common sermons, for want of sufficient understanding in the mysteries and maxims of christianity; he undertook to expound to them the articles of faith, the commandments, and other points of christian morality. the time of lent was passed in these exercises of piety, and penitence, which fitted them for the blessed sacrament at easter. all people approached the holy table, and celebrated that feast with renewed fervour, which resembled the spirit of primitive christianity. but the chief employment of father xavier was to endeavour the conversion of the king of ternate, commonly called king of the moluccas. this saracen prince, whose name was cacil aerio, was son to king boleife, and his concubine, a mahometan, and enemy to the portuguese, whom tristan d'atayda, governor of ternate, and predecessor of antonio galvan, caused to be thrown out of a window, to be revenged of her. this unworthy and cruel usage might well exasperate cacil; but fearing their power, who had affronted him in the person of his mother, and having the violent death of his brothers before his eyes, he curbed his resentments, and broke not out into the least complaint. the portuguese mistrusted this over-acted moderation, and affected silence; and according to the maxim of those politicians, who hold, that they who do the injury should never pardon, they used him afterwards as a rebel, and an enemy, upon very light conjectures, jordan de treitas, then governor of the fortress of ternate. a man as rash and imprudent as galvan was moderate and wise, seized the person of the prince, stript him of all the ornaments of royalty, and sent him prisoner to goa, in the year , with the spanish fleet, of which we have formerly made mention. the cause having been examined, in the sovereign tribunal of goa, there was found nothing to condemn, but the injustice of treitas: cacil was declared innocent; and the new viceroy of the indies, don john de castro, sent him back to ternate, with orders to the portuguese, to replace him on the throne, and pay him so much the more respect, by how much more they had injured him. as for treitas, he lost his government, and being recalled to goa, was imprisoned as a criminal of state. the king of ternate was newly restored, when xavier came into the isle for the second time. king tabarigia, son of boleife, and brother to cacil, had suffered the same ill fortune some years before. being accused of felony, and having been acquitted at goa, where he was prisoner, he was also sent back to his kingdom, with a splendid equipage; and the equity of the christians so wrought upon him, that he became a convert before his departure. xavier was in hope, that the example of tabarigia would make an impression on the soul of cacil after his restoration, at least if any care were taken of instructing him; and the hopes or the saint seemed not at the first to be ill grounded. for the barbarian king received him with all civility, and was very affectionate to him, insomuch that he could not be without his company. he heard him speak of god whole hours together; and there was great appearance, that he would renounce the mahometan religion. but the sweet enchantments of the flesh are often an invincible obstacle to the grace of baptism. besides a vast number of concubines, the king of ternate had an hundred women in his palace, who retained the name and quality of wives. to confine himself to one, was somewhat too hard to be digested by him. and when the father endeavoured to persuade him, that the law of god did absolutely command it; he reasoned on his side, according to the principles of his sect, and refined upon it in this manner: "the god of the christians and of the saracens is the same god; why then should the christians be confined to one only wife, since god has permitted the saracens to have so many?" yet sometimes he changed his language; and said, that he would not lose his soul, nor the friendship of father xavier, for so small a matter. but, in conclusion, not being able to contain himself within the bounds of christian purity, nor to make the law of jesus christ agree with that of mahomet, he continued fixed to his pleasures, and obstinate in his errors. only he engaged his royal word, that in case the portuguese would invest one of his sons in the kingdom of the isles del moro, he would on that condition receive baptism. father xavier obtained from the viceroy of the indies whatever the king of ternate had desired; but the barbarian, far from keeping his promise, began from thenceforward a cruel persecution against his christian subjects. and the first strokes of it fell on the queen neachile, who was dispossessed of all her lands, and reduced to live in extreme poverty during the remainder of her days. her faith supported her in these new misfortunes; and father xavier, who had baptized her, gave her so well to understand how happy it was to lose all things and to gain christ, that she continually gave thanks to god for the total overthrow of her fortune. in the mean time, the labours of the saint were not wholly unprofitable in the court of ternate. he converted many persons of the blood-royal; and, amongst others, two sisters of the prince, who preferred the quality of christians, and spouses of christ jesus, before all earthly crowns; and chose rather to suffer the ill usage of their brother, than to forsake their faith. xavier, seeing the time of his departure drawing near, composed, in the malaya tongue, a large instruction, touching the belief and morals of christianity. he gave the people of ternate this instruction written in his own hand, that it might supply his place during his absence. many copies were taken of it, which were spread about the neighbouring islands, and even through the countries of the east. it was read on holidays in the public assemblies; and the faithful listened to it, as coming from the mouth of the holy apostle. besides this, he chose out some virtuous young men for his companions in his voyage to goa, with design to breed them in the college of the company, and from thence send them back to the moluccas, there to preach the gospel. these things being thus ordered, and the caracore, winch was to carry him to amboyna, in readiness, it was in his thoughts to depart by night, in the most secret manner that he could, not to sadden the inhabitants, who could not hear of his going from them without a sensible affliction. but whatsoever precautions he took, he could not steal away without their knowledge. they followed him in crowds to the shore; men, women, and children, gathering about him, lamenting his loss, begging his blessing, and beseeching him, with tears in their eyes, "that since he was resolved on going, he would make a quick return." the holy man was not able to bear these tender farewells without melting into tears himself. his bowels yearned within him for his dear flock; and seeing what affection those people bore him, he was concerned lest his absence might prejudice their spiritual welfare. yet reassuring himself, by considering the providence of god, which had disposed of him another way, he enjoined them to meet in public every day, at a certain church, to make repetition of the christian doctrine, and to excite each other to the practice of virtue. he charged the new converts to learn by heart the exposition of the apostles' creed, which he had left with them in writing; but that which gave him the greatest comfort was, that a priest, who was there present, promised him to bestow two hours every day in instructing the people, and once a-week to perform the same to the wives of the portuguese, in expounding to them the articles of faith, and informing them concerning the use of the sacraments. after these last words, father xavier left his well-beloved children in jesus, and immediately the ship went off. at that instant an universal cry was raised on the shore; and that last adieu went even to the heart of father xavier. being arrived at amboyna, he there found four portuguese vessels, wherein were only mariners and soldiers, that is to say, a sort of people ill instructed in the duties of christianity, and little accustomed to put them in practice, in the continual hurry of their life. that they might profit by that leisure which they then enjoyed, he set up a small chapel on the sea-side, where he conversed with them, sometimes single, sometimes in common, concerning their eternal welfare. the discourses of the saint brought over the most debauched amongst them; and one soldier, who had been a libertine all his life, died with such evident signs of true contrition, that being expired, father xavier was heard to say, "god be praised, who has brought me hither for the salvation of that soul;" which caused people to believe, that god almighty had made a revelation of it to him. by the same supernal illumination, he saw in spirit one whom he had left in ternate in the vigour of health, now expiring in that place; for preaching one day, he broke off his discourse suddenly, and said to his auditors, "recommend to god, james giles, who is now in the agony of death;" the news of his death came not long after, which entirely verified the words of xavier. the four ships continued at amboyna but twenty days, after which they set sail towards malacca. the merchant-ship, which was the best equipped and strongest of them, invited the saint to embark in her; but he refused, out of the horror which he had for those enormous crimes which had been committed in her. and turning to gonsalvo fernandez, "this ship," said he, "will be in great danger; god deliver you out of it." both the prediction and the wish of the saint were accomplished; for the ship, at the passage of the strait of saban, struck against a hidden rock, where the iron-work of the stern was broken, and little wanted but that the vessel had been also split; but she escaped that danger, and the rest of the voyage was happily performed. the father staying some few days longer on the isle, visited the seven christian villages which were there; caused crosses to be set up in all of them, for the consolation of the faithful; and one of these crosses, in process of time, became famous for a great miracle, of which the whole country was witness. there was an extreme drought, and a general dearth was apprehended. certain women, who before their baptism were accustomed to use charms for rain, being assembled round about an idol, adored the devil, and performed all the magic ceremonies; but their enchantments were of no effect. a devout christian woman knowing what they were about, ran thither, and having sharply reprehended those impious creatures, "as if," said she, "having a cross so near us, we had no expectations of succour from it; and that the holy father had not promised us, that whatsoever we prayed for at the foot of that cross, should infallibly be granted." upon this, she led those other women towards a river-side, where xavier had set up a cross with his own hands, and falling down with them before that sacred sign of our salvation, she prayed our saviour to give them water, to the shame and confusion of the idol. at the same moment the clouds began to gather on every side, and the rain poured down in great abundance. then, all in company, they ran to the pagod, pulled it down, and trampled it under their feet; after which they cast it into the river, with these expressions of contempt, "that though they could not obtain from him one drop of water, they would give him enough in a whole river." a faith thus lively, answered the hopes which the saint had conceived of the faithful of amboyna. he compared them sometimes to the primitive christians; and believed their constancy was of proof against the cruelty of tyrants. neither was he deceived in the judgment he made of them; and they shewed themselves, when the javeses, provoked by their renouncing the law of mahomet, came to invade their island. while the saracen army destroyed the country, six hundred christians retired into a castle, where they were presently besieged. though they were to fear all things from the fury of the barbarians, yet what they only apprehended was, that those enemies of jesus christ might exercise their malice against a cross which was raised in the midst of all the castle, and which father xavier had set up with his own hands. to preserve it, therefore, inviolable from their attempts, they wrapt it up in cloth of gold, and buried it in the bottom of the ditch. after they had thus secured their treasure, they opened the gate to the unbelievers, who, knowing what had been done by them, ran immediately in search of the cross, to revenge upon it the contempt which had been shown to mahomet. but not being able to find it, they turned all their fury upon those who had concealed it, and who would not discover where it was. death seemed to have been the least part of what they suffered. the mahometan soldiers cut off one man's leg, another's arm, tore out this man's eyes, and the other's tongue. so the christians died by degrees, and by a slow destruction, but without drawing one sigh, or casting out a groan, or shewing the least apprehension; so strongly were they supported in their souls by the all-powerful grace of jesus christ, for whom they suffered. xavier at length parted from amboyna; and probably it was then, if we consider the sequel of his life, that he had the opportunity of making the voyage of macassar. for though it be not certainly known at what time he visited that great island, nor the fruit which his labours there produced, it is undoubted that he has been there; and, in confirmation of it, we have, in the process of his canonization, the juridical testimony of a portuguese lady of malacca, called jane melo, who had many times heard from the princess eleonar, daughter to the king of macassar, that the holy apostle had baptized the king her father, the prince her brother, and a great number of their subjects. but at whatsoever time he made this voyage, he returned to malacca, in the month of july, in the year . book iv. _he arrives at malacca, and there meets three missioners of the company. his conduct with john deyro. deyro has a vision, which god reveals to xavier. the actions of the saint at malacca. the occasion of the king of achen's enterprise against malacca. the preparation of the barbarians for the siege of malacca. the army of achen comes before malacca; its landing and retreat. the letter of the general of achen to the governor of malacca. xavier's advice to the governor of malacca. they follow his counsel. they prepare to engage the enemy. he exhorts the soldiers and captains to do their duty. the fleet sets out, and what happened at that time. he upbraids the governor with his diffidence. he foretels what is suddenly accomplished. the portuguese fleet goes in search of the enemy. troubles in malacca concerning their fleet. a new cause of consternation. the true condition of the fleet. the soldiers are encouraged by their general to fight. the naval fight betwixt the portuguese and the achenois. the achenois defeated. the saint declares the victory to the people of malacca. the certain news of the victory is brought. the return of the victorious fleet. anger arrives at malacca, when the saint was ready to depart from it. divers adventures of anger. anger is brought to the father, who sends him to goa. xavier calms a tempest. he writes to the king of portugal. his letter full of zeal, discretion, and charity. he desires the king to send him some preachers of the society. he writes to father simon rodriguez. he sends an account to the fathers at rome of his voyages. he receives great comfort from the fervency of the new converts. he stays at manapar, and what he performed there. the rules which he prescribes to the missioners of the fishing coast. he pusses over to the isle of ceylon; his actions there. he departs for goa, and finds the viceroy at britain. he obtains whatever he demands of the viceroy. he concerts a young gentleman, who was very much debauched. he fixes the resolution of cosmo de torrez to enter into the society. he instructs anger anew, and causes him to be farther taught by torrez. he hears news from japan, and designs a voyage thither to preach the gospel. he undertakes the conversion of a soldier. he converts the soldier, and what means he uses to engage him to penance. he assists the viceroy of the indies at his death. he applies himself more than ever to the exercises of an interior life. he returns to his employment in the care of souls at goa. he receives supplies from europe: the arrival of father gasper barzæus. he goes to the fishing coast; his actions there. he speaks to the deputy-governor of the indies, concerning his voyage to japan. all endeavours are used to break the father's intended voyage to japan. he slights the reasons alleged against his voyage to japan. he writes to father ignatius, and to father rodriguez. he constitutes superiors to superintend the society in india during his absence, and the orders which he leaves them. he sends gasper barzæus to ormuz. he gives instructions and orders to barzæus. he recommends to him the perfecting of himself. he charges him to instruct the children himself. he recommends the poor to him. he recommends the prisoners to him. his advice concerning restitutions. he prescribes him some precautions in his dealings with his friends. he recommends to him the practice of the particular examen. he exhorts him to preach, and gives him rules for preaching. he institutes him in the way of correcting sinners. he prescribes him a method, for administering the sacrament of penance. he continues to instruct him on the subject of confession. he instructs him how to deal with those who want faith, concerning the blessed sacrament. he instructs how to deal with penitents. he recommends to him, the obedience due to ecclesiastical superiors. he commands him to honour the governor. he gives him advice concerning his evangelical functions. he orders him to write to the fathers of the society at goa. he counsels him to inform himself of the manner of the town at his arrival. he recommends to his prayers the souls in purgatory. he exhorts him not to shew either sadness or anger. he prescribes him the time of his functions. he gives him instructions, touching the conduct of such as shall be received into the society. he teaches him the methods of reducing obstinate sinners. he advises him to find out the dispositions of the people, before he treats with them. he counsels him to learn the manners and customs of the people. he gives him counsel concerning reconciliations. he instructs him in the way of preaching well. what he orders him concerning his subsistance, and touching presents. what he orders him in reference to his abode. he goes for japan. he arrives at malacca, and what he performs there. his joy for the success of his brethren in their functions. he receives a young gentleman into the society. the instructions which he gives to bravo. the news which he hears from japan. he disposes himself for the voyage of japan more earnestly than ever. he goes from malacca to japan; and what happens to him in the way_. xavier found at malacca three missioners of the company, who were going to the moluccas, in obedience to the letters he had written. these missioners were john beyra, nugnez ribera, and nicholas nugnez, who had not yet received priests' orders. mansilla came not with them, 'though he had precise orders for it; because he rather chose to follow his own inclinations, in labouring where he was, than the command of his superior, in forsaking the work upon his hands. but his disobedience cost him dear. xavier expelled him out of the society, judging, that an ill brother would do more hurt, than a good labourer would profit the company. these three missioners above mentioned had been brought to the indies in the fleet, by don perez de pavora, with seven other sons of ignatius; part of whom was already left at cape comorine, and the fishing coast, to cultivate those new plants of christianity, which were so beloved by father xavier. now the ships which were bound for the moluccas, being not in a readiness to sail before the end of august, beyra, ribera, and nugnez, had all the intermediate time, which was a month, to enjoy the company of the saint, in which space they were formed by him for the apostolic function. for himself, he remained four months at malacca, in expectation of a ship to carry him to goa; and during all that time, was taken up with continual service of his neighbour. he had brought with him, from amboyna, his old companion, john deyro. though deyro was in his attendance, yet he was not a member of the society, for the causes already specified, and deserved not to be of it, for those which follow. some rich merchants having put into his hands a sum of money, for the subsistence of the father, he concealed it from him. xavier, who lived only on the alms which were daily given him, and who hated money as much as his companion loved it, looked on this action of deyro as an injury done to evangelical poverty; and the resentment which he had of it, caused him to forget his usual mildness to offenders. not content to make him a sharp reprimand, he confined him to a little desart isle not far distant from the port; enjoining him, not only continual prayer, but fasting upon bread and water, till he should of his own accord recal him. deyro, who was of a changeable and easy temper, neither permanent in good, nor fixed in ill, obeyed the father, and lived exactly in the method which was prescribed. he had one night a vision, whether awake or sleeping has not been decided by the juridical informations of the father's life. it seemed to him, that he was in a fair temple, where he beheld the blessed virgin, on a throne all glittering with precious stones. her countenance appeared severe; and he, making his approaches to her, was rejected with indignation, as unworthy to be of the company of her son. after which she arose from the throne, and then all things disappeared. deyro being recalled from his solitude some time after, said nothing of his vision to father xavier, to whom god had revealed it. he even denied boldly to have seen any, though the father repeated it to him, with all the circumstances. xavier, more scandalised than ever with this procedure of deyro, refused all farther communication with a man, who was interested, and insincere. he rid his hands of him, but withal foretold him, "that god would be so gracious to him, as to change his evil inclinations, and that hereafter he should take the habit of st francis." which was so fully accomplished, that when the informations were taken in the indies, concerning the holiness and miracles of xavier, deyro then wore the habit of st francis, and lived a most religious life. after the three missioners were gone for the moluccas, xavier alone bore the whole burden of the work. the knowledge which the portuguese and indians had of his holiness, made all men desirous of treating with him, concerning the business of their conscience. not being able to give audience to all, many of them were ill satisfied, and murmured against him: but since their discontent and murmurs proceeded from a good principle, he comforted himself, and rather rejoiced than was offended, as he says himself expressly in his letters. his ordinary employment was preaching to the christians and gentiles, instructing and baptising the catechumens, teaching children the christian doctrine, visiting the prisoners and the sick, reconciling enemies, and doing other works of charity. while the saint was thus employed, there happened an affair, which much increased his reputation in all the indies. for the understanding of the whole business, it will be necessary to trace it from its original. since the conquest of malacca by the portuguese, the neighbouring princes grew jealous of their power, and made many attempts to drive that nation out of the indies, which came to brave them at their own doors. thereupon, they set on foot many great armies, at divers times, but always unsuccessfully; and learning, by dear-bought experience, that multitudes can hardly prevail against true valour. these disgraces provoked the sultan alaradin, king of achen, instead of humbling him. achen is the greatest kingdom of the island of sumatra, distant about twelve leagues from the _terra firma_ of malacca. this prince was a mahometan, an implacable enemy of the christians by his religion, and of the portuguese by interest of state. yet he durst not immediately assault the fortress of malacca. all his fury was spent in cruizing about the coasts, with a strong fleet, thereby to break the trade of the portuguese, and hinder the succours which they had from europe. his design was then to attack the town, when it should be bare of defendants, and unprovided of stores of victuals: but to compass his enterprize, he was to assure himself of a port, which was above malacca towards the north, which might serve for a convenient retreat to his fleet; and had also occasion for a fortress, to secure himself from the enemy. he therefore made himself master of that port, and ordered the building of a citadel. as for his preparations of war, he made them so secretly, that the portuguese had neither any news, nor even the least suspicion of them. five thousand soldiers, trained up in wars, and well-experienced in naval fights, were chosen out for this glorious expedition; and five hundred of them, called orabalons, were the flower of the whole nobility, and accordingly wore bracelets of gold, as a distinguishing mark of their high extraction. there was besides a great number of janisaries newly arrived at the court of achen, who served as volunteers, and were eager of shewing their courage against the christians. the fleet consisted of sixty great ships, all well equipped and manned, without reckoning the barks, the frigates, and the fire-ships. it was commanded by the saracen, bajaja soora, a great man of war, and so famous for his exploits in arms, that his prince had honoured him with the title of king of pedir, in reward for his taking malacca even before he had besieged the town. there was no other intelligence of this at malacca, but what the army of achen brought itself. they came before the place, and entered the port on the th of october, in the year , about two o'clock in the morning, resolved to assault it while they were favoured by the darkness. they began by a discharge of their artillery, and sending in their fire-ships against the portuguese vessels. after which the most daring of them landed, ran without any order against that part of the wall which they believed weakest, filled up part of the ditch, and mounted the ladders with a furious assault. they found more resistance than they expected: the garrison, and the inhabitants, whom the shouts and artillery of the barbarians had at first affrighted, recovering courage through the imminence of danger, and the necessity of conquering or dying, ran upon the rampart, and vigorously repulsed the assailants; overthrowing their ladders, or tumbling their enemies headlong from them, insomuch that not a man of them entered the town, and great numbers of them lay dead or dying in the ditch. soora comforted himself for the ill success of his assault, by the execution which his fire-ships and cannon had done. all the vessels within the port were either burnt or disabled. and the rain which immediately fell, served not so much to extinguish the flames, as the violent wind which then arose contributed to kindle them. those of achen, proud of that action, appeared next morning on their decks, letting fly their pompous streamers, and shouting, as if already they were victorious. but their insolence was soon checked; the cannon from the fortress forced them to retire as far off as the isle of upe. in the mean time, seven poor fishermen, who had been out all night about their employment, and were now returning to the town, fell into an ambuscade of the infidels, were taken, and brought before the general. after he had cut off their ears and noses, he sent them back with a letter, directed to don francisco de melo, governor of malacca, of which these were the contents: "i bajaja soora, who have the honour to carry in vessels of gold the rice of the great souldan, alaradin, king of achen, and the territories washed by the one and the other sea, advertise thee to write word to thy king, that, in despite of him, i am casting terror into his fortress by my fierce roaring, and that i shall here abide as long as i shall please. i call to witness of what i declare, not only the earth, and all nations which inhabit it, but all the elements, even to the heaven of the moon; and pronounce with these words of my mouth, that thy king is a man of no reputation nor courage; that his standards, now trampled under foot, shall never be lifted up again without his permission who has conquered him; that, by the victory already by us obtained, my king has under his royal foot the head of thine; that from this day forward he is his subject and his slave; and, to the end, that thou thyself mayest confess this truth, i defy thee to mortal battle, here on the place of my abode, if thou feelest in thyself sufficient courage to oppose me." though the letter of soora was in itself ridiculous, and full of fustian bravadoes, according to the style of the barbarians, yet it put the governor and officers of the fortress to a shrewd demur; for how should they accept the challenge without ships to fight him, and how could they refuse it with their honour? a council of war was summoned to deliberate on this weighty and nice affair, when father xavier came amongst them. he had been saying mass at the church of our lady del monte; so called, from its being built on a mountain near the city, and dedicated to the blessed virgin. don francisco, who had sent for him to consult him in this troublesome business, gave him the general of achen's letter to peruse, and demanded his advice what was to be done on this occasion. the saint, who knew the king of achen's business was not only to drive the portuguese out of malacca, but also, and that principally, to extirpate christianity out of all the east; having read the letter, lifted up his eyes to heaven, and answered without the least pause, that the affront was too great to be endured; that the honour of the christian religion was more concerned in it than that of the crown of portugal: if this injury should be dissembled, to what audaciousness would the enemy arise, and what would not the other mahometan princes attempt after this example? in conclusion, that the challenge ought to be accepted, that the infidels might see the king of heaven was more powerful than their king alaradin. "but how," said the governor, "shall we put to sea, and on what vessels, since, of eight gally-foysts which we had in port, there are but four remaining, and those also almost shattered in pieces, and half burned; and, in case we could refit them, what could they perform against so numerous a fleet?" "suppose," answered xavier, "the barbarians had twice so many ships, are not we much stronger, who have heaven on our side; and how can we choose but overcome, when we fight in the name of our lord and saviour?" no man was so bold to contradict the man of god; and they all went to the arsenal. there they found a good sufficient bark, of those they call catur, besides seven old foysts, fit for nothing but the fire. duarte de bareto, who by his office had the superintendance of their naval stores, was commanded to fit out these foysts with all expedition. but he protested it was not in his power; for, besides that the kings magazines were empty of all necessaries for the equipping of them, there was no money in the treasury for materials. the governor, who had no other fund, was ready to lose courage, when xavier, by a certain impulse of spirit, suddenly began to embrace seven sea captains there present, who were of the council of war. he begged of them to divide the business amongst them, and each of them apart to take care of fitting out one galley: at the same time, without waiting for their answer, he assigned every man his task. the captains durst not oppose xavier, or rather god, who inclined their hearts to comply with the saint's request. above an hundred workmen were instantly employed on every vessel; and in four days time the seven gallies were in condition for fighting. melo gave the catur to andrea toscano, a man of courage, and well versed in sea affairs. he divided amongst the seven captains an hundred and fourscore soldiers, chosen men, and appointed francis deza admiral of the fleet. xavier was desirous to have gone along with them, but the inhabitants, who believed all was lost if they lost the father, and who hoped for no consolation but from him alone in case the enterprize should not succeed, made such a disturbance about it, that, upon mature deliberation, it was resolved to keep him in the town. the day before their embarkment, having called together the soldiers and the captains, he told them that he should accompany them in spirit; and that while they were engaging the barbarians, he would be lifting up his hands to heaven for them: that they should fight valiantly, in hope of glory, not vain and perishable, but solid and immortal: that, in the heat of the combat, they should cast their eyes on their crucified redeemer, whose quarrel they maintained, and, beholding his wounds themselves, should not be afraid either of wounds or death; and how happy should they be to render their saviour life for life. these words inspired them with such generous and christian thoughts, that, with one voice, they made a vow to fight the infidels to their last drop of blood. this solemn oath was so moving to xavier, that it drew tears from him: he gave them all his blessing; and, for their greater encouragement, named them, "the band of our saviour's soldiers:" in pursuit of which, he heard every man's confession, and gave them the communion with his own hand. they embarked the clay following with so much cheerfulness, that it seemed to presage a certain victory. but their joy continued but a moment. they had scarcely weighed anchor, when the admiral split, and immediately went to the bottom, so that they had hardly time to save the men. the crowd of people, who were gathered together on the shore to see them go off, beheld this dismal accident, and took it for a bad omen of the expedition; murmuring at the same time against father xavier, who was the author of it, and casting out loud cries to recal the other vessels. the governor, who saw the people in an uproar, and apprehended the consequences of this violent beginning, sent in haste to seek the father. the messenger found him at the altar, in the church of our lady del monte, just ready to receive the blessed sacrament: he drew near to whisper the business to him, but the father beckoned him with his hand to keep silence, and retire. when mass was ended, "return," said xavier, without giving the man leisure to tell his message, "and assure the governor from me, that he has no occasion to be discouraged for the loss of one vessel." by this the saint made known, that god had revealed to him what had happened. he continued some time in prayer before the image of the virgin; and these words of his were overheard: "o my jesus, the desire of my heart, regard me with a favourable eye; and thou, holy virgin, be propitious to me! lord jesus," he continued, "look upon thy sacred wounds, and remember they have given us a right to ask of thee every thing conducing to our good." his prayers being ended, he goes to the citadel: the governor, alarmed with the cries and murmurs of the people, could not dissemble his disturbance, but reproached the father for having engaged them in this enterprize. but xavier upbraided him with his distrust of god; and said, smiling, to him, "what! are you so dejected for so slight an accident?" after which, they went in company to the shore, where the soldiers belonging to the admiral stood in great consternation for the hazard they had run so lately. the father reassured them, and exhorted them to remain constant in their holy resolution, notwithstanding their petty misadventure: he remonstrated to them, that heaven had not permitted their admiral to sink, but only to make trial of their faith; neither had themselves been saved from shipwreck, but only that they might perform their vow. in the mean time, the governor held it necessary to summon the great council. all the officers of the town, and the principal inhabitants, were of opinion to give over an enterprize, which, as they thought, was begun rashly, and could have no fortunate conclusion. but the captains and soldiers of the fleet, encouraged by the words of the holy man, and inspired with vigour, which had something in it of more than human, were of a quite contrary judgment. they unanimously protested, that they had rather die than violate that faith, which they had solemnly engaged to jesus christ. "for the rest," said they, "what have we more to fear this day than we had yesterday? our number is not diminished, though we have one vessel less, and we shall fight as well with six foysts, as we should with seven. but, on the other side, what hopes ought we not to conceive, under the auspices and promise of father francis?" then xavier taking the word, "the lost galley shall be soon made good," said he with a prophetic voice; "before the sun goes down, there shall arrive amongst us two better vessels than that which perished; and this i declare to you from almighty god." this positive prediction amazed the whole assembly, and caused them to put off the determination of the affair until the day ensuing. the remaining part of the day was passed with great impatience, to see the effect of the father's promise. when the sun was just on the point of setting, and many began to fear the accomplishment of the prophecy, in the very minute marked out by the father, they discovered, from the clock-house of our lady del monte, two european ships, which were sailing directly from the north. melo sent out a skiff immediately to hail them, being informed that they were portuguese vessels, one belonging to james soarez gallego, and the other to his son balthazar, who came from the kingdom of patan, but who took the way of pegu, without intentions of casting anchor at malacca, to avoid paying customs. he went in search of father francis, who was at his devotions in the church del monte, and told him, that his prophecy would be accomplished to little purpose, if the ships came not into the port. xavier took it upon himself to stop them; and, going into the skiff which had hailed them, made directly to the two vessels. the masters of the ships, seeing the man of god, received him with respect. he made them understand the present juncture of affairs, and earnestly besought them, by the interests of their religion, and their country, to assist the town against the common enemy of the christian name, and the crown of portugal. and to engage them farther, by their particular concernment, he let them see the danger into which they were casting themselves, in case they should obstinately pursue their voyage; and that they were going, without consideration, to precipitate themselves into the hands of the barbarians. they yielded to the reasons of the father; and the next morning entered the port amidst the shouts and acclamations of the people. after this, there was no farther dispute of fighting the enemy; and the most timorous came about to the opinion of the captains and the soldiers. all things being in a readiness to set sail, the admiral, francis deza, received the flag from the hands of xavier, who had solemnly blessed it, and mounted the ship of his brother george deza, instead of his own, which was already sunk. the rest of the captains, who had been on shore, returned on ship-board; and, with the two newly arrived vessels, the whole fleet consisted of nine, their number also being increased by fifty men; they were in all two hundred and thirty portuguese. the fleet went out of port the th of october, with strict orders from the general not to pass beyond the pulo cambylan, which is the farthest bounds of the kingdom of malacca on the west. his reason was, that since they were so much inferior in strength to the enemy, who vastly outnumbered them in men and shipping, their glory consisted in driving them from off their coasts, and not in farther pursuit of them: that what hope soever we have in god, yet it becomes us not to tempt him, because heaven is not accustomed to give a blessing to rashness and presumption. thus setting out full of assurance and of joy, they arrived in four days at pulo cambylan, without having any news of the enemy, notwithstanding their endeavours to find him out. the admiral, in obedience to the governor, was thinking to return; though the courage of his soldiers prompted them to pass beyond the bounds prescribed them, and to go in search of the barbarians into whatsoever corner of the world they were retired. the admiral, i say, was disposed to have gone back, when the moon suddenly went into an eclipse. it was one of the greatest which had ever been observed, and seemed to them to prognosticate the total defeat of the mahometans. but the same night there arose so violent a wind, that they were forced to stay upon their anchors for the space of three-and-twenty days successively. their provisions then beginning to grow short, and the wind not suffering them to turn to the coast of malacca, they resolved on taking in fresh provisions at tenasserim, towards the kingdom of siam. in the mean time, all things were in confusion at malacca. the hopes which father xavier had given the people, supported them for some few days. but seeing a month was now expired, without any intelligence from the fleet, they believed it was either swallowed by the waves, or defeated by the achenois, and that none had escaped to bring the news. at the same time, the saracens reported confidently, they had it from good hands, that the fleets had met, that the achenois had cut in pieces all the portuguese, and had sent the heads of their commanders as a present to their king. this bruit was spread through all the town, and was daily strengthened after the rate of false rumours, which are full of tragical events. the better to colour this report, they gave the circumstances of time and place, and the several actions of the battle. the sorcerers and soothsayers were consulted by the pagan women, whose husbands and sons were in the fleet; and they confirmed whatever was related in the town. it came at last to a public rising against xavier; and the governor himself was not wholly free from the popular contagion. but xavier, far from the least despondence in the promises of god, and of the knowledge he had given him concerning the condition of the fleet, with an erected countenance assured, they should suddenly see it return victorious. which notwithstanding, he continued frequent in his vows and prayers; and at the end of all his sermons, recommended to their devotions the happy return of their desired navy. their spirits were so much envenomed and prejudiced against him, that many of them treated him with injurious words; while he was rallied by the more moderate, who were not ashamed to say, his prayers might be of use for the souls of the soldiers, who were slain in fight, but were of little consequence to gain a battle which was lost. some fresh intelligence, which arrived from sumatra, increased the disorders and consternation of the town. the king of bintan, son to that mahomet, whom albuquerque the great had despoiled of the kingdom of malacca, sought for nothing more than an opportunity of reconquering what his father had lost by force of arms. seeing the town now bare of soldiers, and hearing that the achenois had beaten the portuguese, he put to sea, with three hundred sail, and put in at the river of muar, within six leagues of malacca, towards the west. that he might the better execute his design, by concealing it, he wrote from thence to the governor melo, "that he had armed a fleet against the king of patan, his enemy, but that having been informed of the defeat of the portuguese, he was come as a friend and brother of the king of portugal, to succour malacca, against the king of achen, who would not fail to master the town, if the course of his victories was not stopped; that therefore he desired only to be admitted into the place before it came into the possession of the conqueror; after which he had no farther cause of apprehension." melo, whom the constancy of father xavier had reassured, discovered the snare which was laid for him; and tricked those, who had intended to circumvent him. he answered the king of bintan, "that the town had no need of relief, as being abundantly provided both of men and ammunition: that so great a conqueror as he, ought not to lay aside an expedition of such importance, nor to linger by the way: that, for themselves, they were in daily expectation of their fleet; not defeated, according to some idle rumours concerning it, but triumphant, and loaden with the spoils of enemies: that this report was only spread by saracens, whose tongues were longer than their lances:" for these were the expressions which he used. the mahometan prince, judging by the governor's reply, that his artifice was discovered; and that, in reason, he ought to attempt nothing till it were certainly known what was become of the two fleets, kept himself quiet, and attended the success. to return to the christian navy: before they could get to tenasserim, their want of fresh water forced them to seek it nearer hand, at queda, in the river of parlez; where being entered, they perceived by night a fisher-boat, going by their ships. they stopped the boat, and the fishermen being examined, told them, "that the achenois were not far distant; that they had been six weeks in the river; that they had plundered all the lowlands, and were now building a fortress." this news filled the portuguese with joy; and deza, infinitely pleased to have found the enemy, of whom he had given over the search, putting on his richest apparel, fired all his cannon, to testify his joy; without considering that he spent his powder to no purpose, and that he warned the barbarians to be upon their guard. what he did with more prudence, was to send three gallies up the river, to discover the enemy, and observe their countenance, while he put all things in order for the fight, the three foysts, in their passage, met with four brigantines, which the enemies had detached, to know the meaning of the guns which they had heard. before they had taken a distinct view on either side, the three foysts had grappled each a brigantine, and seized her; the fourth escaped. the soldiers put all the enemies to the sword, excepting six, whom they brought off, together with the brigantines. these prisoners were all put to the question; but whatsoever torments they endured, they could not at first get one syllable out of them, either where the enemy lay, or what was the number of his men, or of his ships. two of them died upon the rack, and other two they threw overboard; but the remaining couple, either more mortified with their torments, or less resolute, being separated from each other, began at last to open: and told the same things apart; both where the achenois were lying, and that their number was above ten thousand, reckoning into it the mariners, which were of more consideration than the soldiers; that the king of the country, where now they lay, had been constrained to avoid a shameful death, by flight; that having massacred two thousand of the natives, and made as many captives, they were building a citadel, on the passage which the ships ordinarily make from bengal to malacca; and that their design was not only to block up that road, but to murder all the christians who should fall into their hands. this report inflamed anew the zeal and courage of the soldiers. the admiral was not wanting to encourage them to fight. entering into a skiff, with his drawn sword, he went from vessel to vessel, exhorting his men to have christ crucified before their eyes, while they were in fight, as father francis had enjoined them; and ever to keep in mind the oath which they had taken; but, above all things, to have an assured hope of victory, from the intercession of the holy father, who had promised it. all unanimously answered, "that they would fight it out to death; and should be happy to die in defence of their religion." deza, animated by this their answer, posted himself advantageously on the river, so as to be able from thence to fall upon the enemy, without endangering his little fleet, to be encompassed by their numbers. the achenois no sooner were informed by their brigantine of the portuguese navy, than they put themselves into a condition of attacking it. they were not only insolent by reason of their strength, but provoked also by the late affront they had received in their brigantines; so that, full of fury, without the least balancing of the matter, they set sail with all their navy, excepting only two vessels, and two hundred land soldiers, which were left in guard of two thousand slaves, and all their booty. having the wind for them, and coming down the river, they were carried with such swiftness, that deza was hardly got aboard the admiral, when he heard their drums, and their yelling shouts, which re-echoed from the shores and neighbouring mountains. they were divided into ten squadrons, and each of them composed of six vessels, excepting only the first, which consisted but of four, but those the strongest of the fleet. the admiral, on which the king of pedir was on board, was in the first squadron, and with him were three turkish gallions. that fury, which transported the barbarians, caused them, at the first sight of the portuguese navy, to discharge against it their whole artillery; but they aimed so ill, that they did them little or no mischief. immediately after, the two admirals met, and stemmed each other. they engaged on either side with so much resolution, that the advantage was not seen, till a shot was made from the vessel of john soarez, and out of the cannon called the camel it took place so justly, that soora's vessel sunk to rights. the three gallions which were in front with him, on the same time, immediately changed their order, and left off fighting, to save their general, and the principal lords of his retinue. but these gallions, which were across the stream, and took up half the breadth of it, stopped their own vessels, which followed file by file; insomuch, that those of the second rank striking against the first, and those of the third against the second, they fell foul on each other, with a terrible confusion. the portuguese seeing the army of the enemy, on a heap together, without being able to disengage their ships, encompassed them, and battered them with their cannon. they discharged every tier, three rounds successively, and so to purpose, that they sunk nine great ships, and disabled almost all the rest. then four of the portuguese foysts set upon six mahometans, which the cannon had used more favourably than the rest; the soldiers boarded them with their swords in their hands, and calling on the name of jesus, in less than half an hour they destroyed above men. the fright and the disorder of the enemy was redoubled, at the sight of this slaughter, and at the thundering of the guns, which did such dreadful execution; insomuch, that the achenois leaped into the river of their own accord, chusing rather to die in that manner, than by the hands of the christians. their general being taken up, when he was just drowning, and drawing new courage from despair, endeavoured to have heartened up the remainder of those who were about him. but having himself received a musket-shot, he lost all manner of resolution, and made away with only two vessels. the five hundred gentlemen orobalans were either slain or drowned, with all the janisaries. none escaped, but those who followed soora in his flight. on the side of the christians there were twenty-six slain, of whom four only were portuguese by nation the spoil was great; for, besides the two guard-ships which came into the power of the conquerors, and wherein was all the pillage which the enemy had gained, they took at least forty-five vessels, which might again be made serviceable. there was found amongst the spoils a prodigious quantity of saracen and turkish arms; pieces of cannon of all sorts; and, what was yet more pleasing, sixty-two pieces of ordnance, whereon were graven the arms of portugal, and which had been lost in divers wars, returned at length to the possession of their lawful lord and owner. the king of parlez no sooner had notice of the enemy's defeat, than, issuing out of the woods where he lay concealed, he came with men, and fell upon the workmen, who, by soora's orders, were building a fortress, and on the soldiers appointed for their guard. having cut them in pieces, he went to visit captain deza, and congratulated the valour of the portuguese, and their success. he owned the preservation of his kingdom to their arms; and offered, by way of acknowledgment, a yearly tribute to the king of portugal. deza immediately ordered a frigate to carry the news of his victory to malacca; but it was fully known in that city, with all its circumstances, before the frigate was sent off, and thus it happened. father xavier, preaching in the great church, betwixt nine and ten of the clock on sunday morning, which was the th of january, according to the old calendar, at the same time when the two fleets were actually engaged, stopped short on the sudden, and appeared transported out of himself, so manifest a change appeared, both in his countenance, and his whole person. having somewhat recovered himself, instead of following his discourse, inspired with a divine impulse, he declared to his audience the encounter, and shock of the two navies, but in a mysterious and figurative manner. the assembly, not comprehending their preacher's meaning, were of opinion that he was distracted; still as the fight grew warmer, and the engagement came to be more close, he seemed to be more and more inflamed, with all the motions of a man inspired, and speaking still prophetically. at the length, fixing his eyes on the crucifix that was before him, he said, with tears in his eyes, accompanied with sighs, but with an audible and distinct voice, "ah jesus, thou god of my soul, and father of all mercies, i most humbly implore thee, by the merits of thy sacred passion, not to forsake those who fight thy battle!" after these words, he hung down his head, as overwearied, and leaned upon his pulpit, without farther speaking. having continued in that posture for some time, he sprung up, on the sudden, and said aloud, with all the motions of joy, which he could not master, "my brethren, jesus christ has vanquished for you. at this moment, while i am speaking, the soldiers of his blessed name have completed their victory, by the entire defeat of the enemy's navy. they have made a great slaughter, and we have lost but four of our portuguese. you shall receive the news of it on friday next, and may shortly expect the return of your victorious fleet." how incredible soever this appeared, yet melo, and the principal persons of the town there present, gave credit to it, without the least scruple; considering the manner of his speaking, and his air, which had somewhat of divine in it, and bore the testimony of its truth. yet the wives and mothers of the absent soldiers, apprehending still it might be false, and fearing the more, the more they desired it should be true, the father assembled them all in the afternoon, at the church of our lady del monte, and there repeated so distinctly the whole series of what he had said in the morning, that they durst no longer doubt of it. even in the beginning of the week, they had almost evident signs of the victory, by the news which came of the king of bintan; who having sent on all sides to be informed, whether the portuguese had been defeated, being advertised from the river of parlez of what had passed, forsook muar, and retired with expedition, bewailing the misfortune of his allies, and ashamed of his ill-timed enterprize. the frigate dispatched away by deza, under the conduct of emanuel godigno, arrived exactly on the day mentioned by the saint. the fleet followed shortly after, and made a triumphant entry into the port, with trumpets sounding, and a general discharge of all their artillery. the town received them with repeated shouts of welcome; and father francis, who was at the head of the people on the shore, held forth a crucifix in his hand, to give both the inhabitants and soldiers to understand, that they owed their victory to christ alone. both the one and the other joining their voices, gave solemn thanks to the saviour of mankind; but they also broke out into the praises of the saint, upon the truth of his predictions, and could not hold from publishing, that it was he who had obtained from heaven this wonderful success. the burden of these praises did no less hasten the saint's intended voyage to goa, than the necessity of those affairs which called him thither. he had remained four months together at malacca, since his return from the moluccas, and was just on his departure, when the ships, which early come from china, arrived in the port. a japonese, whose name was anger, came with these vessels, expressly to see xavier. he was about thirty-five years of age, rich, nobly born, and one whose life had been sufficiently libertine. the portuguese, who two years before had made the discovery of japan, had been acquainted with him at cangoxirna, the place of his birth, and understood, from his own mouth, that, having been much troubled with the remembrance of the sins of his youth, he had retired himself amongst the solitary bonzes; but that neither the solitude, nor the conversation of those heathen priests, had been able to restore him the tranquillity of his soul, and that thereupon he had returned into the world, more disquieted than ever with his remorse of conscience. some other portuguese merchants, who at that time came to cangoxima, and who had seen father francis at malacca, the first voyage he had made thither, made an intimate acquaintance and friendship with anger. and this japonese, discovering to them the perplexity of his soul, which augmented daily more and more, they told him that in malacca there was a religious man, eminent for his holy life, well experienced in the conduct of souls, and most proper to settle his perplexed conscience; and that if he would try this remedy, they would facilitate the means to him, and bring him to the saint, of whom they had spoken: that it was father francis xavier, their friend, the refuge of sinners, and comforter of troubled minds. anger found himself possessed with a strong desire of going to see the holy man; but the length of the voyage, which was leagues, the dangers of a tempestuous sea, and the considerations of his family, somewhat cooled him. a troublesome affair, which he had upon his hands at the same time, at length resolved him. for, having killed a man in a quarrel, and being pursued by justice, he could not find a more secure retreat than the ships of portugal, nor a surer way of preserving his life, than to accept the offer they had made him. alvarez vaz, who had most importuned him to take this voyage, and who had many times offered to bring him to father xavier, had not yet finished all his business, when this japonese came to take sanctuary in his ship. he therefore gave him letters of recommendation to another portuguese, called ferdinand alvarez, who was at another port of japan, and who was suddenly to set sail for malacca. anger departed by night, attended by two servants. being arrived at the port, and enquiring for ferdinand alvarez, he lighted accidentally on george alvarez, who was just ready to weigh anchor. this george was a wealthy merchant, a man of probity, and who had an extreme affection for the father. he received the letters of alvarez as if they had been addressed to himself, took the three japonians into his ship, entertained them with all kindness, and brought them to malacca; taking great satisfaction in the good office he should do in presenting them to the man of god, who might, perhaps, make them the first christians of their country. but the misfortune was, that they missed the father, who was just gone for the moluccas. anger, more disquieted in a foreign land than he had been at home, and despairing of ever seeing him, whom he had so often heard of from his friends, had it in his thoughts to have returned to japan, without considering the danger to which he exposed himself, and almost forgetting the murder which had caused his flight, according to the custom of criminals, who blind themselves in those occasions, and whom divine justice oftentimes brings back to the same place where they had committed their offence. whereupon, he went again to sea, and having made some little stay in a port of china, he pursued his voyage. already some japonian islands were in sight, when there arose a furious tempest, which endangered the sinking of the ship, and which in four days brought him back into the same port of china, from whence he had set out. this was to anger a favourable effect of god's providence; for the same hand which drives the guilty to the precipice, sometimes preserves them from falling into it, and pulls them back, after a miraculous manner. the japonese, very happily for himself, met there alvarez vaz, just ready to set sail for malacca. the portuguese, who loved anger, reproved him for his impatience, and offered to reconduct him to the place which he had so abruptly left; withall telling him, that, according to all appearances, the father by this time was returned from the moluccas. anger, who still carried about him a troubled conscience, and thereby was easily induced to any proposition which tended to compose it, followed the advice of vaz, and returned with him. coming on shore, he there found george alvarez, the same person who had brought him the first time to molucca. alvarez, surprised to see him once again, told him, that father xavier was returned from the moluccas, and immediately brought anger to his presence. the father, who foresaw, not only that this japonian should be the first christian of that kingdom, but also, by his means, the gospel should be preached in it, was transported with joy at the first sight of him, and embraced him with exceeding tenderness. the sight of the saint, and his embracements, gave such consolations to anger, that he no longer doubted of receiving an entire satisfaction from him. understanding, in some measure, the portuguese language, xavier himself assured him, that the disquiets of his mind should be dissipated, and that he should obtain that spiritual repose, in search of which he had undertaken so long a voyage; but that before he could arrive to it, it concerned him first to understand and practise the law of the true god, who alone could calm the troubles of his heart, and set it in a perpetual tranquillity. anger, who desired nothing so much as to have his conscience in repose, and who was charmed with the great goodness of the father, offered himself to be directed in all things by him. the servant of god instructed him in the principles of faith, of which his friends, the portuguese, had already given him some knowledge, as far as men of their profession were capable of teaching him. but to the end his conversion might be more solid, he thought it convenient to send him and his servants to the seminary of goa, there to be more fully taught the truths and practice of christianity before their baptism. the father had yet a further purpose in it, that these first fruits of japonian christianity should be consecrated to god by the bishop don john d'albuquerque, in the capital city of the indies. since in his voyage to goa he was to visit the fishing coast, he would not take the three japonians with him, and gave the care of conducting them to george alvarez. he only wrote by them to the rector of the college of st paul, giving him orders to instruct them with all diligence. he put on board the ship of another portuguese, called gonsalvo fernandez, twenty or thirty young men whom he had brought from the moluccas, in order to their studies in the same college; after which, himself embarked in another vessel, which went directly for cochin. in passing the strait of ceylon, the ship which carried xavier was overtaken with the most horrible tempest which was ever seen. they were constrained, at the very beginning of it, to cast overboard all their merchandize; and the winds roared with so much violence, that the pilot not being able to hold the rudder, abandoned the vessel to the fury of the waves. for three days and nights together they had death continually present before their eyes; and nothing reassured the mariners but the serene countenance of father xavier amidst the cries and tumults in the ship. after he had heard their confessions, implored the help of heaven, and exhorted all of them to receive, with an equal mind, either life or death from the hand of god, he retired into his cabin. francis pereyra, looking for the man of god in the midst of the tempest, to have comfort from him, found him on his knees before his crucifix, wholly taken up and lost to all things but to god. the ship, driven along by an impetuous current, already struck against the sands of ceylon, and the mariners gave themselves for lost, without hope of recovery; when the father coming out of his cabin, asked the pilot for the line and plummet, with which he was accustomed to fathom the sea; having taken them, and let them down to the bottom of the ocean, he pronounced these words: "great god, father, son, and holy ghost, have mercy on us!" at the same moment the vessel stopped, and the wind ceased; after which they pursued their voyage, and happily arrived at the port of cochin on the st of january, . there the father gave himself the leisure of writing divers letters into europe, by a vessel of lisbon, which was just in readiness to set sail. the first was to the king of portugal, john iii.: the letter was full of prudent counsels concerning the duties of a king: he advertised him anew, that his majesty should be guilty before god of the evil government of his ministers, and that one day an account must be given of the salvation of those souls which he had suffered to perish, through neglect of application, or want of constancy in his endeavours; but he did it with all manner of precaution, and softened his expressions with christian charity. "i have long deliberated," said he, "whether i should certify your majesty of the transactions of your officers in the indies, and what ought further to be done for the establishment of our faith. on the one side, the zeal of god's service, and his glory, encouraged me to write to you: on the other, i was diverted from that resolution by the fear i had of writing to no purpose; but, at the same time, i concluded, that i could not be silent without betraying my ministerial function: and it also seemed to me, that god gave me not those thoughts without some particular design; which probably was, that i might communicate them to your majesty; and this opinion, as the more likely, has at length prevailed with me. nevertheless, i always feared, that if i should freely give you all my thoughts, my letter would only serve for evidence against you at the hour of your death, and would augment against your majesty the rigour of the last judgement, by taking from you the excuse of ignorance. these considerations gave me great anxieties, and your majesty will easily believe me: for, in fine, my heart will answer for me, that i desire not to employ all my strength, or even my life itself, for the conversion of the indians, out of any other prospect than to free your majesty's conscience, as much as in me lies, and to render the last judgment less terrible to you. i do in this but that which is my duty; and the particular affection which you bear our society well deserves that i should sacrifice myself for you." after he had informed his majesty, how much the jealousies and secret divisions of his officers had hindered the progress of the gospel, he declares, that he could wish the king would bind himself by a solemn oath, to punish severely whosoever they should be who should occasion any prejudice to the farther propagation of faith in the indies; and farther assured him, that if such who had the authority in their hands were made sensible, that their faults should not escape punishment, the whole isle of ceylon, all cape comorine, and many kings of malabar, would receive baptism in the space of one year; that as many as were living in all the extent of the indies would acknowledge the divinity of jesus christ, and make profession of his doctrine, if those ministers of state, who had neglected the interests of the faith, had been deprived of their dignities and their revenues. after this he petitions the king to send him a supply of preachers, and those preachers to be of the society, as judging them more proper than any others for the new world. "i beg and adjure your majesty," says he, "by the love you bear to our blessed lord, and by the zeal wherewith you burn for the glory of the divine majesty, to send next year some preachers of our society to your faithful subjects of the indies: for i assure you, that your fortresses are in extreme want of such supplies; in garrison, and to the new christians established in the towns and villages depending on them. i speak by experience; and that which i have seen with my own eyes obliges me to write concerning it. being at malacca, and at the moluccas, i preached every sunday, and all saints' days twice; and was forced upon it, because i saw the soldiers and people had great need of being frequently taught the word of god. "i preached then, in the morning, to the portuguese at mass: i went again into the pulpit in the afternoon, and instructed their children, their slaves, and idolaters newly converted, accommodating my discourse to the measure of their understanding, and expounding to them the principal points of christian doctrine, one after another. besides which, one day in the week, i assembled in the church the wives of the portuguese, and catechised them on the articles of faith, on the sacraments of penance, and the eucharist. much fruit would be gathered in a few years, if the same method were constantly observed in all places. i preached also, every day, in the fortresses, the principles of religion, to the sons and daughters of the soldiers, to their servants of both sexes; in fine, to the natives of the country, who were born christians: and these instructions had so good effect, that they totally renounced the superstitions and sorceries which were in use amongst those stupid and ignorant new converts. "i descend into all these petty circumstances, to the end your majesty may judge, according to your prudence, what number of preachers may be necessary here; and that you may not forget to send many to us: for if the ministry of preaching be not more exercised amongst us, we have reason to apprehend, that not only the indians, who have embraced the faith, will leave it, but that the portuguese also may forget the duties of christianity, and live afterwards like heathens." as father simon rodriguez, who governed the society in portugal, had great credit at the court, father xavier writ to him at the same time, desiring him, he would support his demands with his interest. he recommended to him in especial manner, "that he would make choice of those preachers, who were men of known virtue, and exemplary mortification." he subjoined, "if i thought the king would not take amiss the counsel of a faithful servant, who sincerely loves him, i should advise him to meditate one quarter of an hour every day, on that divine sentence, 'what does it profit a man to have gained the world, and to lose his soul?' i should counsel him, i say, to ask of god the understanding and taste of those words, and that he would finish all his prayers with the same words, 'what will it profit a man, to gain the world, and to lose his soul? 'tis time," said xavier, "to draw him out of his mistake, and to give him notice, that the hour of his death is nearer than he thinks: that fatal hour, when the king of kings, and lord of lords, will summon him to judgment, saying to him these dreadful words, 'give an account of your administration.' for which reason, do in such manner, my dear brother, that he may fulfil his whole duty; and that he may send over to the indies all needful supplies, for the increase of faith." xavier also wrote from cochin to the fathers of the society at rome; and gave them an account, at large, of his voyages to malacca, to amboyna, to the moluccas, and the isle del moro; with the success which god had given to his labours. but he forgot not the relation of his danger in the strait of ceylon, and made it in a manner which was full of consolation to them. "in the height of the tempest," said he in his letter, "i took for my intercessors with god, the living persons of our society, with all those who are well affected to it; and joined to these, all christians, that i might be assisted with the merits of the spouse of christ, the holy catholic church, whose prayers are heard in heaven, though her habitation be on earth: afterwards i addressed myself to the dead, and particularly to piere le fevre, to appease the wrath of god. i went through all the orders of the angels, and the saints, and invoked them all. but to the end that i might the more easily obtain the pardon of my innumerable sins, i desired for my protectress and patroness, the most holy mother of god, and queen of heaven, who, without difficulty, obtains from her beloved son whatsoever she requests. in conclusion, having reposed all my hope in the infinite merits of our lord and saviour jesus christ, being encompassed with this protection, i enjoyed a greater satisfaction, in the midst of this raging tempest, than when i was wholly delivered from the danger. "in very truth, being, as i am, the worst of all men, i am ashamed to have shed so many tears of joy, through an excess of heavenly pleasure, when i was just upon the point of perishing: insomuch, that i humbly prayed our lord, that he would not free me from the danger of my shipwreck, unless it were to reserve me for greater dangers, to his own glory and his service. for what remains, god has often shewn me, by an inward discovery, from how many perils and sufferings i have been delivered, by the prayers and sacrifices of those of the society, both such as labour here on earth, and such who enjoy the fruits of their labours in the heavens. when i have once begun the mention of our society, i can never leave; but the departure of the vessels constrains me to break off: and behold what i have judged most proper for the conclusion of my letter. if i ever forget thee, o society of jesus, let my right hand be unprofitable to me, and may i even forget the use of it! _si oblitus unquam fuero tui, societas jesu, oblivioni detur dextera meu_. i pray our lord jesus christ, that since, during the course of this miserable life, he has gathered us into his society, he would reunite us in a blessed eternity, in the company of saints, who behold him in his glory." after he had written these letters, and given some time to the service of his neighbour, he took the way of comorine, doubled the cape a second time, and arrived at the coast of fishery. the paravas, who were his first children in jesus christ, were overjoyed at the sight of their saint, and good father, as they called him. all the villages came to meet him, singing the christian doctrine, and praising god for his return. the satisfaction of the saint was not less than theirs: but above all things his consolation was unspeakable to see the number of christians so much augmented, by the labours of his brethren. there were in that place many of the society, of whom the chief were antonio criminal, francis henriquez, and alphonso cyprian; for father xavier having written from amboyna for the greatest number of missioners whom they could spare, towards the cultivation of those new plants at the coast of fishery, all those who came from portugal, after his own arrival in the indies, went thither, excepting the three who went to the moluccas, and two who stayed at goa, for the instruction of the youth. the fervency of those new converts did not less edify xavier than their number. in visiting a certain village, they shewed him a young man, a native of the country, who, having embarked in company of a portuguese, had been cast, by tempest, on the coast of malabar. the saracens, who inhabit that place, having murdered the portuguese, would have forced his companion to renounce his faith. thereupon they brought him into a mosque, where they promised him great store of money and preferments, in case he would forsake the law of jesus christ, and take up that of their prophet mahomet. but seeing their promises could not prevail, they threatened him with death, and held their naked weapons over his head to fright him; but neither could they shake his resolution with that dreadful spectacle: then they loaded him with irons, and used him with extraordinary cruelty, till a portuguese captain, informed of it, came suddenly upon them with a troop of soldiers, and rescued the young man out of their hands. xavier embraced him many times, and blessed almighty god, that his faith was imprinted so lively in the heart of a barbarian. he heard also, with great satisfaction, of the constancy of some slaves, who, having fled from the houses of their portuguese masters, and living amongst gentiles, far from being corrupted with the superstitions of the infidels, complied exactly with the obligations of their baptism, and lived in a most religious manner. it was reported to him of these slaves, that when any of them died, they suffered not his body to be burnt, according to the custom of the pagans, neither would they leave it without sepulture; but buried it according to the ceremonies of the church, and set up a cross over the grave. though these infidels, whom they served, did not hinder them from continuing in christianity, and that every one of them in particular was resolved to persevere in his faith, even in the midst of idolatry, yet they had a longing desire to return into the company of the faithful, where they might be supplied with those spiritual succours which they wanted, and lead a life yet more conformable to their belief: so that as soon as they had the news of father xavier's return, who had baptized the greatest part of them, they came to desire him, that he would make their peace with their masters, whom they had left to free themselves from slavery, and declared, that they were content once more to lose their liberty in prospect of the salvation of their souls. xavier received them with open arms, as his well-beloved children, and afterwards obtained their pardon. after he had visited all the villages, he made some stay at manapar, which is not far distant from cape comorine. as the only end which he proposed to himself, was to plant the gospel in the indies, and that in order to it he must there establish the society, he began to regulate all things according to the principles, and in the spirit of father ignatius, general of the order. having reassembled all the labourers in the gospel of that coast, he examined their several talents and virtues, in familiar conversation with them, by causing them to give an account of what passed betwixt god and them in their own hearts. after he had assigned to each of them the places which were most convenient for them, both in regard of their bodily strength, and of their spiritual endowments, he constituted father antonio criminal superior of all the rest: and to the end they might be more capable of serving that people, he ordered every one of them, with all possible care, to apply himself to the study of the malabar language, which obtains through all that coast. upon this account, he commanded father francis henriquez to reduce that tongue into the rules of art, and to compose an exact grammar of it, according to the method of the greek and latin grammars. the work seemed impossible, especially to one who was newly come from europe, and who had little knowledge in the indian tongues; nevertheless henriquez compassed it in a small time, which was apparently a miracle of obedience. in the mean while, xavier judging that the exposition of the christian doctrine, which he had made for those of molucca, might be of use to his dear paravas, ordered a malabar priest, who was well versed in the portuguese, to translate it into his own language. but to the end that the conduct of the missioners might be uniform, and that the same spirit might animate all of them, besides the instructions which he gave them by word of mouth, he gave them the following rules in writing. in the first place, "wherever the lot of your ministry shall fall, be mindful of baptising infants newly born, and perform it yourselves, without trusting the care of it to any other person: there is nothing at present of more importance. do not wait till the parents bid you come; as they may easily neglect it, it behoves you to run through all the villages, to enter into the houses, and to christen all the infants you can find. "after the great concernment of giving baptism, you ought to be careful of nothing more than of entering those little children into the principles of faith, who are grown capable of instruction. not being able to be in all places, you shall cause the canacapoles, and the teachers of the catechism, to perform their duty, and religiously to observe the customs established. to which purposes, when you visit the villages, to take an account of what passes there, assemble the masters, with their scholars, and know from the children, in the presence of those who are accustomed to instruct them, what they have learned, or forgotten, since your last visit; this will double the ardency of the scholars, and the diligence of their teachers. "on sundays, gather the men together in the church to repeat their prayers; and observe well, whether the pantagatins, or chief of the people, are there present. you are to expound the prayers which they repeat, and reprove them for the vices then in fashion, which you are to make them comprehend, by using familiar examples. in fine, you are to threaten the more stubborn sinners with the wrath of god; and tell them, that if they do not reform their lives, their days shall be shortened by all manner of diseases; that the pagan kings shall enslave them, and that their immortal souls shall become fuel to the everlasting flames of hell. "when you come to any place, you shall inform yourselves what quarrels are stirring in it, and who are the parties; after which, you shall endeavour to reconcile them. these reconciliations are to be made in the church; where it will be fitting to assemble all the women on saturdays, as the men on sundays. "when the malabar priest shall have translated the exposition of the creed, you shall take copies of it, which you shall cause to be carefully read to the women on saturdays, to the men on sundays. if you are there present, you shall read it yourselves, and add to the exposition what you think convenient for the farther clearing it. "distribute to the poor those collections which are made for them in the churches, by the charity of the congregation; and beware of taking any part of them for your own uses. "fail not every saturday and sunday to put the faithful in mind of giving you notice when any one falls sick, to the end you may visit them; and give them to know, that if they do not advertise you, and that the sick person dies, you will not allow him burial amongst christians, in punishment of their neglect. "when you visit the sick, take especial care that they repeat to you the apostles' creed in their mother tongue. interrogate them on every article, and ask them if they believe sincerely. after this, make them say the confiteor, and the other catholic prayers, and then read the gospel over them. "for the burial of the dead, you shall assemble the children; and, coming out of the church with them, the cross being at the head of the procession, you shall sing the christian doctrine, coming and going. you shall say the prayers of the church at the house of the dead person, and before he is put into the ground. you shall also make a short exhortation to the assembly before the corpse, upon the necessity of death, the amendment of life, and the practice of virtue. "you shall give notice to the men on sunday, and to the women on saturday, to bring their sick children into the church, that you may read the gospel over them for their cure; and that the parents from thence may receive increase of faith, and respect to the temples of our lord. "you shall yourselves determine all litigious causes; and, if you cannot end them on the place, defer them to the next sunday; and, after divine service, cause them to be expedited by the principal inhabitants of the place. yet i will not that these sort of affairs should take up too much of your time, nor that you prefer the care of your neighbour's temporal concernments before works of charity, which respect the salvation of souls; and am of opinion, that when any important business of that kind shall happen, you should remit it to the portuguese commandant. "do all things in your power to make yourselves beloved by those people; for by that you will be able to do more good upon them, than by being feared. decree no punishment against any person but by the advice of father antonio criminal; and, if the commandant of the portuguese be present, do nothing without his order. in case any man or woman shall make a pagod, or idol, banish them from the village, if father criminal consent to it. testify great affection to the children who frequent the christian schools; pardon, and wink at their faults sometimes, lest a severe usage should fright them from us. "in presence of a portuguese, abstain from reproving and condemning the natives of the country who are christians; on the contrary, commend and excuse them on all occasions; for, considering how lately they have embraced the faith, and what assistance is wanting to them to live like good christians, it is only to be admired that they are not more vicious. "be serviceable in all you can to the malabar priests, in what relates to their spiritual advantage; take care that they confess themselves, and say mass, and give good examples, and write nothing against them to any person whatsoever. "live so well with the portuguese commandants, that no misunderstanding be ever perceived betwixt you and them. for the rest of the portuguese, use all sort of means to make them your friends: have never any quarrel with any of them, though they should bring you into law, or quarrel with you without the least provocation on your part. if they use the new christians hardly, oppose them, but with much mildness; and, if you find your opposition may be likely to succeed, make your complaint to the portuguese commandant, with whom i once again beseech you never to have any difference. "let your conversation with the portuguese be always confined to spiritual subjects; of death, of judgment, of purgatory, of hell, of the frequentation of sacraments, and the exact observation of god's commandments; for, if you never speak to them but concerning these matters, they will never rob you of those hours which are set apart for your function. "fail not to write to goa, to the fathers and brothers of our society, giving them an account of the fruit of your labours, and proposing to them what you think may be to the advancement of piety. you shall write also to the bishop, but with much reverence and submission, as to the common father, and pastor-general of this new world. "what, above all things, i recommend to you, and which i can never sufficiently repeat, is, that whatsoever voyage you make, and wheresoever you shall be, you shall endeavour to gain the love of all people, by your good offices and fair demeanour, by which means you will have greater opportunities for the gaining of souls, which god almighty grant you all the grace to do, and abide for ever with you." things being thus regulated on the coast of fishery, the father would pass into the isle of ceylon before his return to goa. his design was to gather the fruit of that precious blood which two years before was shed by the king of jafanatapan; or, at least, to see what inclination those people had to receive the gospel, who had heheld the constancy of the martyrs. indeed, the death of the two young princes converted, who pretended to the crown of jafanatapan, destroyed almost all hopes of planting christianity in that isle. notwithstanding which, xavier converted the king of candè, who is one of the kings of ceylon. after which he went to the tyrant, who had treated the christians with so much cruelty, to try if he could work him, though against all human appearances, to suffer the law of jesus christ to be preached in his dominions, and to bring him also to be a christian. as reasons of state prevail most with princes, so the father represented to this infidel, that his throne could never he established but by the arms of the portuguese; that, if he once contracted with them a strict alliance, he had nothing farther to apprehend, either from his enemies or his subjects. the barbarian, who feared all things, both from within and from without, forgetting that don alphonso de sosa would have made war upon him in favour of the two baptized princes, hearkened to the propositions of peace, and even permitted the father to explain to him the mysteries of the christian faith. the instructions of the saint wrought so much upon the tyrant, that being changed, in a very short space of time, he promised to embrace the faith, and labour to bring his subjects into it; offering for the pledge of his word, to put his kingdom into the hands of the king of portugal, and to pay him such tribute as should be thought fitting, without any farther demand in his own behalf, than of two things. the one was, that the governor of the indies should conclude a firm alliance with him, as he had clone with other indian kings, who had made themselves vassals to the crown of portugal; the other, that, in order to hinder those revolts and troubles which might arise from the change of religion, he might have a company of portuguese soldiers, to be entertained at his own charges. father xavier, well satisfied to have thus succeeded beyond his expectations, set sail for goa, with an ambassador of the infidel king, and arrived there on march the th, in the year . understanding there, that the viceroy don john de castro was at bazain, towards the gulph of cambaya, he embarked anew, notwithstanding that the season was improper for navigation; as judging that a business of such consequence could not be too soon concluded, and that delays frequently ruined the most hopeful affairs. castro had never seen xavier, but all he had heard related of him, gave him an earnest longing to behold him. he received him with all those honours which are due to a saint at the first meeting, and willingly accepted what the king of jafanatapan had offered, on the conditions above mentioned; but he retained for some time the man of god, both to hear him preach, and to consult him on some difficult affairs, where the interests of state and those of religion were joined together. in the mean time, he designed antonio monis barreto, a man of authority, and very brave, for the garrison of jafanatapan, with an hundred soldiers, well disciplined, and worthy of such an officer. at the same time he ordered a magnificent entertainment for the ambassador, who remained at goa; and that if any of his train would receive baptism, no cost should be spared at that solemnity. but the king of jafanatapan failed afterwards in fidelity, both to god and man; and in all probability, it was that failure which drew the last misfortunes on his person and his kingdom. the stay which xavier made at bazain was not unprofitable to a young man of quality, who was much debauched, called rodrigue segueyra, whom he had known two years before. for segueyra having committed a murder at malacca, when the father made his first voyage to the town, retired into the hospital, to avoid the pursuit of justice. there it was that the father knew him, and grew into his familiarity, by his engaging ways of mildness and courtesy, which always succeeded with him. when he had gained the affection of segueyra, he spoke to him of eternity with so much power, that the young gentleman entered into serious thoughts, and made a general confession to him. xavier, to engage him the more in the ways of goodness, and to free him from that confinement of the hospital, where his crimes had forced him to take sanctuary, made up the business with his adversaries, and obtained his pardon from the governor of malacca; but seeing the soft and dissolute manner of living in malacca was capable of ruining all his good intentions, he advised him to leave the indies, and return into europe. segueyra, who was sensible of his own weakness, and desired to save his soul, promised the father to obey him, and put himself into a condition of executing his promise. in effect, he took the way of goa, with design from thence to go for portugal. but being made a receiver of the public revenues by the viceroy don john de castro, he thought no more of portugal, but relapsed into his first debauches. xavier was wholly lost to his remembrance when he happened to meet him at bazain. the sight of the father surprised him at first, and almost confounded him; but straight recovering, he came up boldly to him, and took his hand, to have kissed it according to his former custom. the father, as courteous and civil as he was, yet thrust him back sternly enough; yet, mollifying himself a little, "how, my son," said he, "are you still in the indies? were you not advised to leave malacca, and return to portugal?" the portuguese, in great disorder, and not knowing how to excuse himself, laid all the blame upon the governor, who had detained him, in some sort, against his will. "but," replied xavier, with a holy indignation, "is it the governor who has obliged you to lead the life of a beast, and to continue for two years without going to confession? however it be," continued the father, "know, that we two shall never be well with one another, so long as you are upon ill terms with god." at these words, segueyra, pierced with a lively sorrow, asked pardon of the father for his breach of promise, and his unfaithfulness to the divine grace. he confessed himself the same day; and wholly changed his life, under his direction, whom god had sent to bring him back into a better way. don john de castro, who was desirous of profiting by the father's counsels for the regulation of his own life, would have been glad to have retained him longer; but, seeing him resolved on going, gave him leave to depart; yet, begging him at the same time, that he would pass the winter at goa, that, after his own return thither, he might use his assistance in the affairs of his conscience. the father returned very seasonably for the good of cosmo de torrez, a spanish priest, and native of valentia, one of the greatest wits, and most knowing persons of that age. torrez was embarked on the fleet which came from mexico to the molucca islands; and which having sailed over so many seas to little purpose, stayed at amboyna, as we have already related. he there met xavier, and was so charmed with his manner of life, that he had thoughts of becoming his disciple. but, besides that the labours which are inseparable from the ministry apostolical somewhat shocked him, he judged, that he ought to undertake nothing but by the counsel of the bishop of the indies; insomuch, that he left amboyna without forming any resolution, and even without opening himself to father xavier. when the spanish fleet was arrived at goa, he presented himself to the bishop, who, being in want of spiritual substitutes, gave him one of the chief vicariats of his diocese. torrez was of opinion, that god required nothing farther of him; and for the space of four or five months, performed all the functions of that office, which the bishop had given him in charge. but the continual disquiets of his soul rendered him suspicious of his own condition, and brought him to believe, that god had punished him, for not following the new apostle of the east. being one day much troubled in his mind, he went to the college of st paul, and opened himself to father lancilotti, desiring him to unfold to him the nature of that institute, with which he was so much taken, by seeing father xavier at amboyna. as some interior motions had of late pushed him on to the performance of somewhat that was great, and of suffering all things for the glory of jesus christ, he found the institute of ignatius so conformable to the present dispositions of his soul, that, without farther balancing the matter, he was resolved to go through the spiritual exercises, to fit himself for the change of his condition. from the second day, he received such light, and so much comfort from above, that he believed himself in heaven already. he could not sufficiently admire, that those plain and easy truths, which he had often read without any taste of them, should make such lively impressions in him, as now they did. and he discovered this to lancilotti, with expressions full of astonishment. nevertheless, being affrighted at the prospect of a perpetual engagement, and perhaps tempted by the devil, he could not settle to it, and was every day more and more irresolute. xavier arrived just at that point of time. he had scarcely seen torrez, when behold a man, fixed on the sudden, and resolved, and pressing to be received amongst the children of ignatius. the apostle received him, and took pains himself to form him, according to the spirit of the society. he also admitted some portuguese, who had great talents for the mission, and were inflamed with the zeal of souls. they lived together in the college of st paul, where that fervour reigned, not only amongst the jesuits, but also amongst those of the seminary, whose number increased daily. the japonese, anger, was amongst them, leading a most regular life, and breathing after that baptism, which had been deferred till the return of the holy man. xavier did not satisfy himself with having instructed him anew; he consigned him over to the care of torrez, who fully explained to him all the mysteries of faith. anger, with his two servants, who received the same instruction, were at length solemnly baptized, on whitsunday, by the bishop of goa, don john d'albuquerque; so that the church began to take possession of the most remote nation in the world, on the same day of pentecost, when the holy spirit, descending on the apostles, gave them their mission to carry the gospel to all the people of the earth. anger was desirous to be named paul de sainte foi, in memory of the college belonging to the society of jesus, where he had received the particular knowledge of the divine law, which was sometimes called the college of st paul, and sometimes the seminary of the holy faith. one of his servants took the name of john, and the other of anthony. in receiving baptism, he received the peace of soul which he never could obtain before; and writ word of it to rome, the same year, in a letter to father ignatius, dated november the th. but to the end, that the new converts might have the true principles of christian morality, and that their behaviour might be answerable to their belief, father xavier intrusted torrez with giving them the spiritual exercises of the society. during the thirty days that these japonians were in retirement, it is not to be expressed, what celestial illuminations, what holy thoughts, what interior delights, the holy spirit infused into them. anger could speak of nothing but of god; and spoke of him with so much fervency, that it seemed even to burn him up. the mystery of the passion moved him above all the rest; and he was so ravished with the goodness of god, so possessed with love, in considering a god crucified, that he breathed nothing but martyrdom, and the salvation of his brethren. so that he was often heard to cry out, in the midst of his devotions, "how glad should i be to die for thee, o my god! o my dear japonians, how much are you to be lamented, and what compassion do you raise in me!" the master and servants came out of their retirement with so much ardour, that xavier wrote into europe, that he was animated by their example to the service of god, and that he could not look on them without blushing at his own cowardice. in conversing with them, he understood what he had formerly learnt by hearsay, from george alvarez, and other portuguese, that the empire of japan was one of the most populous in the world; that the japonese were naturally curious, and covetous of knowledge, and withal docible, and of great capacity; that being generally ingenious, and very rational, if they were instructed in the morals of christianity, they would easily submit to them; and that, if the preachers of the gospel lived according to gospel rules, the whole nation would subject itself to the yoke of jesus christ, not perhaps so readily at first, but in process of time, and after clearing of their doubts. there needed no more to induce xavier to carry the faith into japan. the mildness, the civility, and the good parts of the three baptized japonians, made him conceive a high opinion of all the rest; and the portuguese merchants newly returned from japan, confirmed it so fully to him, that in these three he had the pattern of the whole nation, that he doubted not, but that the christian religion would make an admirable progress there. but that which anger told him, that there were in his country many monasteries of heathen priests; that some of them led their lives in solitude and contemplation; that every monastery had its superior, who was a person venerable for his age and learning; that they came abroad from their lonely abode once a week, with mortified looks, and uncouth habits, to preach to the people; that, in their sermons, they drew such lively figures of hell, that the women wept, and cried out at those dismal representations: all this, i say, appeared to xavier as so many doors and inlets for the faith; and he praised god, that, by the admirable conduct of his providence, which secretly manages the salvation of men, the spirit of lies had thus prepared the ways for the spirit of truth. he adored also the wisdom of the same providence, which, taking the occasion of a man who fled from justice, and sought repose for his troubled conscience, had led three japonians from their native country, and brought them to goa, that they might serve for guides to a missioner; but, that these guides might be the more serviceable, he thought fit they should learn to read and write in the portuguese language. anger, whom from henceforth we shall name paul de sainte foy, was easily instructed in all they taught him; for, besides that he was of a quick and lively apprehension, he had so happy a memory, that he got by heart almost all the gospel of st matthew, which father cosmo de torrez had expounded to him before his baptism. in the mean time, don john de castro was rigging out a fleet, with design to possess himself of aden, one of the strongest towns of arabia felix, and situated at the foot of a high mountain, which reached even to the sea by a narrow tongue of earth. this port is of great importance to shut up the passage of the indies to the turks and saracens, who go thither by the red sea; and from this consideration it was, that albuquerque the great endeavoured to have mastered it in the year _ _, but the vigorous resistance of the achenois forced him to forsake the siege. after that time, they were desirous, of their own accord, to have delivered it up to the portuguese, thereby to free themselves from the tyranny of the turks. yet it was not then done, through the fault of a captain called soarez, who, having no orders to take possession of the town, was so weak a politician as to refuse it when it was offered to the crown of portugal. that people, whom the turk used worse than ever, testified the same inclination under the government of castro; and it was on that occasion that he sent a fleet towards the strait of mecca, under the command of his son alvarez de castro. eight foysts of goa, full of soldiers, set out for the expedition of aden. amongst these there was one very brave fellow, renowned for his military actions, but blackened with all sorts of crimes, and more infamous by his debauched manners, than known by his valour. he seemed a kind of savage beast, who had no more of man in him than the bare figure, nor any thing of a christian besides the name. above eighteen years he had abstained from confession; and that he once presented himself to the bishop of goa, was less to reconcile himself to god, than to take off the imputation of being either a mahometan or an idolater. father xavier had cast an eye upon this wretch, and waited only an opportunity to labour in so difficult a conversion. understanding that this soldier was embarking on one of the foysts, which were going to join the fleet, he went out of the college of st paul, at the first notice of it, taking nothing with him besides his breviary, and entered into the same vessel. it was believed by those who saw the father, that he had orders from the viceroy to accompany his son alvarez; and every one was glad of it, excepting only he, for whose sake he came. he drew near the soldier, and when they had weighed anchor, began to make acquaintance with him, and grew familiar to that degree, that the rest of the soldiers, who were less debauched, could not sufficiently admire it; and some of them said of xavier, what a pharisee said formerly of our lord, "if this man were indeed a prophet, he would discern what manner of man he was, in whom he takes so much delight." these discourses did not at all daunt the father. he saw his soldier playing whole nights together, for he was a great gamester. he took no notice of his extravagancies, and sometimes heard him swear without seeming to regard it. only one day he said to him, that gaming required a composed spirit, and if he took not the better heed, that passion, which he had in play, would make him lose. the soldier, brutal as he was, grew insensibly to have a kindness for a man, who was so much concerned in his advantages, and took pleasure in hearing him discourse not only of war, and sea affairs, but also of religion and morality. in conclusion, he made some reflections on the horror of his life, and felt even some remorse of conscience for it. being one day together with the father, in a private part of the ship, xavier asked him, to whom he had confessed himself before he went on shipboard? "ah father," said the soldier, "i have not been at confession these many years!" "and what do you imagine would become of you," said the holy man, "supposing you should be killed in this action, and in the condition you now are?" "i would once have confessed myself," replied the soldier, "at least for fashion and decency, but the vicar of goa would not so much as hear me, but told me i was a reprobate, and deserved nothing but hell-fire." "the vicar was, in my opinion," said xavier, "somewhat too severe, to treat you in that manner. he had perhaps his reasons for that usage, and i have mine to treat you otherwise. for indeed the mercies of our lord are infinite, and god would have us as indulgent to our brethren, as he himself is to us. thus, when the sins, of which you find yourself guilty, are a thousand times more numerous and more crying than they are, i shall have the patience to hear them all, and shall make no difficulty of giving you absolution, provided you take those thoughts and resolutions which i shall endeavour to infuse into you." by these words he brought the soldier to a general confession. he disposed him for it, by causing him to recal into his memory his past life, and drawing him into the particulars of those sins, which a man of his character and profession might possibly have committed. while they were upon these terms, the ship cast anchor at the port of ceylon for refreshment. many of the fleet went on shore, and, amongst the rest, the father and the soldier. they went together to a wild solitary place; there the soldier made his confession with abundance of tears, resolved to expiate his crimes, with whatsoever penance the father should enjoin him, were it never so rigorous. but his confessor gave him only a paternoster and an ave to say. whereat the penitent being much amazed, "from whence proceeds it, my father," said he, "that, being so great a sinner as i am, you have given me so light a penance?" "be content," answered xavier; "o my son, we shall appease the divine justice:" and at the same instant, he withdrew into a wood, while the soldier performed his penance. there he did what he had formerly done on the like occasion: he bared his shoulders, and disciplined himself so rigorously, that the soldier heard the noise of the strokes, and came running to him, beholding the father all in blood; and rightly judging what was the motive of so strange an action, he snatched the discipline out of his hands, and crying out, "it was the criminal who ought to endure the punishment, and not the innocent to bear the pains of sin;" he immediately stripped himself, and chastised his body with all his strength. xavier oftentimes embraced him, and declared, that it was for his sake alone that he came on shipboard. so having given him wholesome admonitions to confirm him in the grace of god, he left him, and returned to goa in the first vessel which went out of the port where they made the stay. as for the soldier, he followed the fleet; and after the expedition of aden was ended, he entered into religion, chusing one of the most austere orders, where he lived and died in extraordinary holiness. not long after the father was returned to goa, the governor don john de castro returned also; but very ill of a hectic fever, which had been consuming him for some months before. finding himself in a daily decay of health and strength, and doubting not the end of his life was near approaching, he quite laid aside all business, and substituted others to supply his place; after which his thoughts were wholly employed on death, and the great concernments of eternity. he had many long conversations with father xavier on that subject, and refused to see any one but him. during these transactions, a ship which came from lisbon brought letters to the viceroy from the king of portugal, who gave great praises to his management, and continued him for three years longer in the government of the indies. as don john was much beloved, so on this occasion public rejoicings were made over all the town. but the sick viceroy, hearing the discharge of the artillery, and seeing almost from his bed the bonfires that were made, could not forbear laughing at it, though he was almost in the agonies of death. "how deceitful and ridiculous is this world," said he, "to present us with honours of three years continuance, when we have but a moment more to live!" the father assisted him, even to the last drawing of his breath; and had the consolation to behold a great man of this world, expiring with the thoughts of a saint in holy orders. xavier being master of himself, in some manner, after the disease of don john de castro, who had desired him not to stir from goa, during the winter, had thoughts of visiting once more the coast of fishery before his voyage to japan; his resolutions of which, he had not hitherto declared. but the incommodities of the season hindered him; for at one certain time the sands so choke up the channels of the isle, that no ship can either go out of the port, or enter into it. in waiting until the navigation became free, the saint applied himself particularly to the exercises of a spiritual life, as it were to recover new strength after his past labours, according to the custom of apostolical men, who, in the communications which they have with god, refresh themselves after the pains which they have taken with their neighbour. then it was, that, in the garden of saint paul's college, sometimes in walking, at other times in retiring into a little hermitage, which was there set up, he cried out, "it is enough, o my lord, it is enough!" and that he opened his cassock before his breast, to give a little air to those flames which burnt within him, by which he declared, that he was not able to support the abundance of heavenly consolations; and at the same time gave us to understand, that he would have rather chosen to suffer any torments for the service of god, than to have enjoyed all those spiritual delights; so that his true meaning, was a prayer to god, that he would please to reserve for him those pleasures in another life, and in the mean time, would not spare, to inflict on him any pains or sufferings in this present world. these interior employments did not hinder him from the labours of his ministerial vocation, nor from succouring the distressed in the hospitals and prisons. on the contrary, the more lively and ardent the love of god was in him, the more desirous he was to bring it forth, and kindle it in others. his charity caused him often to relinquish the quiet of solitude, and the delights of prayer; therein following the principle of his father ignatius, that it was necessary to forsake god for god. the season began to be more moderate, and xavier was disposing himself to set sail for the cape of comorine, when a portuguese vessel arrived from mozambique, which brought in her live missioners of the society. the most considerable of these missioners, and of five others which came along with the fleet, was caspar barzæus, a fleming by nation. father francis had already heard speak of him, as an excellent labourer, and a famous preacher; but his presence, and the testimony of all the ship, gave the saint such great ideas of his merit, that he looked on him from thenceforward as an apostle of the eastern countries. he passed five days with these new companions, on the fourth of which he caused father gaspar to preach before him, that he might see his talent for the pulpit; and discovered in him all the qualities of a perfect preacher. many portuguese gentlemen, who had been much edified by the virtues and conversation of barzæus during all the navigation, which had been exceeding dangerous, came and fell at the feet of xavier, desiring that he would please to receive them into the society. the captain of the ship, and the governor of one of the chief citadels, which the portuguese enjoy in india, were of the number. he admitted some of them before his departure, and deferred the rest till his return; but he would that all of them should perform the spiritual exercises of father ignatius. at length xavier embarked, on the th of september, for the fishing coast. there he comforted and confirmed the faithful, who were continually persecuted by the badages, those mortal and irreconcileable enemies of the christian name. he also encouraged the gospel labourers of the society, who, for the same reason, went in daily hazard of their lives. having understood, that father francis henriquez, who cultivated the christianity of travancore, was somewhat dissatisfied, and believed he lost his time, because some of those new converts, shaken either by the promises or threatenings of a new king, who hated the christians, had returned to their former superstitions, he writ him letters of consolation, desiring him to be of good courage, and assuring him, that his labours were more profitable than he imagined; that when all the fruit of his zeal should be reduced to the little children who died after baptism, god would be well satisfied of his endeavours, and that, after all, the salvation of one only soul ought to comfort a missioner for all his pains; that god accounted with us for our good intentions; and that a servant of his was never to be esteemed unprofitable, who laboured in his vineyard with all his strength, whatever his success might prove. father xavier was not content to have fortified the missioners, both by word and writing, in his own person; he desired of father ignatius, that he would also encourage them with his epistles, and, principally, that he would have the goodness to write to henry henriquez, a man mortified to the world, and laborious in his ministry. having ordered all things in the coast of fishery, he returned by cochin, where he staid two months; employing himself, without ceasing, in the instruction of little children, administering to the sick, and regulating the manners of that town. after which he went to bazain, there to speak with the deputy-governor of the indies, don garcia de saa, whom don john de castro had named, upon his death-bed, to supply his place. the father was desirous to obtain his letters of recommendation to the governor of malacca, that, in virtue of them, his passage to japan might be made more easy. it is true, the news he received, that the chinese, ill satisfied with the portuguese, had turned them out of their country, seemed to have broken all his measures, because it was impossible to arrive at the isles of japan, by the way of malacca, without touching at some port of china; but it is the property of apostolical zeal, to make no account of those seeming impossibilities, which appear in the greatest undertakings. when xavier was come back to goa, and it was known that he designed a voyage to japan, his friends made use of all their endeavours to divert him from it. they first set before him the length of the way, which was thirteen hundred leagues; the certain and inevitable dangers to which he must expose his life, not only by reason of pirates, which continually infest those seas, and murder all who come into their hands, but also for the rocks, unknown to the most skilful pilots, and of certain winds called typhons, which reign from china even to japan, in a vast extent of sea. they said, "that those impetuous hurricanes were used to whirl a vessel round, and founder it at the same moment; or else drive it with fury against the rocks, and split it in a thousand pieces." they added, "if, by miracle, he should happen to escape the pirates, and avoid the tempests, yet he could promise no manner of safety to himself in the ports of china, from whence the portuguese were expelled; and, for what remained, if he were possessed with an unsatiable zeal, there were other vast kingdoms of the east, where the light of the gospel had not shone; that even in the neighbourhood of goa there were isles remaining, and territories, of idolaters: that he might go thither in god's name, and leave the thoughts of those remote islands, which nature seemed to have divided from the commerce of mortals; and where the power of the portuguese not being established, christianity could not be able to maintain itself against the persecution of the pagans." xavier was so well persuaded that god would have him travel to japan, that he would not listen, to the reasons of his friends. he laughed at their fears, and told them, "that perhaps he should not be more unfortunate than george alvarez, or alvarez vaz, who had performed the voyage of japan, in spite of all those pirates, and those hurricanes, with which they would affright him." this he said smiling; after which, resuming a serious air, "verily," said he, "i am amazed that you would endeavour to hinder me from going for the good of souls, whither you yourselves would go out of the sordid consideration of a small transitory gain; and must plainly tell you, i am ashamed of your little faith. but i am ashamed for myself, that you have prevented me in going thither first, and cannot bear that a merchant should have more courage than a missioner." in conclusion, he told them, "that having so often experienced the care of providence, it would be an impiety to distrust it; that it had not preserved him from the swords of the badages, and the poisons of the isle del moro, to abandon him in other dangers; that india was not the boundary of his mission; but that in coming thither, his design had always been, to carry the faith even to the utmost limits of the world." he then wrote to father ignatius, to give him an account of his intended voyage, and of the thoughts of his heart concerning it. "i cannot express to you," said he, "with what joy i undertake this long voyage. for it is all full of extreme dangers; and he, who out of four ships can preserve one, thinks he has made a saving voyage. though these perils are surpassing all i have hitherto proved, yet i am not discouraged a jot the more from my undertaking; so much the lord has been pleased to fix it in my mind, that the cross shall produce great fruits in those countries, when once it shall be planted there." he wrote at the same time to father simon rodriguez, and some passages of the letter well describe the disposition of the holy man. "there are arrived here some ships from malacca, who confirm the news, that all the ports of china are armed, and that the chinese are making open war with portugal; which notwithstanding, my resolutions still continue for japan; for i see nothing more sweet or pleasing in this world, than to live in continual dangers of death, for the honour of jesus christ, and for the interests of the faith. it being indeed the distinguishing character of a christian, to take more pleasure in the hardships of the cross, than in the softness of repose." the apostle, being upon the point of his departure for japan, established father paul de camerine, superior-general in his place, and father antonio gomez, rector of the seminary at goa. at the same time he prescribed rules to both of them, in what manner they should live together, and how they should govern their inferiors. behold, in particular, what he recommended to father paul: "i adjure you," said he, "by the desire you have to please our lord, and by the love you bear to father ignatius, and all the society, to treat gomez, and all our fathers and brothers, who are in the indies, with much mildness; not ordering them to do any thing without mature deliberation, and in modest terms, without any thing of haughtiness or violence. truly, considering the knowledge i have of all the labourers of the society, at this present day employed in the new world, i may easily conclude, they have no need of any superior; nevertheless, not to bereave them of the merit of obedience, and because the order of discipline so requires, i have thought convenient to set some one above the rest, and have chosen you for that purpose, knowing, as i do, both your modesty and your prudence. it remains that i command and pray you, by that voluntary obedience which you have vowed to our father ignatius, to live so well with antonio gomez, that the least appearance of misunderstanding betwixt you may be avoided, nay, and even the least coldness; but, on the contrary, that you may he always seen in a holy union, and conspiring, with all your strength, to the common welfare of the church. "if our brethren, who are at comorine in the moluccas, or otherwhere, write to you, that you would obtain any favour for them from the bishop or the viceroy, or demand any spiritual or temporal supplies from you, leave all things, and employ yourselves entirely to effect what they desire. for those letters which you shall write to those unwearied labourers, who bear the heat and burden of the day, beware that there be nothing of sharpness or dryness in them; rather be careful of every line, that even every word may breathe nothing but tenderness and sweetness. "whatsoever they shall require of you for their diet, their clothing, for their preservation of health, or towards their recovery of it, furnish them liberally and speedily; for it is reasonable you should have compassion on them, who labour incessantly, and without any human consolation. what i have said, points chiefly to the missioners of comorine and the moluccas. their mission is the most painful, and they ought to be refreshed, lest they sink under the burden of the cross. do then in such manner, that they may not ask you twice for necessaries. they are in the battle, you are in the camp; and, for my own part, i find those duties of charity so just, so indispensible, that i am bold to adjure you in the name of god, and of our father ignatius, that you would perform your duties with all exactness, with all diligence, and with all satisfaction imaginable."---- father xavier, since his return, had sent nicholas lancilotti to coulan, melchier gonzales to bazain, and alphonso cyprian to socotora. before his departure, he sent gasper barzæus to ormuz, with one companion, who was not yet in orders. this famous town, situate at the entry of the persian gulph, was then full of enormous vices, which the mingle of nations and different sects had introduced. the saint had thoughts of going thither himself, to prepare the way for other missioners; according to his own maxims, to send none of the priests to any place, which he knew not first by his own experience. but the voyage of japan superseded that of ormuz. how great soever his opinions were of the prudence and virtue of father gasper, yet he thought fit to give him in writing some particular instructions, to help him in the conduct of that important mission. i imagine those instructions would not be unpleasing to the reader; i am sure, at least, they will not be unprofitable to missioners; and for that reason i shall make a recital of them. you shall behold them, neither altered, nor in that confusion which they are in other authors; but faithfully translated from the copy of a manuscript extant in the archives of goa. " . above all things, have care of perfecting yourself, and of discharging faithfully what you owe to god, and your own conscience. for by this means you will become most capable of serving your neighbour, and of gaining souls. take pleasure in the most abject employments of your ministry; that, by exercising them, you may acquire humility, and daily advance in that virtue. "be sure yourself to teach the ignorant those prayers, which every christian ought to have by heart; and lay not on any other person an employment so little ostentatious give yourself the trouble of hearing the children and slaves repeat them word by word after you. do the same thing to the children of the christian natives of the country: they who behold you thus exercised, will be edified by your modesty; and as modest persons easily attract the esteem of others, they will judge you proper to instruct themselves in the mysteries of the christian religion. "you shall frequently visit the poor in the hospitals, and from time to time exhort them to confess themselves, and to communicate; giving them to understand, that confession is the remedy for past sins, and the communion a preservative against relapses; that both of them destroy the cause of the miseries of which they complain, by reason that the ills they suffer, are only the punishment of their offences. on this account, when they are willing to confess, you shall hear their confessions, with all the leisure you can afford them. after this care taken of their souls, you are not to be unmindful of their bodies; but recommend the distressed, with all diligence and affection, to the administrators of the hospital, and procure them, by other means, all relief within your power. "you shall also visit the prisoners, and excite them to make a general confession of their lives. they have more need than others to be stirred up to it, because among that sort of people there are few to be found, who ever made an exact confession. pray the brotherhood of mercy to have pity on those wretches, and labour with the judges for their enlargement; in the mean time, providing for the most necessitous, who oftentimes have not wherewithal to subsist. "you shall serve, and advance what lies in you, the brotherhood of mercy. if you meet with any rich merchants, who possess ill-gotten goods, and who, being confessed, are willing to restore that which appertains not to them, though of themselves they entrust you with the money for restitutions, when they are ignorant to whom it is due, or that their creditors appear not--remit all those sums into the hands of the brotherhood of mercy, even though you know of some necessitous persons, on whom such charities might be well employed. "thus you shall not expose yourself to be deceived by those wicked men, who affect an air of innocence and poverty, and who cannot so easily surprise the brotherhood, whose principal application is to distinguish betwixt counterfeits and those who are truly indigent. "and, besides, you will gain the more leisure for those functions, which are yours in a more especial manner, which are devoted to the conversion of souls, and shall employ your whole time therein, some of which must otherwise be taken up in the distribution of alms, which cannot be performed without much trouble and distraction. in fine, by this means, you shall prevent the complaints and suspicions of a sort of people who interpret all things in the worst meaning, and who might perhaps persuade themselves, that, under the pretence of paying other men's debts, you divert the intention of the money given, and employ in your own uses some part of what was entrusted with you. "transact in such manner, with secular persons, with whom you have familiarity or friendship, as if you thought they might one day become your enemies: by this management of yourself, you will neither do nor say any thing of which you may have reason to repent you, and with which they may upbraid you in their passion. we are obliged to these precautions, by the sons of a corrupt generation, who are continually looking on the children of light with mistrustful and malignant eyes. "you ought not to have less circumspection in what relates to your spiritual advancement; and assure yourself you shall make a great progress in contemning of yourself, and in union with god, if you regulate all your words and actions by prudence. the examen, which we call particular, will assist you much in it. fail not of doing it twice a day, or once at least, according to our common method, whatsoever business you have upon your hands. "preach to the people the most frequently that you can, for preaching is an universal good; and amongst all evangelical employments, there is none more profitable: but beware of advancing any doubtful propositions, on which the doctors are divided: take for the subject of your sermons clear and unquestionable truths, which tend of themselves to the regulation of manners: set forth the enormity of sin, by setting up that infinite majesty which is offended by the sinner: imprint in souls a lively horror of that sentence, which shall be thundered out against reprobates at the last judgment: represent, with all the colours of your eloquence, those pains which the damned are eternally to suffer. in fine, threaten with death, and that with sudden death, those who neglect their salvation; and who, having their conscience loaded with many sins, yet sleep in security, as if they had no cause of fear. "you are to mingle with all these considerations that of the cross, and the death of the saviour of mankind; but you are to do it in a moving pathetical manner; by those figures which are proper to excite such emotions, as cause in our hearts a deep sorrow for our sins, in the presence of an offended god, even to draw tears from the eyes of your audience. this is the idea which i wish you would propose to yourself, for preaching profitably. "when you reprove vices in the pulpit, never characterise any person, especially the chief officers or magistrates. if they do any thing which you disapprove, and of which you think convenient to admonish them, make them a visit, and speak to them in private, or, when they come of themselves to confession, tell them at the sacred tribunal of penance, what you have to say to them: but never advertise them in public of it; for that sort of people, who are commonly proud and nice of hearing, instead of amendment by public admonitions, become furious, like bulls who are pricked forward by a goad: moreover, before you take upon you to give them private admonition, be careful to enter first into their acquaintance and familiarity. "make your admonition either more gentle or more strong, according as you have more or less access to them: but always moderate the roughest part of your reproof, with the gaiety of your air, and a smiling countenance; by the civility of well-mannered words, and a sincere protestation that all you do is but an effect of the kindness you have for them. it is good also to add respectful submissions to the pleasingness of your discourse, with tender embraces, and all the marks of that consideration and goodwill you have for the person of him whom you thus correct. for, if a rigid countenance, and harsh language, should accompany reproof, which of itself is hard of digestion, and bitter to the taste, it is not to be doubted but men, accustomed to flatteries, will not endure it; and there is reason to apprehend, that a burst of rage against the censor, will be all the fruit of the reprimand. "for what concerns confession, behold the method which i judge the fittest for these quarters of the east, where the licence of sin is very great, and the use of penance very rare. when a person, hardened in a long habit of vice, shall come to confession, exhort him to take three or four days time of preparation, to examine his conscience thoroughly; and for the assistance of his memory, cause him to write down the sins which he has observed in all the, course of his life, from his childhood to that present time. being thus disposed, after he has made his confession, it will not be convenient that you should be too hasty in giving him absolution. but it will be profitable to him to retire two or three days, and abstain from his ordinary conversation and dealings with men, and to excite himself to sorrow for his sins, in consideration of the love of god, which will render his sacramental absolution of more efficacy to him. during that little interval of retirement, you shall instruct him in the way of meditation, and shall oblige him to make some meditations from the first week of exercises. you shall counsel him to practise some mortification of his body; for example, to fast, or to discipline himself, which will help him to conceive a true sorrow for his offences, and to shed the tears of penance. besides this, if the penitents have enriched themselves by sinister ways, or if, by their malicious talk, they have blasted the reputation of their neighbour, cause them to make restitution of their ill-gotten goods, and make reparations of their brethren's honour, during the space of those three days. if they are given to unlawful love, and are now in an actual commerce of sin, cause them to break off those criminal engagements, and forsake the occasions of their crime. there is not any time more proper to exact from sinners those duties, the performance of which is as necessary as it is difficult; for when once their fervour is past away, it will be in vain to demand of them the execution of their promise; and perhaps you will have the trouble of seeing them fall back into the precipice, for want of removing them to a distance from it. "in administering the sacrament of penance, take heed of discouraging those who begin to discover the wounds of their souls to you, by appearing too rashly and too hastily severe. how enormous soever their sins may be, hear them, not only with patience, but with mildness; help out even their bashfulness, by testifying to them your compassion, and not seeming to be amazed at what you hear. insinuate into them, that you have heard in confession sins of a much more crying nature: and, lest they should despair of pardon for their faults, speak to them of the infinite mercies of the lord. "when they declare a crime in such a manner that you may perceive they are in trouble how to speak, interrupt them, by letting them know, that their sin is not altogether so great as they may think; that by god's assistance you can heal the most mortal wounds of the soul; bid them go on without any apprehension, and make no difficulty of telling all. you will find some of them, whom either the weakness of their age or sex will hinder from revealing to you their most shameful sins. when you perceive that bashfulness has tied their tongue, be before-hand with them; and, by the way of a charitable prevention, let them know, that they are neither the first, nor the only persons, who have fallen into disorder; that those things which they want the confidence to tell you, are little in comparison of what you have heard from others on the same subject. impute some part of their offence to the corruption of nature, to the violence of the temptation, and to the unhappiness they had to be engaged in such occasions and pressing circumstances, where their fall was almost unavoidable. in fine, i must advertise you, that to remove from such persons that unseasonable shame-facedness which keeps them silent; from such persons, i say, whom the devil has made as bashful after a crime as they were impudent before it, it may be necessary sometimes to discover to them, in general, the frailties of our own past lives. for what can a true and fervent charity refuse, for the safety of those souls who have been redeemed with the blood of jesus christ! but to understand when this is proper to be done, how far to proceed, and with what precautions, is what the interior spirit, and your experience, must teach you, in those particular conjunctures. "you will ordinarily meet with some christians who believe not the truth of the holy sacrament of the altar, either by not frequenting it, or by their conversation with pagans, mahometans, and heretics, or by the scandal which is given them by some christians, and principally (which i speak with shame and sorrow) by such priests whose life is not more holy than that of the people. for beholding some of them approaching the altar without any preparation, assisting at it without modesty and reverence, they imagine that jesus christ is not, as we say he is, in the sacrifice of the mass; for if he were there present, he would never suffer such impure hands to touch him. make it your business, that those misbelieving christians should propose to you all their doubts, and discover to you all their imaginations, which being known, then prove to them the real presence of jesus christ, by all those reasons which are capable of establishing it; and shew them, that the surest means for them to come out of their errors, and leave their vices, is often to approach that sacrament, with suitable preparations to it. "though your penitents may be well prepared for confession, think not, when they shall declare their sins, that your business is done. you must dive into the bottom of their conscience, and, by examination, draw out of them what themselves know not. ask then of them, by what ways, and in what manner, they make advantage of their money; what are their principles, and what their practice, in their sales, in their borrowing, and in all their business. you shall find usury reigning throughout their traffic; and that they who have no stings of conscience, in relation to unjust dealings, have by indirect ways scraped together the greatest part of their estates. but in things where money has to do, many are so hardened, that, being charged with rapine, they have either no scruple concerning it, or so very light, that it never breaks their sleep. "use particularly this method towards the governors, the treasurers, the receivers, and other officers belonging to the revenue. whensoever they present themselves before you in the sacred tribunal, interrogate that sort of people, by what means they grow so rich? what secret they have to make their offices and employments bring them in such mighty sums? if they are shy of telling you, turn and wind them every way, and the most mildly that you can, make them speak, in spite of themselves. you shall soon discover their tricks, and secret ways of management, by which an inconsiderable number of those they call men of business, divert, to their own private advantages, what was designed for the public profit. they buy up commodities with the king's money, that, by selling them again, they may be able to make up their accounts: and by taking up all the commodities in the port, they put the people upon a necessity of buying at their price, that is, at most intolerable rates. "too often also, they make men languish at the treasury, with long delays, and cunning shifts, or some other captious trick; men, i say, to whom the exchequer is owing, that they may be driven to compound with those sharks of state for half their due, and let them go off with the other half. this open robbery, this manifest villainy, those gentlemen call, by a mollified name, 'the fruits of their industry.' when you have squeezed out of them the confession of these monopolies, and the like, by wire-drawing them, with apt questions, you will come more easily to the knowledge of their ungodly gains, and what they ought to make restitution of to their neighbour, in order to their being reconciled to god, than if in general you should interrogate them concerning their injustice. for example, demand of them, what persons they have wronged? they will immediately answer, that their memory upbraids them not with wronging any man; and behold the reason! custom is to them in the place of law; and that which they see done before them every day, they persuade themselves may be practised without sin. as if custom can authorize, by i know not what kind of prescription, that which is vicious and criminal in its own nature. you shall admit of no such right, but shall declare to such people, that if they will secure their conscience, they must restore what they possess unjustly. "remember especially, to obey the vicar of the bishop. when you are arrived at ormuz, you shall go to wait on him, and, falling on your knees before him, you shall humbly kiss his hand. you shall neither preach, nor exercise any other employment of our institute, without his permission; above all things, have no difference with him for any whatsoever cause; on the contrary, endeavour, by all submissions, and all possible services, to gain his friendship, in such sort, that he may be willing to be taught by you, to make the meditations of our spiritual exercises, at least those of the first week. use almost the same method with all the other priests; if you cannot persuade them to retire for a month, according to our custom, engage them to a retreat of some few days, and fail not to visit them every day, during that recess, to explicate to them the subjects of those meditations. "pay a great respect to the person of the governor, and make it apparent, by the most profound submissions, how much you honour him. beware of any difference with him, on whatsoever occasion, even though you should observe, that he performs not his duty in matters of importance; but after you perceive, that your demeanour has instated you in his favour and good graces, go boldly to visit him; and after you have testified the concernment you have for his safety and his honour, by a principle of good will to him, then declare, with all modesty and softness of expression, the sorrow you have to see his soul and reputation endangered, by what is reported of him in the world. "then you shall make known to him the discourse of the people; you shall desire him to reflect on the bad consequences of such reports; that they may possibly be put in writing, and go farther than he would willingly they should, if he bethinks him not in time of giving satisfaction to the public. nevertheless, take not this upon you before you are in some sort satisfied of his good disposition, and that it appears probable to you that your advertisement may sort to good effect. "be yet more cautious in charging yourself with bearing to him the complaints of particular persons; and absolutely refuse that commission, by excusing yourself on your evangelical functions, which permit you not to frequent the palaces of the great, nor to attend whole days together for the favourable minutes of an audience, which is always difficult to obtain. you shall add, that when you should have the leisure to make your court, and that all the doors of the palace were open to you at all hours, you should have little hopes of any fruit from your remonstrances; and that if the governor be such a man as they report, he will have small regard to you, as being no way touched, either with the fear of god, or the duties of his own conscience. "you shall employ, in the conversion of infidels, all the time you have free from your ordinary labours which indispensably regard christians. always prefer those employments which are of a larger extent to those which are more narrowly confined. according to that rule, you shall never omit a sermon in public, to hear a private confession; you shall not set aside the catechising, which is appointed every day, at a certain hour, to visit any particular person, or for any good work of the like nature. for the rest, an hour before catechism, either you or your companion shall go to the places of most concourse in the town, and invite all men, with a loud voice, to come and hear the exposition of the christian doctrine. "you shall write, from time to time, to the college of goa, what functions you exercise for the advancement of god's glory, what order you keep there, and what blessing god gives on your endeavours. have care that your relations be exact, and such that our fathers at goa may send them into europe, as so many authentic proofs of what you perform in the east, and of what success it shall please god to bestow on the labours of our little society. let nothing slip into those accounts which may reasonably give offence to any man; nothing that may seem improbable; nothing which may not edify the reader, and give him occasion to magnify the name of god. "when you are come to ormuz, i am of opinion that you should see particularly those who are of greatest reputation for their probity, the most sincere, and who are most knowing in the manners of the town. from such, inform yourself exactly what vices are most reigning in it, what sorts of cheats; enter most into contracts, and societies of commerce, that so understanding all things thoroughly and truly, you may have your words and reasons in a readiness, to instruct and reprove those who, being guilty of covert usuries, false bargaining, and other wicked actions, so common in a place which is filled with such a concourse of different nations, shall treat with you in familiar conversation, or in sacramental confession. "you shall walk the streets every night, and recommend the souls of the dead to the prayers of the living; but let those expressions which are used by you be proper to move the compassion of the faithful, and to imprint the thoughts of religion in the bottom of their souls. you shall also desire their prayers to god for such as are in mortal sin, that they may obtain the grace of coming out of so deplorable a condition. "endeavour at all times to make your humour agreeable: keep a gay and serene countenance, without suffering the least shadow of choler or sadness to appear in it; otherwise those who come to visit you will never open their hearts to you, and will not repose all that confidence in you which it is necessary they should have, to the end they may profit by your discourse. speak always with civility and mildness, even in your reprehensions, as i have already told you; and when you reprove anyone, do it with so much charity, that it may be evident the fault displeases you, and not the person. "on sundays and saints' days you shall preach at two o'clock in the afternoon, at the church of the misericordia, or in the principal church of the town; sending first your companion about the streets, with his bell in his hand, to invite the people to the sermon. "if you had not rather perform that office in your own person, you shall carry to church that exposition of the apostles' creed which i have put into your hands, and the practice, which i have composed, how to pass the day in christian duties. you shall give copies of that practice to those whose confessions you hear; and shall enjoin them, for their holy penance, to do for certain days that which is contained in it. by this means they shall accustom themselves to a christian life, and shall come to do, of their own accord, by the force of custom, that which they did at the first only by the command of their confessor. but, foreseeing that you cannot have copies enough for so many people, i advise you to have that practice written out in a fair large hand, and expose it in some public place, that they who are willing to make use of it may read and transcribe it at their own convenience. "they who shall be desirous of being received into the society, and whom you shall judge to be proper for it, you may send them to goa with a letter, which shall point out their design, and their talents for it, or else you may retain them with you. in this last case, after you have caused them to perform the spiritual exercises for a month together, you shall make a trial of them, in some such manner as may edify the people without exposing them to be ridiculous. order them, therefore, to serve the sick in the hospitals, and to debase themselves to the meanest and most distasteful offices. make them visit the prisoners, and teach them how to give comfort to the miserable. in fine, exercise your novices in all the practices of humility and mortification; but permit them not to appear in public in extravagant habits, which may cause them to be derided by the multitude;--suffer it not, i say, far from imposing it upon them. engage not all the novices indifferently to those trials which their nature most abhors; but examine well the strength of each, and suit their mortification to their temper, to their education, to the advance they make in spirituals, in such sort, that the trial may not be unprofitable, but that it may produce its effect according to that measure of grace which is given them. if he who directs the novices has not all these considerations, it will fall out, that they who were capable of making a great proficiency in virtue, with good management, will lose their courage, and go backward; and besides, those indiscreet trials, too difficult for beginners, take off the love of the master from his novices, and cause his disciples to lessen their confidence in his directions. in the mean time, whoever forms young people to a religious life, ought to leave nothing untried to bring them to a candid and free discovery of their evil inclinations, and the suggestions of the devil, at the same moment when they are tempted: for without this they will never be able to disentangle themselves from the snares of the tempter; never will they arrive to a religious perfection. on the contrary, those first seeds of evil being brooded over, and nourished, as i may say, by silence, will insensibly produce most lamentable effects; even so far, until the novices come to grow weary of regular discipline, to nauseate it, and at length throw off the yoke of jesus christ, and replunge themselves in the pollutions of the world. "they amongst those young men whom you shall observe to be most subject to vain-glory, and delighted with sensual pleasures, and other vices, ought to be cured in this following manner: make them search for reasons, and for proofs, against those vices to which they are inclined; and when they have found many, help them to compose some short discourses on them. cause them afterwards to pronounce those discourses, either to the people in the church, or in the hospitals, to those who are in a way of recovery, so as to be present at them, or in other places;--there is reason to hope, that the things which they have fixed in their minds, by constant study and strong application, will be at least as profitable to themselves as to their audience. doubtless they will be ashamed not to profit by those remedies which they propose to others, and to continue in those vices from which they endeavour to dissuade their hearers. you shall use proportionably the same industry towards those sinners who cannot conquer themselves so far, as, they commonly say, to put away the occasions of their sin, or to make restitution of those goods which they have gotten unlawfully, and detain unjustly from other men. after you have endeared yourself to them by a familiar acquaintance, advise them to say that to their own hearts which they would say to a friend on the like occasion, and engage, as it were for the exercise of their parts, to devise such arguments as condemn their actions in the person of another. "sometimes you will see before you, when you are seated in the tribunal of penance, men who are enslaved to their pleasures and their avarice, whom no motive of god's love, nor thought of death, nor fear of hell, can oblige to put away a mistress, or to restore ill-gotten goods. the only means of reducing such people, is to threaten them with the misfortunes of this present life, which are the only ills they apprehend. declare then to them, that if they hasten not to appease divine justice, they shall suddenly suffer considerable losses at sea, and be ill treated by the governors; that they shall lose their law-suits; that they shall languish many years in prison; that they shall be seized with incurable diseases, and reduced to extreme poverty, without any to relieve them; in fine, that they and their posterity, becoming infamous, shall be the objects of the public hate and curses. tell them, by way of reason for those accidents, that no man who sets god at nought remains unpunished; and that his vengeance is so much the more terrible, by how much longer his patience has been abused. the images of these temporal punishments will affright those carnal men who are not to be wrought on but by their senses, and will bring forth in their insensible souls the first motions of the fear of god,--of that saving fear which is the beginning of wisdom. "before you treat with any one concerning his spiritual affairs, endeavour to understand how his soul stands affected. whether it be calm, or tossed with any violent passion; whether he be ready to follow the right way when it shall be shewn to him, or whether he wanders from it of set purpose; whether it be the tempter, or the bias of his own inclination, which seduces him to evil; whether he be docile, and disposed to hear good counsel, or of that untractable humour on which no hold is to be fastened,--it will behove you to vary your discourse according to these several dispositions: but though more circumspection is to be taken with hardened souls, and difficult of access, you are never to flatter the disease, nor say any thing to him which may weaken the virtue of the remedy, and hinder its effect. "wheresoever you shall be, even though you only pass through a place, and stay but little in it, endeavour to make some acquaintance; and inquire of those who have the name of honest and experienced men, not only what crimes are most frequently committed in that town, and what deceits most used in traffic, as i have already taught you in relation to ormuz; but farther, learn the inclinations of the people, the customs of the country, the form of government, the received opinions, and all things respecting the commerce of human life: for, believe me, the knowledge of those things is very profitable to a missioner, for the speedy curing of spiritual diseases, and to have always at hand wherewithal to give ease to such as come before you. "you will understand from thence, on what point you are most to insist in preaching, and what chiefly to recommend in confessions. this knowledge will make, that nothing shall be new to you, nothing shall surprise or amaze you; it will furnish you with the address of conducting souls, and even with authority over them. the men of the world are accustomed to despise the religious as people who understand it not: but if they find one who knows how to behave himself in conversation, and has practised men, they will esteem him as an extraordinary person; they will give themselves up to him; they will find no difficulty, even in doing violence to their own inclinations, under his direction, and will freely execute what he enjoins, though never so repugnant to their corrupt nature. behold the wonderful fruit of knowing well the world:--so that you are not, at this present, to take less pains in acquiring this knowledge, than formerly you have done in learning philosophy and divinity. for what remains, this science is neither to be learned from ancient manuscripts nor printed books; it is in living books, and the conversation of knowing men, that you must study it: with it, you shall do more good, than if you dealt amongst the people, all the arguments of the doctors, and all the subtilties of the schools. "you shall set apart one day of the week, to reconcile differences, and regulate the interests of such as are at variance, and are preparing to go to law. hear them one after the other, and propose terms of accommodation to them. above all things, give them to understand, that they shall find their account in a friendly reconciliation, sooner than in casting themselves into eternal suits, which, without speaking of their conscience, and their credit, ever cost much money, and more trouble. i know well, that this will not be pleasing to the advocates and proctors, whom the spinning out a process, and tricks of wrangling, still enrich. but trouble not yourself with what those bawlers say; and make even them comprehend, if it be possible, that by perpetuating suits, by these numberless formalities, they expose themselves to the danger of eternal damnation. endeavour also to engage them into a retirement of some few days, to the end their spiritual exercises may work them off to other courses. "stay not till your arrival at ormuz before you preach. begin on shipboard, and as soon as you come there. in your sermons, affect not to make a show of much learning, or of a happy memory, by citing many passages of ancient authors; some few are necessary, but let them be chosen and fitted to the purpose. employ the best part of your sermon, in a lively description of the interior estate of worldly souls. set before their eyes, in your discourse, and let them see, as in a glass, their own disquiets, their little cunnings, their trifling projects, and their vain hopes. you shall also show them, the unhappy issue of all their designs. you shall discover to them, the snares which are laid for them by the evil spirit, and teach them the means of shunning them. but, moreover, you shall tell them, that if they suffer themselves to be surprised by them, they are to expect the worst that can happen to them; and by this you shall gain their attention; for a man never fails of attentive audience, when the interest of the hearer is the subject of the discourse. stuff not out your sermons with sublime speculations, knotty questions, and scholastical controversies. those things which are above the level of men of the world, only make a noise, and signify nothing. it is necessary to represent men to themselves, if you will gain them. but well to express what passes in the bottom of their hearts, you must first understand them well; and in order to that, you must practise their conversation, you must watch them narrowly, and fathom all their depths. study then those living books; and assure yourself, you shall draw out of them the means of turning sinners on what side you please. "i do not forbid you, nevertheless, to consult the holy scriptures on requisite occasions, nor the fathers of the church, nor the canons, nor books of piety, nor treatises of morality; they may furnish you with solid proofs for the establishment of christian truths, with sovereign remedies against temptations, and heroical examples of virtue. but all this will appear too cold, and be to no purpose, if souls be not disposed to profit by them; and they cannot profit but by the ways i have prescribed. so that the duty of a preacher is to sound the bottom of human hearts, to have an exact knowledge of the world, to make a faithful picture of man, and set it in so true a light, that every one may know it for his own. "since the king of portugal has ordered, that you shall be allowed from the treasury what is needful for your subsistence, make use of the favour of so charitable a prince, and receive nothing but from his ministers. if other persons will give you any thing, refuse it, though they should offer it of their own mere motion. for as much, as it is of great consequence to the liberty of an apostolical man, not to owe his subsistence to those whom he ought to conduct in the way of salvation, and whom he is bound to reprove, when they go astray from it; one may truly say of those presents, that he who takes, is taken. and it is for this, that when we are to make a charitable reprehension, to such of whom we receive alms, we know not well how to begin it, or in what words to dress it. or if our zeal emboldens us to speak freely, our words have less effect upon them, because they treat us with an assuming air of loftiness, as if that which we received from them had made them our masters, and put them in possession of despising us. what i say, relates chiefly to a sort of persons, who are plunged in vice, who would willingly be credited with your friendship, and will endeavour by all good offices to make way to your good will. their design is not to profit by your conversation, for the amendment of their lives; all they pretend to, is to stop your mouth, and to escape a censure, which they know they have deserved. be upon your guard against such people: yet i am not of opinion, that you should wholly reject them, or altogether despise their courtesy. if they should invite you to their table, refuse it not; and yet less refuse their presents of small value, such as are usually made in the indies by the portuguese to each other, and which one cannot refuse without giving an affront; as, for example, fruits and drinks. at the same time, declare to them, that you only receive those little gifts, in hope they will also receive your good advice; and that you go to eat with them, only that you may dispose them, by a good confession, to approach the holy table. for such presents as i have named, such i mean as are not to be refused, when you have received them, send them to the sick, to the prisoners, or to the poor. the people will be edified with this procedure, and no occasion left of suspecting you, either of niceness or covetousness. "for what relates to your abode, you will see at your arrival; and having prudently considered the state of things, you may judge where it will be most convenient for you to dwell, either in the hospital, or the house of mercy, or any little lodging, in the neighbourhood. if i think fit to call you to japan, you shall immediately give notice of it, by writing to the rector of this college by two or three different conveyances, to the end, he may supply your place with one of our fathers, a man capable of assisting and comforting the city of ormuz. in fine, i recommend you to yourself; and that in particular, you never forget, that you are a member of the society of jesus. "in the conjunctures of affairs, experience will best instruct you what will be most for god's service; for there is no better master than practice, and observation, in matters of prudence. remember me always in your prayers; and take care, that they who are under your direction, recommend me in theirs to the common master whom we serve. to conclude this long instruction, the last advice i give you, is to read over this paper carefully once a week, that you may never forget any one of the articles contained in it. may it please the lord to go along with you, to conduct you in your voyage, and at the same time to continue here with us!"-- eight days after gasper barzæus was gone for ormus, with his companion raymond pereyra, father xavier went himself for japan; it was in april . he embarked in a galley bound no farther than cochin, where waited for him a ship, which was to go towards malacca. he took for companions father cozmo de torrez, and john fernandez, besides the three japonese, paul de sainte foy, and his two servants, john and anthony. it is true, there embarked with him in the same galley, emanuel moralez, and alphonso de castro; but it was only that the father might carry them to malacca, from whence both of them were to be transported to the moluccas. the ship, which attended the father at cochin, being just ready to set sail they made but a short stay in that place, but it was not unprofitable. the saint walking one day through the streets, happened to meet a portuguese of his acquaintance; and immediately asked him, "how he was in health?" the portuguese answered, "he was very well." "yes," replied xavier, "in relation to your body, but, in regard of your soul, no man can be in a worse condition." this man, who was then designing in his heart a wicked action, knew immediately that the father saw into the bottom of it; and seriously reflecting on it, followed xavier, confessed himself, and changed his evil life. the preaching of castro so charmed the people, that they desired to have retained him at cochin, there to have established the college of the society; but xavier who had designed him for the moluccas opposed it. and providence, which destined the crown of martyrdom to that missioner, suffered him not to continue in a place, where they had nothing but veneration for him. they left cochin on the th of april, and arrived at malacca on the last of may. all the town came to meet father xavier, and every particular person was overjoyed at his return. alphonso martinez, grand vicar to the bishop, at that time lay dangerously sick, and in such an agony of soul, as moved compassion. for, having been advertised to put himself in condition of giving up his accounts to god of that ministry which he had exercised for thirty years, and of all the actions of his life, he was so struck with the horror of immediate death, and the disorders of his life, which was not very regular for a man of his profession, that he fell into a deep melancholy, and totally despaired of his salvation. he cast out lamentable cries, which affrighted the hearers; they heard him name his sins aloud, and detest them with a furious regret, not that he might ask pardon for them, but only to declare their enormity. when they would have spoken to him of god's infinite mercy, he broke out into a rage, and cried out as loud as he was able, "that there was no forgiveness for the damned, and no mercy in the bottomless pit." the sick man was told, that father francis was just arrived; and was asked if he should not be glad to see him? martinez, who formerly had been very nearly acquainted with him, seemed to breathe anew at the hearing of that name, and suddenly began to raise himself, to go see, said he, the man of god. but the attempt he made, served only to put him into a fainting fit. the father, entering at the same moment, found him in it. it had always been his custom, to make his first visit to the ecclesiastical superiors; but besides this, the sickness of the vicar hastened the visit. when the sick man was come, by little and little, to himself, xavier began to speak to him of eternity, and of the conditions requisite to a christian death. this discourse threw martinez back again into his former terrors; and the servant of god, in this occasion, found that to be true, which he had often said, that nothing is more difficult than to persuade a dying man to hope well of his salvation, who in the course of his life had flattered himself with the hopes of it, that he might sin with the greater boldness. seeing the evil to be almost past remedy, he undertook to do violence to heaven, that he might obtain for the sick man the thoughts of true repentance, and the grace of a religious death. for he made a vow upon the place, to say a great number of masses, in honour of the most holy trinity, of the blessed virgin, of the angels, and some of the saints, to whom he had a particular devotion. his vows were scarcely made, when martinez became calm; began to have reasonable thoughts, and received the last sacraments, with a lively sorrow for his sins, and a tender reliance on god's mercies; after which, he died gently in the arms of xavier, calling on the name of jesus christ. his happy death gave great consolation to the holy man; but the apostolic labours of francis perez and roch oliveira increased his joy. he had sent them the year before to malacca, there to found a college of the society, according to the desire of the people, and they had been very well received. perez had begun to open a public school, for the instruction of the youth in learning and piety, according to the spirit of their institute. oliveira had wholly given himself to the ministry of preaching, and the conduct of souls; but tying himself more especially to the care of turks and jews, of which there was always a vast concourse in the town. for the first came expressly from mecca, and the last from malabar, to endeavour there to plant mahometanism and judaism, where christianity then flourished. the example of the two missioners drew many portuguese to that kind of life, of which they both made profession. the most considerable of all, was a young gentleman, whose name was juan bravo; who, by his noble birth and valour, might justly hope to raise his fortunes in the world. but he preferring evangelical poverty, and religious humility, before all those earthly expectations and establishments, was just then ready to have taken ship for goa, there to execute those thoughts with which heaven had inspired him, when he was informed, that xavier would take malacca in his way. he therefore waited for him, and in the mean time lived with perez and oliveira as if he had been already of the society. at least he conformed himself as much as he was able to their manners, and habited himself like them; that is to say, instead of rich garments, he put on an old threadbare cassock, with which he looked the world in the face without having yet forsaken it. he performed the spiritual exercises for a month together, and never came out of his retirement, but to employ himself in works of charity in the hospital. there, for three months, he attended the sick, living in poverty, and begging his bread from door to door, even in the sight of james sosa his kinsman, admiral of the fleet, which was rigging out for the moluccas. these trials obliged the father to receive bravo into the society. he admitted him almost immediately to take the first vows; and finding in him an excellent foundation for all the apostolical virtues, he took care to cultivate him, even so far, as to leave him in writing these following rules, before his departure to japan. "see here, my dear brother, the form of life which you are constantly to practise every day. in the morning, as soon as you are awakened, prepare yourself to meditate on some mystery of our lord; beginning from his holy nativity, and continuing to his glorious ascension: the subjects of the meditations are marked, and put in order, in the book of exercises. employ, at the least, half-an-hour in prayers; and apply yourself to it with all those interior dispositions, which you may remember you practised in your retirement of a month. consider every day one mystery, in such manner, that if, for example, on monday, the birth of our saviour was the subject of your meditation, that of his circumcision shall be for tuesday, and so in course, till in a month's time, having run through all the actions of jesus christ, you come to contemplate him ascending into heaven in triumph. you are every month to begin these meditations again in the same order. "at the end of every meditation, you shall renew your vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, to which you have obliged yourself. you shall make them, i say, anew, and offer them to god with the same fervency wherewith you first made them. this renewing of your vows will weaken in you the motions of concupiscence, and render all the powers of hell less capable of hurting you; for which reason, i am of opinion that you ought never to omit them. "after dinner, you shall resume your morning's prayer, and reflect on the same mystery half an hour; you shall also renew your vows, at the end of your meditation. you are to employ yourself in this manner interiorly through all the variety of your outward business; giving an hour in every day to the consideration of the most holy life of our lord jesus, in whatsoever affair, or in whatsoever incumbrance, you are engaged. you may practise this with most convenience, by allowing half-an-hour in the morning, and another half in the afternoon, according to my direction. "before you lie down at night, examine well your conscience, in calling over your thoughts, words, and actions, of all the day; and even observing, if you have not failed of doing something, which it was your duty to have done: let this discussion be as exact, as if you were just ready to confess yourself. after you have conceived a most lively sorrow for your faults, by the motive of god's love, you shall humbly ask pardon of jesus christ, and vow amendment to him. in fine, you shall so dispose yourself to rest, that your sleep may come upon you, in thoughts of piety, and in resolutions of passing the next day with greater holiness. "on the morrow, at your waking, think on the sins which you observed in the examen of the night before; and while you are putting on your clothes, ask the assistance of god's grace, that you may not that day relapse into your yesterday's offences. then perform your morning's meditation, and proceed through your whole day's work, as i have ordered you. but be so punctual, and so constant in all these spiritual practices, that nothing but sickness cause you to forbear them. for if, when you are in health, you should defer, or leave them off, under some pretence of business, be sure you make a scruple of it, and let not the day pass over you, till, in the presence of your brethren, you confess your fault, and of your own free motion demand penance for having omitted or neglected that which was so strictly commanded by your superior. "for what remains, whatsoever you do, or in whatsoever condition of spirit you may be, labour with all your power still to overcome yourself. subdue your passions, embrace what is most abhorring to your sense, repress all natural desire of glory most especially; and spare not yourself in that particular, till you have torn out of your heart the very roots of pride; not only suffering yourself to be debased beneath all men, but being glad to be despised. for hold this for certain, that, without this humility and mortification, you can neither advance in virtue, nor serve your neighbour as you ought, nor be acceptable to god, nor, to conclude all, persevere in the society of jesus. "obey in all things the father with whom you live; and however displeasing or difficult the things may be which he commands you, perform them with much cheerfulness, never opposing his orders, nor making any exceptions on your part, on any account whatsoever. in fine, hearken to him, and suffer yourself to be directed in all things by him, as if father ignatius were personally present, speaking to you, and directing you. "with whatsoever temptations you shall find yourself assaulted, discover them all sincerely to him who governs you; and remain persuaded, that this is the only means of subduing them. besides this advantage, there accrue other spiritual profits, in making known the secret motions of your heart; for the violence which you do to yourself, to surmount, that natural shamefacedness which hinders you from acknowledging your imperfections and frailties, draws down the grace of god upon you; and on the other side, this overture, and frankness of your heart, ruins the designs of the evil spirit, who can never do mischief but when he is in disguise; but when once discovered, is so far disarmed, and despicably weak, that they, for whom he lies in ambush, laugh at him."-- it was in this manner, that the holy apostle, francis xavier, instructed the young men of the society; and nothing, perhaps, could better explain to us the great resemblance that was betwixt the souls of xavier and ignatius. at this time, there came news from japan; and some letters reported, that one of the kings of that island had desired some preachers to be sent to him, by an express embassy to the viceroy of the indies. that this king had learnt somewhat of the christian law, and that a strange accident had made him desirous of knowing more. this accident was related in those letters, after the following manner. "some portuguese merchants, being landing at the port, belonging to the capital city of one of those kingdoms of japan, were lodged by the king's order in a forsaken house, which was thought to be haunted by evil spirits: the common opinion was not ill grounded, and the portuguese soon perceived, that their lodging was disturbed. they heard a horrible rumbling all the night; they felt themselves pulled out of their beds, and beaten in their sleep, without seeing any one. one night being awakened, at the cry of one of their servants, and running with their arms towards the place from whence the noise was heard, they found the servant on the ground, trembling for fear. they asked him the occasion of his outcry, and why he shook in that manner? he answered, 'that he had seen a frightful apparition, such a one as painters use to draw for the picture of the devil.' as this servant was not thought either faint-hearted, or a liar, the portuguese no longer doubted, what was the meaning of all that rattling and clutter, which they heard every night; to put an end to it, they set crosses in all the rooms, after which they heard no more of it." the japonese were much surprised to hear the house was now at quiet: the king himself, to whom the portuguese had said, "that the christian cross had driven away the evil spirits," admired that wonderful effect, and commanded crosses to be set up in all places, even in his own palaces, and in the highways. in consequence of this, he desired to be informed from whence the cross derived that virtue, and for what cause the devils so much feared it. thus, by little and little, he entered into the mysteries of faith. but as the japonese are extremely curious, not content to be instructed by soldiers and merchants, he thought of sending for preachers, and in that prospect sent an ambassador to the indies. this news gave infinite satisfaction to father xavier; and so much the more hastened his voyage, by how much he now perceived the japonians were disposed to receive the gospel. there were in the port of malacca many portuguese vessels, in readiness to set sail for japan; but all of them were to make many other voyages by the way, which was not the saint's business. his only means was to have recourse to a junk of china, (so they call those little vessels,) which was bound directly for japan. the master of the vessel, called neceda, was a famous pirate; a friend to the portuguese, notwithstanding the war which was newly declared against them; so well known by his robberies at sea, that his ship was commonly called, the robber's vessel. don pedro de sylva, governor of malacca, got a promise from the chinese captain, that he would carry the father, safely, and without injury, and took hostages to engage him inviolably to keep his faith; but what can be built on the word of a pirate, and a wicked man? xavier, and his companions, embarked on the twenty-fourth of june, in the dusk of the evening; and set sail the next morning, at break of day, with a favourable wind. when they were out at sea, the captain and ship's crew, who were all idolaters, set up a pagod on the poop; sacrificed to it in spite of xavier, and all his remonstrances to the contrary; and consulted him by magical ceremonies, concerning the success of their voyage. the answers were sometimes good, and sometimes ill: in the meantime they cast anchor at an isle, and there furnished themselves with timber, against the furious gusts of those uncertain seas. at the same time they renewed their interrogatories to their idol; and cast lots, to know whether they should have good winds. the lots promised them a good passage, whereupon the pagans pursued their course merrily. but they were no sooner got out to sea again, when they drew lots the third time, to know, whether the junk should return safely from japan to malacca. the answer was, that they should arrive happily at japan, but were never more to see malacca. the pirate, who was extremely superstitious, resolved at the same instant to change his course; and in effect tacked about, and passed his time in going to every isle which was in view. father xavier was sensibly displeased, that the devil should be master of their destiny, and that all things should be ordered, according to the answers of the enemy of god and man. in cruising thus leisurely, they made the coast of cochin china; and the tempests, which rose at the same time, threatened them more than once with shipwreck. the idolaters had recourse to their ordinary superstitions. the lot declared, that the wind should fall, and that there was no danger. but an impetuous gust so raised the waves, that the mariners were forced to lower their sails, and cast anchor. the shog of the vessel threw a young chinese (whom xavier had christened, and carried along with him) into the sink, which was then open. they drew him out half dead, much bruised, and hurt in the head very dangerously. while they were dressing him, the captain's daughter fell into the sea, and was swallowed by the waves, notwithstanding all they could do to save her. this dismal accident drove neceda to despair; "and it was a lamentable sight," says xavier himself, in one of his letters, "to behold the disorder in the vessel. the loss of the daughter, and the fear of shipwreck, filled all with tears, and howlings, and confusion." nevertheless, the idolaters, instead of acknowledging that their idol had deceived them with a lie, took pains to appease him, as if the death of the chinese woman had been an effect of their god's displeasure. they sacrificed birds to him, and burnt incense in honour of him; after which they cast lots again to know the cause of this disaster which had befallen them. they were answered, "that if the young christian, who had fell into the sink, had died, the captain's daughter had been preserved." then neceda, transported with fury, thought to throw xavier and his companions overboard. but the storm ceasing in an instant, his mind grew calmer by degrees, he weighed anchor, and set sail again, and took the way of canton, with intention there to pass the winter. but the designs of men, and power of devils, can do nothing against the decrees of providence. a contrary wind broke all the projects of the captain, constraining him, in his own despite, to enter with full sails into the ocean of japan. and the same wind carried the junk of the pirate toward cangoxima, the birth-place of anger, sirnamed paul de sainte foy. they arrived there on the fifteenth of august, in the year . the life of st francis xavier. book v. _the situation of japan, and the nature of the country. the estate of the government of japan. the religion of the japonese when the father arrived in that country. the six jesuits who were sent to siam in_ , _in their relation of the religion of the siamois, which much resembles this of japan, guess, with more probability, that these opinions were the corruptions of the doctrine preached in the indies by st thomas. paul de sainte foy goes to wait on the king of saxuma. that which passed at the court of saxuma. the saint applies himself to the study of the japonian tongue. he baptizes the whole family of paul de sainte foy. he goes to the court of saxuma, and is well received. he begins to preach at cangorima, and converts many. he visits the bonzas, and endeavours to gain them. he proves the soul's immortality to the chief of the bonzas. the bonzas rise against him. the bonzas succeed not in their undertaking. he leads a most austere life. he works divers miracles. he raises a maid from death. god avenges the saint. a new persecution raised against xavier by the bonzas. the king of saxuma is turned against xavier and the christians. the saint fortifies the christians before he leaves them. he causes his catechism to be printed before his departure. he departs from cangoxima. he goes to the castle of ekandono. he declares the gospel before ekandono, and the fruits of his preaching. what he does for the preservation of the faith in the new christians of the castle. thoughts of a christian of ekandono. he leaves a disciple with the steward of ekandono, and the use he makes of it. he leaves a little book with the wife of ekandono, and for what it served. he arrives at firando; and what reception he had there. he preaches at firando with great success. he takes amanguchi in his way to meaco. he stays at amanguchi; his actions there. what hindered the fruit of his preaching at amanguchi. he appears before the king of amanguchi, and expounds to him the doctrine of christianity. he preaches before the king in amanguchi without success. he pursues his voyage for meaco. his sufferings in the voyage of meaco. he follows a horseman with great difficulty. he instructs the people in passing through the towns. he arrives at meaco, and labours there unprofitably. he departs from meaco to return to amanguchi. being returned to amanguchi, he gains an audience of the king. he obtains permission to preach. he is visited by great multitudes. the qualities which he thinks requisite in a missioner to japan. he answers many men with one only word. he preaches in amanguchi. he speaks the chinese language without learning it. the fruit of his preaching. his joy in observing the fervour of the faithful. his occasions of sorrow amongst his spiritual joys. the faith is embraced, notwithstanding the prince's example; and by what means. divers conversions. he declares against the bonzas. the bonzas oppose the christian religion. he answers the arguments of the bonzas. the bonzas provoke the king against the christians. the number of christians is augmented together with the reputation of the saint. he sends a japonian christian to the kingdom of bungo; and for what reason. he departs from amanguchi, and goes for bungo. he falls sick with overtravelling himself; and after a little rest, pursues his journey. he is received with honour by the portuguese, and complimented from the king of bungo. he is much esteemed by the king of bungo. the letter of the king of bungo to father xavier. in what equipage he goes to the court of bungo. his entry into the palace of the king of bungo. he receives the compliments of several persons in the court. he is introduced to an audience of the king of bungo, and what passes in it. what passes betwixt the king of bungo and xavier. the honour of xavier in the kingdom of bungo, and the success of his labours there. he converts a famous bonza. in what manner he prepares the gentiles for baptism. what happens to the companions of xavier at amanguchi. the death of the king of amanguchi, and the desolation of the town. the brother of the king of bungo is chosen king of amanguchi: the saint rejoices at it. he prepares to leave japan, and takes leave of the king of bungo. the advice which he gives to the king of bungo. the bonzas rise anew against xavier. a new artifice of the bonzas against the saint. the beginning of the conference betwixt xavier and fucarandono. the advantage of the dispute on the side of xavier. the fury of the bonzas forces the portuguese to retire to their ship. the captain of the ship endeavours to persuade xavier to return, but in vain. the captain takes up a resolution to stay with xavier. a new enterprize of the bonzas against him. he returns to the palace, to renew the conference with fucarandono. the dispute renewed. the answer of xavier to the first question of fucarandono. the second question of fucarandono, to which the father answers with the same success as to the former. the sequel of the dispute betwixt xavier and fucarandono. the honour which the king of bungo does to xavier. the bonzas present a writing to the king, but without effect. they wrangle about the signification of words. they dispute in the nature of school-divines. he answers the objections of the bonzas, and their replies. the fruit of his disputation with the bonzas. he leaves japan, and returns to the indies. god reveals to him the siege of malacca. what happens to him in his return from japan to the indies. how xavier behaves himself during the tempest. what happens to the chalop belonging to the ship. he expects the return of the chalop, or cockboat, notwithstanding all appearances to the contrary. he renews his prayers for the return of the chalop. he prays once more for the return of the chalop. the chalop appears, and comes up with the ship. he arrives at the isle of sancian; and goes off after a little time. his prediction to the pilot. a marvellous effect of the saint's prophecy. he forms the design of carrying the faith to china. he takes his measures with pereyra, for the voyage of china. he dissipates a tempest; his prophecy concerning the ship of james pereyra. his reception at malacca. the history of the ship called santa cruz. he arrives at cochin; and finishes the conversion of the king of the maldivias. he writes into europe, and comes to goa. he cures a dying man immediately upon his arrival. he hears joyful news of the progress of christianity in the indies. the conversion of the king of tanor. the conversion of the king of trichenamalo. the letter from the bishop of the indies to father ignatius. he hears other comfortable news. he is afflicted with the misdemeanors of father antonio gomez. how gomez attacks the authority of paul de camerine. the extravagances of gomez in matters of religion. the violence and injustice of gomez. xavier repairs the faults committed by gomez. he expels gomez from the society._ i undertake not to make an exact description of japan, after those which have been made of it by geographers and travellers: by an ordinary view of the charts, and common reading of the relations of the indies, it is easy to understand, that japan is situate at the extremity of asia, over against china; that it is a concourse of islands which compose as it were one body, and that the chiefest of them gives the name to all the rest; that this world of islands, as it is called by a great geographer, is filled with mountains, some of which are inaccessible, and almost above the clouds; that the colds there are excessive, and that the soil, which is fruitful in mines of gold and silver, is not productive of much grain of any sort necessary to life, for want of cultivation. without dwelling longer either on the situation or nature of the country, or so much as on the customs and manners of the inhabitants, of which i have already said somewhat, and shall speak yet farther, as my subject requires it, i shall here only touch a little on the government and religion, which of necessity are to be known at the beginning, for the understanding of the history which i write. japan was anciently one monarchy. the emperor, whom all those isles obeyed, was called the dairy; and was descended from the camis, who, according to the popular opinion, came in a direct line from the sun. the first office of the empire was that of the cubo, that is to say, captain-general of the army. for the raising of this dignity, which in itself was so conspicuous, in process of time, the name of sama was added to that of cubo; for sama in their language signifies lord. thus the general of japan came to be called cubo sama. above three hundred years ago, the cubo sama then being, beholding the sceptre of japan in the hands of a dairy, who was cowardly and effeminate, revolted from him, and got possession of the regal dignity. his design was to have reduced the whole estate under his own dominion; but he was only able to make himself master of meaco, where the emperor kept his court, and of the provinces depending on it. the governors of other provinces maintained themselves in their respective jurisdictions by force of arms, and shook of the yoke as well as he; insomuch, that the monarchy came to be suddenly divided into sixty-six cantons, which all assumed the names of kingdoms. since these revolutions, the king of meaco took the title of cubo sama, and he who had been deprived of it still retained the name of dairy; and, excepting only the power, there was still left him all the privilege of royalty, in consideration of the blood of the camis. his descendants have had always the same title, and enjoyed the same advantages. this, in general, was the face of the government, in the time of st francis xavier. for some years afterwards, nabunanga, one of the neighbour kings to him of meaco, defeated the cubo sama in a pitched battle, and followed his blow with so much success, that, having destroyed all those petty princes, he re-united the whole empire of japan under his sole obedience. as to what concerns religion, all the japonians, excepting some few who make profession of atheism, and believe the soul mortal, are idolaters, and hold the transmigration of souls, after the doctrine of pythagoras. some of them pay divine worship to the sun and moon; others to the camis, those ancient kings of whom we have made mention; and to the potoques, the gods of china. there are divers of them who adore some kinds of beasts, and many who adore the devil under dreadful figures. besides these, they have a certain mysterious deity, whom they call amida; and say, this god has built a paradise of such distance from the earth, that the souls cannot reach it under a voyage of three years. but the god xaca is he of whom they report the greatest wonders, who seems to be a counterfeit of the true messiah, set up by the devil himself, or by his ministers. for if one would give credit to them, xaca being born of a queen, who never had the carnal knowledge of man, retired into the deserts of siam, and there underwent severe penances, to expiate the sins of men: that coming out of his wilderness, he assembled some disciples, and preached an heavenly doctrine in divers countries. it is incredible how many temples have been built to the honour of amida and xaca; all the cities are full of them, and their magnificence is equal to their number. nor is it easy to imagine how far their superstition carries the worshippers of these two deities. they throw themselves headlong down from rocks, or bury themselves alive in caves; and it is ordinary to see barques, full of men and women, with stones hanging at their necks, and singing the praises of their gods, after which they cast themselves into the sea. for what remains, the spirit of lies has established in japan a kind of hierarchy, not unlike that of the catholic church. for these people have a chief of their religion, and a kind of sovereign priest, whom they call saco. he keeps his court in the capital city of the empire; and it is he who approves the sects, who institutes the ceremonies, who consecrates, if i may be allowed to say so, the tundi, who resemble our bishops, and whose principal function is to ordain the priests of idols, by conferring on them the power of offering sacrifice. these priests, who are called bonzas, part of them living in desarts, the rest in towns, all affect a rigid austerity of manners, and are amongst the japonese what the brachmans are amongst the indians, unless that they are yet more impious, and greater hypocrites. to resume our history: immediately after the arrival of xavier and his companions, paul de sainte foy, whom formerly we called anger, went to pay his duty to the king of saxuma; on which cangoxima is depending, and whose palace is about the distance of six leagues from it. that prince, who had heretofore shewn great favour to him, received him with much humanity, and with so much the greater joy, because he had believed him dead. this kind reception gave paul de sainte foy the confidence to petition the king for the pardon of that action, which had occasioned his departure, and it was not difficult for him to obtain it. the king, naturally curious, as the japonians generally are, enquired much of him concerning the indies; as, what was the nature of the country, and the humour of the people, and whether the portuguese were as brave and as powerful as they were represented by common fame. when paul had satisfied him on these and the like particulars, the discourse fell on the different religions in the indies, and finally on christianity, which was introduced by the portuguese in india. paul unfolded at large the mysteries of our faith; and seeing with what pleasure he was heard, produced a tablet of the virgin, holding the little jesus in her arms. the tablet was very curious, and xavier had given it to this japonese, that he might shew it as occasion offered. the sight alone of this excellent painting wrought so much upon the king, that, being touched with thoughts of piety and reverence, he fell on his knees, with all his courtiers, to honour the persons therein represented, which seemed to him to have an air that was more than human. he commanded it should be carried to the queen, his mother. she was also charmed with it, and prostrated herself by the same instinct, with all the ladies of her train, to salute the mother and the son. but as the japonian women are yet more inquisitive than the men, she asked a thousand questions concerning the blessed virgin and our saviour, which gave paul the desired opportunity of relating all the life of jesus christ; and this relation so much pleased the queen, that some few days after, when he was upon his return to cangoxima, she sent one of her officers to have a copy of the tablet which she had seen; but a painter was not to be found to satisfy her curiosity. she required, that at least she might have an abridgment in writing of the chief points of christianity, and was satisfied therein by paul. the father, overjoyed at these good inclinations of the court, thought earnestly of making himself capable to preach in the language of the country. there is but one language spoken through all japan; but that so ample, and so full of variety, that, in effect, it may be said to contain many tongues. they make use of certain words and phrases, in familiar discourse; and of others in studied compositions. the men of quality have a language quite differing from the vulgar. merchants and soldiers have a speech proper to their several professions, and the women speak a dialect distinct from any of the rest. when they treat on a sublime subject, (for example, of religion, or affairs of state,) they serve themselves of particular terms; and nothing appears more incongruous amongst them, than to confound these different manners of expression. the holy man had already some light notions of all these languages, by the communication he had with the three japonian christians; but he knew not enough to express him with ease and readiness, as himself acknowledges in his epistles, where he says, "that he and his companions, at their first arrival, stood like statues, mute and motionless." he therefore applied himself, with all diligence, to the study of the tongue, which he relates in these following words: "we are returned to our infancy," says he, "and all our business at present is to learn the first elements of the japonian grammar. god give us the grace to imitate the simplicity and innocence of children, as well as to practise the exercises of children." we ought not to be astonished in this passage last quoted, that a man to whom god had many times communicated the gift of tongues, should not speak that of japan, and that he should be put to the pains of studying it. those favours were transient, and xavier never expected them; insomuch, that being to make abode in a country, he studied the language of it as if he could not have arrived to the knowledge of it but by his own industry. but the holy spirit assisted him after an extraordinary manner, on those occasions, as we have formerly observed. and we may say, that the easiness wherewith he learnt so many tongues, was almost equivalent to the lasting gift of them. while xavier and his companions were labouring to acquire that knowledge which was necessary for their preaching the word of jesus christ to the people of cangoxima, paul de sainte foy, with whom they lodged, himself instructed his own family. god gave that blessing to his zeal, that, besides his mother, his wife and daughter, many of his relations were converted and baptized by xavier. within the compass of forty days, the saint understood enough of the language to undertake the translation of the apostles' creed, and the exposition of it, which he had composed in india. as fast as he translated, he got every parcel of it by heart; and with that help, was of opinion, that he might begin to declare the gospel. but seeing that in japan all the measures of the laws and customs are to be taken, and observed with great exactness, and nothing to be attempted in public without permission from the government, he would first visit the king of saxuma, and chose the time on the day of st michael the archangel he had put the whole empire under the protection of that glorious general of the celestial host, who chased the rebellious angels out of heaven, and recommended in his daily prayers to him, that he would exterminate those devils from japan, who had usurped the dominion of it for so many ages. the apostle of the indies was not unknown at the court of saxuma. paul de sainte foy had spoken of him there, in such a manner, as infused the desire of seeing him into all hearts, and caused him to be looked on with admiration when he first appeared. the king and queen treated him with honour, testified great affection to him, and discoursed with him the better part of the night. they could not but be astonished, that he and his companions were come from another world, and had passed through so many stormy seas, not out of an avaricious design of enriching themselves with the gold of japan, but only to teach the japonese the true way of eternal life. from the very first meeting, the king cautioned xavier to keep safely all the books and writings which contained the christian doctrine; "for," said he, "if your faith be true, the demons will be sure to fly furiously upon you, and all manner of mischief is to be expected from their malice." afterwards he granted permission to the saint to preach the christian law within the whole extent of his dominions; and farther, caused his letters patent to be expedited, by virtue of which, all his subjects had free liberty of being made christians, if they so desired. xavier took advantage of this happy conjuncture, and deferred no longer his preaching in cangoxima. he began by explaining the first articles of the creed. that of the existence of one god, all powerful, the creator of heaven and earth, was a strange surprise to his auditors, who knew nothing of a first being, on whom the universe depended, as on its cause and principle. the other articles, which respect the trinity and incarnation, appeared to them yet more incredible; insomuch, that some of them held the preacher for a madman, and laughed him to scorn. notwithstanding which, the wiser sort could not let it sink into their belief, that a stranger, who had no interest to deceive them, should undergo so many hardships and dangers, and come so far, on set purpose to cheat them with a fable. in these considerations, they were desirous of clearing those doubts, which possessed them, in relation to those mysteries which they had heard. xavier answered them so distinctly, and withal so reasonably, with the assistance of paul de sainte foy, who served him for interpreter in case of need, that the greatest part, satisfied with his solutions, came over to the faith. the first who desired baptism, and received it, was a man of mean condition, destitute of the goods of fortune; as if god willed, that the church of japan should have the same foundations of meanness and poverty with the universal church: the name of bernard was given him, and, by his virtue, he became in process of time illustrious. in the mean time, xavier visited the bonzas, and endeavoured to gain their good will; being persuaded that christianity would make but little progress amongst the people, if they opposed the preaching of the gospel: and, on the other side, judging that all the world would embrace the law of the true god, in case they should not openly resist it. his good behaviour and frankness immediately gained him the favour of their chief: he was a man of four-score years of age, and, for a bonza, a good honest man; in that estimation of wisdom, that the king of saxuma entrusted him with his most important affairs; and so well versed in his religion, that he was sirnamed ningit, which is to say, the heart of truth. but this name was not altogether proper to him; and xavier presently perceived, that the veillard knew not what to believe concerning the immortality of the soul; saying sometimes, "that our souls were nothing different from those of beasts;" at other times, "that they came from heaven, and that they had in them somewhat of divine." these uncertainties of a mind floating betwixt truth and falsehood, gave xavier the occasion of proving the immortality of the soul, in the conversations they had together; and he reasoned strongly thereupon, according to natural principles alone. yet his arguments had no other effect, than the praises which were given them. ningit commended the knowledge of the european bonza, (so they called the father,) and was satisfied that no man had a deeper insight into nature. but he still remained doubtful on the business of religion, either out of shame to change his opinion at that age, or perhaps because those who have doubted all their life, are more hard to be convinced, than those who have never believed at all. the esteem which ningit had for xavier, caused him to be had in great repute with the rest of the bonzas. they heard him with applause, when he spoke of the divine law; and confessed openly, that a man who was come from the other end of the 'world, through the midst of so many dangers, to preach a new religion, could only be inspired by the spirit of truth, and could propose nothing but what was worthy of belief. the testimony of the bonzas authorised the preaching of the gospel; but their scandalous way of living, hindered them from following our holy law. notwithstanding, before the conclusion of the year, two of them of less corrupt manners than the rest, or more faithful to the grace of jesus christ, embraced christianity; and their example wrought so far upon the inhabitants of cangoxima, that many of them desired to be baptized. these first fruits of preaching promised greater, and the faith flourished daily more and more in cangoxima, when a persecution, raised on a sudden, ruined these fair expectations, and stopt the progress of the gospel the bonzas, surprised to see the people ready to forsake the religion of the country, opened their eyes to their own interest, and manifestly saw, that if this new religion were once received, as they only lived on the alms and offerings which were made to their deities, they should be wholly deprived of their subsistence. they judged, in consequence, that this evil was to be remedied, before it grew incurable; and nothing was to be spared for the rooting out these portuguese preachers. it was then manifest, that those religious idolaters, who at first had been so favourable to xavier, now made open war against him. they decried him in all places, and publicly treated him as an impostor. even so far they proceeded, that one day as he was preaching, in one of the public places of the city, a bonza interrupted him in the midst of his discourse, and warned the people not to trust him; saying, "that it was a devil, who spoke to them in the likeness of a man." this outrageousness of the bonzas failed of the effect which they desired; the japonians, who are naturally men of wit, and plain dealers, came easily to understand the motives of their priests, to change their manner of behaviour, and finding interest in all they said or did, grew more and more attentive to the doctrine of the father. some of them upbraided the bonzas, that their proper concernments had kindled their zeal to such an height: that religion was not to be defended by calumnies and affronts, but by solid arguments: that if the doctrine of the european was false, why did they not demonstrate clearly the falsehood of it: that, for the rest, it was of little consequence whether this new preacher was a demon or a man; and that truth was to be received, whosoever brought it: that, after all, he lived with great austerity, and was more to be credited than any of them. in effect, xavier, for the edification of the people, who commonly judge by appearances of things, abstained entirely both from flesh and fish. some bitter roots, and pulse boiled in water, were all his nourishment, in the midst of his continual labours. so that he practised, rigorously and literally, that abstinence of which the bonzas make profession, or rather that which they pretend to practise. and he accustomed himself to this immediately, upon what paul de sainte foy had told him, that it would look ill if a religious christian should live with less austerity than the priests of idols should in their course of life. the wonders which god wrought, by the ministration of his servant, gave farther confirmation to the christian law. the saint walking out one day upon the sea-shore, met certain fishers, who were spreading their empty nets, and complained of their bad fortune. he had pity on them, and, after making some short prayers, he advised them to fish once more. they did so on his word, and took so many fish, and of such several sorts, that they could hardly draw their nets. they continued their fishing for some days after with the same success; and what appears more wonderful, the sea of cangoxima, which was scarce of fish, from that time forward had great plenty. a woman, who had heard reports of the cures which the apostle had made in the indies, brought him her little child, who was swelled over all the body, even to deformity. xavier took the infant in his arms, looked on him with eyes of pity, and pronounced thrice over him these words, "god bless thee;" after which, he gave the child back to his mother, so well and beautiful, that she was transported with joy and admiration. this miracle made a noise about the town; and gave occasion to a leper to hope a cure for his disease, which he had sought in vain for many years. not daring to appear in public, because his uncleanness had excluded him from the society of men, and made him loathsome to all companies; he sent for xavier, who at that time happened to be engaged in business, and could not come; but deputed one of his companions to visit him; giving orders to ask him thrice, if he was content to believe in christ, in case he should be healed of his leprosy; and thrice to make the sign of the cross over him, if he promised constantly to embrace the faith. all things passed according to the commission of the father: the leper obliged himself to become a christian, upon the recovery of his health; and the sign of the cross was no sooner made over him, but his whole body became as clean as if he had never been infected with leprosy. the suddenness of the cure wrought in him to believe in christ without farther difficulty, and his lively faith brought him hastily to baptism. but the most celebrated miracle which xavier wrought in cangoxima, was the resurrection of a young maid of quality. she died in the flower of her youth, and her father, who loved her tenderly, was ready to go distracted with his loss. being an idolater, he had no source of comfort remaining for his affliction; and his friends, who came to condole with him, instead of easing, did but aggravate his grief. two new christians, who came to see him before the burial of his daughter, advised him to seek his remedy from the holy man, who wrought such wonders, and beg her life of him, with strong assurance of success. the heathen, persuaded by these new believers, that nothing was impossible to this european bonza, and beginning to hope against all human appearances, after the custom of the distressed, who easily believe what they infinitely desire, goes to find father xavier, throws himself at his feet, and, with tears in his eyes, beseeches him to raise up from death his only daughter; adding, that the favour would be to give a resurrection to himself. xavier moved at the faith and affliction of the father, withdraws, with fernandez, his companion, to recommend his desire to almighty god; and having ended his prayer, returns a little time after: "go," says he to the sorrowful father, "your daughter is alive." the idolater, who expected that the saint would have accompanied him to his house, and there called upon the name of his god, over the body of his daughter, thought himself ill used and cheated, and trent away dissatisfied. but before he had walked many steps homeward, he saw one of his servants, who, transported with joy, cried out aloud to him, at a distance, that his daughter lived. soon after this, his daughter came herself to meet him, and related to her father, that her soul was no sooner departed from her body, but it was seized by two ugly fiends, who would have thrown her headlong into a lake of fire; but that two unknown persons, whose countenances were venerably modest, snatched her out of the gripe of her two executioners, and restored her to life, but in what manner she could not tell. the japonian suddenly apprehended who were the two persons concerned in her relation, and brought her straight to xavier, to acknowledge the miraculous favour she had received. she no sooner cast her eyes on him, and on fernandez, than she cried out, "behold my two redeemers!" and at the same time both she and her father desired baptism. nothing of this nature had ever been seen in that country: no history ever made mention, that the gods of japan had the power of reviving the dead. so that this resurrection gave the people a high conception of christianity, and made famous the name of father xavier. but nothing will make more evident how much a favourite he was of heaven, and how prevalent with that god, whom he declared, than that exemplary judgment with which divine justice punished the bold impiety of a man, who, either carried on by his own madness, or exasperated by that of the bonzas, one day railed at him, with foul injurious language. the saint suffered it with his accustomed mildness; and only said these words to him, with somewhat a melancholy countenance, "god preserve your mouth." immediately the miscreant felt his tongue eaten with a cancer, and there issued out of his mouth a purulent matter, mixed with worms, and a stench that was not to be endured. this vengeance, so visible, and so sudden, ought to have struck the bonzas with terror; but their great numbers assured them in some measure; and all of them acting in a body against the saint, each of them had the less fear for his own particular. what raised their indignation to the height, was, that a lady of great birth and riches, wife to one of the most considerable lords of all the court, and very liberal to the pagods, was solemnly baptized with all the family. seeing they prevailed nothing by the ways they had attempted, and that persons of quality were not less enamoured of the christian doctrine than the vulgar; and, on the other side, not daring to use violence, in respect of the king's edicts, which permitted the profession of christianity, they contrived a new artifice, which was to address a complaint to the king, of the king himself, on the part of their country deities. the most considerable of the bonzas having been elected, in a general assembly for this embassy, went to the prince, and told him, with an air rather threatening than submissive, that they came, in the name of xaca and amida, and the other deities of japan, to demand of him, into what country he would banish them; that the gods were looking out for new habitations, and other temples, since he drove them shamefully out of his dominions, or rather out of theirs, to receive in their stead a stranger god, who usurps to himself divine honours, and will neither admit of a superior nor an equal. they added haughtily, that it is true he was a king; but what a kind of king was a profane man? was it for him to be the arbiter of religion, and to judge the gods? what probability was there too, that all the religions of japan should err, and the most prudent of the nation be deceived after the run of so many ages? what would posterity say, when they should hear, that the king of saxuma, who held his crown from amida and xaca, overthrew their altars, and deprived them of the honours which they had so long enjoyed? but what would not the neighbouring provinces attempt, to revenge the injury done to their divinities? that all things seemed lawful to be done on such occasions; and the least he had to fear was a civil war, and that, so much the more bloody, because it was founded on religion. the conjuncture in which the bonzas found the king, was favourable to them. it was newly told him, that the ships of portugal, which usually landed at cangoxima, had now bent their course to firando, and he was extremely troubled at it; not only because his estates should receive no more advantage by their trade, but also because the king of firando, his enemy, would be the only gainer by his loss. as the good-will which he shewed in the beginning to father xavier had scarce any other principle but interest, he grew cold to him immediately after this ill news; and this coldness made him incline to hearken to the bonzas. he granted all they demanded of him, and forbade his subjects, on pain of death, to become christians, or to forsake the old religion of their country. whatsoever good inclinations there were in the people to receive the gospel, these new edicts hindered those of cangoxima from any farther commerce with the three religious christians; so easily the favour or displeasure of the prince can turn the people. they, notwithstanding, whose heart the almighty had already touched, and who were baptized, far from being wanting to the grace of their vocation, were more increased in faith, not exceeding the number of an hundred; they found themselves infinitely acknowledging to the divine mercy, which had elected them to compose this little flock. persecution itself augmented their fervour; and all of them declared to father xavier, that they were ready to suffer banishment or death, for the honour of our saviour. though the father was nothing doubtful of their constancy, yet he would fortify them by good discourses, before he left a town and kingdom where there was no farther hope of extending the christian faith. for which reason he daily assembled them; where, having read some passages of scripture, translated into their own language, and suitable to the present condition of that infant church, he explained to them some one of the mysteries of our saviour's life; and his auditors were so filled with the interior unctions of the holy spirit, that they interrupted his speech at every moment with their sighs and tears, he had caused divers copies of his catechism to be taken for the use of the faithful having augmented it by a more ample exposition of the creed, and added sundry spiritual instructions, with the life of our saviour, which he entirely translated, he caused it to be printed in japonese characters, that it might be spread through all the nation. at this time the two converted bonzas, and two other baptized japonians, undertook a voyage to the indies, to behold with their own eyes, what the father had told them, concerning the splendour of christianity at goa; i mean the multitude of christians, the magnificence of the churches, and the beauty of the ecclesiastic ceremonies. at length he departed from cangoxima, at the beginning of september, in the year , with cozmo de torrez, and john fernandez, carrying on his back, according to his custom, all the necessary utensils for the sacrifice of the mass. before his departure, he recommended the faithful to paul de sainte foy. it is wonderful, that these new christians, bereft of their pastors, should maintain themselves in the midst of paganism, and amongst the persecuting bonzas, and not one single man of them should be perverted from the faith. it happened, that even their exemplary lives so edified their countrymen, that they gained over many of the idolaters; insomuch, that in the process of some few years, the number of christians was encreased to five hundred persons; and the king of saxuma wrote to the viceroy of the indies, to have some of the fathers of the society, who should publish through all his territories a law so holy and so pure. the news which came, that the portuguese vessels, which came lately to japan, had taken their way to firando, caused xavier to go thither; and the ill intelligence betwixt the two princes, gave him hopes that the king of firando would give him and his two companions a good reception. they happened upon a fortress on their way, belonging to a prince called ekandono, who was vassal to the king of saxuma. it was situate on the height of a rock, and defended by ten great bastions. a solid wall encompassed it, with a wide and deep ditch cut through the middle of the rock. nothing but fearful precipices on every side; and the fortress approachable by one only way, where a guard was placed both day and night. the inside of it was as pleasing as the outside was full of horror. a stately palace composed the body of the place, and in that palace were porticoes, galleries, halls, and chambers, of an admirable beauty; all was cut in the living stone, and wrought so curiously, that the works seemed to be cast within a mould, and not cut by the chizzel. some people of the castle, who were returning from cangoxima, and who had there seen xavier, invited him, by the way, to come and visit their lord; not doubting but ekandono would be glad to see so famous a person. xavier, who sought all occasions of publishing the gospel, lost not that opportunity. the good reception which was made him, gave him the means of teaching immediately the true religion, and the ways of eternal life. the attendants of the prince, and soldiers of the garrison, who were present, were so moved, both by the sanctity which shone in the apostle's countenance, and by the truth which beamed out in all his words, that, after the clearing of their doubts, seventeen of them at once demanded baptism; and the father christened them in presence of the tono, (so the japonese call the lord or prince of any particular place) the rest of them were possessed with the same desire, and had received the same favour, if ekandono had not opposed it by reason of state, and contrary to his own inclinations, for fear of some ill consequences from the king of saxuma; for in his heart he acknowledged jesus christ, and permitted xavier privately to baptize his wife and his eldest son. for the rest, he promised to receive baptism, and to declare himself a christian, when his sovereign should be favourable to the law of god. the steward of ekandono's household was one who embraced the faith. he was a man stepped into years, and of great prudence. xavier committed the new christians to his care, and put into his hands the form of baptism in writing, the exposition of the creed, the epitome of our saviour's life, the seven penitential psalms, the litanies of the saints, and a table of saints' days as they are celebrated in the church. he himself set apart a place in the palace proper for the assemblies of the faithful; and appointed the steward to call together as many of the pagans as he could, to read both to the one and the other sort some part of the christian doctrine every sunday, to cause the penitential psalms to be sung on every friday, and the litanies every day the steward punctually performed his orders; and those seeds of piety grew up so fast, that some few years after, louis almeyda found above an hundred christians in the fortress of ekandono. all of an orderly and innocent conversation; modest in their behaviour, assiduous in prayer, charitable to each other, severe to themselves, and enemies to their bodies; insomuch that the place had more resemblance to a religious house, than to a garrison. the tono, though still an idolater, was present at the assemblies of the christians, and permitted two little children of his to be baptized. one of these new converts composed elegantly, in his tongue, the history of the redemption of mankind, from the fall of adam to the coming down of the holy ghost the same man being once interrogated, what answer he would return the king, in case he should command him to renounce his faith? "i would boldly answer him," said he, "in this manner: 'sir, you are desirous, i am certain, that, being born your subject, i should be faithful to you; you would have me ready to hazard my life in your interests, and to die for your service; yet, farther, you would have me moderate with my equals, gentle to my inferiors, obedient to my superiors, equitable towards all; and, for these reasons, command me still to be a christian, for a christian is obliged to be all this. but if you forbid me the profession of christianity, i shall become, at the same time, violent, hard-hearted, insolent, rebellious, unjust, wicked; and i camiot answer for myself, that i shall be other." as to what remains, xavier, when he took leave of the old steward, whom he constituted superior of the rest, left him a discipline, which himself had used formerly. the old man kept it religiously as a relique, and would not that the christians in the assemblies, where they chastised themselves, should make a common use of it. at the most, he suffered not any of them to give themselves above two or three strokes with it, so fearful he was of wearing it out; and he told them, that they ought to make use of it the less in chastising their flesh, that it might remain for the preservation of their health. and indeed it was that instrument which god commonly employed for the cures of sick persons in the castle. the wife of ekandono being in the convulsions of death, was instantly restored to health, after they had made the sign of the cross over her, with the discipline of the saint. xavier, at his departure, made a present to the same lady of a little book, wherein the litanies of the saints, and some catholic prayers, were written with his own hand. this also in following times was a fountain of miraculous cures, not only to the christians, but also the idolaters; and the tono himself, in the height of a mortal sickness, recovered his health on the instant that the book was applied to him by his wife. so that the people of the fortress said, that their prince was raised to life, and that it could not be performed by human means. the saint and his companions being gone from thence, pursued their voyage, sometimes by sea, and sometimes travelled by land. after many labours cheerfully undergone by them, and many dangers which they passed, they arrived at the port of firando, which was the end of their undertaking. the portuguese did all they were able for the honourable reception of father xavier. all the artillery was discharged at his arrival; all the ensigns and streamers were djsplayed, with sound of trumpets; and, in fine, all the ships gave shouts of joy when they beheld the man of god. he was conducted, in spite of his repugnance, with the same pomp to the royal palace; and that magnificence was of no small importance, to make him considered in a heathen court, who without it might have been despised, since nothing was to be seen in him but simplicity and poverty. the king of firando, whom the portuguese gave to understand, how much the man whom they presented to him was valued by their master, and what credit he had with him, received him with so much the greater favour, because he knew the king of carigoxima had forced him to go out of his estates: for, to oblige the crown of portugal, and do a despite to that of cangoxima, he presently empowered the three religious christians to publish the law of jesus christ through all the extent of his dominions. immediately they fell on preaching in the town, and all the people ran to hear the european bonzas. the first sermons of xavier made a great impression on their souls; and in less than twenty days, he baptized more infidels at firando, than he had done in a whole year at cangoxima. the facility which he found of reducing those people under the obedience of the faith, made him resolve to leave with them cosmo de torrez, to put the finishing hand to their conversion, and in the mean time to go himself to meaco, which he had designed from the beginning; that town being the capital of the empire, from whence the knowledge of christ jesus might easily be spread through all japan. departing with fernandez, and the two japonian christians, matthew and bernard, for this great voyage at the end of october, in the year , they arrived at facata by sea, which is twenty leagues distant from firando; and from thence embarked for amanguchi, which is an hundred leagues from it. amanguchi is the capital of the kingdom of naugato, and one of the richest towns of all japan, not only by the traffic of strangers, who come thither from all parts, but also by reason of silver mines, which are there in great abundance, and by the fertility of the soil; but as vices are the inseparable companions of wealth, it was a place totally corrupted, and full of the most monstrous debaucheries. xavier took that place only as his passage to meaco; but the strange corruption of manners gave him so much horror, and withal so great compassion, that he could not resolve to pass farther without publishing christ jesus to those blind and execrable men, nor without making known to them the purity of the christian law. the zeal which transported him, when he heard the abominable crimes of the town, suffered him not to ask permission from the king, as it had been his custom in other places. he appeared in public on the sudden, burning with an inward fire, which mounted up into his face, and boldly declared to the people the eternal truths of faith. his companion fernandez did the same in another part of the town. people heard them out of curiosity; and many after having inquired who they were, what dangers they had run, and for what end, admired their courage, and their procedure, void of interest, according to the humour of the japonians, whose inclinations are naturally noble, and full of esteem for actions of generosity. from public places they were invited into houses, and there desired to expound their doctrine more at large, and at greater leisure. "for if your law appear more reasonable to us than our own," said the principal of the town, "we engage ourselves to follow it." but when once a man becomes a slave to shameful passions, it is difficult to follow what he thinks the best, and even to judge reasonably what is the best. not a man amongst them kept his word. having compared together the two laws, almost all of them agreed, that the christian doctrine was most conformable to good sense, if things were only to be taken in the speculation; but when they came to consider them in the practice, and saw how much the christian law discouraged vengeance, and forbade polygamy, with all carnal pleasures, that which had appeared just and reasonable to them, now seemed improbable, and the perversity of their wills hoodwinked the light of their understanding; so that, far from believing in jesus christ, they said, "that xavier and his companions were plain mountebanks, and the religion which they preached a mere fable." these reports being spread abroad, exasperated the spirits of men against them, so that as soon as any of them appeared, the people ran after them, not as before, to hear them preach, but to throw stones at them, and revile them: "see," they cried, "the two bonzas, who would inveigle us to worship only one god, and persuade us to be content with a single wife." oxindono, the king of amanguchi, hearing what had passed, was willing to be judge himself of the christians' new doctrine. he sent for them before him, and asked them, in the face of all his nobles, of what country they were, and what business brought them to japan? xavier answered briefly, "that they were europeans, and that they came to publish the divine law. for," added he, "no man can be saved who adores not god, and the saviour of all nations, his son christ jesus, with a pure heart and pious worship." "expound to me," replied the prince, "this law, which you have called divine." then xavier began, by reading a part of the book which he had composed in the japonian tongue, and which treated of the creation of the world, of which none of the company had ever heard any thing, of the immortality of the soul, of the ultimate end of our being, of adam's fall, and of eternal rewards and punishments; in fine, of the coming of our saviour, and the fruits of our redemption. the saint explained what was needful to be cleared, and spoke in all above an hour. the king heard him with attention, and without interrupting his discourse; but he also dismissed him without answering a word, or making any sign, whether he allowed or disapproved of what he said. this silence, accompanied with much humanity, was taken for a permission, by father xavier, to continue his public preaching. he did so with great warmth, but with small success: most of them laughed at the preacher, and scorned the mysteries of christianity: some few, indeed, grew tender at the hearing of our saviour's sufferings, even so far as to shed tears, and these motions of compassion disposed their hearts to a belief; but the number of the elect was inconsiderable; for the time pre-ordained for the conversion of that people was not yet come, and was therefore to be attended patiently. xavier then having made above a month's abode in amanguchi, and gathered but small fruit of all his labours, besides affronts, continued his voyage towards meaco with his three companions, fernandez, matthew, and bernard. they continually bemoaned the blindness and obduracy of those wretches, who refused to receive the gospel; yet cheered up themselves with the consideration of god's mercies, and an inward voice was still whispering in their hearts, that the seed of the divine word, though cast into a barren and ungrateful ground, yet would not finally be lost. they departed toward the end of december, in a season when the rains were continually falling, during a winter which is dreadful in those parts, where the winds are as dangerous by land as tempests are at sea. the colds are pinching, and the snow drives in such abundance, that neither in the towns nor hamlets, people dare adventure to stir abroad, nor have any communication with each other, but by covered walks and galleries: it is yet far worse in the country, where nothing is to be seen but hideous forests, sharp-pointed and ragged mountains, raging torrents across the vallies, which sometimes overflow the plains. sometimes it is so covered over with ice, that the travellers fall at every step; without mentioning those prodigious icicles hanging over head from the high trees, and threatening the passengers at every moment with their fall. the four servants of god travelled in the midst of this hard season, and rough ways, commonly on their naked feet, passing the rivers, and ill accommodated with warm clothes, to resist the inclemencies of the air and earth, loaden with their necessary equipage, and without other provisions of life than grains of rice roasted or dried by the fire, which bernard carried in his wallet. they might have had abundantly for their subsistence, if xavier would have accepted of the money which the portuguese merchants of firando offered him, to defray the charges of his voyage, or would have made use of what the governor of the indies had supplied him with in the name of the king of portugal: but he thought he should have affronted providence, if he should have furnished himself with the provisions needful to a comfortable subsistence; and therefore taking out of the treasury a thousand crowns, he employed it wholly for the relief of the poor who had received baptism. neither did he rest satisfied with this royal alms, he drew what he could also from his friends at goa and malacca; and it was a saying of his, "that the more these new converts were destitute of worldly goods, the more succour they deserved; that their zeal was worthy the primitive ages of the church; and that there was not a christian in japan, who would not choose rather to lose his life, than forfeit the love of jesus christ." the journey from amanguchi to meaco is not less than fifteen days, when the ways are good, and the season convenient for travelling; but the ill weather lengthened it to our four travellers, who made two months of it; sometimes crossing over rapid torrents, sometimes over plains and forests thick with snow, climbing up the rocks, and rolling down the precipices. these extreme labours put father xavier into a fever from the first month, and his sickness forced him to stop a little at sacay; but he would take no remedies, and soon after put himself upon his way. that which gave them the greatest trouble was, that bernard, who was their guide, most commonly misled them. being one day lost in a forest, and not knowing what path to follow, they met a horseman who was going towards meaco; xavier followed him, and offered to carry his mail, if he would help to disengage them from the forest, and shew them how to avoid the dangerous passages. the horseman accepted xaviers offer, but trotted on at a round rate, so that the saint was constrained to run after him, and the fatigue lasted almost all the day. his companions followed him at a large distance; and when they came up to the place where the horseman had left him, they found him so spent, and over-laboured, that he could scarcely support himself. the flints and thorns had torn his feet, and his legs were swelled so that they broke out in many places. all these inconveniences hindered him not from going forward: he drew his strength from the union he had with god, continually praying from the morning to the evening, and never interrupting his devotions but only to exhort his friends to patience. in passing through the towns and villages where his way led him, xavier always read some part of his catechism to the people who gathered about him. for the most part they only laughed at him; and the little children cried after him, "deos, deos, deos," because, speaking of god, he had commonly that portuguese word in his mouth, which he seldom pronounced without repetition; for, discoursing of god, he would not use the japonese language till they were well instructed in the essence and perfections of the divine majesty: and he gave two reasons for it; the first, because he found not one word in all the language which well expressed that sovereign divinity, of which he desired to give them a distinct notion; the second, because he feared lest those idolaters might confound that first being with their camis, and their potoques, in case he should call it by those names which were common to their idols. from thence he took occasion to tell them, "that as they never had any knowledge of the true god, so they never were able to express his name; that the portuguese, who knew him, called him deos:" and he repeated that word with so much action, and such a tone of voice, that he made even the pagans sensible what veneration was due to that sacred name. having publicly condemned, in two several towns, the false sects of japan, and the enormous vices reigning there, he was drawn by the inhabitants without the walls, where they had resolved to stone him. but when they were beginning to take up the stones, they were overtaken by a violent and sudden storm, which constrained them all to betake themselves to flight: the holy man continued in the midst of this rack of heaven, with flashes of lightning darting round about him, without losing his habitual tranquillity, but adoring that divine providence which fought so visibly in his favour. he arrived at length at meaco with his three companions in february . the name of that celebrated town, so widely spread for being the seat of empire and religion, where the cubosama, the dairy, and the saso kept their court, seemed to promise great matters to father xavier; but the effect did not answer the appearances: meaco, which in the japonian tongue signifies a thing worth seeing, was no more than the shadow of what formerly it had been, so terribly wars and fires had laid it waste. on every side ruins were to be beheld, and the present condition of affairs threatened it with a total destruction. all the neighbouring princes were combined together against the cubosama, and nothing was to be heard but the noise of arms. the man of god endeavoured to have gained an audience from the cubosama, and the dairy, but he could not compass it: he could not so much as get admittance to the saso, or high-priest of the japonian religion. to procure him those audiences, they demanded no less than an hundred thousand caixes, which amount to six hundred french crowns, and the father had it not to give. despairing of doing any good on that side, he preached in the public places by that authority alone which the almighty gives his missioners. as the town was all in confusion, and the thoughts of every man taken up with the reports of war, none listened to him; or those who casually heard him in passing by, made no reflections on what he said. thus, after a fortnight's stay at meaco to no purpose, seeing no appearance of making converts amidst the disturbance of that place, he had a strong impulse of returning to amanguchi, without giving for lost all the pains he had taken at meaco; not only because of his great sufferings, (and sufferings are the gains of god's apostles) but also because at least he had preached christ jesus in that place, that is to say, in the most idolatrous town of all the universe, and opened the passage for his brethren, whom god had fore-appointed in the years following, there to establish christianity, according to the revelations which had been given him concerning it. he embarked on a river which falls from the adjoining mountains, and washing the foot of the walls of meaco, disembogues itself afterwards into an arm of the sea, which runs up towards sacay. being in the ship, he could not turn off his eyes from the stately town of meaco; and, as fernandez tells us, often sung the beginning of the th psalm, _in exitu israel de Ægypto, domus jacob de populo barbaro,_ &c. whether he considered himself as an israelite departing out of a land of infidels by the command of god, or that he looked on that barbarous people, as one day destined to be the people of god. as for what remains, perceiving that presents are of great force to introduce foreigners to the princes of japan, he went from sacay to firando, where he had left what the viceroy of the indies and the governor of malacca had obliged him to carry with him to japan, that is to say, a little striking clock, an instrument of very harmonious music, and some other trifles, the value of which consisted only in the workmanship and rarity. having also observed, that his ragged habit had shocked the japonese, who judge by the outside of the man, and who hardly vouchsafe to hear a man ill clothed, he made himself a new garment, handsome enough, of those alms which the portuguese had bestowed on him; being verily persuaded, that an apostolic man ought to make himself all to all, and that, to gain over worldly men, it was sometimes necessary to conform himself a little to their weakness. being come to amanguchi, his presents made his way for an audience from the king, and procured him a favourable reception. oxindono, who admired the workmanship of europe, was not satisfied with thanking the father in a very obliging manner, but the same day sent him a large sum of money, by way of gratification; but xavier absolutely refused it, and this very denial gave the king a more advantageous opinion of him. "how different," said oxindono, "is this european bonza from our covetous priests, who love money with so much greediness, and who mind nothing but their worldly interest!" on the next morning xavier presented to the king the letters of the governor and of the bishop of the indies, in which the christian faith was much extolled; and desired him, instead of all other favours, to grant him the permission of preaching it, assuring him once again, that it was the only motive of his voyage. the king increasing his admiration at the father's generosity, granted him, by word of mouth, and also by a public edict, to declare the word of god. the edict was set up at the turnings of streets, and in public places of the town. it contained a free toleration for all persons to profess the european faith, and forbade, on grievous penalties, any hinderance or molestation to the new bonzas in the exercise of their functions. besides this, oxindono assigned them, for their lodgings, an old monastery of the bonzas, which was disinhabited. they were no sooner established in it, than great numbers of people resorted to them: some out of policy, and to please the king; others to observe their carriage, and to pick faults in it; many out of curiosity, and to learn something that was new. all in general proposed their doubts, and disputed with so much vehemence, that most of them were out of breath. the house was never empty, and these perpetual visits took up all the time of the man of god. he explains himself on this subject, and almost complains, in the letters which he writes to father ignatius concerning his voyage to japan. for after he had marked out to him the qualities which were requisite in a labourer of the society, proper to be sent thither, "that he ought, in the first place, to be a person of unblameable conversation, and that the japonese would easily be scandalised, where they could find occasion for the least reproach; that, moreover, he ought to be of no less capacity than virtue, because japan is also furnished with an infinite number of her own clergymen, profound in science, and not yielding up any point in dispute without being first convinced by demonstrative reasons; that, yet farther, it was necessary, that a missioner should come prepared to endure all manner of wants and hardships; that he must be endued with an heroic fortitude to encounter continual dangers, and death itself in dreadful torments, in case of need," having, i say, set these things forth, and added these express words in one of his letters, "i write to father simon, and, in his absence, to the rector of coimbra, that he shall send hither only such men as are known and approved by your holy charity," he continues thus: "these labourers in the gospel must expect to be much more crossed in their undertaking than they imagine. they will be wearied out with visits, and by troublesome questions, every hour of the day, and half the night: they will be sent for incessantly to the houses of the great, and will sometimes want leisure to say their prayers, or to make their recollections. perhaps, also, they will want time to say their mass or their breviary, or not have enough for their repast, or even for their natural repose, for it is incredible how importunate these japonians are, especially in reference to strangers, of whom they make no reckoning, but rather make their sport of them. what therefore will become of them, when they rise up against their sects, and reprehend their vices?" yet these importunities became pleasing to father xavier, and afterwards produced a good effect. as the japonese are of docible and reasonable minds, the more they pressed him in dispute, they understood the truth the more: so that their doubts being satisfied, they comprehended easily, that there were no contradictions in our faith, nothing that would not abide the test of the most severe discussion. it was in the midst of these interrogations, with which the saint was overburdened, that, by a prodigious manner of speech, the like of which was scarcely ever heard, he satisfied, with one only answer, the questions of many persons, on very different subjects, and often opposite to each other; as suppose, the immortality of the soul; the motions of the heavens; the eclipses of the sun and moon; the colours of the rainbow; sin and grace; hell and heaven. the wonder was, that after he had heard all their several demands, he answered them in few words, and that these words, being multiplied in their ears, by a virtue all divine, gave them to understand what they desired to know, as if he had answered each of them in particular. they frequently took notice of this prodigy; and were so much amazed at it, that they looked on one another like men distracted, and regarded the father with admiration, as not knowing what to think or say. but as clear-sighted and able as they were, for the most part, they could not conceive that it was above the power of nature. they ascribed it to i know not what secret kind of science, which they imagined him only to possess. for which reason, father cozmo de torrez, being returned from firando to amanguchi, the bonzas said, "this man is not endued with the great knowledge of father francis, nor has the art of resolving many doubts with one only answer." the process of the saint's canonization makes mention of this miracle; and father antonio quadros, who travelled to japan four years after father xavier, writes it to father diego moron, provincial of portugal, these are his words: "a japonese informed me, that he had seen three miracles wrought by father xavier in his country. he made a person walk and speak, who was dumb and taken with the palsy; he gave voice to another mute; and hearing to one that was deaf. this japonian also told me, that father xavier was esteemed in japan for the most knowing man of europe; and that the other fathers of the society were nothing to him, because they could answer but one idolater at a time, but that father xavier, by one only word, decided ten or twelve questions. when i told him, that this might probably happen because those questions were alike, he assured me it was not so; but that, on the contrary, they were very different. he added, lastly, that this was no extraordinary thing with him, but a common practice." when xavier and his companion fernandez were a little disengaged from these importunities, they set themselves on preaching twice a day, in the public places of the town, in despite of the bonzas. there were seven or eight religions in amanguchi quite opposite to each other, and every one of them had many proselytes, who defended their own as best; insomuch, that these bonzas, who were heads of parties, had many disputes amongst themselves: but when once the saint began to publish the christian law, all the sects united against their common enemy; which, notwithstanding, they durst not openly declare, against a man who was favoured by the court, and who seemed, even to themselves, to have somewhat in him that was more than human. at this time god restored to father xavier the gift of tongues, which had been given him in the indies on divers occasions; for, without having ever learned the chinese language, he preached every day to the chinese merchants, who traded at amanguchi, in their mother-tongue, there being great numbers of them. he preached in the afternoon to the japonians in their language; but so naturally and with so much ease, that he could not be taken for a foreigner. the force of truth, against which their doctors could oppose nothing that was reasonable in their disputations; the novelty of three miracles, which we have mentioned, and of many others which xavier wrought at the same time; his innocent and rigid life; the divine spirit which enlivened his discourses;--all these together made so great an impression on their hearts, that in less than two months time, more than five hundred persons were baptized; the greatest part men of quality and learning, who had examined christianity to the bottom, and who did not render up themselves for any other reason, than for that they had nothing farther to oppose. it was wonderful, according to the report of the saint himself, to observe, that there was no other speech but of jesus christ through all the town; and that those who had most eagerly fought against the christian law in their disputes, were now the most ardent to defend it, and to practise it with most exactness. all of them were tenderly affectionate to the father, and were ever loath to leave his company they took delight in making daily questions to him, concerning the mysteries of faith; and it is unspeakable what inward refreshments they found, in seeing that all was mysterious even, in the most ordinary ceremonies,--as, for example, in the manner wherewith the faithful sign themselves with the cross. the father, on his side, had as ample a satisfaction; and he confesses it himself, in a letter which he directed some time after to the jesuits in europe: "though my hairs are already become all hoary," says he to them, "i am more vigorous and robust than i ever was; for the pains which are taken to cultivate a reasonable nation, which loves the truth, and which covets to be saved, afford me matter of great joy. i have not, in the course of all my life, received a greater satisfaction than at amanguchi, where multitudes of people came to hear me, by the king's permission. i saw the pride of their bonzas overthrown, and the most inflamed enemies of the christian name subjected to the humility of the gospel. i saw the transports of joy in those new christians, when, after having vanquished the bonzas in dispute, they returned in triumph. i was not less satisfied, to see their diligence in labouring to convince the gentiles, and vying with each other in that undertaking; with the delight they took in the relation of their conquests, and by what arguments and means they brought them over, and how they rooted out the heathen superstitions; all these particulars gave me such abundant joy, that i lost the sense of my own afflictions. ah, might it please almighty god, that, as i call to my remembrance those consolations which i have received from the fountain of all mercies in the midst of my labours, i might not only make a recital of them, but give the experience also, and cause them to be felt and considered as they ought, by our universities of europe, i am assured, that many young men, who study there, would come hither to employ all the strength of their parts, and vigour of their minds, in the conversion of an idolatrous people, had they once tasted those heavenly refreshments which accompany our labours." these inward delights of god's servant were not yet so pure, but that some bitterness was intermixed. he was not without sorrow for oxindono king of amanguchi; who, though persuaded of the excellence of christianity, was retained in idolatry by carnal pleasures: and for neatondono, first prince of the kingdom, who, having noble and virtuous inclinations, might have proved the apostle of the court, if some trivial reasons had not hindered him from becoming a christian. he, and the princess his wife, respected xavier as their father, and even honoured him as a saint. they also loved the faithful, and succoured them in all their needs. they spoke of our faith in terms of great veneration; but, having founded many monasteries of bonzas, it troubled them, as they said, to lose the fruit of charity: and thus the fear of being frustrated of i know not what rewards, which the bonzas promised them, caused them to neglect that eternal recompence of which the holy man assured them. but how powerful soever the example of princes is usually in matters of religion, yet on all sides christianity was embraced; and an action of xavier's companion did not a little contribute to the gaining over of the most stubborn. fernandez preached in one of the most frequented places of the town; and amongst his crowd of auditors were some persons of great wit, strongly opinioned of their sect, who could not conceive the maxims of the gospel, and who heard the preacher with no other intention than to make a sport of him. in the midst of the sermon, a man, who was of the scum of the rabble, drew near to fernandez, as if it were to whisper something to him, and hawking up a mass of nastiness, spit it full upon his face. fernandez, without a word speaking, or making the least sign that he was concerned, took his hand-kerchief, wiped his face, and continued his discourse. every one was suprised at the moderation of the preacher:--the more debauched, who had set up a laughter at this affront, turned all their scorn into admiration, and sincerely acknowledged, that a man who was so much master of his passions, as to command them on such an occasion, must needs be endued with greatness of soul and heroic courage. one of the chief of the assembly discovered somewhat else in this unshaken patience: he was the most learned amongst all the doctors of amanguchi, and the most violent against the gospel he considered, that a law which taught such patience, and such insensibility of affronts, could only come from heaven; and argued thus within himself: "these preachers, who with so much constancy endure the vilest of all injuries, cannot pretend to cozen us. it would cost them too dear a price; and no man will deceive another at his own expence. he only, who made the heart of man, can place it in so great tranquillity. the force of nature cannot reach so far; and this christian patience must proceed alone from some divine principle. these people cannot but have some infallible assurance of the doctrine they believe, and of the recompence which they expect; for, in line, they are ready to suffer all things for their god, and have no human expectations. after all, what inconvenience or danger can it be to embrace their law? if what they tell us of eternity be true, i shall be eternally miserable in not believing it; and supposing there be no other life but this, is it not better to follow a religion which elevates a man above himself, and which gives him an unalterable peace, than to profess our sects, which continue us in all our weakness, and which want power to appease the disorders of our hearts?" he made his inward reflections on all these things, as he afterwards declared; and these considerations being accompanied with the motions of grace, touched him so to the quick, that, as soon as the sermon was ended, he confessed that the virtue of the preacher had convinced him; he desired baptism, and received it with great solemnity. this illustrious conversion was followed with answerable success. many who had a glimmering of the truth, and feared to know it yet more plainly, now opened their eyes, and admitted the gospel light; amongst the rest, a young man of five-and-twenty years of age, much esteemed for the subtlety of his understanding, and educated in the most famous universities of japan. he was come to amanguchi, on purpose to be made a bonza; but being informed that the sect of bonzas, of which he desired to be a member, did not acknowledge a first principle, and that their books had made no mention of him, he changed his thoughts, and was unresolved on what course of living he should fix; until being finally convinced, by the example of the doctor, and the arguments of xavier, he became a christian. the name of laurence was given him; and it was he, who, being received by xavier himself into the society of jesus, exercised immediately the ministry of preaching with so much fame, and so great success, that he converted an innumerable multitude of noble and valiant men, who were afterwards the pillars of the japonian church. as to what remains, the monasteries of the bonzas were daily thinned, and grew insensibly to be dispeopled by the desertion of young men, who had some remainders of modesty and morality. being ashamed of leading a brutal life, and of deceiving the simple, they laid by their habits of bonzas, together with the profession, that, coming back into the world, they might more easily be converted. these young bonzas discovered to xavier the mysteries of their sects, and revealed to him their hidden abominations, which were covered with an outside of austerity. the father, who was at open defiance with those men, who were the mortal enemies of all the faithful, and whose only interest it was to hinder the establishment of the faith, published whatsoever was told him in relation to them, and represented them in their proper colours. these unmasked hypocrites became the laughter of the people; but what mortified them more, was, that they, who heard them like oracles before this, now upbraided them openly with their ignorance. a woman would sometimes challenge them to a disputation; and urge them with such home and pressing arguments, that the more they endeavoured to get loose, the more they were entangled: for the father, being made privy to the secrets of every sect, furnished the new proselytes with weapons to vanquish the bonzas, by reducing them to manifest contradictions; which, among the japonese, is the greatest infamy that can happen to a man of letters. but the bonzas got not off so cheap, as only to be made the derision of the people; together with their credit and their reputation they lost the comfortable alms, which was their whole subsistence: so that the greater part of them, without finding in themselves the least inclinations to christianity, bolted out of their convents, that they might not die of hunger in them; and changed their profession of bonzas, to become either soldiers or tradesmen; which gave the christians occasion to say, with joy unspeakable, "that, in a little time, there would remain no more idolaters in amanguchi, of those religious cheats, than were barely sufficient to keep possession of their monasteries." the elder bonzas, in the mean time, more hardened in their sect, and more obstinate than the young, spared for nothing to maintain their possession. they threatened the people with the wrath of their gods, and denounced the total destruction of the town and kingdom; they said, "the god whom the europeans believed, was not deos, or deus, as the portuguese called him, but dajus, that is to say, in the japonian tongue, a lie, or forgery." they added, "that this god imposed on men a heavy yoke. what justice was it to punish those who transgressed a law, which it was impossible to keep? but where was providence, if the law of jesus was necessary to salvation, which suffered fifteen ages to slide away without declaring it to the most noble part of all the world? surely a religion, whose god was partial in the dispensation of his favours, could not possibly be true; and if the european doctrine had but a shadow of truth in it, china could never have been so long without the knowledge of it." these were the principal heads of their accusation, and xavier reports them in his letters; but he gives not an account of what answers he returned, and they are not made known to us by any other hand. thus, without following two or three historians, who make him speak according to their own ideas on all these articles, i shall content myself with what the saint himself had left in writing. the idolaters, instead of congratulating their own happiness, that they were enlightened by the beams of faith, bemoaned the blindness of their ancestors, and cried out in a lamentable tone, "what! are our forefathers burning in hellfire, because they did not adore a god who was unknown to them, and observed not a law which never was declared?" the bouzas added fuel to their zeal, by telling them, "the portuguese priests were good for nothing, because they could not redeem a soul from hell; whereas they could do it at their pleasure, by their fasts and prayers: that eternal punishments either proved the cruelty or the weakness of the christian god; his cruelty, if he did not deliver them, when he had it in his power; his weakness, if he could not execute what he desired; lastly, that amida and xaca were far more merciful, and of greater power; but that they were only pleased to redeem from hell those who, during their mortal life, had bestowed magnificent alms upon the bonzas." we are ignorant of all those particular answers of the saint, as i said above: we only know from his relation, that, concerning the sorrow of the japonians for having been bereft for so many ages of christian knowledge, he had the good fortune to give them comfort, and put them in a way of more reasonable thoughts; for he shewed them in general, that the most ancient of all laws is the law of god, not that which is published by the sound of words, but that which is written in hearts by the hand of nature; so that every one who comes into the world, brings along with him certain precepts, which his own instinct and reason teach him. "before japan received its laws from the wise men of china," said xavier, "it was known amongst you, that theft and adultery were to be avoided; and from thence it was that thieves and palliards sought out secret places, wherein to commit those crimes. after they had committed them, they felt the private stings of their own consciences, which cease not to reproach the guilty to themselves, though their wickedness be not known to others, nor even so much as prohibited by human laws. suppose an infant bred up in forests amongst the beasts, far from the society of mankind, and remote from the civilized inhabitants of towns, yet he is not without an inward knowledge of the rules of civil life; for ask him, whether it be not an evil action to murder a man, to despoil him of his goods, to violate his bed, to surprise him by force, or circumvent him by treachery, he will answer without question, 'that nothing of this is to be done.' now if this be manifest in a savage, without the benefit of education, how much more way it be concluded of men well educated, and living in mutual conversation? then," added the holy man, "it follows, that god has not left so many ages destitute of knowledge, as your bonzas have pretended" by this he gave them to understand, that the law of nature was a step which led them insensibly to the christian law; and that a man who lived morally well, should never fad of arriving to the knowledge of the faith, by ways best known to almighty god; that is to say, before his eath, god would either send some preacher to him, or illuminate his mind by some immediate revelation. these reasons, which the fathers of the church have often used on like occasions, gave such satisfaction to the pagans, that they found no farther difficulty in that point, which had given them so much trouble. the bonzas perceiving that the people preferred the authority of xavier above theirs, and not knowing how to refute their adversary, made a cabal at court, to lessen the christians in the good opinion of the king. they gave him jealousies of them, by decrying their behaviour, and saying, "they were men of intrigue, plotters, enemies of the public safety, and dangerous to the person of the king;" insomuch, that oxindono, who had been so favourable to them, all on the sudden was turned against them. it is true, that as the japonese value themselves above all things, in the inviolable observation of their word, when they have once engaged it, he durst not revoke that solemn edict, which he had published in favour of the christians; but to make it of no effect, he used the faithful with great severity, even so far as to seize upon their goods, and began with men of the first rank in his dominions. at the same time, the bonzas, grown insolent, and swelled with this new turn of tide, wrote letters and libels full of invectives against xavier. they said, he was a vagabond beggar, who, not knowing how to maintain himself in india, was come to japan to live on charity. they endeavoured above all things to make him pass for a notorious magician, who, through the power of his charms, had forced the devil to obey him, and one who, by the assistance of his familiars, performed all sorts of prodigies to seduce the people. but neither this alteration in the king, nor these calumnies of the bonzas, hindered the progress of the gospel. the number of christians amounted in few days to three thousand in amanguchi, and they were all so fervent, that not one of them but was ready, not only to forego his fortunes, but also to shed his blood for the defence of his faith, if the king should be carried on to persecute the growing church with fire and sword, as it was believed he would. the reputation of the apostle was also encreased, in spite of the false reports which were spread concerning him; and his name became so famous in the neighbouring kingdoms, that all the people round about were desirous to see the european bonza. xavier had of late some thoughts of returning to the indies, there to make a choice himself of such labourers as were proper for japan; and his design was to come back by china, the conversion of which country had already inflamed his heart. for discoursing daily with such chinese merchants as were resident at amanguehi, he had entertained a strong opinion, that a nation so polite, and knowing, would easily be reduced to christianity; and on the other side, he had great hopes, that when china should be once converted, japan would not be long after it; at least the more unbelieving sort of japonese often said, "that they would not alter their religion till the chinese had led the way. let him carry his gospel to that flourishing and vast empire; and when he had subdued it to jesus christ, then they would also think of turning christians." in the meantime, a portuguese vessel, commanded by edward de gama, arrived at the kingdom of bungo, and news came to amanguchi, that this ship, which was sailed thither from the indies, would be on its way back again in a month or two. xavier, to learn what truth there was in this report, sent matthew to those parts, who was one of the japonian converts, which accompanied him, and gave him a letter, directed to the captain and merchants of the vessel. the saint desired them to send him word, who they were, from whence bound, and how soon they intended to return; after which he told them, "that his intentions were to return to the indies, and that he should be glad to meet them, in case they were disposed to repass thither." in conclusion, he desired them earnestly, that they would borrow so much time from their affairs of merchandize as to think a little on their souls; and declared to them, that all the silks of china, whatever gain they might afford them, could not countervail the least spiritual profit which they might make, by a daily examination of their consciences. the ship was at the port of figen, about fifty leagues from amanguchi, and within a league of fucheo, which some call funay, the metropolis of bungo. the portuguese were overjoyed to hear news of father xavier. they sent him an account of theirs, and withal advertised him, that, in the compass of a month at farthest, they should set sail for china, where they had left three vessels laden for the indies, which were to return in january, and that james pereyra, his familiar friend, was on board of one of them. matthew came back in five days time; and, besides the letters which he brought the father from the captain, and the principal merchants, he gave him some from goa; by which the fathers of the college of st paul gave him to understand, that his presence in that place was of absolute necessity, for the regulation of affairs belonging to the society. then xavier, without losing time, after he had recommended the new christians to the care of cosmo de torrez, and john fernandez, whom he left at amanguchi, put himself upon his way towards mid-september, in the year . he might have made this voyage easily by sea, but he loved rather to go by land, and that on foot, according to his custom. he took for his companions, matthew and bernard; two christian lords would be also of the party. their goods had lately been confiscated, as a punishment for changing their religion; but the grace of jesus christ, which was to them instead of all, rendered their poverty so precious, that they esteemed themselves richer than they had been formerly. another christian bore them company; that laurence sirnamed the squint-eyed, because of that imperfection in his sight. the father walked cheerfully with his five companions, as far as pinlaschau, a village distant a league or two from figen. arriving there he found himself so spent with travelling, that his feet were swollen, and he was seized with a violent headach, so that he could go no farther. matthew, laurence, and bernard, went on to carry news of him to the vessel. when edward de gama understood that the holy man was so near, he called together all the portuguese who resided at fucheo; and having chosen out the principal amongst them, got on horseback with them, to pay him their respects in ceremony. xavier, whom a little rest had now recruited, and who was suspicious of the honour which they intended him, was already on his journey, but fell into that ambush of civility, which he would willingly have shunned. the cavalcade came up to him within a league's distance of figen; and found him walking betwixt the two lords of amanguchi, who had never left him, and himself carrying his own equipage. gama was surprised to see a person so considerable in the world in such a posture, and alighting from his horse, with all his company, saluted him with all manner of respect. after the first compliments were over, they invited the father to mount on horseback, but he could not be persuaded; so that the portuguese giving their horses to be led after them, bore him company on foot even to the port. the ship was equipped in all its flourish, with flags hung out, and streamers waving, according to the orders of the captain. they who were remaining in her appeared on the decks, and stood glittering in their armour. they gave him a volley at his first approach, and then discharged all their cannon. four rounds of the artillery being made, the noise of it was heard so distinctly at fucheo, that the city was in a fright, and the king imagined that the portuguese were attacked by certain pirates, who lately had pillaged all the coasts. to clear his doubts, he dispatched away a gentleman of his court to the ship's captain. gama shewing father francis to the messenger, told him, that the noise which had alarmed the court, was only a small testimony of the honour which was owing to so great a person, one so dear to heaven, and so much esteemed in the court of portugal. the japanner, who saw nothing but poverty in the person of the father, and remembered what had been written of him from amanguchi, stopped a little without speaking; then, with amazement in his face, "i am in pain," said he, "what answer i shall return my prince; for what you tell me has no correspondence either with that which i behold, or with the account we have received from the bonzas of amanguchi; who have seen your father bonza entertain a familiar spirit, who taught him to cast lots, and perform certain magical operations to delude the ignorant. they report him to be a wretch forsaken, and accurst by all the world; that the vermin which are swarming all over him, are too nice to feed on his infectious flesh; besides which, i fear, that if i should relate what you say concerning him, our priests would be taken either for idiots, or men of false understanding, or for envious persons, and impostors." then gama replying, told the japonian all that was necessary to give him a good impression of the saint, and to hinder him from contempt of his mean appearance. on this last article he declared to him, that he, who had so despicable an outside, was of noble blood; that fortune had provided him with wealth, but that his virtue had made him poor; and that his wilfull want of all things was the effect of a great spirit, which despised those empty pomps that are so eagerly desired by mankind. this discourse ravished the japanner with admiration; he made a faithful relation of it to his king; and added of himself, that the portuguese were more happy in the possession of this holy man, than if their vessel were laden with ingots of gold. the king of bungo had already heard speak of father francis; and gave no credit to what the bonzas of amanguchi had written of him. he was a prince of five-and-twenty years of age, very judicious, generous, and civil; but too much engaged in carnal pleasures, after the manner of the japonian princes. what he had heard from the relation of the messenger, increased his longing to behold xavier; and the same day he writ to him, in these very terms:-- "father bonza of chimahicoghin, (for by that name they call portugal,) may your happy arrival in my estates be as pleasing to your god, as are the praises wherewith he is honoured by his saints. quansyonofama, my domestic servant, whom i sent to the port of figen, tells me, that you are arrived from amanguchi; and all my court will bear me witness, with what pleasure i received the news. as god has not made me worthy to command you, i earnestly request you to come before the rising of the sun to-morrow, and to knock at my palace gate, where i shall impatiently attend you. and permit me to demand this favour of you without being thought a troublesome beggar. in the meantime, prostrate on the ground, and on my knees before your god, whom i acknowledge for the god of all the gods, the sovereign of the best and greatest which inhabit in the heavens, i desire of him, i say, to make known to the haughty of the world, how much your poor and holy life is pleasing to him; to the end, that the children of our flesh may not be deceived by the false promises of the earth. send me news of your holiness, the joy of which may give me a good night's repose, till the cocks awaken me with the welcome declaration of your visit." this letter was carried by a young prince of the blood royal, attended by thirty young lords belonging to the court; and accompanied by a venerable old man, who was his governor, called poomendono, one of the wisest and most qualified of all the kingdom, and natural brother to the king of minato. the honour which was paid by the portuguese to father xavier, so surprised the prince, that, turning to his governor, he said aloud, "the god of these people must be truly great, and his counsels hidden from mankind, since it is his pleasure, that these wealthy ships should be obedient to so poor a man as is this bonza of the portuguese; and that the roaring of their cannon should declare, that poverty has wherewithal to be pleasing to the lord of all the world; even that poverty which is so despicable of itself, and so disgraceful in the general opinion, that it seems even a crime to think of it." "though we have a horror for poverty," replied poomendono, "and that we believe the poor incapable of happiness, it may be this poor man is so much enamoured of his wants, and so esteems them, that he is pleasing to the god whom he adores, and that practising it with all imaginable rigour for his sake, he may be richer than the greatest monarch of the world." the young ambassador being returned to court, reported to the king with what respect his letter had been received; and took upon him to persuade that prince, that this european bonza was to be treated with greater honour, and far otherwise than their ordinary bonzas; even so far as to say, that it would be an enormous sin to level him with them; that for the rest, he was not so poor as his enemies had suggested; that the captains and portuguese merchants would bestow on him both their ship and all their treasure, in case he would accept of them; and that, properly speaking, he was not to be accounted poor, who possessed as much as he desired. in the mean time, the portuguese being assembled, to consult how father xavier should appear in court the next morning, all of them were of opinion, that he should present himself with all the pomp and magnificence they could devise. at first he opposed it, out of the aversion he had for this pageant show, so unsuitable to the condition of a religious man; but afterwards he yielded to the request, and withal to the reasons of the assembly. those reasons were, that the bonzas of amanguchi, having written all they could imagine, to render xavier contemptible, it was convenient to remove those false conceptions from the people; and at the same time, to let them see how much the christians honour their ministers of the gospel, that thereby the heathens might be the more easily induced to give credit to them; so that the honour would reflect on jesus christ, and the preaching would be raised in value, according to the esteem which was given to the preacher. they prepared therefore, with all diligence, for the entry of the saint, and set out the next morning before day-light, in a handsome equipage. there were thirty portuguese, of the most considerable amongst them, richly habited; with their chains of gold, and adorned with jewels. their servants and slaves, well clothed likewise, were attending on their masters. father xavier wore a cassock of black chainlet, and over it a surplice, with a stole of green velvet, garnished with a gold brocard. the chalop and the two barques, wherein they made their passage from the ship to the town, were covered on the sides with the fairest china tapestry, and hung round with silken banners of all colours. both in the sloop, and in the barques, there were trumpets, flutes, and hautboys, and other instruments of music, which, playing together, made a most harmonious concert: the news which was spread about fucheo, that the great european bonza was to enter into the town that morning, drew many persons of quality to the sea-side; and such a multitude of people ran crowding together, at the sounding of the trumpets, that the portuguese could hardly find footing to come on shore. quansyandono, captain of canafama, and one of the principal of the court, was there attending them, by order from the king. he received the saint with great civility, and offered him a litter to carry him to the palace; but xavier refused it, and walked on foot, with all his train, in this order: edward de gama went foremost bare-headed, with a cane in his hand, as the gentleman of the horse, or major domo to the father. five other portuguese followed him, who were the most considerable persons of the ship. one of them carried a book in a bag of white satin; another a cane of bengal, headed with gold; a third his slippers, which were of a fine black velvet, such as are worn only by persons of the first quality, a fourth carried a fair tablet of our lady, wrapt in a scarf of violet damask; and the fifth a magnificent parasol. the father came next after them, in the habit which i have described; with an air composed betwixt majesty and modesty. the rest of the portuguese followed; and to behold their countenance, their dress, and the beauty of their train, they resembled rather cavaliers and lords, than a company of merchants. they passed in this manner through the chief streets of the city, with sound of trumpets, flutes, and hautboys, followed by an infinite multitude of people, without reckoning into the number those who filled the windows, the balconies, and the tops of houses. being arrived at the great place, which fronts the royal palace, they found there six hundred of the king's guards, drawn up, some armed with lances, others with darts, all of them with rich scymiters hanging by their sides, and costly vests upon their backs. these guards, at the sign given them by their captain, called fingeiridono, advanced in good order towards the saint, after which they divided into two ranks, and opened a passage for the father through the midst of them. being come to the palace, the portuguese, who walked immediately before the father, turned towards him, and saluted him with great respect. one presented him the cane, and another the velvet slippers; he, who held the parasol, spread it over his head; and the two others, who carried the book and picture, placed themselves on each side of him. all this was so gracefully performed, and with so much honour to the father, that the lords who were present much admired the manner of it: and they were heard to say amongst themselves, that xavier had been falsely represented to them by the bonzas; that questionless he was a man descended from above, to confound their envy, and abate their pride. after they had gone through a long gallery, they entered into a large hall full of people; who, by their habit, which was of damask, heightened with gold, and diversified with fair figures, seemed to be persons of the highest quality. there a little child, whom a reverend old man held by the hand, coming up to the father, saluted him with these words: "may your arrival in the palace of my lord the king, be as welcome to him, as the rain of heaven to the labourers, in a long and parching drought: enter without fear," continued he, "for i assure you of the love of all good men, though the wicked cannot behold you without melancholy in their faces, which will make them appear like a black and stormy night." xavier returned an answer suitable to his age who had made the compliment; but the child replied in a manner which was far above his age. "certainly," said he, "you must be endued with an extraordinary courage, to come from the end of all the world into a strange country, liable to contempt, in regard of your poverty; and the goodness of your god must needs be infinite, to be pleased with that poverty against the general opinion of mankind. the bonzas are far from doing any thing of this nature; they who publicly affirm, and swear, that the poor are no more in a possibility of salvation than the women." "may it please the divine goodness of our lord," replied xavier, "to enlighten those dark and wretched souls with the beams of his celestial truth, to the end they may confess their error, both as to that particular, and to the rest of their belief." the child discoursed on other subjects, and spoke with so much reason, and with that sublimity of thought, that the father doubted not but he was inspired by the holy spirit, who, when he pleases, can replenish the souls of infants with wisdom, and give eloquence to their tongues, before nature has ripened in them the use of reason. in these entertainments, which were surprising to all the assistants, they passed into another hall, where there were many gentlemen richly habited, and of good mein. at the moment when the father entered, all of them bowed with reverence; which action they repeated thrice, and so very low, that they touched the ground with their foreheads, as the japonese are very dextrous at that exercise. and this reverence, which they call gromenare, is only performed by the son to the father, and by the vassal to his lord. after this, two of them separating from the company, to testify their general joy at the sight of him, one of them spoke in this manner: "may your arrival, holy father bonza, be as pleasing to our king as the smiles of a babe are to his mother, who holds him in her arms; which certainly will be, for we swear to you by the hairs of our heads, that every thing, even to the very walls, which seem to dance for joy at your desired presence, conspires to your good reception, and excites us to rejoice at your arrival; we doubt not but it will turn to the glory of that god. of whom you have spoken so greatly at amanguchi." this compliment being ended, these young lords were following the father; but the child of whom we made mention, and whom xavier led by the hand, made a sign to them, that they should go no farther. they mounted on a terrace bordered with orange trees, and from thence entered into another hall, more spacious than either of the former. facharandono, the king's brother, was there, with a magnificent retinue. having done to the saint all the civilities which are practised to the greatest of japan, he told him, "that this day was the most solemn and auspicious of all the year for the court of bungo; and that his lord the king esteemed himself more rich and happy to have him in his palace, than if he were master of all the silver contained in the two-and-thirty treasuries of china. in the mean time," added the prince, "i wish you an increase of glory, and an entire accomplishment of that design, which brought you hither from the extremities of the earth." then the child, who had hitherto been the master of the ceremonies to the father, left him in the hands of facharandono, and retired apart. they entered into the king's antichamber, where the principal lords of the kingdom were attending him. after he had been received by them with all possible civilities, he was at last introduced to his audience in a chamber which glittered with gold on every side. the king, who was standing, advanced five or six paces at the first appearance of the father, and bowed himself even to the ground thrice successively, at which action all the company were in great amazement. xavier, on his side, prostrated himself before that prince, and would have touched his foot, according to the custom of the country, but the king would not permit him, and himself raised up the saint; then taking him by the hand, he caused him to sit down by him on the same estrade. the prince, his brother, was seated somewhat lower; and the portuguese were placed over against them, accompanied by the most qualified persons of the court. the king immediately said all the obliging things to the father which could be expected from a well-bred man; and, laying aside all the pomp of majesty, which the kings of japan are never used to quit in public, treated him with the kindness and familiarity of a friend. the father answered all these civilities of the prince with a most profound respect, and words full of deference and submission; after which, taking occasion to declare jesus christ to him, he explained, in few words, the principal maxims of christian morality; but he did it after so plausible a manner, that at the conclusion of his discourse, the king cried out in a transport of admiration, "how can any man learn from god these profound secrets? why has he suffered us to live in blindness, and this bonza of portugal to receive these wonderful illuminations? for, in fine, we ourselves are witnesses of what we had formerly by report; and all we hear is maintained by proofs so strong and evident, and withal so conformable to the light of nature, that whoever would examine these doctrines, according to the rules of reason, will find that truth will issue out, and meet him on every side, and that no one proposition destroys another. it is far otherwise with our bonzas; they cannot make any discourse without the clashing of their own principles; and from thence it happens, that the more they speak, the more they entangle themselves. confused in their knowledge, and yet more confused in the explication of what they teach, rejecting to day as false what yesterday they approved for true; contradicting themselves, and recanting their opinions every moment, insomuch, that the clearest head, and the most ready understanding, can comprehend nothing of their doctrine; and in relation to eternal happiness, we are always left in doubt what we should believe; a most manifest token that they only follow the extravagancies of their own fancies, and have not, for the rule and foundation of their faith, any permanent and solid truth." in this manner spoke the king; and it was easy to judge by the vehemence of his action, that he spoke from the abundance of his heart. there was present a bonza, very considerable in his sect, and of good knowledge, but too presuming of his understanding, and as much conceited of his own abilities as any pedant in the world. this bonza, whose name was faxiondono, either jealous of the honour of his profession, or taking to himself in particular what the king had said of all in general, was often tempted to have interrupted him, yet he mastered his passion till the king had done; but then losing all manner of respect, and not keeping any measures of decency, "how dare you," said he, "decide matters relating to religion; you who have never studied in the university of fianzima, the only place where the sacred mysteries of the gods are explicated? if you know nothing of yourself, consult the learned. i am here in person to instruct you." the insolence of the bonza raised the indignation of all the company, the king excepted, who, smiling, commanded him to proceed, if he had more to say. faxiondono growing more arrogant by this moderation of his prince, began raising his note by extolling the profession of a bonza: "that nothing was more certain than that the bonzas were the favourites of heaven, both observing the law themselves, and causing it to be observed by others; that they passed the longest nights, and the severest colds, in praying for their benefactors; that they abstained from all sensual pleasures; that fresh fish never came upon their tables; that they administered to the sick, instructed the children, comforted the distressed, reconciled enemies, appeased seditions, and pacified kingdoms; that, which was first and chiefest, they gave letters of exchange for another life, by which the dead became rich in heaven; that, in fine, the bonzas were the familiar friends of the stars, and the confidents of the saints; that they were privileged to converse with them by night, to cause them to descend from heaven, to embrace them in their arms, and enjoy them as long as they desired." these extravagancies set all the company in a laughter; at which the bonza was so enraged, that he flew out into greater passion, till the king commanded his brother to impose silence on him; after which, he caused his seat to be taken from under him, and commanded him to withdraw, telling him, by way of raillery, "that his choler was a convincing proof of a bonza's holiness;" and then seriously adding, "that a man of his character had more commerce with hell than heaven." at these words, the bonza cried out with excess of rage, "the time will come, when no man of this world shall be worthy enough to serve me; there is not that monarch now breathing on the face of the earth, but shall be judged too vile to touch the hem of my garment." he meant, when he was to be transformed into one of their deities, and that god and he should be mixed into one divinity, which is the reward of a bonza after death. though the king could not hear his madness without smiling, yet he had so much compassion on his folly, that he took upon him to confute those extravagant propositions; but xavier desired him to defer it to a fitter time, till he had digested his fury, and was more capable of hearing reason. then the king said only to faxiondono, "that he should go and do penance for the pride and insolence of his speech, wherein he had made himself a companion of the gods." faxiondono did not reply, but he was heard to mutter, and grind his teeth, as he withdrew. being at the chamber door, and ready to go out, "may the gods," said he aloud, "dart their fire from heaven to consume thee, and burn to ashes all those kings who shall presume to speak like thee!" the king and xavier prosecuted their discourse on several articles of religion till dinner time; when the meat was on the table, the king invited the father to eat with him. xavier excused himself with all possible respect, but that prince would absolutely have it so. "i know well," said he, "my friend and father, that you are not in want of my table; but, if you were a japanner, as we are, you would understand, that a king cannot give those he favours a greater sign of his good will, than in permitting them to eat with him; for which reason, as i love you, and am desirous of shewing it, you must needs dine with me; and farther, i assure you, that i shall receive a greater honour by it, than i bestow." then xavier, with a low reverence, kissing his scymitar, which is a mark of most profound respect, much practised in japan, said thus to him: "i petition the god of heaven, from the bottom of my heart, to reward your majesty for all the favours you have heaped on me, by bestowing on you the light of faith, and the virtues of christianity, to the end you may serve god faithfully during your life, and enjoy him eternally after death." the king embraced him, and desired of god, on his side, that he would graciously hear the saint's request, yet on this condition, that they might remain together in heaven, and never be divided from each other, that they might have the opportunity of long conversations, and of discoursing to the full of divine matters. at length they sat to dinner: while they were eating, the portuguese, and all the lords of the court, were on their knees, together with the chief inhabitants of the town, amongst whom were also some bonzas, who were enraged in their hearts; but the late example of faxiondono hindered them from breaking into passion. these honours which xavier received from the king of bungo, made him so considerable, and gave him so great a reputation with the people, that being at his lodgings with the portuguese, they came thronging from all quarters to hear him speak of god. his public sermons, and his private conversations, had their due effect. vast multitudes of people, from the very first, renounced their idols, and believed in jesus christ. the saint employed whole days together in baptising of idolaters, or in teaching new believers; so that the portuguese could not enjoy him to themselves for their own spiritual consolation, unless at some certain hours of the night, while he was giving himself some breathing time after his long labours. loving him so tenderly as they did, and fearing that his continual pains might endanger his health, they desired him to manage it with more caution, and to take at least those refreshments which human nature exacted from him, before he sunk at once under some distemper. but he answered them, "that if they truly loved him, they would trouble themselves no more concerning him; that they ought to look on him as one who was dead to all outward refreshments; that his nourishment, his sleep, and his life itself, consisted in delivering from the tyranny of the devil those precious souls, for whose sake chiefly god had called him from the utmost limits of the earth." amongst the conversions which were made at fucheo, one of the most considerable was that of a famous bonza, of canafama, called sacay ecran. this bonza, who was very learned, and a great pillar of his sect, seeing that none of his brethren durst attempt xavier on the matter of religion, undertook a public disputation with him. the conference avas made in a principal place of the town, in presence of a great multitude. scarcely had xavier made an end of explaining the christian doctrine, when the bonza grew sensible of his errors. the infidel, notwithstanding, went on to oppose those truths, of which he had already some imperfect glimpse; but being at length convinced, by the powerful reasons of his adversary, and inwardly moved by god's good spirit, he fell on his knees, and lifting up his hands towards heaven, he pronounced aloud these words, math tears trickling from his eyes; "o jesus christ, thou true and only son of god, i submit to thee. i confess from my heart, and with my mouth, that thou art god eternal and omnipotent; and i earnestly desire the pardon of all my auditors, that i have so often taught them things for truth, which i acknowledge, and at this present declare before them, were only forgeries and fables." an action which was so surprising, moved the minds of all the assistants; and it was in the power of father xavier to have baptized that very day five hundred persons, who, being led by the example of the bonza of canafama, all of them earnestly desired baptism. he might perhaps have done this in the indies, where there were no learned men to oppose the mysteries of our faith, and to tempt the fidelity of the new converts by captious queries. but he judged this not to be practicable in japan, where the bonzas, not being able to hinder the conversion of idolaters, endeavoured afterwards to regain them by a thousand lying artifices and sophistications; and it appeared necessary to him, before he baptized those who were grown up to manhood, to fortify them well against the tricks of those seducers. accordingly, the saint disposed the souls of those gentiles by degrees to this first sacrament, and began with the reformation of their manners, chusing rather not to baptize the king of bungo, than to precipitate his baptism; or rather he thought, that his conversion would be always speedy enough, provided it were sincere and constant. thus, the great care of father xavier, in relation to the prince, was to give him an aversion to those infamous vices which had been taught him by the bonzas, and in which he lived without scruple, upon the faith of those his masters. now the king, attending with great application to the man of god, and having long conversations with him, began immediately to change his life, and to give the demonstrations of that change. from the very fist, he banished out of his chamber a beautiful youth, who was his minion, and also forbade him the entry of his palace. he gave bountifully to the poor, to whom he had formerly been hard-hearted, as thinking it was a crime to pity them, and an act of justice to be cruel to them, according to the doctrine of his bonzas, who maintained, that poverty not only made men despicable and ridiculous, but also criminal, and worthy of the severest punishments. according to the principles of the same doctors, women with child were allowed to make themselves miscarry by certain potions, and even to murder those children whom they brought into the world against their will; insomuch, that such unnatural cruelties were daily committed, and nothing was more common in the kingdom of bungo, than those inhuman mothers: some of them, to save the charges of their food and education, others to avoid the miseries attending poverty, and many to preserve the reputation of chastity, however debauched and infamous they were. the king, by the admonition of the father, forbade those cruelties on pain of death. he made other edicts against divers pagan ceremonies, which were lascivious or dishonest, and suffered not the bonzas to set a foot within his palace. as to what remains, he was wrapt in admiration at the virtue of the holy man; and confessed often to his courtiers, that when he saw him appear at any time, he trembled even to the bottom of his heart, because he seemed to see the countenance of the man of god, as a clear mirror, representing to him the abominations of his life. while xavier had this success at the court of bungo, cosmo de torrez, and john fernandez, suffered for the faith at amanguchi. after the departure of the saint, the whole nation of the bonzas rose against them, and endeavoured to confound them in regular disputes; flattering themselves with this opinion, that the companions of xavier were not so learned as himself, and judging on the other side, that the least advantage which they should obtain against them, would re-establish the declining affairs of paganism. it happened quite contrary to their expectations: torrez, to whom fernandez served instead of an interpreter, answered their questions with such force of reason, that they were wholly vanquished; not being able to withstand his arguments, they endeavoured to decry him by their calumnies, spreading a report, that the companions of the great european bonza cut the throats of little children by night, sucked their blood, and eat their flesh; that the devil had declared, by the mouth of an idol, that these two europeans were his disciples; and that it was himself who had instructed them in those subtle answers which one of them had returned in their public disputations. besides this, some of the bonzas made oath, that they had seen a devil darting flakes of fire like thunder and lightning against the palace of the king, as a judgment, so they called it, against those who had received into the town these preachers of an upstart faith. but perceiving that none of these inventions took place according to their desires, and that the people, instead of giving credit to their projects, made their sport at them, partly in revenge, and partly to verify their visions, they engaged in their interests a lord of the kingdom, who was a great soldier, and a malecontent; him they wrought to take up arms against the king. this nobleman, provoked with the sense of his ill usage at court, and farther heightened by motives of religion and interest, raised an army in less than three weeks time, by the assistance of the bonzas, and came pouring down like a deluge upon amanguchi. the king, who was neither in condition to give him battle, nor provided to sustain a siege, and who feared all things from his subjects, of whom he was extremely hated, lost his courage to that degree, that lie looked on death as his only remedy; for, apprehending above all things the ignominy of falling alive into the power of rebels, pushed on by a barbarous despair, he first murdered his son, and then ript up his own belly with a knife, having beforehand left order with one of his faithful servants to burn their bodies so soon as they were dead, and not to leave so much as their ashes at the disposal of the enemy. all was put to fire and sword within the city. during this confusion, the soldiers, animated by the bonzas, searched for torrez and fernandez, to have massacred them: and both of them had perished without mercy, if the wife of neatondono, of whom formerly we have made mention, and who, though continuing a pagan, yet had so great a kindness for xavier, that, for his sake, she kept them hidden in her palace till the public tranquillity was restored; for, as these popular commotions are of the nature of storms, which pass away, and that so much the more speedily, as they had been more violent, the town resumed her former countenance in the space of some few days. the heads of the people being assembled for the election of a new king, by common consent pitched on the brother of the king of bungo, a young prince, valiant of his person, and born for great atchievements. immediately they sent a solemn embassy to that prince, and presented to him the crown of amanguchi. the court of bungo celebrated the election of the new king with great magnificence, while xavier was yet residing at fucheo. the saint himself rejoiced the more at this promotion, because he looked, on this wonderful revolution, which was projected by the bonzas for the ruin of christianity, as that which most probably would confirm it. he was not deceived in his conjectures; and, from the beginning, had a kind of assurance, that this turn of state would conduce to the advantage of the faith: for having desired the king of bungo, that he would recommend to the prince his brother the estate of christianity in amanguchi, the king performed so fully that request, that the new monarch promised, on his royal word, to be altogether as favourable to the christians as the king his brother. xavier had been forty days at fucheo when the portuguese merchants were in a readiness to set sail for china, according to the measures which they had taken. all necessary preparations being made, he accompanied them to take his leave of the king of bungo. that prince told the merchants, that he envied them the company of the saint; that, in losing him, he seemed to have lost his father; and that the thought of never seeing him again, most sensibly afflicted him. xavier kissed his hand with a profound reverence, and told him, that he would return to wait on his majesty as soon as possibly he could; that he would keep him inviolably in his heart; and that in acknowledgement of all his favours, he should continually send up his prayers to heaven, that god would shower on him his celestial blessings. the king having taken him aside, as to say something in private to him, xavier laid hold on that opportunity, and gave him most important counsel for the salvation of his soul. he advised him above all things to bear in mind how soon the greatness and pomp of this present life will vanish away; that life is but short in its own nature; that we scarcely have begun to live, before death comes on; and if he should not die a christian, nothing less was to be expected than eternal misery; that, on the contrary, whoever, being truly faithful, should persevere in the grace of baptism, should have right to an everlasting inheritance with the son of god, as one of his beloved children. he desired him also to consider what was become of so many kings and emperors of japan; what advantage was it to them to have sat upon the throne, and wallowed in pleasures for so many years, being now burning in an abyss of fire, which was to last to all eternity. what madness was it for a man to condemn his own soul to endless punishments, that his body might enjoy a momentary satisfaction; that there was no kingdom, nor empire, though the universal monarchy of the world should be put into the balance, whose loss was not to be accounted gain, if losing them, we acquired an immortal crown in heaven; that these truths, which were indisputable, had been concealed from his forefathers, and even from all the japonians, by the secret judgment of almighty god, and for the punishment of their offences; that, for his own particular, he ought to provide for that account, which he was to render of himself, how much more guilty would he appear in god's presence, if the divine providence having conducted from the ends of the earth, even into his own palace, a minister of the gospel, to discover to him the paths of happiness, he should yet continue wildered and wandering in the disorders of his life. "which the lord avert," continued xavier; "and may it please him to hear the prayers which day and night i shall pour out for your conversion. i wish it with an unimaginable ardour, and assure you, that wheresoever i shall be, the most pleasing news which can be told me, shall be to hear that the king of bungo is become a christian, and that he lives according to the maxims of christianity." this discourse made such impressions on the king, and so melted into his heart, that the tears came thrice into his eyes; but those tears were the only product of it at that time, so much that prince, who had renounced those impurities, which are abhorred by nature, was still fastened to some other sensual pleasures. and it was not till after some succeeding years, that, having made more serious reflections on the wholesome admonitions of the saint, he reformed his life for altogether, and in the end received baptism. xavier having taken leave of the king, returned to the port of figen, accompanied by the merchants, who were to set sail within few days after. the departure of the saint was joyful to the bonzas, but the glory of it was a great abatement to their pleasure. it appeared to them, that all the honours he had received redounded to their shame; and that after such an affront, they should remain eternally blasted in the opinion of the people, if they did not wipe it out with some memorable vengeance. being met together, to consult on a business which so nearly touched them, they concluded, that their best expedient was to raise a rebellion in fucheo, as they had done at amanguchi, and flesh the people by giving up to them the ship of the portuguese merchants, first to be plundered, then burned, and the proprietors themselves to be destroyed. in consequence of this, if fortune favoured them, to attempt the person of the king, and having dispatched him, to conclude their work by extinguishing the royal line. as xavier was held in veneration in the town, even amongst the most dissolute idolaters, they were of opinion they did nothing, if they did not ruin his reputation, and make him odious to the people. thereupon, they set themselves at work to publish, not only what the bonzas of amanguchi had written of him, but what they themselves had newly invented; "that he was the most wicked of mankind; an enemy of the living and the dead; his practice being to dig up the carcases of the buried, for the use of his enchantments; and that he had a devil in his mouth, by whose assistance he charmed his audience." they added, "that he had spelled the king, and from thence proceeded these new vagaries in his understanding and all his inclinations; but that, in case he came not out of that fit of madness, it should cost him no less than his crown and life: that amida and xaca, two powerful and formidable gods, had sworn to make an example of him and of his subjects; that therefore the people, if they were wise, should prevent betimes the wrath of those offended deities, by revenging their honour on that impostor of a bonza, and these european pirates who made their idol of him." the people were too well persuaded of the holiness of xavier, to give credence to such improbable stories as were raised of him; and all the bonzas could say against him, served only to increase the public hatred against themselves. thus despairing of success amongst the multitude, they were forced to take another course, to destroy him in the good opinion of the king. about twelve leagues distant from the town there was a famous monastery of the bonzas, the superior of which was one fucarandono, esteemed the greatest scholar and most accomplished in all the learning of japan: he had read lectures of the mysteries of their divinity for the space of thirty years, in the most renowned university of the kingdom. but however skilled he was in all sciences, his authority was yet greater than his knowledge: men listened to him as to the oracle of japan, and an implicit faith was given to all he said. the bonzas of fucheo were persuaded, that if they could bring him to the town, and set him up against xavier, in presence of the court, they should soon recover their lost honour; such confidence they had of a certain victory over the european doctor. on this account they writ to fucarandono, with all the warmness of an earnest invitation, and sent him word. "that if he would give himself the trouble of this little journey, to revenge the injury they had received, they would carry him back in triumph, on their shoulders, to his monastery." the bonza, who was full as vain as he was learned, came speedily, attended by six bonzas, all men of science, but his inferiors and scholars. he entered the palace at that point of time when xavier, and the portuguese, had audience of the king, for their last farewell, being to embark the next morning. before the king had dismissed them, he was informed that fucarandono desired to kiss his hand, in presence of the portuguese bonza. at the name of fucarandono the king was a little nonplused, and stood silent for some time, suspecting that he came to challenge father xavier to a disputation, and devising in himself some means of breaking off this troublesome affair, as he afterwards acknowledged. for whatever good opinion he had of the saint's abilities, yel he could not think him strong enough to encounter so formidable an adversary; and therefore, out of his kindness to him, was not willing to expose him to a disgrace in public. xavier, who perceived the king's perplexity, and imagined from whence it might proceed, begged earnestly of his majesty to give the bonza leave of entrance, and also free permission of speaking: "for, as to what concerns me," said the father, "you need not give yourself the least disquiet: the law i preach is no earthly science, taught in any of our universities, nor a human invention; it is a doctrine altogether heavenly, of which god himself is the only teacher. neither all the bonzas of japan, nor yet all the scholars extant in the world, can prevail against it, any more than the shadows of the night against the beams of the rising sun." the king, at the request of xavier, gave entrance to the bonza. fucarandono, after the three usual reverences to the king, seated himself by xavier; and after he had fixed his eyes earnestly upon him, "i know not," said he, with an overweaning look, "if thou knowest me; or, to speak more properly, if thou rememberest me." "i remember not," said xavier, "that i have ever seen you." then the bonza, breaking out into a forced laughter, and turning to his fellows, "i shall have but little difficulty in overcoming this companion, who has conversed with me a hundred times, and yet would make us believe he had never seen me." then looking on xavier, with a scornful smile, "hast thou none of those goods yet remaining," continued he, "which thou soldest me at the port of frenajoma?" "in truth," replied xavier, with a sedate and modest countenance, "i have never been a merchant in all my life, neither have i ever been at the port of frenajoma." "what a beastly forgetfulness is this of thine," pursued the bonza, with an affected wonder, and keeping up his bold laughter, "how canst thou possibly forget it?" "bring it back to my remembrance," said xavier mildly, "you, who have so much more wit, and a memory happier than mine." "that shall be done," rejoined the bonza, proud of the commendations which the saint had given him; "it is now just fifteen hundred years since thou and i, who were then merchants, traded at frenajoma, and where i bought of thee a hundred bales of silk, at an easy pennyworth: dost thou yet remember it?" the saint, who perceived whither the discourse tended, asked him, very civilly, "of what age he might be?" "i am now two-and-fifty," said fucarandono. "how can it then be," replied xavier, "that you were a merchant fifteen hundred years ago, that is fifteen ages, when yet you have been in the world, by your own confession, but half an age? and how comes it that you and i then trafficked together at frenajoma, since the greatest part of you bonzas maintain, that japan was a desart, and uninhabited at that time?" "hear me," said the bonza, "and listen to me as an oracle; i will make thee confess that we have a greater knowledge of things past, than thou and thy fellows have of the present. thou art then to understand, that the world had no beginning, and that men, properly speaking, never die: the soul only breaks loose from the body in which it was confined, and while that body is rotting under ground, is looking out for another fresh and vigorous habitation, wherein we are born again, sometimes in the nobler, sometimes in the more imperfect sex, according to the various constellations of the heavens, and the different aspects of the moon. these alterations in our birth produce the like changes in our fortune. now, it is the recompence of those who have lived virtuously, to preserve a constant memory of all the lives which they have passed through, in so many ages; and to represent themselves, to themselves, entirely, such as they have been from all eternity, under the figure of a prince, of a merchant, of a scholar, of a soldier, and so many other various forms: on the contrary, they who, like thee, are so ignorant of their own affairs, as not to understand who, or what they have been formerly, during those infinite revolutions of ages, shew that their crimes have deserved death, as often as they have lost the remembrance of their jives in every change." the portuguese, from whose relation we have the knowledge of what is above written, and who was present at the dispute, as he himself informs us, in his book of travels, gives us no account of the answers which were made by xavier. "i have neither knowledge nor presumption enough," says he, "to relate those subtile and solid reasons, with which he confuted the mad imaginations of the bonza." we only have learnt from this portuguese, that fucarandono was put to silence upon the point in question, and that, a little to save his reputation, he changed the subject, but to no purpose, for even there too he was confounded; for, forgetting those decencies which even nature prescribes to men, and common custom has taught us in civil conversation, he advanced infamous propositions, which cannot be related without offending modesty; and these he maintained with a strange impudence, against the reasons of the father, though the king and the noble auditory thought the christian arguments convincing. but the bonza still flying out into passion, and continuing to rail and bawl aloud, as if he were rather in a bear-garden than at a solemn disputation, one of the lords there present said, smiling, to him, "if your business be fighting, why did not you go to the kingdom of amanguchi, when they were in civil wars? there you might have found some one or other with whom you might have gone to hard-heads. what make you here, where all things are at quiet? but, if you came hither to dispute, why do you not carry on your argument with mildness and good manners, according to the copy which is set you by the european bonza?" this sharp raillery had no effect upon fucarandono: he replied to the lord with so much impudence and haughtiness, that the king, whose patience was tired with so much insolence, caused him to be put out of the hall, saying, "that his coat of a bonza was the only protection of his life." the affront which fucarandono had received, was interpreted by the bonzas as an injury done to the gods, and as such they declared it to the people, saying, "that religion was profaned, and that the king, the court, and the whole nation, had incurred the wrath of heaven." upon which pretence they shut up the temples, and would neither offer sacrifice nor accept of alms. the multitude, which had already been disposed to rise, began to get together, and had certainly taken arms, if the king, by good management, had not somewhat calmed their spirits. in the mean time the portuguese, not believing themselves to be secure against the rage of a superstitious people, and having just grounds of apprehending that the affront which fucarandono had received might be revenged on their persons, returned with all expedition to their ship, designing to set sail with the benefit of the first fair wind. at their departure from the town, they intreated father xavier to follow them; but he could not resolve to run off like a fugitive, or to forsake those new christians whose ruin had been sworn by the heathen priests. how eager soever those merchants were to get out of a country where their lives were in so little safety, yet their fear for father xavier kept them lingering there some days longer; they deputed the captain of the vessel to him, who was to desire him, in their name, to make haste to them. edward de gama, after a long inquiry, found him at last in a poor cabin, with eight christians, who, having been the most zealous in opposition of the bonzas, were in reason to expect the more cruel usage at their hands, and were content to offer up their lives, provided they might die in the arms of the man of god. the captain urged him with the strongest reasons which he could invent, and set before him all the dangers which attended him; that, being at the mercy of the bonzas, his death was inevitable; and that the means of escaping would be lost when once the tempest should begin to rise. the father, far from yielding to these arguments, was offended at the captain and the merchants for desiring to hinder him from the crown of martyrdom which he had taken so long a journey to obtain. "my brother," said he to gama, with a fervour which expressed the holy ambition of his soul, "how happy should i be, if i could receive what you reckon a disgrace, but what i account a sovereign felicity! but i am unworthy of that favour from almighty god; yet i will not render myself more unworthy of it, which assuredly i should if i embarked with you: for what scandal should i give, by flying hence, to my new converts? might they not take occasion from it to violate their promises to god, when they should find me wanting to the duty of my ministry? if, in consideration of that money which you have received from your passengers, you think yourself obliged to secure them from the clanger which threatens them, and, for that reason, have summoned them on board, ought not i, by a stronger motive, to guard my flock, and die with them for the sake of a god who is infinitely good, and who has redeemed me at the price of his own life, by suffering for me on the cross? ought not i to seal it with my blood, and to publish it by my death, that all men are bound to sacrifice their blood and lives to this god of mercies?" this generous answer wrought so much upon the captain, that, instead of doubling his solicitations on father xavier, he resolved to partake his fortune, and not to leave him. having taken up this resolution, without farther care of what might happen to his ship, or what became of his own person, and accounting all his losses for a trifle while he enjoyed the company of xavier, he returned indeed to his merchants, but it was only to declare to them the determination of the father, and his own also; that in case they would not stay, he gave up his vessel to them. they were supplied with mariners and soldiers, and had plentiful provisions laid in, both of food and ammunition for war. they might go at their pleasure wheresoever they designed; but, for his own particular, he was resolved to live and die with the man of god. not a man of them but subscribed to the opinion of the captain; and they were one and all for following his example, and the fortune of the saint. suddenly they put into the port again, for the ship had lain off at a good distance, for fear of some attempt which might be made upon it from the town; soldiers were left for its defence, and the captain and merchants came in company to fucheo. their return gave new vigour to the christians, and amazed the people, who could not but wonder that so poor a man should be had in such esteem by his countrymen, that they chose rather to run the hazard of their wealth, and of their lives, than to lose the sight of him. this prompt return broke all the measures of the bonzas, whose courage had been swelled by the flight of gama, which had given them the opportunity of making their cabals against the christians; but when they found that those designs might possibly miscarry, and that, on the other side, they were again defied to a new conference on the subject of religion, they thought good to accommodate themselves a little to the times, and to renew the dispute betwixt xavier and fucarandono before the court. to seem beforehand with the christians, they made it their own petition to the king, who freely-granted it, but on some conditions, which were to be observed on either side. these articles were,--"that noise was to be banished in dispute; no flying out to be permitted, nor any provocation by sharp language: that the arguments and answers were to be couched in precise terms, and drawn up in form of a just dispute, as it should be agreed by the judges, who were to moderate: that the approbation of the audience was to decide the victory: that if the point were doubtful betwixt them, the suffrages should be taken, and that he should be judged to have reason on his side who had the majority of voices: lastly, that whoever was willing to enter himself a christian, might profess his faith without hinderance or molestation from any man." these conditions were too reasonable to be accepted by the bonzas. they appealed from the king to the king better informed, and told him boldly, that, in matters of religion, it was not just that the profane (that is the laity) should be umpires; but when they found the king resolved to maintain his point, they quitted theirs. the next morning was agreed on for the conference, and some of the most understanding persons of the court were appointed judges. fucarandono made his appearance at the time, attended by three thousand bonzas. the king, who was either apprehensive of his own safety amongst that religious rabble, or feared, at least, that some disorder might ensue, permitted hut four of all the squadron to enter; and sent word to the others, for their satisfaction, that it was not honourable for so many to appear against a single man. xavier, who had notice sent him from the king, that his adversary was on the place of combat, came, accompanied with the chiefest of the portuguese, all richly habited, who appeared as his officers, and paid him all possible respect, attending him bare-headed, and never speaking to him but on the knee. the bonzas were ready to burst with envy, beholding the pompous entry of their antagonist; and that which doubled their despite was, that they overheard the lords saying to one another,--"observe this poor man, of whom so many ridiculous pictures have been made to us; would to god our children might be like him, on condition the bonzas might say as bad of them as they speak of him! our own eyes are witnesses of the truth; and the palpable lies which they have invented, show what credit is to be given to them." the king took pleasure in those discourses, and told those lords, that the bonzas had assured him that he should be sick at heart at the first appearance of father francis. he acknowledged he was almost ready to have believed them; but being now convinced, by his own experience, he found that the character of an ambassador from heaven, and interpreter of the gods, was not inconsistent with a liar. fucarandono, who heard all these passages from his place, took them for so many ill omens; and, turning to his four associates, told them, "that he suspected this day would be yet more unsuccessful to them than the last." the king received father xavier with great civility; and, after he had talked with him sometime in private, very obligingly ordered him to begin the disputation. when they had all taken their places, the saint demanded of the bonza, as the king had desired him, "for what reason the christian religion ought not to be received in japan?" the bonza, whose haughtiness was much abated, replied modestly, "because it is a new law, in all things opposite to the ancient established laws of the empire; and that it seems made on purpose to render the faithful servants of the gods contemptible,[ ] as annulling the privileges which the cubosamas of former ages had conferred on the bonzas, and teaches that out of the society of christians there is no salvation: but especially," added he, a little kindling in the face, "because it presumes to maintain, that the holy amida and xaca, gizon and canon, are in the bottomless pit of smoke, condemned to everlasting punishment, and delivered up in prey to the dragon of the house of night." after he had thus spoken, the bonza held his peace; and xavier, who had received a sign from the king to make reply, said, at the beginning of his discourse, "that seeing fucarandono had mingled many things together, it was reasonable, for the better clearing of the difficulties, to tie him up to one single proposition, which was not to be left until it was evacuated, and plainly found to be either true or false." all agreed this was fair; and fucarandono himself desired xavier to shew cause, why he and his companions spoke evil of the deities of the country. [footnote : an argument ready cut and dried for the use of any church by law established] the saint replied, "that he gave not to idols the name of gods, because they were unworthy of it; and that so sacred a title was only proper to the sovereign lord, who had created heaven and earth. then he proceeded to discourse of the divine being, and described those properties which are known to us by the light of nature; that is to say, his independence, his eternity, his omnipotence, his wisdom, goodness, and justice, without circumscription. he made out, that those infinite perfections could not be comprehended by any created understanding, how refined soever. and thus having filled his auditors with a vast idea of the deity, he demonstrated, that the idols of japan, who, according to the japonians themselves, had been men, subject to the common laws of time and nature, were not to be accounted gods; and, at the most, were only to be reverenced as philosophers, lawgivers, and princes, but not in the least as immortal powers, since the date both of their birth and death was registered in the public monuments: that, if their works were duly considered, they were yet less to be accounted for omnipotent: that having not been able, after their decease, to preserve their stately palaces and magnificent sepulchres from decay, there was no appearance that they had built the fabric of the universe, or could maintain it in its present state. lastly, that this appertained alone to the true god, who is worshipped by the christians; and that, considering the beauty of the heavens, the fruitfulness of the earth, and the order of the seasons, we might conclude, that he only, who is a spirit, eternal, all-powerful, and all-wise, could be the creator and absolute commander of the world." as soon as xavier had concluded, the whole assembly cried out, that he spoke reason; and the judges immediately pronounced, as a manifest truth, that the pagods were not gods. fucarandono would have replied, but the general cry gave it for a cause decided; and the king imposed silence on the bonza, according to the articles of agreement. thus the bonza passed on to another question in his own despite; and asked father xavier, "why he allowed not of those bills of exchange which they gave in favour of the dead, since the rich found their account in them, and that they had their return of their money, with usury, in heaven?" the father answered, "that the right we had to a better world was founded not on those deceitful letters, but on the good works which are practised with the faith and doctrine which he preached: that he who inspired it into our souls was jesus christ, the true and only son of god, who was crucified for the salvation of sinners; and that they who preserved that living faith till death should certainly obtain eternal happiness: that for what remained, this holy law was free from worldly interest, and that it excluded not from heaven either the poor or women; that even poverty, which is patiently endured, was a means of gaining the kingdom of heaven; and that the weaker sex had greater advantages than ours, by reason of that modesty and piety which is almost inherent in their nature." the applause which followed this discourse was general; only fucarandono and his companions, who had not wherewith to reply, and yet were too obstinate to recant, kept a discontented silence. it was judged that xavier's opinion was the more reasonable, and the dispute adjourned to the day following. these ill successes would have driven the bonza to despair, if his presumption had not kept up his spirits. he returned at the time appointed; but, as if he distrusted his own strength, as presuming as he was, he brought with him six other bonzas, the most learned amongst them, and chosen out of all their sects, not to be bare spectators of the combat, but to relieve each other, and to charge every one in his turn. at the first they propounded very subtile questions concerning the mysteries of our faith. father xavier was surprised at the hearing of them; and as those questions, which are not reported by the portuguese particularly, were in all likelihood above the knowledge of the pagans, he was almost induced to think the devil had suggested them; at the least he acknowledged, that to solve them he needed an extraordinary assistance from above, and desired the portuguese to second him with their prayers during the disputation. whether he received that supernatural assistance, or that those difficulties did not so much surpass his knowledge as he had thought, he answered to the satisfaction of the whole assembly. when judgment was passed that those questions were fully decided, one of the bonzas, whose heart was wholly set on riches, and who believed that there was nothing more charming in the world than gold and silver, undertook to prove, that god was an enemy to the poor: "for," said the bonza, "since he denies them those blessings which he bountifully gives the rich, and, in causing them to be born in a mean condition, exposes them to all the miseries and ignominy of life, is it not a sign, that he has neither kindness nor value for them?" xavier denied the consequence of that proposition; and argued both from the principles of morality, which look on riches as false goods, and out of the grounds of christianity, which, in respect of salvation, count them true evils. he reasoned thereupon so justly, and withal so clearly, that his adversaries were forced to give up the cause, according to the relation of the portuguese, who were witness of it. after this they advanced such extravagant and mad propositions, that they cost the father no trouble to confute, for they destroyed themselves. but the most pleasant part of this day's work was, that the seven bonzas not being able to agree on some points of doctrine, fell foul on each other, and wrangled with so much heat and violence, that at last they came to downright railing, and had proceeded to blows, if the king had not interposed his authority, which frightened them into quiet. this was the end of that day's disputation; and nothing more confirmed the minds of the auditors on the side of xavier, than to see his adversaries at civil wars amongst themselves. the king going out of his palace the next morning, with a great attendance, to walk in the town, according to his custom, and passing by the house where the portuguese lodged, sent a message to the holy man, desiring him to come to his gardens, where he would show him sport, provided he came well armed, for he was to kill, with one blow, two kites or puttocks, at the least, out of those seven which yesterday endeavoured to have pulled out his eyes xavier, who easily understood his meaning, came out to pay him his respects, and to acknowledge the honour which was done him. the king took him by the hand, and led him to the palace amidst the acclamations of the people. the seven bonzas, represented by the seven kites, were already in the hall, with a confirmed impudence, and so much the more haughty, as they had the less reason so to be; according to the usual character of vain and self-opinioned men. the first step they made in order to a new dispute, was to enter a protestation, in writing, against the judgment and proceedings of the former day; wherein they declared void the sentence of the umpires, appealed from them, and set forth new objections and difficulties upon the questions formerly debated. the king answered himself, that those points which had been decided had no need of any farther explanation, and that they were already tied up by the conditions of the conference, which both parties had accepted. he added, that father xavier was ready to go on ship-board, and that it was not reasonable to lose time by fruitless repetitions, but if they had any new questions to propose, let them begin, and they should be heard; if not, they had free licence to depart. this positive answer constrained them to supersede their writing, and to pitch on other matters. fucarandono affecting an air of devotion and modesty, asked, why the christians gave obscene names to the saints in paradise, whensoever they invoked them in their public prayers; giving him to understand, that _sancte_, in the japonian language, signified something too dishonest to be spoken. the father declared, that the word in latin had only a pure and pious meaning. nevertheless, that it might not give scandal, nor pollute the imagination of the japonians by an equivocal sound, he ordered the new christians, from thenceforward, to use the word _beate_ instead of it; and to say, _beate petre, beate pauls_, in the room of _sancte petre, sancte paule_. concerning the name of god, the bonzas would also have fastened a quarrel on the father; because _dajus_, in their tongue, signifies a _lie_. he laughed at this ridiculous exception, which was in effect a mere jingle; and the judges and audience concluded it to be no more. three other points, on which the bonzas more insisted, were thought to be more solid, and of greater consequence. the first was proposed in this manner: "either god foresaw that lucifer and his accomplices would revolt, and be damned eternally, or he foresaw it not. if he had no foresight of it, his prescience did not extend so far as you would have us to believe; but if he foresaw it, the consequence is worse, that he did not hinder this revolt, which had prevented their damnation. your god being, as you say, the fountain of all goodness, must now be acknowledged by you for the original cause of so much evil. thus you are forced," said the bonza, "to confess, either ignorance or malice in your god." xavier was so much amazed to hear a bonza reasoning like a schoolman, that turning to edward de gama, who was by him, "see," says he softly in portuguese, that he might not be understood by the japonians, "see how the devil has sharpened the wit of these his advocates." in the mean time, one of the bonzas coming up to the charge, said, according to the same principle, "that if god had foreknown that adam would sin, and cast down, together with himself, his whole progeny into an abyss of miseries, why did he create him? at least, when our first father was ready to eat of the forbidden fruit, why did not that omnipotent hand, which gave him being, annihilate him at the same moment?" a third bonza, taking the word, urged him with another argument: "if our evil be as ancient as the world," said he, subtilely, "why did god let so many ages pass away without giving it a remedy? why did he not descend from heaven, and make himself man, to redeem human kind, by his death and sufferings, as soon as ever man was guilty? to what degree did those first men sin, to become unworthy of such a favour? and what has been the merit of their descendants, that they should be more favourably treated than their predecessors?" these difficulties did not appear new to xavier, who was very learned, and who had read whatsoever the fathers and school divines had said concerning them. he answered, without doubt, according to their doctrine; but the portuguese, who relates the objections, durst not undertake to write the solutions of them, if we will believe himself, because they surpassed the understanding of a merchant. the bonzas made many replies, to all which the father gave the proper solutions in few words, and according to the rules of the schools. whether it were that they comprehended not the solutions, or were it out of their hot-headedness, or that they seemed not to understand them to avoid the shame of being baffled, they yielded not, but cried out louder than before. as they disputed more for victory than truth, they denied all things, even to those principles which are self-evident; pretending thereby to encumber their opponent. xavier knew what use to make of his advantages; he turned the confusion upon them, by reducing them to manifest contradictions, from whence they could never disengage themselves; so that, instead of answering, they gnashed their teeth, foamed at mouth, and stamped and stared about like madmen. the king, whose indignation was raised by seeing the obstinacy of the bonzas, said to them, in a kind of passion, "as for myself, as far as i am capable of judging, i find that father xavier speaks good sense, and that you know not what you say. you should either understand better, or be less violent than you appear, to judge of these truths without prejudice. but, if the divine law be wanting to you, make use of your reason, which, of itself, will let you see, that you are not to deny things which are evident, nor to bark like dogs." after these words he rose from his seat, and, taking xavier by the hand, brought him back to his own lodging. the people, who followed in great multitudes, made loud acclamations, and the streets rung with the praises of the holy man: while the bonzas, mad with rage and envy, cried out aloud, "may the fire of heaven fall down upon a prince, who suffers himself to be so easily seduced by this foreign magician!" thus concluded the disputations which he had with fucarandono and the bonzas. they were very glorious for him, and for the religion which he preached, but brought not forth the expected fruit amongst the idolaters who were present at them; for neither the portuguese author, whom we have frequently cited, nor other historians of the father's life, make mention of any new conversions which were made; and it affords great occasion for our wonder, that the lords of the court, who so much approved the doctrine of christianity, should still continue in the practice of idolatry, and of their vices, if it were not always to be remembered, that, in conversion, the light of the understanding avails nothing unless the heart be also touched, and that the philosophers, of whom st paul speaks, "having known god, did not glorify him as god." nevertheless we may probably believe, that these disputations in progress of time failed not of their due; effect; and it is also probable, that they were the seed of those wonderful conversions which were made in following years. father xavier went the next morning to take his last farewell of the king, who was more kind to him than ever, and parted from japan the same day, which was nov. th, in the year , having continued in that country two years and four months. not long before, clod had made known to his servant, that the town of malacca was besieged by sea and land; and that the king of jentana, a saracen, was personally before it, with an army of twelve thousand men: that neither the conduct of the governor, don pedro de silva, nor the succours of don fernandez carvalio, had been able to defend it against the attempts of the barbarians; that the javans, a fierce and warlike people, had mastered that place; that of three hundred portuguese, who were within it, above an hundred had been put to the sword, and the rest of them had only escaped by retiring into the fortress. in short, that malacca was now become a place of horror, and that the enemy, wearied with the slaughter, had reserved many thousands of the inhabitants for the chain. the saint informed gama, and the portuguese of the ship, of these sad tidings, before they left the port, and declared to them, that the sins of that corrupt city had drawn down the curse of god upon it, as he had foretold and threatened; but he desired them, at the same time, to supplicate the father of all mercies, for the appeasing of his divine justice, and he himself prayed earnestly in their behalf. besides the two japanners, matthew and bernard, who had constantly followed the father, and would never forsake him, an ambassador from the king of bungo embarked with him in the same vessel. the business of this embassy was to seek the friendship of the viceroy of the indies, and to obtain a preacher from him, who might finish the conversion of that kingdom, in the room of father xavier. they sailed along the coasts for the space of six days, and the navigation was prosperous till they made an island belonging to the king of minaco, called meleitor; from whence, crossing a strait, they put out into the main ocean. at that time the change of the moon altered the weather, and there blew a furious south wind, so that the pilot, with all his art, could not bear up against it. the tempest carried the ship into a sea unknown to the portuguese; and the face of heaven was so black with clouds, that, during five days and nights, there was no appearance of sun or stars; insomuch that the mariners-were not able to take the elevation of the pole, and consequently not to know whereabouts they were. one day, towards the evening, the wind redoubled with so much fury, that the vessel had not power to break the waves, so high they went, and came on with so much violence. in this terrible conjuncture they thought fit to cut down the forecastle, that the ship might work the better; after which, they bound the sloop which followed with thick cables to the ship: but night coming on while they were thus employed, and being very dark, abundance of rain also falling at the same time, which increased the tempest, they could not draw out of the sloop five portuguese and ten indians, as well as slaves and mariners, which were in her. those of the ship had neither comfort nor hope remaining, but in the company and assistance of father xavier. he exhorted them to lament their sins, thereby to appease the wrath of god; and he himself poured forth whole showers of tears before the face of the almighty. when night was now at the darkest, a lamentable cry was heard, as of people just upon the brink of perishing, and calling out for succour. the noise came from the sloop, which the violence of the winds had torn off from the vessel, and which the waves were hurrying away. as soon as the captain had notice of it, he ordered the pilot to turn towards those poor creatures, without considering, that, by his endeavour of saving his nephew, alphonso calvo, who was one of the five portuguese in the sloop, the ship must certainly be lost, and himself with her. in effect, as it was difficult to steer the ship, when they would have turned her towards the sloop, she came across betwixt two mountains of water, which locked her up betwixt them; one of those waves fell upon the poop, and washed over the deck; and then it was that the whole company thought their business was done, and nothing but cries and lamentations were heard on every side. xavier, who was at his prayers in the captain's cabin, ran out towards the noise, and saw a miserable object,--the vessel ready to bulge, the seamen, the soldiers, and the passengers, all tumbling in confusion on each other, deploring their unhappy destiny, and expecting nothing but present death. then the holy man, lifting up his eyes and hands to heaven, said thus aloud, in the transport of his fervour, "o jesus, thou love of my soul, succour us, i beseech thee, by those five wounds, which, for our sakes, thou hast suffered on the cross!" at that instant the ship, which already was sinking under water, raised herself aloft, without any visible assistance, and gained the surface of the waves. the mariners, encouraged by so manifest a miracle, so ordered the sails, that they had the wind in poop, and pursued their course. in the mean time the sloop was vanished out of sight, and no man doubted but she was swallowed by the waves. the captain lamented for his nephew, the rest shed tears for their lost companions. as for the father, his greatest affliction was for two mahometan slaves, whom he could not convert to christianity: he sighed in thinking of their deplorable condition, but, in the midst of these anxious thoughts, entering into himself, or rather wholly recollecting himself in god, it came into his mind to intercede with heaven for the protection of the sloop, in case it were not already lost. in this he followed the inspiration of the holy spirit, and his prayer was not yet ended when he perceived that it was heard: insomuch, that turning towards edward de gama, who was oppressed with sadness, "afflict not yourself, my brother," said he with a cheerful countenance; "before three days are ended, the daughter will come back and find the mother." the captain was so buried in his grief, that he saw too little probability in what the father said, to found any strong belief upon it; which notwithstanding, at break of day, he sent one up to the scuttle, to see if any thing were within ken; but nothing was discovered, saving the sea, which was still troubled and white with foam. the father, who had been in private at his devotions, came out two hours after, with the same cheerfulness upon, his countenance; and having given the good day to the captain and pilot, and six or seven portuguese who were in company, he enquired "if they had not yet seen the chalop?" they answered they had not: and, because he desired that some one might again get up to the scuttle, one of the portuguese, called pedro veglio, replied thus bluntly, "yes, father, the chalop will return, but not until another be lost:" he meant that it was impossible the same chalop should come again. xavier mildly reprehended veglio for his little faith, and told him nothing was impossible to god. "the confidence which i have in the divine mercy," said he, "gives me hope, that they whom i have put under the protection of the holy virgin, and for whose sake i have vowed to say three masses to our lady of the mountain, shall not perish." after this he urged gama to send up to the scuttle for discovery: gama, to satisfy the man of god, went 'up himself with a seaman, and after having looked round him for the space of half an hour, neither he nor the other could see any thing. in the mean time xavier, whose stomach was turned with the tossing of the ship, and who had been two days and three nights without eating, was taken with a violent head-ach, and such a giddiness, that he could scarcely stand. one of the portuguese merchants, called ferdinand mendez pinto, desired him to repose a little while, and offered him his cabin; xavier, who, by the spirit of mortification, usually lay upon the deck, accepted his courtesy; and desired this further favour, that the servant of this merchant, who was a chinese, might watch before the door, that none might interrupt his rest. the intention of the father was not to give the least refreshment to his body; he set himself again to prayers, and it was affirmed by the chinese servant, that from seven in the morning, when he retired, he had been constantly on his knees until the evening, groaning in the agony of his spirit, and shedding tears. he came out from his retirement after sunset, and once more enquired of the pilot, if they had not seen the chalop, which could not possibly be far distant. the pilot replied, that it was in vain to think of her, and that it was impossible for her to resist so furious a tempest; but in case that, by some wonderful accident, or rather by some miracle, she had been preserved, she must of necessity be at fifty leagues distance from the ship. it is the propriety of christian confidence to remain unshaken and secure, when human reason leaves us destitute of hope. the saint acknowledged the pilot to have spoken judiciously, and yet doubted not but the chalop would return. he constantly maintained that she could not be far off, and pressed him to send up to the scuttle before the dusk. the pilot, less out of complaisance to the father, than out of his desire to undeceive him, went up himself, and could discover nothing. xavier, without any regard to the affirmation of the pilot, instantly desired the captain to lower the sails, that the chalop might more easily come up with the ship. the authority of the holy man carried it, above the reasons of the pilot; the sail-yard was lowered, and a stop was made for almost three hours: but at length the passengers grew weary, as not being able any longer to bear the rolling of the ship, and one and all cried out to sail. the father upbraided them with their impatience; and himself laid hold on the sail-yard, to hinder the seamen from spreading the sails; and leaning his head over it, broke out into sighs and sobbings, and poured out a deluge of tears. he raised himself a little after, and keeping his eyes fixed on heaven, yet wet with tears, "o jesus, my lord and my god," said he, "i beseech thee, by thy holy passion, to have pity on those poor people, who are coming to us, through the midst of so many dangers." he composed himself, after he had uttered this, and continued leaning on the sail-yard, wholly silent for some time, as if he had been sleeping. then a little child, who was sitting at the foot of the mast, cried out on the sudden, "a miracle, a miracle, behold the chalop!" all the company gathered together at the cry, and plainly perceived the chalop within musket-shot. nothing but shouts and exclamations of joy were heard, while she drew still nearer and nearer to the vessel. in the meantime, the greatest part fell down at the feet of father xavier, and, confessing they were sinners, unworthy the company of a man so holy, asked him pardon for their unbelief. but the father, in great confusion for being treated in this manner, escaped out of their hands as soon as possibly he could, and shut himself up within the cabin, in conclusion, the chalop came up with the ship; and it was observed, that though the waves were in great agitation, she came right forward, without the least tossing, and stopped of herself. it was also taken notice of, that she continued without any motion till the fifteen men which she carried were entered the ship, and that the seamen had fastened her behind the poop. when they had embraced those men, whom so lately they had given for lost, every one was desirous of knowing their adventures; and were much surprised to understand, that they were come through the midst of the most horrible tempest which was ever seen, without any apprehension either of drowning or losing of their way; because, said they, father francis was our pilot, and his presence freed us even from the shadow of any fear. when the ship's company assured them, that the father had been always with themselves, those of the chalop, who had beheld him constantly steering it, could not believe what had been told them. after some little dispute on the matter of fact, both sides concluded, that the saint had been at the same time in two places; and this evident miracle made such an impression on the minus of the two saracen slaves who had been in the chalop, that they abjured their mahometanism. the impatience of these fifteen men to behold their miraculous steersman, who had so happily brought them to the ship, and who vanished from their eyes at the same moment when they joined her, obliged xavier to come out and shew himself. they would have saluted him as their protector, by prostrating themselves before him, but he would not suffer it: declaring to them, that it was the hand of the lord, and not his, which had delivered them from shipwreck. at the same time, he rendered public thanks to god for so eminent a favour, and ordered the pilot to pursue his voyage, assuring him that he should have a good wind immediately. the pilot's experience of the sea did not promise him this sudden change; but this late deliverance of the chalop quickened his belief in the father's words; and it was not long before he understood, that he, who commands the winds and seas, had authorised the holy man to make that prediction. the sails were scarcely spread, when a north wind arising, the air cleared up, and the sea was immediately calmed. so that in thirteen days sailing, they arrived at the port of sancian, where the portuguese merchants of the ship had traffic. as the season of sailing in those seas was already almost past, there were remaining but two ships of the indies in port, one of which belonged to james de pereyra. the ship of edward de gama not being in condition to go on directly for malacca without stopping by the way, and having need of refreshment at sian, the saint went into the ship of his friend pereyra. it was wonderful, that at the same moment when he passed into that vessel, the wind, which for the space of fifteen days had blown at north, which was full in their faces who were going for the indies, came about on the sudden; so that the day following, which was the last of the year , they set sail again. another ship, which was waiting also for a wind, set out in their company; but that vessel found afterwards to her cost, that she carried not the apostle of the indies. before they put to sea, xavier discoursing with the pilot concerning the dangers of the ocean, (it was the same pilot who had brought him from japan, whose name was francis d'aghiar,) foretold him, that he should not end his days upon the water; and that no vessel wherein he should be should suffer shipwreck, were the tempest never so outrageous. d'aghiar was possessed with so firm a belief of what the father told him, and afterwards found the effect of it so manifest on various occasions, that, without observing either winds or seasons, he often put to sea in an old crazy vessel, ill provided; insomuch, that they who were ignorant of the secret cause of this his confidence, took him for a rash presuming man, and of little understanding in sea affairs. once, amongst many other times, he gave a demonstration how much he relied on the promise of the saint, and that was, in going from tenasserim to the kingdom of pegu, in a light barque, which was quite decayed, and out of order. a tempest rising in the midst of his voyage, dashed against the rocks, and split in pieces some great vessels, which were following the barque of d'aghiar. she alone seemed to defy the rocks; and while the sea was in this horrible confusion, the pilot sat singing at his ease, as if the waters had been hushed beneath him. a passenger, who shook with fear, demanded of him, "with what courage he could sing, when he was just upon the brink of death?" "it is because i fear nothing," replied aghiar: "and i should fear nothing," added he, "though the waves should mount as high again as now we see them, and my barque were also made of glass; for the father master francis has assured me, that i should not die upon the seas, in whatsoever vessel i should go." some saracens who were in the barque, and who heard these sayings of the pilot, were so moved with this continued miracle, that they vowed to become christians so soon as ever they should come on shore; and they complied religiously with their promise. the barque casting anchor at tanar, they received baptism at that place; so much the more persuaded both of the truth of the miracle, and of the christian faith, because they saw before their eyes, upon the coast, the wrecks of other vessels, which were floating round about it. the conversations which xavier had with pereyra during all the navigation, were almost wholly relating to japan and china. the father told his friend what progress the faith had made in little time in the kingdoms of saxuma, of amanguchi, and of bungo; and what hopes he had conceived, to convert all those islands with great ease, when once the chinese should be brought to acknowledge jesus christ. and on that motive, he had fixed his resolution to go to china; that his return to the indies was only in order to this intended voyage, after he had regulated the affairs of the society at goa; that, on this account, he had brought with him from japan the translation of his catechism into the chinese language, by the benefit of which he hoped to overcome the first difficulties, which in matters of conversion are still the greatest. some portuguese who were in the same vessel, and were well acquainted with the government of china, thought this proposition of the father not a little extravagant. they told him, that, besides the ill understanding which was betwixt china and portugal, it was forbidden to strangers on pain of death, or of perpetual imprisonment, to set a foot upon that kingdom; and that the merchants of their nation, who had stolen thither for the benefit of trade, having been discovered, some of them had lost their heads, others had been put in irons, and cast into dungeons, there to lie and rot for the remainder of their lives. they added, notwithstanding, that there was a safe and certain way of entering into china, provided there was a solemn embassy sent to the emperor of that country from the king of portugal. but since that could not be compassed without a prodigious expence, if nothing else were to be considered but only the presents for the emperor and his ministers of state, in all probability the viceroy of the indies would not burden himself with the cost of such an enterprize, at a time when he had enough to do to defray more necessary expences. these difficulties began to startle father xavier, when james pereyra, who, under the habit of a merchant, had the heart of an emperor, and the zeal of an apostle, made offer of his ship, and all his goods, for the promoting of the expedient which had been mentioned. the father accepted of his generous proffer with transports of joy, and engaged, on his side, to procure the embassy of china for his friend. pereyra, who had received intelligence of the siege of malacca, told the saint, "he apprehended lest an embargo might be put upon his ship, for the immediate service of the town." xavier, to whom god had revealed the deliverance of malacca, and to whose prayers that deliverance had perhaps been granted, cheered up his friend, with this assurance, "that when the fortress was just upon the point of yielding, the infidels had been struck with a panic fear, and fled away, so that the town was wholly free." percyra had yet another thing which troubled him, concerning the voyage which father xavier had to make before that of china. the season being already far spent, he feared there were no vessels at malacca, which were bound for goa. he could not carry the father to cochin himself, because he was obliged to go on to sunda, there to unlade his merchandize; but that apprehension was soon at an end, for xavier, illuminated from heaven, told him positively, "that the ship of antonio pereyra was in the port of malacca, and that they should find it just ready to weigh anchor, and set sail for cochin." xavier discovered these things to his friend during a great calm, which made the navigation pleasing; when suddenly they perceived one of those terrible hurricanes arising, which in a moment sink a vessel. all the company gave themselves for lost; or if they had any hope remaining, it was only in consideration of the saint; and therefore they earnestly desired him to intercede with god in their behalf. the holy man, without replying, retired to his devotions; he returned to them not long after, with his countenance all on fire, and gave his blessing to the ship, pronouncing these following words aloud: "this vessel of the santa cruz[ ] (for so she was named) shall never perish on the seas; the place where she was built, shall behold her fall in pieces of herself. might it please almighty god," continued he, "that the same could be said concerning that vessel which put to sea with us! but we shall be witnesses too soon of her unhappy destiny." at that very instant appeared the signs, which were to begin the verification of the prophecy; the whirlwind was dissipated, and the sea grew calm. not long afterwards, they beheld the merchandize and dead bodies floating on the waters, and from thence concluded, that the hurricane had destroyed the ship which followed them. immediately their opinion was confirmed by two mariners, who had gotten on a plank when the ship was foundering; and who, having afterwards struggled with the waves, were driven by them to the board of pereyra's vessel. the rest of the navigation was prosperous; a calmer season was never known. the ship being landed at the port of sincapour, xavier (who knew certainly that antonio pereyra was at malacca, ready to hoist sail towards cochin, as we have said,) wrote to him by a frigate which went off, to desire that he would wait for him three days longer. he wrote also, by the same conveyance, to father francis perez, superior of the jesuits at malacca, and commanded all of them to provide refreshments for the japonese, who came along with him. [footnote : the holy cross.] when it was known in the city that xavier was coming, the joy was so general, that it almost blotted out the remembrance of all they had suffered in the war. the inhabitants ran crowding to the shore; and at the first appearance of the saint, nothing was to be heard, but acclamations and shouts of rejoicing on every side. they received him at his landing with all the tenderness of affection, and all the reverence imaginable. in conducting him to the house of the society, they shewed him, as he passed along, the ruins of their houses; and told him, sighing, "that if he had not left them, they had been preserved from the fury of the javans, as they had formerly been protected from the barbarians of achen." but the father answered them, "that their crying sins had called down the wrath of heaven upon them; that nothing could divert it but a speedy change of life; and that the only means of reconciling themselves to god, was to receive those chastisements at his hands, with the spirit of humiliation and of penitence." he visited the old governor don pedro de silva, and the new one who succeeded him, don alvarez de atavda, and communicated to them his design concerning an embassy to china both of them concurred in the opinion, that it would be advantageous to the crown of portugal, and to the interests of christianity. james pereyra not being capable of accompanying the father to goa, for the reason above mentioned, furnished him at present with thirty thousand crowns, for the preparatives of that intended voyage; and sent a servant with the father, with commission to dispose of all things. xavier having often embraced this faithful friend, entered with his japonians into the vessel of antonio pereyra, who attended but their company to set sail. the prediction which the man of god had made in favour of the ship called santa cruz, gave it the new name of the "saint's vessel;" and from malacca, from whence she departed at the same time when xavier went on board of antonio, her reputation was extended over all the east. wheresoever she arrived, she was received with ceremony, and saluted by all other ships with the honour of their cannon. all merchants were desirous of stowing their goods in her, and willingly paid the carriage of their wares, and the dues of custom, beyond the common price of other vessels. the weight of lading was never considered, but her freight was always as much as they could crowd into her. as she lasted very long, and that thirty years after the decease of the father she was in being, and was used for the traffic of the indies, they never failed of lading her with an extraordinary cargo, all worn and worm-eaten as she was. the owners into whose hands she came, during the space of those thirty years, took only this one precaution, which was to keep her off from shore; so that when she was to be refitted, that work was constantly done upon the sea. as to what remains, it is true she met with many ill accidents and hardships: she was often engaged with pirates, and combated by tempests; but she escaped clear of all those dangers, and never any one repented of embarking in her. one time it is acknowledged, sailing from malacca to cochin, with an extraordinary lading, she sprung a leak, and took in so much water at the beginning of the voyage, that the passengers, who were very numerous, were of opinion to unlade her of half her burden, and half her men, and to put them upon other ships which were in their company. but those vessels, which had already their whole lading, would not consent to ease the santa cruz; so that, fear overpowering the ship's company, they returned speedily into the port. the whole town was surprised to see the ship so suddenly come back; and they were laughed to shame for apprehending shipwreck in the vessel of the saint. being thus publicly upbraided with their want of faith, to mend their error, they took out nothing of the lading, but put again to sea. and what every one said to them, concerning the good fortune which perpetually attended that ship, for two-and-twenty years together, so much renewed their confidence, that they performed their voyage without farther fear. the santa cruz continued in this manner, sailing over all the seas, and to every port of asia, till she came into the possession of the captain who commanded the port of diu; who perceiving her to be half-rotten, and opened in divers parts, concluded she could serve no longer, unless she were brought into harbour, and set upon the stocks. for which purpose she was sent to cochin, and hauled ashore on the same dock where she had been built; but she was no sooner there, than she fell in pieces of herself; nothing remaining of that great bulk, besides planks and beams of timber, unprofitable for any thing but for the fire. the inhabitants of cochin, who knew the prediction of the saint to every circumstance, came out to behold its accomplishment. an inconsiderable merchant, called george nugnez, who happened to be there present, began to think within himself, that, there might be yet remaining in those planks somewhat of the virtue, which the blessing of the saint had imprinted in them; and thereupon took one of them, which he caused to be nailed to his own frigate, out of the persuasion he had, that with this assistance he should be secure from shipwreck. thus being filled with a lively faith, he boldly undertook such long and hazardous voyages, that ships of the greatest burden were afraid to make; and without consideration of the weather, adventured many times to cross the most tempestuous gulphs. when he was told, that it was not the part of a prudent man to endanger himself in that manner, he answered, "that the winds and seas were well acquainted with his frigate, and had a reverence for the plank of the santa cruz." in effect, his little vessel was ever fortunate enough to escape the greatest perils; and what was most remarkable, was, that having had the same destiny with the ship in her adventures and deliverances, she ended like her, breaking in pieces of herself, on the shore of coulan, where she was brought to be refitted. to return to the navigation of father xavier:--he arrived at cochin, january th, in the year . the king of the maldivias had been there for some months: he was a prince of about twenty years of age, born in the mahometan religion, and bred up in the hatred of christians. the revolt of his subjects, who loved him not, or hated the government, forced him, for the safeguard of his life, to abandon his kingdom, and to seek sanctuary amongst the portuguese, by whom he hoped to be restored. the fathers of the society received him into their house, and went about to convert him, by letting him see the falsehood of his sect. the ill posture of his affairs made him apt to receive the instructions which were given him by father antonio heredia, who endeavoured his conversion with great zeal. but his fear of farther exasperating his rebellious subjects, in case he changed his religion, caused him to defer that change from time to time; and perhaps he had never forsaken the law of mahomet, if father francis had not arrived to complete that work which heredia had begun. the holy apostle preached the word with so much efficacy to the king of the maldivias, that at length he reduced him to the obedience of christ, notwithstanding all the motives of worldly interest to the contrary. having instructed him anew in the mysteries of christianity, he solemnly baptized him. in sequel of which, he excited the portuguese to replace him on the throne, and nominated some of the fathers to accompany the naval army, which should be sent to the maldivias. his intention was, that they should labour in the conversion of the whole kingdom, when once the king should be established. but because it was of small importance to the crown of portugal, that those islands, which produce neither gold, nor spices, nor perfumes, should be made tributary to it, the governors did nothing for that exiled prince; who, despairing to recover his dominions, married a portuguese, and lived a private life till the day of his death; happy only in this, that the loss of his crown was made up to him, by the gift of faith, and the grace of baptism. when the holy man was ready to depart, an opportunity was offered him of writing into europe, which he laid hold on, thereby to render an account of his voyage to japan, both to the king of portugal, and to the general of his order. then embarking for goa, he had a speedy voyage, and arrived there in the beginning of february. so soon as he was come on shore, he visited the sick in the town-hospitals; and then went to the college of st paul, which was the house of the society. after the ordinary embracements, which were more tender than ever, he enquired if none were sick within the college? he was answered, there was only one, who was lying at the point of death. immediately xavier went, and read the gospel over him. at the sight of the father, the dying man recovered his spirits, and was restored to health. the physicians had given him over, and all things had been ordered for his burial; but he himself had never despaired of his recovery: and the day when xavier arrived, he said, with a dying voice, "that if god would grant him the favour of beholding their good father, he should infallibly recover." the relation which xavier made to the fathers of goa, concerning the church of japan, was infinitely pleasing to them: and he himself was filled with equal consolation, in learning from them the present condition of christianity in the indies. the missioners, whom he had dispersed before his departure, were almost all of them united at his return. some of them were come by his command, and others of their own motion, concerning urgent business; as if the holy spirit had re-assembled them expressly, that the presence of the man of god might redouble in them their apostolic zeal, and religious fervour. god had every where blest their labours. the town of ormus, which fell to the lot of father gaspar barzaeus, had wholly changed its countenance; idolaters, saracens, and jews, ran in multitudes to baptism: the temples of idols were consecrated to christ; the mosques and synagogues were dispeopled, ill manners were reformed, and ill customs totally abolished. christianity flourished more than ever in the coast of fishery, since the death of father antonio criminal, who had cultivated it with care, and in that cultivation was massacred by the badages. the blood of the martyr seemed to have multiplied the christians: they were reckoned to be more than five hundred thousand, all zealous, and ready to lay down their lives for their religion. the gospel had not made less progress at cochin, and at coulan; at bazain and at meliapore, at the moluccas, and in the isles del moro. but it is almost incredible, with what profit the gospel labourers preached at goa. all the priests of idols have been driven out of the isle of goa, by order from the governor, and at the solicitation of one of the fathers belonging to the college of st paul. it was also prohibited, under severe penalties, to perform any public action of idolatry within the district of goa; and those ordinances, by little and little, reduced a multitude of gentiles. as for the portuguese, their lives were very regular; amidst the liberty of doing whatsoever pleased them, they refrained from all dishonest actions; and concubines were now as scarce as they had been common. the soldiers lived almost in the nature of men in orders; and even their piety edified the people. but nothing was more pleasing to xavier, than the conversion of two princes, who during his absence had been at goa. the first was king of tanor, a kingdom situate along the coasts of malabar, betwixt cranganor and calecut. this prince, who was party-per-pale, mahometan and idolater, but prudent, a great warrior, of a comely shape, and more polite than was usual for a barbarian, had from his youth a tendency to christianity, without being well instructed in it. he was enamoured of it, after he had been informed to the full concerning the mysteries of our faith, by a religious of the order of st francis, who frequented his palace. in the mean time, the wars, which he had with other princes for ten years together, hindered him from receiving baptism. at length he was christened, but very secretly; so that, in appearance, he remained an infidel, to keep the better correspondence with his people. yet he was not without some scruple concerning the manner of his life; and, in order to satisfy his conscience on so nice a point, he desired the bishop of goa to send him an apostle; for by that name the fathers of the society were called by the indians, as well as by the portuguese. father gomez, who was sent to the king of tanor, told him positively, that god would be served in spirit and in truth; that dissembling in religion was worse than, irreligion; and that jesus would disown before his angels, those who disowned him before me. the king, who preferred his salvation before his crown, believed gomez, and resolved to declare himself solemnly a christian, as soon as he had made a treaty with his enemies. having concluded a peace through the mediation of the father, who had advised him to it, he came to goa, in despite of all his subjects, who, not being able to gain upon him, either by their reasons, or their desires, had seized upon his person, and shut him up in one of the strongest citadels of the kingdom. he escaped out of his prison, swam a river, and having found eight foists, or half galleys, belonging to goa, which were purposely sent to favour his passage, he had the good fortune to arrive safely at the town. the bishop and the viceroy conducted him to the cathedral, amidst the acclamations of the people; and at the foot of the altar, he made a public profession of his faith; with such expressions of true devotion as melted the assistants into tears. the other prince, whose conversion gave so much joy to father xavier, was the king of trichenamalo, who is one of the sovereigns of ceylon this king, while he was yet an infant, was set upon the throne, and afterwards dispossessed by an usurper, when he was but eight years old. the tyrant, not content to have taken the crown from him, would also have murdered him, but was prevented by a prince of the blood-royal, who carried him out of his reach, being accompanied by forty lords of the loyal party, and sought sanctuary for him on the coasts of fishery. the paravas received him with all the charitable compassion which was due to his illustrious birth, to the tenderness of his years, and to his misfortunes; they also promised his attendants to serve him what was in their power; but, at the same time, advised them, to procure him a more durable and more glorious crown; and withal informed them of what they had been taught, concerning the adoption of the sons of god, the kingdom of heaven, and inheritance of the saints. whether those considerations prevailed upon the prince of the blood-royal, or that the spirit of god wrought powerfully on his heart, lie consented to what the paravas desired, and put himself into the hands of father henriquez to be instructed. the rest of the lords followed his example, and were all baptised together with the king, who seemed at his baptism to have an understanding much above his years. the rulers of the christians on the fishing coast having afterwards made up an army, supplied with what ammunitions of war, and other provisions which the country could furnish, passed over into the isle of ceylon, under the conduct of the prince and the forty lords; but the usurper was so well established in his possession, that the paravas were forced to retire with speed into their own country. as for the young king, he was brought to goa; and the portuguese, who took the conduct of him into their hands, put him into the college of st paul, where he was virtuously educated by the fathers of the society. xavier praised almighty god to see the great men of the earth subjected to the empire of jesus christ, by the ministry of the children of ignatius; and rejoiced with his brethren so much the more, because the bishop of goa, don juan de albuquerque, was so well satisfied of their conduct. this wise and holy prelate communicated to the father a letter, which he had written on that subject during his absence to the general of the society. the letter was in portuguese, dated from cochin, november , in the year , and is thus translated into our language: "the great performances of your children and subjects, in all the dominions of the east; the holiness of their lives, the purity of their doctrine, their zeal in labouring the reformation of the portuguese, by the ministry of god's word, and the sacrament of penance; their unwearied travels through all the kingdoms of india, for the conversion of idolaters and moors; their continual application to study the tongues of this new world, and to teach the mysteries of faith, and principally at the cape of comorin,--all this obliges me to write to your reverence, and to give testimony of what i have beheld with my own eyes. indeed the fathers of your society are admirable labourers in our lord's vineyard; and are so faithfully subservient to the bishops, that their endeavours for the good of those souls with which i am intrusted, give me hope of remaining the fewer years in purgatory. i dare not undertake the relation of all their particular actions; and if i durst adventure it, want time for the performance of it: i will only tell you, that they are here like torches lighted up, to dissipate the thick darkness wherein these barbarous people were benighted; and that already, by their means, many nations of infidels believe one god in three persons: for what remains, i freely grant them all they require of me for the good of souls. every one of them partakes with me in my power and authority, without appropriating any of it to myself: and i look upon myself as one of the members of that holy body, though my life arises not to their perfection. in one word, i love them all in jesus christ, with a fervent and sincere charity." the rest of the letter is nothing appertaining to our purpose, and therefore is omitted. the man of god received intelligence, at the same time, that the ministers of portugal at goa had sent word to lisbon of the great progress which the society had made; and that, in particular, the new viceroy, don antonio de norogna, had written, that the indies were infinitely satisfied with the jesuits; that none could look on the good effects of their labours without blessing the name of god for them; and that their lives were correspondent to their calling. the saint also was informed, that the king of portugal had sent word of all these proceedings to the pope; especially the conversion of the king of tanor, and the martyrdom of father antonio criminal: that he had communicated to his holiness his intentions of founding many colleges for the society, to the end the east might be filled with apostolical labourers; and that, in the mean time, he had ordained, that all the seminaries established in the indies, for the education of youth, should be put into the hands of the society, in case it was not already done: lastly, it was told to father xavier, that the viceroy of the indies, and the captains of the fortresses, had orders from king john iii. to defray the charges of the missioners in all their voyages; and that this most religious prince had discharged his conscience of the care of souls, by imposing it on the society; obliging the fathers, in his stead, to provide for the instruction of the infidels, according to the ancient agreement which had been made with the holy see, when the conquests of the east were granted to the crown of portugal. amidst so many occasions of joy and satisfaction, the ill conduct of antonio gomez gave xavier an exceeding cause of grief. before his voyage to japan, he had constituted him rector of the college of st paul, according to the intention, or rather by the order, of father simon rodriguez, who had sent him to the indies three years after his noviciate; and who, in relation to these missions, had an absolute authority, as being provincial of portugal, on which the indies have their dependence. gomez was master of many eminent qualities which rarely meet in the same person: he was not only a great philosopher, divine, and canonist, but also an admirable preacher, and as well conversant as any man in the management of affairs; and, besides all this, was kindled with a most fervent zeal for the conversion of souls; always prompt to labour in the most painful employments, and always indefatigable in labour: but wonderfully self-opinioned; never guided by any judgment but his own, and acting rather by the vivacity of his own impetuous fancy, than by the directions of the holy spirit, or the rules of right reason. as he was of a confirmed age at his entrance into the society, so he had not soon enough endeavoured to get the mastery of those headstrong passions which ran away with his understanding. and when he had once taken upon him the charge of rector, he began to govern by the dictates of his own capricious humour, even before the face of xavier, ere he departed from the indies for japan; and the father, who easily perceived that the government of gomez was not in the least conformable to the spirit of their institute, would at that time have withdrawn him from goa, and sent him to ormuz: but the viceroy, to whom gomez had been powerfully recommended by one of the chief ministers of portugal, would not suffer him to be transplanted, or that his authority should be taken from him: so that all xavier could do, was to temper and draw off from his jurisdiction, by establishing father paul de camerine superior-general of all the missions of the indies. but when once the saint was departed from goa, gomez usurped the whole government; alleging, for his own justification, that father rodriguez had given him an absolute power; and that camerine was a poor honest creature, more fit to visit the prisons and hospitals of goa, than to manage the missions, and govern the colleges, of the society. he began with prescribing new rules to his inferiors; and declared to them, in express terms, that they must return into their mothers' wombs, that they might be born again into a spiritual life, and transformed into other men. not that they had any need of reformation, they who were themselves the models of a perfect life; but the business was, that he had brought with him out of europe, i know not what contrivance of new living, framed according to his own fanciful speculations. he undertook then to change their domestic discipline, and to regulate the studies of the jesuits by the model of the university of paris, where he had been a student in his youth. there was nothing but change and innovation every day; and he exercised his power with such haughtiness and magisterial hardness, that it appeared more like the dictates of an absolute monarchy, than the injunction of a religious superior: for, to make himself obeyed and feared, he went so far as to tell them he had received an unlimited power from father simon rodriguez, in virtue of which he could imprison, or remand into portugal, any person who should presume to oppose his government. his conduct was not less irregular in respect of the young men who were educated in the seminary, of whom the greatest part were indians. though they were yet but novices in the faith, and scarcely to be accounted christians, he enjoined them the practices of the most perfect interior life, which they could not possibly understand; and as they could not acquit themselves of those exercises, which were too sublime for them, he failed not to punish them severely. from thence arose murmurs and combinations, and even despair began to seize on those young ill-treated indians; and from thence also it came to pass, that many of them, not able to endure so violent a government, leapt over the walls by night, and fled from out the college. gomez, who could not bear the least contradiction, upon this became more assuming and fantastical; so that one day he turned out all the remaining scholars of the seminary, as if they had been incapable of discipline, and, receiving into their places seven and-twenty portuguese, who desired to be of the society, without having any tincture of human learning, he changed the seminary into a noviciate. as he had gained an absolute ascendant over the mind of george cabral, at that time viceroy of the indies, no man durst oppose his mad enterprizes, not so much as the bishop don juan d'albuquerque, who was unwilling to displease the viceroy, and feared to increase the distemper by endeavouring to cure it. neither was the rector so confined to goa, that he made not frequent sallies into the country; whether his natural activity would not suffer him to take repose, or that his zeal required a larger sphere; or that, in fine, he looked upon himself as superior general of the missions, and therefore thought it incumbent on him to have an inspection into all affairs, and to do every thing himself. the town of cochin being willing to found a college for the society, he went thither to receive the offer; but he spoiled a good business by ill management. the captain of the fortress immediately gave him a church, called the mother of god, against the will of the vicar of cochin, and in despite of a certain brotherhood to which that church belonged. the donation being disputed in law, gomez, who had it still about him to make a false step, that is, having much _opiniatreté_, great credit, good intentions, took upon him to stand the suit, and to get the church upon any terms. this violent procedure exasperated the people, who had been hitherto much edified by the charily of the fathers; and the public indignation went so high, that they wrote letters of complaint concerning it to the king of portugal and father ignatius. this was the present face of things when xavier returned from japan; and it was partly upon this occasion that the letters which he received at amanguchi so earnestly pressed his coming back. his first endeavours were to repair the faults committed by the rector; and he began with the business of cochin: for, in his passage by it, at his return, knowing the violence of gomez, he assembled in the choir of the cathedral the magistrate of the town, with all the fraternity of the mother of god, and, in the presence of the vicar, falling on his knees before them, he desired their pardon for what had passed, presented to them the keys of the church, which was the cause of the dispute, and yielded it entirely to them. but submission sometimes gains that, which haughty carriage goes without: the fraternity restored the keys into the hands of xavier, and, of their own free motion, made an authentic deed of gift of their church to the college of the society. as for what relates to goa, the saint dismissed those portuguese whom gomez had received into the society; and, having gathered up as many as he could find of those young indians, who had either been expelled, or were gone out of the college of their own accord, he re-established the seminary, whose dissolution was so prejudicial to the christianity of the indies. it was only remaining to chastise the criminal, who had made such evil use of his authority. xavier would make an example of him; and so much the rather, because, having told him what punishment his faults had merited, he found him standing on his terms, insolent, and with no disposition to submit. he judged, upon the whole, that a man who was neither humble nor obedient, after such scandalous misdemeanours, was unworthy of the society of jesus; which notwithstanding, he was not willing to pull off his habit at goa, for fear his departure might make too great a noise; but having made the viceroy sensible of the justice of his proceeding, he sent him to the fortress of diu, towards cambaya, with orders to the fathers residing there to give him his dismission, and to use all manner of persuasions with him that he would return into portugal, by the opportunity of the first ship which went away. all was performed according to the intentions of the holy man. but gomez embarking on a vessel which was wrecked in the midst of the voyage, was unfortunately drowned; giving us to understand, by so tragical an end, that the talents of nature, and even the gifts of grace itself, serve only to the destruction of a man in religious orders, who is not endued with the spirit of humility and obedience. the life of st francis xavier. book vi. _he sends out missioners to divers places. he endeavours an embassy to china. he appoints barzæus rector of the college of goa. the form by which barzæus was made rector of the college, &c. he himself acknowledges barzæus for superior. in what manner barzæus receives the offices of rector and vice-provincial. the new instructions which he gives to barzæus. he makes choice of his companions for china and japan. he writes to the king of portugal concerning his voyage to china. he assembles the fathers of goa by night, and upon what account. he departs from goa, and what happens him in the way. before his arrival at malacca, he knows the plague is in the town. he employs himself in succouring the sick. he raises a young man to life. the embassy of china is crossed by the governor of malacca. xavier endeavours all he can to gain the favour of the governor for the embassy. endeavours are used in vain to get the governor's consent. the governor flies out into fury against the father. the father resolves to excommunicate the governor; and what he does in order to it. the grand vicar excommunicates the governor in the name of xavier. the saint imputes the overthrow of the embassy to his own sins. in writing to the king of portugal, he makes no complaint of the governor of malacca. he takes up the design of going to the isle of sancian, and from thence into china. he departs from malacca without seeing the governor; and what he does in going out of the town. he embarks, and what happens afterwards. he changes the salt-water into fresh. he restores to a mahometan his son, who was fallen into the sea. he appears of an extraordinary height, and muck above his own stature. he reassures the captain of the santa cruz, and the mariners. he arrives at the isle of sandan. what passes betwixt xavier and veglio. he foretels to veglio, that he shall be advertised of the day of his death. the prediction of the saint is accomplished in all its circumstances. other wonderful illuminations. he raises up a dead man, and drives the tygers out of the island. endeavours are used in vain, to dissuade him from the voyage of china. he takes his measures for the voyage of china. the portuguese of sancian traverse the design of xavier. he defers his voyage, in consideration of the portuguese merchants. he writes divers letters to malacca, and to goa. he gives orders to father francis perez, and to father caspar barzaeus. he foretels the unhappy death of a merchant. he is reduced to an extreme want of all necessaries. the means fail him for his passage into china. he is still in hope, and the expedient which he finds. he falls sick again, and foreknows the day of his death. the nature of his sickness, and how he was inwardly disposed. he entertains himself with god in the extremity of his sickness. he denounces to a young indian, the unhappy death which was attending him. the death of the saint. his age and person. of the duties which were paid him immediately after his decease. they inter him without any ceremony. the miraculous crucifix in the chapel of the castle of xavier. he is disinterred, and his body is found without the least corruption. the body of the saint is put on ship-board, to be transported into india. how the body is received at malacca. the punishment of the governor of malacca. the town of malacca is freed from the pestilence at the arrival of the holy body. in what manner the body of the saint is treated in malacca. they consider of transporting the holy corpse to goa. the body is put into a crazed old ship, and what happens to it in the passage. how the body is received at cochin, and the miracle which is wrought at baticula. they come from goa to meet the corpse. how the corpse of the saint is received at goa. the miracles which are wrought, during the procession. the body is placed in the church of saint paul. new miracles are wrought in presence of the body. the informations of the saint's life are gathered in the indies. the people invoke him, and venerate his images. they build churches in honour of him, in divers parts of the east. the praises which are given him by infidels, and the honour they perform to him. how much he is honoured at japan. his gift of prayer. his love of god. his charity towards his neighbour. his zeal of souls. the various industry of his zeal. the condescendance of his zeal, and how dear the conversion of people costs him. the extent of his zeal. his intrepidity in dangers, and his confidence in god. his humility. his maxims on humility. his submission to god's good pleasure. his religious obedience. his maxims on obedience, and his love for the society. his poverty, and his mortification. his purity of soul and body. his devotion to the blessed virgin. his canonization is solicited, and what is done in order to it, by the king of bungo. he is had in veneration through all asia. miracles are wrought in all places through his intercession. three remarkable cures. the perpetual miracle of the saint's body. he is beatified, and in sequel canonized. the contents of the bull of his canonization. the veneration of the saint is much increased since his canonization. new miracles are wrought, and chiefly in italy. what may be concluded from these testimonies, and from all the book_. the affairs of the society being accommodated in this manner, xavier thought on nothing more than how to supply the missions of the indies with good labourers; or rather to increase the number of the missioners, who were not sufficient for the common needs. he therefore sent melchior nugnez to bazain, gonsalvo rodriguez to cochin, john lopez to meliapor, and luys mendez to the fishery, where he confirmed henry henriquez for superior, whom the missioners of that coast had already chosen instead of antonio criminal. after this, he bent his whole endeavours to procure an embassy to china. the viceroy, don alphonso de norogna, with great willingness, granted to james pereyra that employment which xavier had desired for him. he promised even to favour it, in all things depending on him; and gave wherewithal to furnish out presents for the emperor of china. notwithstanding the most magnificent were made at the charges of the ambassador, he had prepared cloth of gold, ornaments for an altar of brocard pictures of devotion, in rich frames, made by the best hands of europe, with copes and other magnificent church-stuff, all proper to represent to the chinese the majesty of the christian religion. the bishop, don juan d'albuquerque, was not less favourable to the designs of the father than the viceroy; and being willing to write to the emperor of china, thereby to give an honourable testimony to the holy law of god, he ordered his letter to be written in characters of gold, and bordered about with curious painting. nothing more was wanting than only to make choice of such missioners as were to accompany xavier to china, and to provide others for japan; for, besides that the saint himself had his dear japonians always in his memory, the ambassador of the king of bungo, who was come with him to goa, requested some evangelical preachers in his master's name. the man of god had enough to do, to content all those, who were desirous of that employment. there were at that time thirty of the society in the college of goa. some of them had been in the indies from the first years of xavier's arrival in those ports; others were either new comers, or had been lately admitted; all of them were of approved virtue, and well worthy of that vocation, which they so earnestly desired; but there was none amongst them who sought it with more eagerness, nor who more signally deserved it, than caspar barzaeus. xavier, before his voyage to japan, had recalled him from ormuz, with design of sending him to that country, or else of taking him with himself to china. yet he altered both those intentions; for, after many serious debates within himself, he thought it most convenient to leave barzaeus at goa, where, since his return from ormuz, he had laboured in the ministry with great success; but his principal reason was, the necessity of the college of st paul, which had not yet shaken off all the ill symptoms of the government of gomez, and which stood in need of a superior, whose conduct should be regular. on these considerations, he made him rector of the college of goa, and also vice-provincial of the indies, by the authority which he had received from the general of the order. for the saint, at his return from japan, found two patients waiting for him, which had been expedited from rome in the year , one bearing date the th of october, the other the nd of december, as the minutes which are kept in the archives of the society declare. by the first, ignatius constitutes father xavier provincial of the indies, and of all the kingdoms of the east, of which he made a particular province, distinct from that of portugal; by the second, he endows him with all the privileges which the popes have granted to the head of the order, and to those members of it to whom the general shall please to impart them. for what remains, see here the form of barzaeus's establishment, which is preserved in the archives of goa, and written by the hand of father xavier. "master gasper, i command you, in virtue of holy obedience, as superior of the company of jesus in these countries of the indies, to take the government of this college of santa fe, in quality of rector; persuaded, as i am, of your virtue, your humility, your prudence, and of all those qualities which make you proper for the governing of others. "i will, that all the fathers and portuguese brothers of the society of jesus, who are spread over this new world from the cape of good hope, as far as malacca, the moluccas, and japan, be subject to you. i will, in like manner, that all those who shall come from portugal, or from any other country of europe, into the houses of the society under my obedience, should acknowledge you for their superior; if it happen not, that our father ignatius name some other rector of this college of goa, as i have already requested him by my letters; informing him at large of the necessity of sending hither some experienced person, in whom he much confides, to govern this college, and all the missions of our society depending on it. if then any of the society sent by father ignatius, or by any other general of the society of jesus, with patents signed in due form, shall arrive at goa, to take the government of this house, and of those who are subjected to it, i command you, in the same virtue of holy obedience, to resign the government into his hands forthwith, and to be obedient to him in all things." xavier having thus declared barzæus superior in a full assembly of the college, kneeled down, and acknowledged him for such, thereby giving a public example of submission. after which, he commanded all of them, in virtue of holy obedience, to be subject to him, and ordered him to expel from the society, all such as should enterprize ought against his authority, or refuse obedience to his orders. he ordered him, i say, positively to expel them, without consideration of their capacity, their eloquence, or any other gifts of nature; adding, that whatever excellent qualities they had, they wanted those which were essential, namely, humility and obedience. barzaeus replied not one word when it was intimated to him, that he should not go to china, how desirous soever he were of that voyage; and it may be said, that, on this occasion, he made a noble sacrifice of all his fervent zeal to his obedience. but when he was nominated both rector and vice-provincial, confounded at the mention of those dignities, he said aloud, "that he was not endued with the spirit of government." he was ready to die of shame, when he saw the saint upon his knees before him; and, with great precipitation, fell also on his knees, and humbly begged of him, with tears in his eyes, that he would consider his infirmities. the saint, who had a perfect insight into his integrity, would not hearken to him, and judged him to be so much the more worthy of those two employments, as he judged himself to be incapable. as barzaeus was the desire of all in all places, and yet his presence was necessary at goa, not only for the due regulation of the college, but also for the good of missions, xavier forbade him, in virtue of holy obedience, to depart out of the isle of goa during the space of three years ensuing; and for this reason, that barzaeus having this tie of prohibition upon him, might be privileged to refuse any towns which might desire him amongst them; and that if his refusal should displease them, yet at least the unkindness might not rest on him. after all these punctual orders, xavier gave in writing, to the new rector, such instructions as he was to use in the government of his inferiors, and in reference to the conduct of himself; according to what all of them had proposed to themselves, to have no design, save only _ad majorem dei gloriam;_ to god's greater honour. those instructions are very ample, and i shall give you only the most material. "have before your eyes continually your own nothingness; and endeavour, above all things, to have your mind so possessed with it, that the contempt of yourself may never leave you. always treat the fathers of the society with great mildness and respect; as well those who inhabit with you, as those who live in other places at a distance. let not the least roughness, or haughty carriage, appear in you, if it be not when your moderation and humility are turned into contempt; for on such occasions, having nothing in your intentions but the good of your interiors, and not making the contempt of your authority the object of your vengeance, you are to make the guilty somewhat sensible of your power. but you shall only punish them so far as need requires, and for their amendment, and the edification of our brethren, who were witnesses of their fault. all the offences which shall be committed, either by the fathers or the brothers, against the rule of obedience, ought to be punished by some correction; and in so doing, the character of priesthood must be no privilege to the offender. if any of your inferiors act presumptuously against you, and, full of self-opinion, resist you with stubbornness, raise yourself in opposition to their pride, and speak magisterially to them. let your behaviour towards them have more of severity than of mildness. impose some public penance on them; and beware, of all things, that they may not observe in you the least remissness, which they will be sure to interpret fear; for nothing more encourages the untractable and haughty to rebellion, than the softness and fearful spirit of a governor. and it is not credible, how assuming, proud, and peremptory, they will grow, when once they find the reins are slackened, and that their pusillanimous superior is afraid of punishing their want of due respect. impunity hardens that sort of people in their insolence; or rather, it makes them more and more audacious; which disturbs the peace of religious houses. execute then my orders, without fearing the opinion or speech of people; and let no consideration, no regard of persons, hinder you from the performance of your duty. amongst your inferiors, you will find some who are neither obstinate nor disobedient, but who are weak; who are forgetful of what is enjoined them, who indeed despise not the orders of their superiors, but sometimes neglect them, either out of faintheartedness, or want of sense. reprehend such men with more gentleness and moderation, and temper your reproof with the mildness of your countenance; and if you find it necessary to punish them, impose but an easy penance on them. never admit into the society such as are not endued with judgment, and good natural parts; nor those who are of a weak constitution, and proper for no employment, or of whom you may reasonably suspect, that they would enter into religion for secular respects, rather than out of a sincere devotion of serving god. when they shall have ended their exercises, you are to employ them in the service of the sick in the public hospitals, and in the meanest offices of the house. you shall cause them to give you an account of the endeavours they have made, to acquit themselves well of their ordinary meditations, according to the form prescribed. if you are assured, that they are lukewarm and faint at their devotions, you will do well to dismiss them, and turn them out of the society betimes; or if there be any hope of their amendment, you shall withdraw them for some days from those interior exercises; depriving them, by way of penance, of an honour which their negligence has made them unworthy to enjoy; and such indeed is that of communicating with god in prayer, to the end, that, being ashamed to stand excluded from that celestial commerce, they may desire more ardently to be re-admitted to it. i recommend extremely to you, that you pay an extraordinary respect to my lord the bishop; and that you be obedient to him. beware of doing any thing which may displease him; endeavour, on the contrary, to serve him in all things according to your power; and acknowledge, by all manner of good offices, those infinite obligations which we have to so charitable a father and benefactor. command those fathers who are out of goa, to write to him from time to time, but not too prolixly; and to give him an account of the fruit of their labours. that they mention in their letters, as far as truth will give them leave, the commendation of his vicars; and omit not the other good actions of the religious; and if they can say no good of them, let them be silent of them; for we are not to imagine that our duty obliges us to complain to the bishop, of the ill conduct of his vicars, or of other gospel-labourers; there will never be wanting those who will ease us of that trouble. beware, not to trouble yourself with the management of worldly business; nor even to encumber your inferiors with it, on any occasion whatsoever. when secular men shall desire to engage you in the employments of civil life, return this answer, 'that the time which remains free to you from preaching, and the administration of the sacraments, is scarce sufficient for your studies and devotions, which are yet necessary to you before you go into the pulpit, or appear in the tribune of penance; that you cannot prefer the care of worldly things, before the cure of souls, without perverting the order and rule of charity.' by this means you shall disengage yourself from all those sorts of encumbrances; and without this circumspection, you will do great prejudice to the society; for you ought to understand, that the world often enters by this door into religious houses, to the extreme damage both of the religious, and of religion. "in the visits which are made to you, endeavour to find out the bottom and end of their design, who come to see you. for some there are, the least part of whose business is to be instructed in spirituals; it is only temporal interest which brings them to you: there will even be some, who will come to confession, on no other motive, than to acquaint you with the necessities of their family. the best counsel i can give you, is to stand upon your guard with such; and, to be rid of them, let them know from the very first, that you can neither furnish them with money, nor procure them any favour from other men. be warned to have as little discourse with this sort of people as possibly you can; for most commonly they are great talkers, and if you trouble yourself with giving them the hearing, you are almost certain to lose your time. for what remains, disquiet not yourself with what they think or say of you; let them murmur on, and do you take up a resolution of standing out so firmly, that they may not find the least concernment in you; for the shew of any natural sensibility would discover that you are not enough disengaged from the world, as if you were wavering what part to take betwixt the world and christ. remember, that you cannot covet popular approbation without betraying your ministry, or becoming a deserter of your sacred colours, in going back from that evangelical perfection, which you are obliged to follow, with an unrelenting ardour." after this, xavier gave barzaeus sundry particular orders, relating to the persons and houses of the society. and now he chose for his companions, balthazar gago, edward silva, and peter alcaceva, with francis gonçalez, and alvarez ferreyra de monte major; without reckoning into the number a young secular chinese, named antonio, who had been brought up in the seminary of sainte foy. some of these were intended for china, and others for japan. father ignatius had written to father xavier, that it was of great importance to send from the indies into europe one of the society, well versed in the eastern affairs, who might render an exact account of all things to the king of portugal, and the pope; as a means of procuring temporal supplies from the one, and spiritual favours from the other; both which were necessary for the further increase of christianity in asia. father francis did not receive those letters till after his voyage of japan. he had thought of these very things formerly, but now seeing that the judgment of ignatius concurred with his, he deputed into italy and portugal, andrew fernandez, a man of parts and probity, who was not yet in priest's orders. he not only gave him ample informations concerning the present condition of the indies, but also wrote large letters on the same subject, to the king of portugal, to father ignatius, and to simon rodriguez. being now ready to go for the voyage of china, he gave notice of his intentions to king john, in this ensuing letter. "i shall depart from goa within the compass of five days, intending first for malacca; from whence i shall take the way of china, in the company of james pereyra, who is named ambassador. we carry with us the rich presents, which are bought partly at the cost of your majesty, and partly at the proper charges of pereyra: but we carry also a far more precious present, and such an one as no king, at least to my knowledge, has made the like to another prince, namely, the gospel of jesus christ; and if the emperor of china once knew its value, i am confident he would prefer that treasure before all his own, how immense soever they may be. i hope, that at length almighty god will look with eyes of pity on that vast empire, and that he will make known to those great multitudes, who are all made after his own image, their creator, and the saviour of mankind, christ jesus. "we are three in company, who go to china with pereyra; and our design is, to free from prison those portuguese who are there languishing in chains; to manage the friendship of the chinese in favour of the crown of portugal; and, above all things, to make war with the devils, and their adherents: on which occasion, we shall declare to the emperor, and, in sequel, to all his subjects, from the king of heaven, the great injury which they have done him, to give the devils that adoration which is only payable to the true god, creator of mankind, and to jesus christ, their judge and master. the undertaking may seem bold, to come amongst barbarians, and dare to appear before a mighty monarch, to declare the truth to him, and reprehend his vices: but that which gives us courage is, that god himself has inspired us with these thoughts; that he has filled us with the assurance of his mercy; and that we doubt not of his power, which infinitely surpasses that of the emperor of china. thus our whole success being in the hands of god, what cause of distrust or fear is it possible for us to have? for certain it is, that our only apprehension ought to be of offending him, and of incurring those punishments which are ordained for wicked men. but my hopes are incomparably greater when i consider, that god has made choice of such weak instruments, and such sinners, as we are, for so high an employment, as to carry the light of the gospel almost, i may say, into another world, to a nation blinded with idolatry, and given up to vice." while they were fitting out the ship, which was to carry the missioners of china and japan, xavier assembled the fathers of the college by night, not being able to do it by day, because they were in continual employment till the evening. he discoursed with them concerning the virtues requisite to the apostolic vocation, and spoke with so much ardency and unction, that the congregation was full of sighs and tears, according to the relation of some who were present, and have left it to us in writing. but the instructions which he gave, in taking his last farewell of them, are very remarkable. and i cannot, in my opinion, report them better, than in the very words of the author, who took them from the mouth of the apostle: "the father, master francis," says he, "embracing his brethren before his departure for china, and weeping over them, recommended constancy in their vocation to them; together with unfeigned humility, which was to have for its foundation, a true knowledge of themselves, and particularly a most prompt obedience. he extended his exhortation on this last point, and enjoined them obedience, as a virtue most pleasing to almighty god, much commended by the holy spirit, and absolutely necessary to the sons of the society." the apostle went from goa on holy thursday, which fell that year, , on the th of april. the sea was calm enough, till they came to the height of the islands of nicubar, which are somewhat above sumatra, towards the north. thereabouts the waves began to swell; and presently after, there arose so furious a tempest, that there scarcely remained any hopes of safety. that which doubled their apprehension, was, that two foists, which bore them company, unable to sustain the fury of the waves, sunk both by one another. the ship, which carried xavier and his companions, was a royal vessel, very large and deep laden, so that her unwieldy bulk and heavy freight hindered her sailing and her steering. it was thought necessary to ease her, and the merchandizes were ready to be cast overboard, when father francis desired the captain not to be too hasty. but the sailors saying, that the tempest increasing, as usually it does towards evening, the vessel could not so conveniently be disburdened in the dark, he bid them not disturb themselves about it, for the storm should cease, and they should make land before sun-set. the captain, who knew how certain the predictions of xavier were, made not the least scruple of believing him, and the event verified the prophecy. the sea grew calm, and land appeared before the setting of the sun. but while every one was rejoicing at the nearness of the port, the holy man had sadness in his countenance, and often sighed. some of them enquired the cause, and he bade them pray to god for the city of malacca, which was visited with an epidemical disease. xavier said true; for the sickness was so general, and so contagious, that it seemed the beginning of a pestilence. malignant fevers raged about the town, which carried off the strongest constitutions in a little space, and the infection was caught almost at sight. in this condition the ship found malacca; and never was the sight of the holy man more pleasing to the inhabitants. every one promised himself ease of body, and consolation of mind from him; and they were not deceived in their expectation. so soon as he was set on shore, he went in search of the sick, and found employment enough amongst them for the exercise of his charity. not a man of them, but desired to confess to father francis, and to expire in his arms; according to the popular opinion, that whoever died in that manner, could not fail of being saved. he ran from street to street with his companions, to gather up the poor, who lay languishing on the ground for want of succour. he carried them to the hospitals, and to the college of the society, which on this occasion he changed into an hospital. and when both the college and the hospitals were full, he ordered cabins to be built along the shore, out of the remainders of rotten vessels, for lodgings, and necessary uses of those distressed creatures. after which he procured them food and medicines, which he begged from the devouter sort, and himself attended them both day and night. that which appeared most wonderful, was, that though the sick could not be served, nor the dying assisted, nor the dead buried, without taking the infection, and it was death to take it, yet xavier and his companions enjoyed their perfect health in the midst of such dangerous employments. this indeed was wonderful, but there was also an undoubted miracle, which it pleased almighty god to work by the ministry of his servant, on a young man, whom at that time he restored to life. this young man, named francis ciavus, the only son of a devout woman, who had long been under the conduct of xavier, having put into his mouth, without thinking of it, a poisoned arrow, such as are used in those eastern parts, died suddenly, so subtile and so mortal was the venom. they were already burying him, when xavier came by chance that way. he was so moved with the cries and lamentations of the mother, that, taking the dead by the hand, he revived him with these words: "francis, in the name of jesus christ, arise." the youth thus raised, believed from that moment, that he was no more his own, and that he was obliged to consecrate that life to god, which was so miraculously restored: in effect he did it, and out of acknowledgment to xavier, took the habit of the society. when the mortality was almost ceased, the saint pursued his design of the embassy to china, and treated with don alvarez d'atayda, the governor of malacca, on whom the viceroy had reposed the trust of so important an affair don alvarez had much approved this enterprize, when xavier had first opened it, at his return from japan, and had even promised to favour it with all his power. but envy and interest are two passions, which stifle the most reasonable thoughts, and make men forget their most solemn protestations. the governor had a grudging to pereyra, who, the year before, had refused to lend him ten thousand crowns; and could not endure, that a merchant should be sent ambassador to the greatest monarch in the world. he said, "that certainly that pereyra, whom the viceroy had empowered by his letters, was some lord of the court of portugal, and not james pereyra, who had been domestic servant to don gonsalvo de cotigno," but that which most disturbed him, was, that, besides the honour of such an embassy, the merchant should make so vast a profit of his wares, which he would sell off at an excessive rate in china. the governor said, "that in his own person were to be considered the services of the count his father; and that those hundred thousand crowns, which would be gained at least by pereyra, were a more suitable reward for the son of atayda, than for the valet de chambre of cotigno." with such grating thoughts as these, he sought occasions to break off the voyage; yet he would not declare himself at first; and the better to cover his design, or not to seem unthankful to father xavier, he fed him with fair promises. for the holy man had procured him the command of captain-major of the sea, and himself had brought him the provisions for that place: because when first the father had opened his purpose of going into china, atayda seemed to have espoused the project with great affection, and engaged himself to make it succeed, in case the ports and navigations of the portuguese were once depending on him. to oblige him yet farther, the saint had procured from the viceroy, and brought along with him, certain extraordinary privileges, which had not been comprised in the provisions of the command. and, lastly, that he might wholly gain him at his arrival, finding the governor very sick, he attended him with great diligence, and made himself at once both his nurse and his chaplain, watching by him all the night, and saying mass for him in the morning. but all these offices of friendship wrought nothing on a heart, where jealousy and avarice were predominant. what care soever don alvarez took to conceal his ill intentions, xavier quickly discovered them; and at the same time wrote to pereyra, who was yet at sunda, advising him to come without any equipage, and to affect nothing of magnificence, that he might not farther exasperate an interested and jealous soul. but all the modesty of the ambassador could not hinder the governor from breaking out. at the first noise of his arrival, he sent officers of justice, and soldiers, to the port, with orders to make seizure on the ship called santa cruz, to take away the rudder, and give it into his hands. this was the first act of jurisdiction, which was exercised by don alvarez, as captain of the sea; employing against xavier himself, that authority which had been procured him by xavier, and pushing his ingratitude as far as it could go. in the mean time, to cover his passion with the pretext of public good, according to the common practice of men in power, he protested loudly, that the interests of the crown had constrained him to act in this manner; that he had received information from his spies, that the javans were making preparations of war, to come upon malacca once again; that he could not have too many ships in readiness, against such formidable enemies; and that the santa cruz was of absolute necessity to the king's service. this fable, which was the product of his own brains, was soon exploded by the arrival of some other portuguese vessels, who, coming from the isles of java, made oath, that these barbarians, being engaged amongst themselves in civil wars, had no thoughts of any foreign conquest. don alvarez not being able any longer to support the credit of his tale, pulled off the mask, and stood upon no farther ceremonies. xavier perceiving that the love of lucre was his governing passion, made offers to him, by pereyra, of thirty thousand crowns in pure gift; but the desire of engrossing all the gain, was the reason which prevailed with atayda to refuse it. the treasurer, with the rest of the crown-officers, being come to remonstrate to him, that the king's orders were positive, not to stop the navigation of those merchants, who had paid the duties of the port, he threatened them with his cane, which he held up against them, and drove them out of his chamber with great fury, saying, "that he was too old to be counselled; that, as long as he continued governor of malacca, and captain of the seas, james pereyra should not go to china, either as ambassador, or merchant; and if father xavier was intoxicated with the zeal of converting heathens, he might go to brazil, or to the kingdom of monomotapa." francis pereyra, who was auditor-royal, and who had great credit in the town, not being able, either by his intreaties, or his arguments, to oblige don alvarez to restore the rudder of the santa cruz, would have forced it from him; but this was opposed by xavier, who foresaw, that the soldiers, who kept the rudder, would defend it with the hazard of their lives, and that this affair would have ill consequences. the way which was taken by the holy man, was to send to the governor the grand vicar john suarez, attended by the most considerable persons of the town, to shew him the letters of king john iii., which expressly made out his intentions, that father xavier should extend the faith, as far as he was able, through all the kingdoms of the east, and that the governors should favour him on all occasions. suarez read also to the governor, the letter of the vice-king don alphonso de norogna, in which he declared criminal of state, whosoever should hinder or oppose this particular voyage of the saint. that which ought to have reduced don alvarez to reason, or at least to have terrified him, served only to make him more unreasonable, and more audacious. he rose from his seat, with the action of a madman, and stamping with his foot, sent back the grand vicar, with this dutiful expression: "the king's interest, you say, requires this to be performed; and i will not suffer it to be performed: here i am, and will be master." these outrageous dealings of the governor were not confined to those, who made these remonstrances to him from the father; they extended even to the saint himself, whom he looked on as the author and head of the enterprize. it is incredible what injurious words he gave him, and how rudely he treated him on several occasions; insomuch, that it was the common talk of malacca, that this persecution might pass for the martyrdom of father xavier. the servant of god resented nothing which was done to his own person. he blessed god continually, for giving him occasions of suffering; but he was extremely sensible of what religion and the progress of the gospel suffered, and was often seen to weep abundantly. he ceased not for a month together to solicit the governor; sometimes beseeching him by the wounds of a crucified saviour, sometimes urging him with the fatal consequences of a miserable eternity, and endeavouring to let him understand, what a crime it was to hinder the publication of the gospel; but these divine reasons prevailed as little with don alvarez, as the human had done formerly. this strange obduracy quite overwhelmed the father, when he saw that all these ways of mildness were unsuccessful, and the season of navigation passed away; after he had well consulted god upon it, he concluded, that it was time to try the last remedies. ten years were now expired since his coming to the indies, and hitherto no one person, excepting only the bishop of goa, was made privy to his being the apostolic nuncio. he had kept this secret in profound silence, and had not once exercised his power; but now he thought himself obliged to own it, in a business of so great consequence, and to strike with the thunders of the church, if occasion were, the man who made open war against the church. which notwithstanding, he would not dart the thunderbolt himself, but used the hand of the grand vicar. having sent for him, he began with shewing him one of the briefs of paul iii., which constituted him his nuncio in all the kingdoms of the east. after this, he requested suarez to shew this brief to don alvarez, and to explain to him the censures which were incurred by those, who should oppose the pope's legates in matters of religion, and to exhort him, by what was most holy in the world, to suffer the embassy to proceed. in case of refusal, to threaten him with ecclesiastical punishments from the vicar of jesus christ, and to adjure him at the same time, by the death of the saviour of mankind, to take compassion on himself. xavier had always hoped, that the governor would open his eyes; and in that writing which he gave the vicar to engage him in that nice commission, there were these following words: "i cannot believe that don alvarez can be so hardened, but that he will be mollified, when he shall know the intentions and orders of the holy see." he desired the grand vicar, in the same writing, to send that very paper back to him, together with the answer of don alvarez, that both the one and the other might be an authentic evidence to the bishop of goa, that he had omitted nothing for advancing the embassy; and that if it succeeded not, the fault lay not at his door. suarez proceeded with the governor, according to all the directions which had been traced out to him by the father. but nothing could work upon alvarez. he laughed at the threatenings, and broke out into railing language against the person of xavier, saying loudly, "that he was an ambitious hypocrite, and a friend of publicans and sinners." the grand vicar not being able any longer to endure so outrageous and scandalous an impiety, at length excommunicated the governor, according to the agreement betwixt himself and father xavier. he also excommunicated all his people, who basely flattered the passion of their master, and spoke insolently of the holy see. this excommunication signified little to a man, who had no principles, either of honour, or of religion. without giving himself the least disquiet for the wrath of heaven, or talk of men, he made himself master of the ship santa cruz, and placed in her a captain, with mariners, all of them in his interests, to go and trade at sancian, where the portuguese had established a wealthy traffic. the ill success of the negociation, betwixt the grand vicar and the governor, was very afflicting to father xavier; his heart was pierced with sorrow, and he acknowledged to father francis perez, that he never resented any thing with greater grief. the deplorable condition of don alvarez in the sight of god, the ruin of his friend pereyra, the embassy of china utterly destroyed,--all these made him sigh from the bottom of his soul; and so much the more, because he imputed these so great misfortunes to himself; as he gave pereyra to understand, who lay hidden at malacca, and to whom he expressed himself in writing, because he knew not with what face to see him. "since the greatness of my sins," says he, "has been the reason why god almighty would not make use of us two for the enterprize of china, it is upon myself that i ought, in conscience, to lay the fault. they are my offences, which have ruined your fortunes, and have caused you to lose all your expences for the embassy of china. yet god is my witness, that i love him, and that i love you also; and i confess to you, that if my intentions had not been right, i should be yet more afflicted than i am. the favour which i desire of you, is, that you would not come to see me; for fear, lest the condition to which you are reduced, should give me too much trouble; and that your sorrow might be the occasion of increasing mine. in the mean time, i hope this disgrace of yours may be of advantage to you; for i doubt not but the king will reward your zeal, as i have requested of him by my letters. as for the governor, who has broken our voyage, i have no farther communication with him: god forgive him, i pity him, and lament his condition; for he will soon be punished, and more severely than he thinks." but though father xavier wrote very pressing letters to the king of portugal in favour of pereyra, he wrote nothing against don alvarez; and alvarez himself was witness of it, having intercepted the letters of the father. in effect, he found not the least expression of complaint against him, at which he was wonderfully surprised. the man of god daily offered the sacrifice of the mass for him, and shed many tears at the foot of the altar, to the end he might obtain for him the favour of a sincere repentance. he said one day, he should lose at once, his estate, his honour, and his life; and added, i beseech god that he lose not his soul also. for what remains, though the door of china seemed to be shut upon him, since all hopes of the embassy were vanished, which had facilitated his entrance into that kingdom, yet the saint despaired not of preaching the gospel to the chinese; and a thought came into his head, that if he could get to an isle, which was neighbouring to canton, he might from thence go privately over into the continent; that if he were stopped and put in prison, he should at least preach to the prisoners; that from the prisons, the christian doctrine might spread into the towns, and possibly might reach the court; that perhaps also the great men of the empire, and even the emperor himself, might have the curiosity to see a man who published so new a faith; and then he might gain an opportunity of declaring the whole law of jesus christ. with these considerations, he took up the design of embarking on the santa cruz, which the governor of malacca was sending out for sancian. but seeing that the entry of china could not be attempted by that way which he had proposed without great hazard, he would be the only priest who should expose himself to those dangers; and retaining with him only one brother of the society, the chinese, antonio de sainte foy, and another young indian, he sent balthazar jago, edward silvia, and peter alcaceva, to several employments; the first to the kingdom of bungo, and the two others to amanguchi. during these passages, it happening that john beyro came from the moluccas, to desire some more assistance, for the farther propagation of the faith in those islands, xavier received from him the comfortable news of the great spreading of christianity, and sent him to barzæus, with orders that more companions should be joined to him; and that he should be remanded thither with all expedition. the santa cruz being now upon the point of setting sail, he retired into the church of our lady of the mount, to recommend his voyage to the protection of the blessed virgin. he continued his devotions till the evening; and had also passed the night in prayer, if they had not come to give him notice that the ship had already weighed anchor. the grand vicar, john suarez, who bore him company to the ship, asked him by the way, if he had taken leave of the governor; adding, that if he failed in that point of ceremony, the weaker christians might be scandalized; that it would be a proof of his resentment, and an occasion of public murmur. the saint, who was willing to shew by his example, how excommunicated persons ought to be treated, replied immediately, "don alvarez shall never see me in this life; i expect him at the judgment-seat of god, where he will have a great account to answer." having walked on a little farther, he stopped at a church door, which was near the sea; and, in a transport of spirit, lifting up his eyes to heaven, he prayed aloud for the salvation of the unhappy don alvarez. then he prostrated himself, and was silent for some time, praying from the bottom of his heart to god, with his face to the ground. soon after he rose up with a vehement action, which had somewhat of a holy disdain in it; he took off his shoes, beat them one against another, and afterwards against a stone, saying, "that he would not bear away the dust of an accursed place." he then foretold, with circumstances at large, and more than formerly, the punishment which heaven had prepared for the governor of malacca; and going on board, left the people, who had followed him thus far, astonished at his prophecies, and afflicted at his departure. immediately they set sail, and there were in the vessel above five hundred persons, counting in the passengers and servants. they were already forward on their voyage, when the wind fell on the sudden; and in a moment the waves were laid, and the face of the ocean grew so smooth, that the santa cruz stood still, and moved no more than if she had been at anchor. during this becalming, which lasted fourteen days together, their water failed them, and some died from the first want of it. they rowed on every side with their chalop, to make discovery of some coast where they might find fresh water. being far at sea, they could discern nothing, but the island of formosa, at least they believed it so to be. they endeavoured to gain the shore; but in seven days time, notwithstanding all their attempts, they could not reach it. in the meantime, the ship was full of sick people, who were burnt up with a deadly thirst; and they had all perished, without hope of succour, if one of them, reflecting within himself, that father xavier had been always prevalent with god, had not hinted this notion to the rest; whereupon all of them coming on their knees before him, besought him, with more tears than words, to obtain from heaven either wind or water for them. xavier bade them address themselves to god in their own behalf; caused them to recite the litany on their knees, at the foot of a large crucifix; and then ordered them to retire, but to have confidence in jesus christ. he himself withdrew also into a chamber; from whence coming out some time after, he went down into the chalop with a little child, and having caused him to taste of the sea water, asked him whether it were fresh or salt? the child answering that it was salt, he commanded him to taste again, and the child told him that it was fresh. then the father, returning into the ship, ordered them to fill all their vessels; but some amongst them, being eager to drink, found the water salt. the saint made the sign of the cross over the vessels, and at the same moment the water, losing its natural saltness, became so good, that they all protested it was better than that of bangar, of which the seamen make their ordinary provision, and which is esteemed the best water in all the indies. this miracle so struck some saracen arabs, who were transporting their whole families into china, that, throwing themselves at the feet of the holy man, they acknowledged the god of the christians, and desired baptism. the faithful, on their side, admired father francis; and all of them, in a body, owned the preservation of their lives to him. but the father told them, that it was to god, and not to such a sinner as he was, that they were obliged to pay their thanks. the greatest part of the mariners and passengers kept, out of devotion, some of this water, at the first as a testimony of the miracle, afterwards as a celestial remedy: for the water, being carried to the indies, cured great numbers of sick people; and infusing some small quantity of it into any sort of drink, was sufficient to restore their health. during the navigation, a child of five years old happened to fall into the sea; the vessel, which had a fore-wind, pursuing its course. the father of this child was not to be comforted, and his grief so overwhelmed him, that he kept in private for three days. he was a mahometan, and the miracle of the water had not converted him. at length he appeared in public, but all in tears, and never ceasing to lament the loss of his only son. xavier, who knew nothing of this misfortune, asked him the reason of his sorrow? having learnt it, he stood recollected in himself a little time, and then said, "supposing that god should restore your son to you, would you promise me to believe in jesus christ, and to become a sincere christian?" the infidel promised him; and three days after this, before sun-rising, they saw the child upon the hatches. the child knew not what had become of him for those six days, and only remembered his falling into the sea, not being able to give any account how he returned into the ship. his father was ready to die with joy when he received him; and xavier had no need of putting him in mind of his engagement: he came of his own accord, accompanied by his wife, his son, and his servant; all of them were baptized, and the child was named francis. those of the vessel having been witnesses of these two miracles, spoke of them to the inhabitants of an isle called cincheo, by which they passed, and which was a place of great traffic, full of merchants from several parts. the desire of seeing so admirable a man, caused about sixty persons, some ethiopians, other indians, all idolaters or mahometans, to come into the ship: xavier took the occasion, and preached the gospel to them; withal, instructing them in the holy practices of christianity. he had no sooner ended his exhortation, than they acknowledged jesus christ, and received baptism. while he was christening them, he appeared of a stature much higher than his own; insomuch, that those who were upon the shore near the vessel, believed he had been standing on some bench; but seeing him coming and going, and always appearing of the same height, they thought there might possibly be some miracle in the matter, and were desirous to be satisfied concerning it: stephen ventura went into the ship on purpose, and approaching father xavier, saw that with his feet he touched the hatches, and yet his head was higher than the tallest there, on whom he sprinkled the sacred waters of baptism. ventura likewise observed, that, after he had baptized the company, he returned to his natural proportion. from cincheo the ship pursued her voyage towards sancian, which is but six leagues distant from the continent, over against canton, a town of china. they had sailed far beyond canton, and the mariners believed they were still on this side of it. xavier endeavoured to undeceive them, but they adhered to their first opinion, and they had gone much further out of their way, if the captain, upon the word of the saint, had not struck sail, and cast anchor till the return of the chalop, which he had sent out to discover the neighbouring coast. she was three days before she came back, and all the ship's company imagined that she had been overtaken by some hurricane; but xavier assured them that she should suddenly return, with refreshments sent them by the portuguese of sancian; and that also she should be followed by some vessels, which should come to meet them on their way, and conduct them into the port. all happened as the father had foretold; and the santa cruz, guided by the vessels of sancian, arrived at that island, twenty-three days after her departure from malacca. there are three islands so little distant from each other, that they appear but one; for which reason the chinese, in their language, call them samceu; a word composed of _sam_, which signifies three, and _ceu_, which is to say an island. the chief of these islands, which the portuguese have named sancian, has a convenient and safe port, all crowned with mountains, and forming a semicircle on that side, which looks towards macao. it has few inhabitants who are natives, almost no provisions, and is so barren of itself, so uncultivated and so wild, that it seems rather a place of banishment than of commerce. the chinese had permitted the portuguese to trade thither, to buy their commodities, and sell their own to them, without breaking their fundamental law, of suffering no stranger to set foot within their country; so that the portuguese durst come no nearer the main land, for fear of hazarding their lives, or at least their liberty. neither was it permitted them to build solid houses in the isle; they were only allowed to set up slight cabins, covered with mats, and dressed about with boughs of trees, that they might not always be shut up within their vessels. amongst these merchants there was one who was very rich, and infinitely charitable, but of a gay humour, and pleasant in conversation, addicted to all pleasure which decency permits, and loving not to deny himself any thing which will make life comfortable;--for the rest, most affectionate to father xavier: his name was peter veglio, the same veglio who was with the saint at japan, and who returned in his company. xavier being very desirous of his friend's salvation, exhorted him, from time to time, to mortify his natural inclinations, even sometimes to chastise his body for the expiation of his sins. veglio understood not that latin; whether he was too tender of his own person, or thought his sins were not of a nature to deserve such severities, he could never find in his heart to take up the discipline; but instead of macerations and penances, he gave great alms; and father francis received from him very large supplies, for the relief of such as were in want. one day, the father having need of a certain sum of money, to marry a young orphan virgin, who was poor and handsome, and consequently in danger of being ruined, had recourse to veglio, according to his custom. he found him engaged in play with another merchant; but the business being urgent, he forbore not to request his charity. veglio, who loved to be merry, made as if he were angry with him, and answered thus; "father francis, when a man is losing, he is in no condition of giving alms; and for a wise man as you are, you have made a very gross mistake in this unseasonable demand." "it is always in season to do good," replied xavier; "and the best time for giving money, is when a man has it in his hand." the merchant continuing in the same tone, and seeming to be displeased with the father's company, added, as it were to be rid of him, "here, take the key of my chest; take all my money if you will, and leave me to play my game in quiet." in the merchant's chest were thirty thousand taes, which amount to forty-five thousand crowns of gold. the father took out three hundred crowns, which were sufficient to marry the orphan maiden. some time afterward, veglio counting over his money, and finding the sum was still entire, believed the father had not touched it, and reproached him with want of friendship for not making use of him; whereupon xavier protested to him, that he had taken out three hundred crowns. "i swear to you," said veglio, "that not one of them is wanting; but god forgive you," added he, "my meaning was to have parted the whole sum betwixt us; and i expected, that of my forty-five thousand crowns, you should at least have taken the one moiety." xavier, finding that veglio had spoken very sincerely to him, and out of a pure principle of charity, said, as a man transported out of himself by the spirit of god; "peter, the design you had, is a good work before the eyes of him, who weighs the motions and intentions of the heart; he himself will recompence you for it, and that which you have not given, shall be one day restored to you an hundred-fold. in the meantime, i answer for him, that temporal goods shall be never wanting to you; and when you shall have misfortunes to put you backwards in the world, your friends shall assist you with their purses. i farther declare to you, that you shall not die without being first advertised of the day of your death." after these predictions, veglio was quite changed into another man, applying himself wholly to exercises of piety; and in the condition of a merchant, lived almost the life of a religious. what had been foretold him, that he should have warning of his death, came frequently into his remembrance; and he could not hinder himself one day from asking the saint, at what time, and in what manner, it should be? the saint told him, without pausing, "when you shall find the taste of your wine bitter, then prepare yourself for death, and know that you have but one day more to live." the merchant lived in opulence and splendour, even to an extreme old age. he had several losses in his trade, according to the chance of things which are depending on the sea; but his friends continually relieved him in his necessities, and gave him wherewithal to set up again. at length, being one day at a great entertainment, and more gay than ever, having asked for wine, he found the taste of it was bitter. immediately remembering the prophecy of father xavier, he was seized with an inward horror; which beginning from the soul, spread over his body, as if death had been pronounced against him, or the image of death presented to his eyes. nevertheless, somewhat recovering his spirits, for his farther satisfaction in the point, he desired his fellow-guests at the table to taste the wine out of his glass. all judged it to be excellent, besides himself, who made divers trials of it on his palate. he called for other wines, and another glass; but always found the same bitterness. then, no longer doubting but that his last hour was coming, after he had made an interior sacrifice of his life to god, he related to the company that prediction, which was now accomplished; and arose from the table with the thoughts of a christian, who is disposing himself for death. having distributed his goods betwixt his children and the poor, he went to see his friends, and to give and take the last farewell;--notwithstanding his great age, he was in perfect health. it was thought he doted, and they endeavoured to persuade him out of his melancholy apprehensions. but their arguments prevailed so little on his mind, that he gave orders for his own funeral, and invited his friends to do him the last kind office, of accompanying his corpse to burial. to content him, and to make themselves merry at his folly, they attended him into the church: in their presence he received the viaticum, and the extreme unction, without being sick; afterwards he laid himself upon the bier, and caused them to sing the mass for the dead. the people gathered in a crowd at the strangeness of the report; some drawn by the novelty of the sight, the rest to be eye-witnesses how the prediction of father xavier would succeed. mass being ended, the priest, attended by his inferiors, performed all the ceremonies of the church about the grave, and, at length, sung the last words belonging to a christian burial over the old man, who was alive, and bore his part in the responses. there now remaining no more to do, the servant of veglio coming to help his master off the bier, he found him dead. all the assistants were witnesses of the matter of fact, and every one went home full of admiration of god's mercy towards this merchant, who had been so charitable, and blessing the memory of the holy apostle of the indies. this was not the only prophetical light, which xavier had in the isle of sancian. a ship, which went from macao to japan, appeared in sight of sancian, to be overtaken by a dreadful hurricane. the portuguese, who had great concernments in that vessel, being alarmed at so inevitable a danger, came running for comfort to father xavier; but the father assured them, they had no cause of fear, and that the ship was safely arrived at her port. they kept themselves quiet, upon the assurance of his word, till finding that the ship made no return, which was to stay at japan but some few days, they gave her for lost. xavier reproved their want of faith, and positively told them, that she should come back before the week were ended. in effect, she returned two days afterwards, laden with rich merchandizes, and proud of her escape from the fury of the hurricane. at the same time, xavier was inspired with the knowledge of the quarrel betwixt don alvarez de atayda, governor of malacca, and don bernard de sosa, who was newly arrived from the moluccas; and told the circumstances of it to the portuguese, who, having afterwards the particulars of it from some of malacca, were astonished to find them the very same which the father had related. this miraculous foreknowledge was accompanied by actions as surprising; and without speaking of a dead infant, which xavier restored to life, but whose resurrection is without circumstances in the acts of the saint's canonization, he cleared the country of the tygers, which laid it waste. these furious beasts came in herds together out of the forests, and devoured not only the children, but the men also, whom they found scattered in the fields, and out of distance from the entrenchments which were made for their defence. one night the servant of god went out to meet the tygers, and when they came near him, he threw holy water upon them, commanding them to go back, and never after to return. the commandment had its full effect, the whole herd betook themselves to flight, and from that time forward no tygers were ever seen upon the island. the joy which the portuguese had conceived at the arrival of father xavier, was immediately changed to sadness, when they understood that he had only taken sancian in his way to china. they all endeavoured to dissuade him from it, and set before his eyes the rigorous laws of that government; that the ports were narrowly observed by vigilant and faithful officers, who were neither to be circumvented nor bribed with presents; that the mandarins were cruel to all strangers; that, the year before, some portuguese seamen being cast by tempest on the coast of canton, had been severely whipped, and afterwards inclosed in dark dungeons, where, if they were not already dead, they were still exercised with new punishments; that, for himself, the least he could expect was perpetual imprisonment, which was not the business of an apostle, who designed to run from place to place, and propagate the faith through all the east. these arguments made no impression on the saint; he had fortified his resolution with more potent reasons, and answered the merchants in the same tenor in which he had written to father francis perez, that he could not distrust the divine goodness, and that his distrust would be so much the more criminal, because the powerful inspiration of the holy spirit pushed him forward to teach the chinese the gospel of the living god. "i am elected," said he, "for this great enterprize, by the special grace of heaven. if i should demur on the execution, or be terrified with the hardships, and want courage to attempt those difficulties, would it not be incomparably worse than all the evils with which you threaten me? but, what can the demons and their ministers do against me? surely no more than what is permitted them by the sovereign lord of all the world; and that in giving up myself in this manner, i shall obey my lord jesus, who declares in his gospel, 'that whosoever will save his life shall lose it, and whoever will lose it for my sake, shall find it.' our saviour also says, 'that he who, having put his hand to the plough, shall look behind him, is not fit for the kingdom of heaven.' the loss of the body being then without comparison less to be feared than that of the soul, according to the principles of eternal wisdom, i am resolved to sacrifice a frail and miserable life for everlasting happiness. in fine, i have set up my rest, i will undertake this voyage, and nothing is capable of altering my resolution. let all the powers of hell break loose upon me, i despise them, provided god be on my side; for if he be for us, who shall be against us?" the portuguese being of opinion, that this fixed intention of the man of god was partly grounded on his ignorance of the dangers, which he believed they magnified to him beyond their natural proportion, sent some chinese merchants, with whom they traded, to discourse the business calmly with him; but the matter went otherwise than they had imagined. those chinese, to whom xavier failed not to speak of christianity, and who were men of understanding, advised him to the voyage, instead of dissuading him. they counselled him only to carry books which contained the christian doctrine; and added, that, not long since, the emperor had sent some learned men into the neighbouring kingdoms, to inform themselves of such religions as were different from the received opinions of the chinese; that they believed the christian doctrine would be well received at court; and that it seemed probable to them, that the novelty of so reasonable a belief would make his way who was the first bearer of it. xavier was overjoyed to find a passage opened for the gospel, to the most polite nation of the world; and doubted not but that the christian religion, coming to be compared by judicious men with the other opinions of the east, would have the advantage. being thus encouraged to pursue his purpose, his first business was to provide himself of a good interpreter. for antonio, the chinese, whom he had brought from goa, was wholly ignorant of the language which is spoken at the court, and had almost forgotten the common idiom of the vulgar. he found out another chinese, who had a perfect knowledge of the language of the mandarins, and who could also write excellently well, in which consists the principal knowledge of china. for the rest, he was a man well shaped, of a good presence, of great natural parts, of a pleasing conversation, and, which was above all, he seemed entirely devoted to the christians: he promised all possible good offices,--whether he hoped to make his fortune, by presenting to the emperor one who published a new law, or that god had inspired him with those pious thoughts. there was more difficulty in finding seamen to transport the father; for there was no less venture than that of life, for any one who undertook that business. but interest gives him courage to hazard all, who values money more than life itself. a chinese merchant, called capoceca, offered himself to carry xavier into the province of canton, provided he might be well paid; and asked the value of two hundred pardos[ ]in pepper. the chinese promised to take xavier into his barque by night, and to land him before day on some part of the coast, where no houses were in view; and if this way was thought uncertain, he engaged to hide the father in his own house, and four days after to conduct him, early in the morning, to the gates of canton. but he would have xavier oblige himself also, on his side, to go immediately to the mandarin, with the letters which the viceroy of the indies, and the bishop of goa, had written to the emperor; for the father had still reserved by him those letters which related to the embassy, though the design had been ruined by the governor of malacca. the chinese also exacted an oath of secrecy from the saint, that no torments, however cruel, should bring him to confess either the name or the house of him who had set him on shore. [footnote : a pardo (says tavernier) is of the value of twenty-seven sous, french money; ten of which make about a shilling english.] xavier made as solemn an engagement as he could desire, not without knowledge of the hazard which he ran, as himself related to one of his dearest friends. "i perceive," said he, "two dangers, which are almost inevitable in this affair; on the one side, there is great cause of apprehension, lest the idolatrous merchant, having received the price of my passage, should throw me overboard, or leave me on some desart isle; on the other side, lest the governor of canton should discharge his fury upon me, and make me an example to all strangers, by putting me to a cruel death, or condemning me to perpetual imprisonment. but in case i follow the voice which calls me, and obey my lord, i count my life and liberty at nothing." when the voyage of china was on these terms, and that all things seemed to favour it, the portuguese of sancian put an obstacle in the way, of which xavier had never thought. the appetite of gain made them apprehend, lest his zeal should bring them into trouble; and they said to one another, that the mandarin governor of canton would certainly revenge on them the boldness of their countryman: that he would commission his officers to pillage their ships, and confiscate their effects, and that their lives were not in safety. in this general affrightment, which was not ill grounded, and which increased daily, the wealthier sort addressed themselves to father xavier, and desired him to take compassion on them, and on their wives and children, if he would have no compassion on himself. xavier, who was no less careful for the interests of others, than he was negligent of his own, found an expedient to satisfy them. he engaged his word, that he would not pass over into china, till they had ended all their business, and were gone from sancian. this gave opportunity to the chinese merchant, with whom he had treated, to make a short voyage, under promise, notwithstanding, to return at a time which was prefixed. while these things were thus managed, the father fell sick of a violent fever, which continued on him fifteen days. the portuguese took occasion from thence to tell him, that heaven had declared against the voyage of china; but being recovered, he followed his design with more warmth than ever. while the merchants were lading their ships, he entertained himself day and night with the prospect of converting china; and all his pleasure was to think, how happy he should be, in dispossessing the devil of the largest empire in the world. "if yet," said he, "it shall please almighty god to employ so vile an instrument as i am, in so glorious an undertaking." taken up with these and such-like meditations, he often took his walk along the shore, and turning his eyes towards that desired country, sent out ardent sighs. he said sometimes amongst his friends, that his only wish was to be set down at the gates of canton, and troubled not himself with what might happen afterwards: happy he, if he could once declare the son of god to the chinese, and more happy, if, for his sake, he might suffer martyrdom. in the mean time, all the portuguese vessels, excepting only the santa cruz, which had not yet her whole lading, set sail from sancian for the indies. xavier gave many letters to the merchants, to be delivered both at malacca and at goa. he wrote to his friend james pereyra, in terms which were full of acknowledgment and charity. "almighty god," said he in his letter, "abundantly reward you, since i am not able of myself to do it; at least, while i continue in this world, i shall not fail to implore the divine goodness to confer on you, during your life, his holy grace, accompanied with perfect health, and after your death eternal happiness. but as i am persuaded, that i cannot acquit myself, by these my prayers, of the great obligements which i have to you, i beg all those of our society in the indies, to desire of god the same blessings in your behalf. for what remains, if i compass my entrance into china, and if the gospel enter with me, it is to you, next to almighty god, to whom both the chinese and myself shall be owing for it. you shall have the merit of it in the sight of god, and the glory in the sight of men. thus, both the chinese, who shall embrace the faith, and those of our society, who shall go to china, shall be obliged, to offer, without ceasing, their vows to heaven in favour of you. god grant us both the happiness once to meet in the court of china! as for myself, i am of opinion if i get into that kingdom, and that you come thither, you will either find me a prisoner at canton, or at pequin, which is the capital city of that empire; and i beseech the lord, out of his infinite mercy, that we may be joined together either in the kingdom of china, or at least in the kingdom of immortal glory." he wrote by the same conveyance to father francis perez, superior of malacca. he commanded him, in virtue of holy obedience, to depart with the soonest out of that unhappy town, and to conduct his inferiors to cochin, where he established him rector of the college, in the place of antonio heredia, whom he sent to goa. though father xavier deplored anew, the wretched condition of don alvarez, it hindered him not from enjoining father barzæus, in his letter to him, that he should work the bishop to send his orders to the grand vicar of malacca, therein declaring the governor to be excommunicated. and he took this way, not only because hardened and scandalous offenders, such as don alvarez, ought to incur a public dishonour, by that means to induce them to a serious consideration of their own estate, and that others might take warning by them; but also, that succeeding governors might fear, by the example of his punishment, to set themselves in opposition to any intended voyage of the missioners, who should be sent hereafter to the moluccas, japan, or any other places. he desired father barzæeus, in the same letter, to receive few persons into the society, and to make an exact trial of those whom he should receive: "for i fear," said he, "that many of them who have been admitted, and daily are admitted, were better out of our walls than within them. "you ought to deal with such people, as you have seen me deal with many at goa; and as i have lately treated my companion, whom i have dismissed from the society, not having found him proper for our business." he meant alvarez pereyra, whom he had brought with him from the indies, and whom he sent back from sancian with the portuguese vessels. amongst those merchants who went off from sancian, there was one who made more haste than any of the rest; without giving notice of his departure to the father, whom he had lodged in his cabin, or without waiting for a chinese vessel, which he had bought at the port of canton. one morning while the father was saying mass very early, this merchant had put off from shore, and fled with as much precipitation as if the island was ready to be swallowed by the sea. after mass was ended, he looked round him, and not seeing him for whom he searched, "what is become of my host?" said he, with the looks and gesture of a man inspired. being answered, that he was already in open sea; "what could urge him," continued he, "to so prompt a resolution? why did he not expect the ship which comes from canton? and whither is he dragged by his unhappy destiny?" that very evening the chinese vessel was seen to arrive: as for the fugitive merchant, he was no sooner landed at malacca, when, going into a wood to seek materials for the refitting of his ship, he was poniarded by robbers. all the portuguese vessels being gone, saving only that which belonged to the governor of malacca, or rather of which the governor had possessed himself by violence, xavier was reduced to so great a want of all necessaries, that he had scarcely wherewithal to sustain nature. it is certainly a matter of amazement, that they, whose lives he had preserved by changing the salt sea-water into fresh; should be so hard-hearted as to abandon him to die of hunger. some have thought that don alvarez had given orders, that all things should be refused him; but i rather think, that providence would try him in the same manner, as sometimes god is pleased to prove those whom he loves the best, and permitted that dereliction of him for the entire perfection of the saint. that which most afflicted him, was, that the chinese interpreter, who had made him such advantageous offers, recalled his word, either of himself for fear of danger, or at the solicitation of those who were devoted to the governor of malacca. yet the father did not lose his courage; he still hoped that god would assist him some other way; and that, at the worst, antonio de sainte foy might serve his turn for an interpreter. but for the last load of his misfortunes, the merchant, who had engaged to land him on the coast of china, returned not at the time appointed, and he in vain expected him for many days. despairing of any thing on that side, he still maintained his resolution, and another expedient seemed to promise him success. news was brought him, that the king of siam, whose dominions are almost bordering on malacca, and who also was in league with portugal, was preparing a magnificent embassy to the emperor of china for the year following. whereupon xavier resolved on returning to malacca by the first opportunity, and to use his best endeavours, that he might accompany the ambassador of siam to china. but the eternal wisdom, which sometimes inspires his servants with great designs, does not always will the performance of them; though he wills that on their side nothing be omitted for the execution. god was pleased to deal with xavier as formerly he had dealt with moses, who died in view of that very land whither he was commanded to conduct the israelites. a fever seized on father francis on the th of november; and at the same time he was endued with a clear knowledge of the day and hour of his death; as he openly declared to the pilot of the vessel, francis d'aghiar, who afterwards made an authentic deposition of it by solemn oath. from that moment he perceived in himself a strange disgust of all earthly things, and thought on nothing but that celestial country whither god was calling him. being much weakened by his fever, he retired into the vessel, which was the common hospital of the sick, that there he might die in poverty; and the captain lewis almeyda received him, notwithstanding all the orders of his master don alvarez. but the tossing of the ship giving him an extraordinary headach, and hindering him from applying himself to god, as he desired, the day ensuing he requested that he might be set on shore again. he was landed and left upon the sands, exposed to the injury of the air, and the inclemency of the season, especially to the blasts of a piercing north wind, which then arose. he had there died without relief, had not a portuguese more charitable than the rest, whose name was george alvarez, caused him to be carried into hiscabin; which yet was little different from the naked shore, as being open on every side. the indications of his disease being an acute pain in his side, and a great oppression, alvarez was of opinion that they ought to breathe a vein; and the father was consenting to it, by a blind submission to the judgment of his host, though he knew beforehand that all manner of remedies were in vain. a chirurgeon of the ship, who was awkward at his work, and of small experience in his art, bled him so unluckily, that he hurt the nerves, and the patient fell immediately into swooning convulsions; yet they drew blood from him a second time; and that operation had all the ill accidents of the former. besides which, it was attended with a horrible nauseousness; insomuch, that he could take no nourishment, at least the little which he took, consisted only of some few almonds, which the captain of the vessel sent him out of charity. the disease increased hourly, and he grew weaker every day; but his countenance was still serene, and his soul enjoyed a perpetual calmness. sometimes he lifted up his eyes to heaven, and at other times fixed them on his crucifix, entertaining divine conversation with his god, and not without shedding abundant tears. he remained in this condition till the th of november, when the fever mounted into his head. during this delirium he talked of nothing but of god, and of his passage into china, but in terms more tender and ardent than ever formerly. at length he lost his speech, and recovered not the use of it till three days afterwards: his strength then left him all at once, so that it was expected every moment that he would pass away; which notwithstanding, he once more recovered, and having the free exercise both of his reason and his speech, he renewed his entertainments with his saviour in an audible manner. nothing was to be heard from him but devout aspirations, and short ejaculations of prayer, but those full of life and of affection. the assistants understood not all he said, because he continually spoke in latin; and antonio de sainte foy, who never left him, has only reported, that the man of god made frequent repetition of these words, _jesu, fili david, miserere mei!_ and these also, which were so familiar to him, _sanctissima trinitas_! besides which, invoking the blessed virgin, he would say, _monstra te esse matrem!_ he passed two days without taking any food; and having ordered his priestly habits, and the other church-stuff which he used in saying mass, to be carried aboard the ship, together with those books which he had composed for the instruction of the eastern people, he disposed himself for his last hour, which was near approaching. besides antonio de sainte foy, he had near his person a young indian, whom he had brought with him from goa. the saint, dying as he was, cast his eyes on the young man, and appeared discomposed in looking on him; afterwards, with a compassionate regard, he twice pronounced these words, "ah miserable man!" and afterwards shed tears. god, at that moment, was pleased to reveal to xavier, the unhappy death of this young indian, who, five or six months afterwards, falling into most horrible debauches, was killed on the place by the shot of an arquebuse. so that the spirit of prophecy accompanied the holy man, even to his last breath. at last, on the d of december, which fell on friday, having his eyes all bathed in tears, and fixed with great tenderness of soul upon his crucifix, he pronounced these words, _in te, domine, speravi, non confundar in aeternum_; and at the same instant, transported with celestial joy, which appeared upon his countenance, he sweetly gave up the ghost, towards two of the clock in the afternoon, and in the year of god . he was six-and-forty years of age, and had passed ten-and-a-half of them in the indies. his stature was somewhat above the middle size; his constitution strong; his air had a mixture of pleasingness and majesty; he was fresh-coloured, had a large forehead, a well-proportioned nose; his eyes were blue, but piercing and lively; his hair and beard of a dark chesnut; his continual labours had made him gray betimes; and in the last year of his life, he was grizzled almost to whiteness. this without question gave occasion to his first historians to make him five-and-fifty years old, before the certain proofs of his age came at length to be discovered. when it was known that father francis was expired, many of the ship, and even the most devoted to the governor, ran to the cabin. they found the same fresh colour on his face as he had when living, and at the first sight could hardly persuade themselves that he was dead. when they had looked on him at a nearer distance, piety began to be predominant over all their other thoughts: they kneeled down by him, and kissed his hands with reverence, recommending themselves to him, with tears in their eyes, as nothing doubting but that his happy soul was perfectly enjoying god in heaven. his corpse was not laid into the ground till sunday towards noon. his funerals were made without any ceremony; and, besides antonio de sainte foy, francis d'aghiar, and two others, there were not any more assistants. an historian of the indies has written, that the unsupportable coldness of that day, was the occasion of it. but in all probability, the apprehension which the ship's company had of drawing on themselves the displeasure of the governor, don alvarez, had at least as great a share in it as the sharpness of the season. they took off his cassock, which was all in tatters; and the four, who had paid him those last duties, divided it amongst them, out of devotion; after which they arrayed him in his sacerdotal habits. george alvarez took upon himself the care of bestowing the body in a large chest, made after the chinese fashion; he caused this chest to be filled up with unslaked lime; to the end that, the flesh being soon consumed, they might carry the bones in the vessel, which within some few months was to return to india. at the point of the haven there was a little spot of rising ground, and at the foot of this hillock a small piece of meadow, where the portuguese had set up a cross. near that cross they interred the saint: they cast up two heaps of stones, the one at his head, the other at his feet, as a mark of the place where he was buried. in the mean season, god made manifest the holiness of his servant in the kingdom of navarre, by a miraculous accident, or rather by the ceasing of a miracle. in a little chapel, at the castle of xavier, there was an ancient crucifix made of plaster, of about the stature of a man. in the last year of the father's life, this crucifix was seen to sweat blood in great abundance every friday, but after xavier was dead the sweating ceased. the crucifix is to be seen even at this day, at the same place, with the blood congealed along the arms and thighs, to the hands and sides. they, who have beheld it, have been informed by the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, that some persons of that country having taken away some of the flakes of that clotted blood, the bishop of pampeluna had forbidden any one from henceforward to diminish any part of it, under pain of excommunication. they also learnt, that it had been observed, according; to the news which came from the indies, that at the same time when xavier laboured extraordinarily, or that he was in some great danger, this crucifix distilled blood on every side; as if then, when the apostle was actually suffering for jesus christ, jesus christ was suffering for him, notwithstanding that he is wholly impassible. the ship, which was at the port of sancian, being at the point of setting sail for the indies, antonio de sainte foy, and george alvarez, desired the captain, luys almeyda, not to leave upon the isle the remainders of father francis. one of the servants of almeyda opened the coffin, by the order of his master, on the th of february, , to see if the flesh were totally consumed, so that the bones might be gathered together; but having taken the lime from off the face, they found it ruddy and fresh-coloured, like that of a man who is in a sweet repose. his curiosity led him farther to view the body; he found it in like manner whole, and the natural moisture uncorrupted. but that he might entirely satisfy all doubts and scruples, he cut a little of the flesh on the right thigh, near the knee, and beheld the blood running from it. whereupon he made haste to advertise the captain of what he was an eye-witness; and carried with him a little piece of flesh, which he had cut off, and which was about a finger's length. all the company ran immediately to the place of burial, and having made an exact observation of the body, found it to be all entire, and without any putrefaction. the sacerdotal habits, with which he had' been vested after his disease, were nowise damaged by the lime. and what was most amazing to them all, was, that the holy corpse exhaled an odour so delightful, and so fragrant, that, by the relation of many there present, the most exquisite perfumes came nothing near it, and the scent was judged to be celestial. then those very people, who, basely to comply with the brutality of alvarez, had misused father xavier in his life, after his decease did honours to him; and many of them asked his pardon with weeping eyes, that they had forsaken him so unworthily in his sickness. some amongst them exclaimed openly againt alvarez, without fearing the consequence; and there was one who said aloud, what was said afterwards by the viceroy of the indies, don alphonso de norogna, "that alvarez de atayda had been the death of father francis, both by his persecutions at malacca, and by the cruelties of his servants at sancian." with these pious meditations, having laid the unslaked lime once more upon the face and body, the sacred remains were carried into the ship; and not long after they set sail, esteeming themselves happy to bear along with them so rich a treasure to the indies. they arrived at malacca, march , without meeting in their passage any of those dreadful whirlwinds which infest those seas; as if the presence of this holy corpse was endued with virtue to dispel them. before they had gained the port, they sent in their chalop to give them notice in the town of the present which they were about to make them: though none of the society were in malacca, and that the plague was there violently raging, yet the whole nobility, and all the body of the clergy, came with james pereyra to the shore, to receive the blessed body, each with a waxen taper in his hand, and carried it in ceremony to the church of our lady of the mount, followed by a crowd of christians, mahometans, and idolaters, who on this occasion seemed all to be joined in the same religion. don alvarez was the only person who was wanting in his reverence to the saint: he was then actually at play in his palace, while the procession was passing by; and, at the noise of the people, putting his head out at the window, he miscalled the public devotion, by the names of silliness and foppery; after which, he set him again to gaming. but his impiety did not long remain unpunished, and the predictions of the man of god made haste to justify their truth. the viceroy of the indies, upon the complaints which were brought against don alvarez for his tyrannical proceedings, deprived him of the government of malacca; and causing him to be brought to goa as a prisoner of state, sent him to portugal under a sufficient guard. there all his goods were confiscated to the king's exchequer; and for himself, he was condemned to perpetual imprisonment before his departure from the indies, he had gotten an obscene disease, which increased to that degree in europe, that he died of it at last in a shameful manner, no remedy availing to his cure; the stench of his polluted body having first made him insupportable to all the world. as for pereyra, who had sacrificed his whole estate for the benefit of souls, and propagation of the faith, though the governor had so unjustly made a seizure of his fortunes, yet king john iii. restored him all with interest, and heaped his royal favours on him in succeeding years, according to the prediction of the father. but the devotion of the people failed not of an immediate reward. the pestilence, which for some weeks had laid waste the town, as the saint had foretold not long before his death, in his letter to father francis perez, on the sudden ceased; insomuch, that no infection was from thenceforward caught; and they, who had been infected, were cured, without taking any remedy. besides this contagious disease, the famine raged to that degree, that multitudes of people daily died of hunger. this second judgment was likewise diverted at the same time; for, together with the vessel, which bore the sacred body, there came in a fleet of ships, which were laden with all manner of provisions, to supply the necessities of the town. these so considerable favours ought to have obliged the inhabitants to have honoured the body of their benefactor with a sepulchre which was worthy of him. in the mean time, whether the fear of their governor withheld them, or that god permitted it for the greater glory of his servant, having taken the body out of the chest, they buried it without the church, where the common sort of people were interred; and, which was yet more shameful, they made the grave too scanty; so that crushing the body to give it entrance, they broke it somewhere about the shoulders, and there gushed out blood, which diffused a most fragrant odour. and farther, to carry their civility and discretion to the highest point, they trampled so hard upon the earth, which covered the blessed corpse, that they bruised it in many parts; as if it had been the destiny of that holy man to be tormented by the people of malacca, both during his life, and after his decease. the sacred corpse remained thus without honour, till the month of august, when father john beyra came from goa, in his return to the moluccas, with two companions whom gaspar barzæus, the vice-provincial, had given him, pursuant to the orders of father xavier. this man, having always had a tender affection for the saint, was most sensibly afflicted for his death; and could not think of continuing his voyage to the moluccas, till he had looked upon the body, of which so many wonders were related. opening himself on that subject to james pereyra, and two or three other friends of the dead apostle, they took up his body privately one night. the corpse was found entire, fresh, and still exhaling a sweet odour; neither had the dampness of the ground, after five months burial, made the least alteration in him: they found even the linen which was over his face tinctured with vermilion blood. this surprising sight so wrought upon their minds, that they thought it their duty, not to lay it again into the ground, but rather to contrive the means of transporting it to goa. pereyra ordered a coffin to be made of a precious wood, and after they had garnished it with rich china damask, they put the corpse into it, wrapping it in cloth of gold, with a pillow of brocard underneath the head. the coffin was afterwards bestowed in a proper place, known only to the devoted friends of father xavier; and it pleased the almighty to declare, by a visible miracle, that their zeal was acceptable to him: for a waxen taper, which they had lighted up before the coffin, and which naturally must have burnt out within ten hours, lasted eighteen days entire, burning day and night; and it was observed, that the droppings of the wax weighed more than the taper itself at the beginning. in the mean time an occasion offered for the voyage of the moluccas, while they were waiting for an opportunity of passing to goa. beyra, therefore, put to sea, more inflamed than ever with the zeal of souls; and filled with a double portion of an apostolic spirit, which the sight of the saint had inspired into him. but of the two companions which had been assigned for the mission of the moluccas, he left one behind him at malacca, to be a guardian of that holy treasure, and this was emanuel pavora. peter de alcaceva at the same time returned from japan, whither he had been sent from goa, for the affairs of that new christianity. and both of them, not long after, carried the holy corpse along with them in the vessel of lopez de norogna. the ship was so old and worn, and out of all repair, that none durst venture to embark upon her. but when once it was divulged, that it was to carry the corpse of father francis, every one made haste to get a corner in her, not doubting but there they might be safe. and the passengers had no cause to repent them of their confidence; for, in effect, god delivered them, more than once, miraculously from shipwreck. a furious tempest, almost at their first setting out, cast them upon banks of sand, and the keel struck so far into it, that they could not get her off; when, against all human appearances, the wind coming about, and blowing full in their faces, disengaged the vessel; and, that it might manifestly appear to be the hand of god, the blast ceased that very moment when the keel was loosened from the sands. not long after, at the entry into the gulph of ceylon, they struck impetuously against some hidden shelves, the rudder flying off with the fury of the stroke, the keel stuck fast within the rock; and it was a miracle that the vessel, being so crazy, did not split asunder. the mariners did that on this occasion, which is commonly put in practice in extremity of danger: they cut the masts with their hatchets, but that being of no effect, they were going to throw all their lading overboard, to ease the ship; but the fury of the waves, which beat upon her on every side, and outrageously tossed her, suffered them not to perform what they desired. then they had their last recourse to the intercession of that saint, whose corpse they carried. having drawn it out of the pilot's cabin, they fell on their knees about it with lighted flambeaux; and, as if father xavier had been yet living, and that he had beheld and heard them, they begged succour of him from that eminent destruction. their prayer was scarcely ended, when they heard a rumbling noise from underneath the vessel; and at the same time, perceived her following her course in open sea: from whence they concluded, that the rock was cleft in pieces, and had left a free passage for the ship. they pursued their voyage cheerfully; and turning towards the cape of comorine, landed at cochin. the whole city came to pay their last duty to their instructor and beloved father; and it is incredible what demonstrations of piety the people gave. from cochin they set sail for baticula. the wife of antonio rodriguez, one of the king's officers, who had long been sick, was in hope to recover, if she could see father francis. she caused herself to be carried to the ship, and at the sight of the dead saint, was restored to her health at the same moment. not satisfied with this, she was desirous to have a little piece of the cope, with which the father was habited; and it is wonderful what cures she effected by that precious relique. the ship being now within twenty leagues of goa, and being unable to make any farther way, because of the contrary winds, the captain went into the chalop, with some of his people, and got to the town by the help of oars, that himself might have the honour of bearing the first news to the viceroy, and the fathers of the society, that the blessed corpse was coming to them. father caspar barzæus was already dead, and father melchior nugnez declared his successor in his two offices, of rector of the college, and vice-provincial of the indies, in virtue of the letter which father xavier had left sealed behind him when he went for china, and which was opened after the death of gaspar, according to the orders of xavier himself. the viceroy immediately ordered a light galley for nugnez; upon which he and three others of the society embarking, together with four young men of the seminary, they set sail towards the vessel, to bear off the body of the saint. they received it with the honourable discharge of all the cannon, not only from the ship of lopez, but from six other vessels which were in company, and which had been wind-bound towards baticula. on the th of march, in the year , the galley landed at rebendar, which is within half a league of goa; she remained there the rest of that day, and all the night; while they were making preparations in the town, for the solemn reception of the holy apostle of the indies. the next morning, which was friday in passion week, six barks were seen to come, which were all illuminated with lighted torches, and pompously adorned, wherein was the flower of the portuguese nobility. twelve other barks attended them, with three hundred of the principal inhabitants, each of them holding a taper in his hand; and in every one of these barks, there was instrumental music of all sorts, and choirs of voices, which made an admirable harmony. the whole squadron was drawn up into two wings, to accompany the galley, which rowed betwixt them. the body of the saint was covered with cloth of gold, which was the present of pereyra, and was placed upon the stern, under a noble canopy, with lighted flambeaux, and rich streamers waving on both sides of it, in this equipage, they rowed towards goa, but very softly, and in admirable order. all the town was gathered on the shore, in impatient expectation of their loving and good father. when they perceived the vessel from afar, there was nothing to be heard but cries of joy, nothing to be seen but tears of devotion. some, more impatient than the rest, threw themselves into the sea, and swimming up to the galley, accompanied it to the shore in the same posture. the viceroy was there waiting for it, attended by his guards, the remaining part of the nobility, the council royal, and the magistrates, all in mourning. at the time when the holy corpse was landing, a company of young men, consecrated to the service of the altars, sung the _benedictus dominus deus israel._ in the mean while, they ordered the ceremony of the procession after this ensuing manner:-- ninety children went foremost, in long white robes, with chaplets of flowers on their heads, and each of them holding in his hand an olive branch. the brotherhood of mercy followed them, with a magnificent standard. the clergy succeeded to the brotherhood, and walked immediately before the corpse, which was carried by the fathers of the society. the viceroy, with his court, closed up the ceremony, which was followed by an innumerable multitude of people. all the streets were hung with tapestry; and when the blessed corpse appeared, flowers were thrown upon it from all the windows, and from the tops of houses. but nothing rendered the pomp more famous, than the miracles which at that time were wrought; for there seemed to breathe out from this holy body, a saving virtue, together with a celestial odour. many sick persons, who had caused themselves to be carried out into the streets, were cured with only seeing it; and even some, who were not able to leave their beds, recovered their health with the bare invocation of his name. jane pereyra was of this number; after a sickness of three months, being almost reduced to a despair of life, she had no sooner implored the assistance of the saint, but she found herself in a perfect state of health. another young maiden, who was just at the point of death, and held the consecrated taper in her hand, having been recommended by her mother to the patronage of the saint, came suddenly to herself, and rose up well recovered, while the procession was passing by the house. after many turns and windings, at last they proceeded to the college of st paul; and there set down the coffin, in the great chapel of the church. a retrenchment had been made before the chapel, to keep off the crowd; but it was immediately broken down, notwithstanding the opposition of the guards, which were placed on purpose to defend it. to appease the tumult, they were forced to shew the saint three times successively, and to hold him upright, that he might more easily be seen by the longing multitude. it was also thought convenient to leave the body exposed to view, for three days together, for the comfort of the inhabitants, who were never weary with gazing on it; and who, in gazing, were pierced with a sensible devotion. new miracles were wrought in presence of the holy body. the blind received their sight, those who were taken with the palsy recovered the use of their limbs, and the lepers became clean as babes. at the sight of these miraculous cures, the people published aloud all those wonderful operations, which they knew to have been performed by father xavier; and his old companion john deyro, at that time a religious of the order of st francis, related, with tears of tenderness and devotion, what the saint had prophesied of him, which was now accomplished. in the mean time, on that very day, which was friday, the canons of the cathedral solemnly sung the high mass of the cross. the clay following, the religious of st francis, whom the man of god had always honoured, and tenderly affected, came to sing the mass of the blessed virgin, in the church of the society. when in this manner the public devotion had been accomplished, on sunday night the coffin was placed on an eminence near the high altar, on the gospel side. in this place i ought not to omit, that the vessel which had borne this sacred pledge to goa, split asunder of itself, and sunk to the bottom, so soon as the merchandizes were unloaded, and all the passengers were come safe on shore; which was nothing less than a public declaration of almighty god, that he had miraculously preserved her in favour of that holy treasure; and that a ship which had been employed on so pious an occasion, was never to be used on any secular account. as soon as it was known in europe that father xavier was dead, they began to speak of his canonization. and on this account, don john the third, king of portugal, gave orders to the viceroy of the indies, don francis barreto, to make a verbal process of the life and miracles of the man of god. this was executed at goa, at cochin, at the coast of fishery, at malacca at the moluccas, and other parts; and men of probity, who were also discerning and able persons, were sent upon the places, heard the witnesses, and examined the matters of fact, with all possible exactness. it is to be acknowledged, that the people took it in evil part, that these informations were made; being fully satisfied of the holiness of the saint, and not being able to endure that it should be doubted in the least; in like manner, neither would they stay, till all the ecclesiastical proceedings were wholly ended, nor till the holy see had first spoken of rendering him the worship due to saints; they invoked him already in their necessities, and particularly in all sorts of dangers. some of them placed his picture in their oratories; and even the archbishop of goa, don christopher de lisbonne, (for the episcopal see had been erected into an archbishopric,) the archbishop, i say, wore on his breast an image of xavier in little, which he often kissed with a reverent affection: and his devotion was not without reward; for, having been cruelly tormented with the stone, for a month together, he was freed immediately from it, and felt not any farther pains. it also happened, that in many places of the indies the new converts built churches in honour of father francis, through a precipitate and indiscreet devotion, which their good meaning and their zeal are only capable of excusing. amongst those churches, there was one much celebrated, on the coast of travancore. the saracens having demolished it, together with eleven other ancient structures of piety, the christians, who, by reason of their poverty, were not able to rebuild them all, restored only this one church, which was dearer to them than any of the rest. for what remains, in what place soever any churches were dedicated to the father, there never failed a wonderful concourse of people to honour the memory of the holy man; and, according to the relation of francis nugnez, vicar of coulan, they were obliged to sink a well for the relief of poor pilgrims near the church, which was built in honour of him at that town. nugnez also reports, "that those which had been consecrated to the apostles, and other saints, in a manner lost their titles, when once the image of st xavier was there exposed; and that the people, turning all their devotion towards him, were wont to call them the churches of father francis." but what was most to be admired, even the professed enemies of jesus christ paid him reverence after his decease, as well as during his life; calling him, "the man of prodigies, the friend of heaven, the master of nature, and the god of the world." some of them undertook long voyages, and came to goa, expressly to behold his body exempted from corruption, and which, only excepting motion, had all the appearance of life. there were amongst the gentiles, who spoke of raising altars to him; and some people of the sect of mahomet did, in effect, dedicate a mosque to him, on the western coast of comorine. the king of travancore, though a mahometan, built a magnificent temple to him; and the infidels had so great a veneration for that place, where the great father was adored, that they durst not spit upon the ground, if we may believe the testimony of those who were natives of the country. the pagans had a custom, that, in confirmation of a truth, they would hold a red-hot iron in their hands, with other superstitions of the like nature; but after that father francis came to be held in so great veneration through the indies, they swore solemnly by his name; and such an oath was generally received for the highest attestation of a truth. neither did any of them forswear themselves unpunished after such an oath; and god authorized, by many proofs, this religious practice, even by manifest prodigies. behold a terrible example of it: an idolater owed a christian a considerable sum of money; but as he denied his debt, and no legal proof could be made of it, the christian obliged him to swear in the church, upon the image of st francis: the idolater made a false oath without the least scruple; but was scarcely got into his own house, when he began to void blood in abundance at his mouth, and died in a raging fit of madness, which had the resemblance of a man possessed, rather than of one who was distracted. neither was his memory less honoured in japan than in the indies. the christians of the kingdom of saxuma kept religiously a stone, on which he had often preached, and shewed it as a precious rarity. the house wherein he had lodged at amanguchi, was respected as a sacred place; and was always preserved from ruin, amidst those bloody wars, which more than once had destroyed the town. for what remains, the indians and japonians were not the only people which honoured father xavier after his decease; the odour of his holy life expanded itself beyond the seas into other heathen countries where he had never been. and alphonso leon barbuda, who has travelled over all the coasts of afric, reports, that in the kingdoms of sofala, beyond the great river of cuama, and in the isles about it, the name of father francis was in high repute; and that those moors never mentioned him, but with the addition of a wonderful man so many illustrious testimonies, and so far above suspicion, engaged the king of portugal anew to solicit the canonization of the saint; and in that prospect there was made an ample collection of his virtues, of which i present you with this following extract. no exterior employments, how many, or how great soever, could divert the father from the contemplation of celestial things. being at goa, his ordinary retirement, after dinner, was into the clock-house of the church, to avoid the interruption of any person; and there, during the space of two hours, he had a close communication with his god. but because he was not always master of himself on those occasions, so as to regulate his time, and that he was sometimes obliged to leave his privacy, he commanded a young man of the seminary of sainte foy, whose name was andrew, to come and give him notice when the two hours, to which he was limited, were expired. one day, when the father was to speak with the viceroy, andrew, being come to advertise him, found him seated on a little chair, his hands across his breast, and his eyes fixed on heaven. when he had looked on him a while attentively, he at length called him; but finding that the father answered not, he spoke yet louder, and made a noise. all this was to no purpose, xavier continued immovable; and andrew went his way, having some scruple to disturb the quiet of a man, who had the appearance of an angel, and seemed to enjoy the pleasures of the souls in paradise, he returned, nevertheless, about two hours after, and found him still in the same posture. the young man fearing that he should not comply with duty, if, coming the second time, he should not make himself be heard, began to pull the father, and to jog him. xavier at length returning to himself, was in a wonder at the first, that two hours should so soon be slipped away; but coming to know, that he had remained in that place beyond four hours, he went out with andrew, to go to the palace of the viceroy. he had scarcely set his foot over the threshold, when he seemed to be ravished in spirit once again. after he had made some turns, without well knowing whither he went, he returned as night was beginning to come on, and said to his attendant, "my son, we will take another time to see the governor; it is the will of god, that this present day should be wholly his." another time, walking through the streets of the same city, his thoughts were so wholly taken up with god, that he perceived not a furious elephant, who, being broken loose, caused a general terror, and every man made haste out of his way. it was in vain to cry out to the father, that he might avoid him; he heard nothing, and the enraged beast passed very near him without his knowledge. in his voyages at sea, he continued earnestly in prayer, from midnight even to sun-rising, and that regularly. from thence it came almost to a proverb amongst the seamen, "that nothing was to be feared in the night, because father francis watched the vessel; and the tempests durst not trouble them, while he held conversation with god." a man of manapar, at whose house he lodged, and who observed him at divers hours of the night, found him always on his knees before a crucifix, and frequently beheld the chamber enlightened by the rays which darted from his countenance. while he was sojourning among christians, the small repose he gave to nature was commonly in the church; to the end he might be near the blessed sacrament, before which he prayed all the remainder of the night. but in countries where yet there were no churches built, he passed the night in the open air; and nothing so much elevated his soul to god as the view of heaven, spangled over, and sowed, as it were, with stars; and this we have from his own relation. the pope had permitted him, in consideration of his employments and apostolical labours, to say a breviary which was shorter than the roman, and had but three lessons: it was called the "office of the cross," and was easily granted in those times to such who were overburdened with much business. but xavier never made use of this permission, what affairs soever he was pressed withal, for the service of almighty god: on the contrary, before the beginning of every canonical hour, he always said the hymn of _veni, creator spiritus_; and it was observed, that while he said it, his countenance was enlightened, as if the holy ghost, whom he invoked, was visibly descended on him. he daily celebrated the sacrifice of the mass with the same reverence and the same devotion with which he had said it the first time, and most ordinarily performed it at break of day. those heavenly sweets which overflowed his soul at the altar, spread their mild inundations even over the assistants; and antonio andrada reported of himself, that, being then a young soldier, he found such an inward satisfaction when he served the father, in serving at mass, that, in that consideration, he sought the occasions of performing the clerk's office. in the midst of his conversations with secular men, the saint was often called aside of god, by certain sudden illuminations which obliged him to retire; and when afterwards they sought him, he was found before the holy sacrament, in some lonely place, engulphed in deep meditations, and frequently suspended in the air, with beams of glory round his countenance. many ocular witnesses have deposed this matter of fact; but some have affirmed, that at first they have found him on his knees immovable; that they have afterwards observed, how by degrees he was mounted from the earth; and that then, being seized with a sacred horror, they could not stedfastly behold him, so bright and radiant was his countenance. others have protested, that while he was speaking to them of the things of god, they could perceive him shooting upward, and distancing himself from them on the sudden, and his body raising itself on high of its own motion. these extraordinary ravishments, which bore some manner of proportion to the glory of the blest above, happened to him from time to time during the sacrifice of the mass, when he came to pronounce the words of consecration; and he was beheld elevated in that manner, particularly at meliapore and at malacca. the same was frequently observed at goa, while be was communicating the people; and what was remarkable, as it was then the custom to give the sacrament in kneeling, he appeared to be lifted from the earth in that humble posture. for common extasies, he had them almost every day, especially at the altar, and after the sacrifice of the mass: insomuch, that many times they could not bring him to himself, with pulling him by the robe, and violently shaking him. the delights which he enjoyed at such a time, are only to be comprehended by such souls, which have received from heaven the like favours. nevertheless, it is evident, that if it be possible for man to enjoy on earth the felicities of heaven, it is then, when the soul, transported out of itself, is plunged, and as it were lost, in the abyss of god. but it was not only in these extatic transports, that xavier was intimately united to our lord: in the midst of his labours, he had his soul recollected in god, without any dissipation caused by the multitude or intricacy of affairs; insomuch, that he remained entire in all he did, and at the same time whole in him, for whose honour he was then employed. this so close and so continual an union, could only proceed from a tender chanty: the divine love burning him up in such a manner, that his face was commonly on fire; and both for his interior and outward ardour, they were often forced to throw cold water into his bosom. frequently in preaching and in walking, he felt in himself such inward scorching, that, not being able to endure it, he was constrained to give himself air, by opening his cassock before his breast; and this he has been seen to do on many occasions, in the public places at malacca and at goa, in the garden of st paul's college, and in the sandy walks of the sea-shore. almost every hour, words of life and fire burst and sallied as it were from out his mouth, which were indeed the holy sparkles of a burning heart. as for example, "o most holy trinity! o my creator! o my jesus! o jesus, the desire of my soul!" he spoke these words in latin, that he might not be understood by the common people: and being on the coast of fishery, at the kingdom of travancore, and at the moluccas, he was heard to speak so many times every day these words, _o sanctissima trinitas!_ that the most idolatrous barbarians, when they found themselves in extreme dangers, or that they would express their amazement at any thing, pronounced those very words, without understanding any thing more of them than that they were holy and mysterious. even sleep itself had not the power to interrupt those tender aspirations; and all the night long he was heard to say, "o my jesus, my soul's delight!" or other expressions as full of tenderness, which shewed the inclination of his heart. being out of his senses by the violence of a burning fever, both at mozambique and at sancian, he spoke of god, and to god, with more fervency than ever; insomuch, that his delirium seemed only to be a redoubling of his love. he was so sensible of the interests of the divine majesty, that, being touched to the quick with the enormity of those crimes that were committed in the new world, he wrote to a friend of his, in these very terms:--"i have sometimes an abhorrence of my life, and would rather chuse to die than to behold so many outrages done to jesus christ, without being able either to hinder or to repair them." for the rest, that he might always keep alive the fire of divine love, he had incessantly before his eyes the sufferings of our lord. at the sight of the wounds and of the blood of a crucified god, he fell into sighs and tears, and languishments, and extasies of love. he was consumed with the zeal of returning his saviour life for life; for martyrdom was his predominant passion, and his sentiments are a continual proof of it. "it sometimes happens, through a singular favour of the divine goodness," says he in one of his letters, "that for the service of god we run ourselves into the hazard of death. but we ought to bear in mind, that we are born mortal; and that a christian is bound to desire nothing more than to lay down his life for jesus christ." from thence proceeded that abundant joy which he conceived, when the faithful poured out their blood for faith; and he wrote to the fathers at rome, on occasion of the massacre of the baptized manarois;--"we are obliged to rejoice in jesus christ, that martyrs are not wanting, not even in our decaying times; and to give him thanks, that, seeing so few persons make the right use of his grace for their salvation, he permits that the number of the happy shall be completed through the cruelty of men." "admirable news," says he elsewhere, "is lately come from the moluccas; they who labour there in the lord's vineyard suffer exceedingly, and are in continual hazard of their lives i imagine that the isles del moro will give many martyrs to our society, and they will soon be called the isles of martyrdom. let our brethren then, who desire to shed their blood for jesus christ, be of good courage, and anticipate their future joy. for, behold at length a seminary of martyrdom is ready for them, and they will have wherewithal to satisfy their longings." the same love which inspired him with the desire of dying for our saviour, made him breathe after the sight and the possession of god. he spoke not but of paradise, and concluded almost all his letters with wishing there to meet his brethren. but his charity was not confined to words and thoughts,--it shone out in his works and actions, and extended itself to the service of his neighbour. xavier seemed to be only born for the relief of the distressed; he loved the sick with tenderness, and to attend them was what he called his pleasure: he sought out not only wherewithal to feed them but to feast them; and for that purpose begged from the portuguese the most exquisite regalios, which were sent them out of europe. he was not ashamed of going round the town with, a wallet on his back, begging linen for the wounded soldiers; he dressed their hurts, and did it with so much the more affection, when they were the most putrified and loathsome to the smell. if he happened to meet with any beggar who was sinking under sickness, he took him in his arms, bore him to the hospital, prepared his remedies, and dressed his meat with his own hands. though all the miserable were dear to him, yet he assisted the prisoners after a more particular manner, with the charities which he gathered for them; and in goa, which was the common tribunal of the indies, he employed one day in the week in doing good to such who were overwhelmed with debts. if he had not wherewithal to pay off their creditors entirely, he mollified them at least with his civilities, and obliged them sometimes to release one moiety of what was owing to them. the poor, with one common voice, called him their father, and he also regarded them as his children. nothing was given him, but what passed through his hands into theirs, who were members of jesus christ; even so far as to deprive himself of necessaries. he heaped up, as i may call it, a treasury of alms, not only for the subsistence of the meaner sort, who are content with little, but for the maintenance of honourable families, which one or two shipwrecks had ruined all at once; and for the entertainment of many virgins of good parentage, whom poverty might necessitate to an infamous course of living. the greatest part of the miracles, which on so many occasions were wrought by him, was only for the remedy of public calamities, or for the cure of particular persons; and it was in the same spirit, that, being one day greatly busied in hearing the confessions of the faithful at goa, he departed, abruptly in appearance, out of the confessional, and from thence out of the church also, transported with some inward motion, which he could not possibly resist: after he had made many turns about the town, without knowing whither he went, he happened upon a stranger, and having tenderly embraced him, conducted him to the college of the society. there that miserable creature, whom his despair was driving to lay violent hands upon himself, having more seriously reflected on his wicked resolution, pulled out the halter, which he had secretly about him, and with which he was going to have hanged himself, and gave it into the father's hands. the saint, to whom it was revealed, that extreme misery had reduced the unhappy wretch to this dismal melancholy, gave him comfort, retained him in the college for some time, and at length dismissed him with a round sum of money, sufficient for the entertainment of his family. he recommended, without ceasing, his friends and benefactors to our lord; he prayed both day and night for the prosperity of king john iii. of portugal, whom he called the true protector of all the society: but the persecutors of the saint had a greater share in his devotions than any others; and at the same time when he was treated so unworthily by the governor of malacca, he daily offered for him the sacrifice of the mass. he was used to say, that to render good for evil, was in some sort a divine revenge; and he revenged himself in that very sort on the governor of comorine, which, in one of his letters is thus attested: "my dear brother in jesus christ, (thus he wrote to father mansilla,) i hear uncomfortable news, that the governor's ship is destroyed by fire; that his houses also are burnt down; that he is retired into an island, and has nothing left him, even for the necessary provisions of life. i desire you, out of christian charity, to go with the soonest to his relief, with your christians of punical: get what barks you can together, and load them with all manner of provisions; i have written earnestly to the chief of the people, that they furnish you with all things necessary, and especially with fresh water, which, as you know, is very scarce in those desart islands. i would go in person to the assistance of the governor, if i thought my presence might be acceptable to him; but of late he hates me, and has written that he could not say, without giving scandal, all the evils i have done him. god and man can bear me witness, if ever i have done him the least prejudice." his charity towards his neighbour has principally appeared in what he did for the conversion of souls. it is difficult to enumerate all his travels by land, and his voyages by sea; and if any one would take that pains, it might be thought he had scarce the leisure to do any thing but travel. without mentioning his journey's from france to italy, and from italy to portugal, he went from lisbon to mozambique, and from mozambique to melinda, to socotoro, and in fine to goa. from goa he passed to cape comorine, and to the fishing-coast, from thence to cochin, and returning to goa, came back to the coast of fishery, entered far into the islands, and returned to the fishery, from whence he travelled to the kingdom of travancore, which is seated to the west. after he had run over all these coasts, he was a second time at cochin and at goa; from goa he took the way of cambaya, and having crossed that whole region, which lies extended from the mouth of the river indus, as far as cochin, he made the tour of cape cori, and went to the islands of ceylon, of manar, and of las vaccas. there he took shipping for negapatan, and from thence undertook the voyage of meliapor, along the coasts of coromandel. from meliapor he set sail for malacca, from malacca he descended towards the equinoctial, which having passed, he entered into the southern hemisphere, as far as the isle of banda, and those of amboyna, nuliager, ulate, baranura, rosalao, and others without name, unknown even to seamen and geographers. in sequel of these voyages, he turned towards the moluccas, was at ternata, and passed from thence to the isles del moro. went again to ternata and amboyna, repassed the equator, and returned to malacca; from thence, by sea, he regained the port of cochin; but immediately after his arrival departed for the coast of fishery and ceylon. after this he returned to goa, and drew downward on the same coast for bazain; from bazain he returned once more to goa and cochin. he passed a-new from goa to cochin, and from cochin to goa; from thence following the coast as far as cape comorine, he set sail towards malacca. having there made some little stay, he continued his course northward, and coasting certain isles in sight of china, came at length to japan. after he had made some courses there, during the space of two years, from cangoxima to firando, from. firando to amanguchi, from amanguchi to meaco, from meaco back to amanguchi, and from thence to bungo, he put once more to sea, touched at the isle of sancian, and was driven by tempest on the isle of mindanao, one of the phillippinas. once again he went to malacca, and to goa; from goa, he repassed the fifth time to malacca, and from thence arrived at sancian, where death concluded all his travels. behold the sequel of the voyages of the indian apostle francis xavier! i have omitted a vast number of islands and regions, where we are satisfied he carried the light of the gospel; i say i have not mentioned them, because the time is not precisely known, when he made these voyages. for what remains, i undertake not to reckon up the leagues which he has travelled, (the supputation would be difficult to make,) and content myself to say in general, that, according to the rules of our geographers, who have exactly measured the terrestrial globe, if all his courses were to be computed, they would be found to be many times exceeding the circumference of this world. in the mean time, the least of his business, in all his travels, was to travel: and they who were best acquainted with him, report of him, what st chrysostom said of the apostle st paul, "that he ran through the world with an incredible swiftness, and as it were on the wing," yet not without labour, nor that labour without fruit, but preaching, baptizing, confessing, disputing with the gentiles, rooting out idolaters, reforming manners, and throughout establishing the christian piety. his apostolical labours were attended with all the incommodities of life; and if those people were to be credited, who the most narrowly observed him, it was a continual miracle that he lived; or rather the greatest miracle of xavier was not to have revived so many dead, but not to die himself of labour, during the incessant sweat of ten years toiling. his zeal alone sustained him; but how painful soever were the functions of his ministry, he acquitted himself of them with so much promptitude and joy, that, by the relation of father melchior nugnez, he seemed to do naturally all he did. these are the very words of nugnez: "the father, master francis, in labouring for the salvation of the saracens and idolaters, seemed to act not by any infused or acquired virtue, but by a natural motion: for he could neither live, nor take the least pleasure, but in evangelical employments; in them he found even his repose; and to him it was no labour to conduct others to the love and knowledge of his god." thus also, whensoever there was the least probability that the faith might be planted in any new country of the gentiles, he flew thither in despite of all threatening difficulties. the certain number is not known of those whom he converted, but the received opinion amounts it to seven hundred thousand souls. which notwithstanding, it ought not to be believed that he instructed them but lightly; for before he christened them, he gave them a thorough insight into all the principles of faith. according to their different conditions, his instructions were also different. he had some which were proper to youth, others for wives, for widows, for servants, and for masters. he never changed places till he had left behind him a solid establishment of faith, and capable of preserving itself on its own basis. and in effect, of all the countries which he made christian, there is none to be found which relapsed into idolatry, excepting only the town of tolo; and not that neither for any long continuance. but it is well known, that the people, who, during the space of fifteen or sixteen years, had not seen the face of any priest, or even of any christian stranger, have been found instructed in religion, and as fervent in the practice of good works, as if they had but newly received baptism. it is known, that many of those converts were not less firm in their belief, than the prince of the isle of rosalao, whom pedro martinez protests to have heard say, "that though all the world should arm against him, they should never be able to tear out of his heart that persuasion which father francis had inspired into him." we know farther, that some of them having been made captives by the pagans, have preserved their faith entire in the midst of heathenism; and have chosen rather to lose their lives in torments, than renounce their saviour jesus christ. the saint was accustomed to desire earnestly of god, the conversion of the gentiles, in the sacrifice of the altar; and for that very end, said a most devout prayer, which he composed in latin; and is thus rendered in our language. "o eternal god, creator of all things, mercifully remember, that the souls of infidels are the work of thy hands, and that they are created to thy resemblance. behold, o lord, how hell is filled with them, to the dishonour of thy name. remember that jesus christ thy son, for their salvation, suffered a most cruel death; permit not, i beseech thee, that he should be despised by those idolaters. vouchsafe to be propitiated by the prayers of the church, thy most holy spouse, and call to mind thy own compassion. forget, o lord, their infidelity, and work in such manner, that at length they may acknowledge for their god, our saviour jesus christ, whom thou hast sent into the world, and who is our salvation, our life, our resurrection, by whom we have been redeemed from hell, and to whom be all glory now and evermore. amen." the industry which the saint employed in converting the nations of the east, or in strengthening their conversion, was of various sorts. in those places where he preached the gospel, he erected crosses on the seashore, on hills, and in public passages, to the end, that the view of that sign of our salvation might give the gentiles the curiosity to know the meaning of it, or to inspire them with religious thoughts, if they had already heard speak of jesus christ. as it was impossible for him to preach always, or in all places, he writ many instructions relating to faith and to good manners, some more ample, and others more brief, but all in the languages of the converted nations; and it was by these instructions, in writing, that the children learned to read. the saint also composed devout hymns, and set the lord's prayer in musical numbers, to be sung, together with the angelical salutation, and the apostles' creed. by these means he banished those ribald songs and ballads, which the new christians were accustomed to sing before they had received baptism; for those of xavier were so pleasing, to men, women, and children, that they sung them day and night, both in their houses, and in the open fields. but amongst all the means which the father used for the conversion of infidels, the most efficacious was this: so soon as he entered into a country of idolaters, he endeavoured to gain to god those persons who were the most considerable, either for their dignity, or by their birth, and especially the sovereign; not only because the honour of jesus christ requires, that crowned-heads should be subject to him, but also, that, by the conversion of princes, the people are converted. so much authority there resides in the example of a monarch, over his subjects, in every nation of the world. he was of easy conversation to all sorts of persons, but more familiar with the greatest sinners, not seeming to understand that they were keepers of mistresses, blasphemers, or sacrilegious persons. he was particularly free in his converse with soldiers, who are greater libertines, and more debauched, in the indies than elsewhere; for, that they might the less suspect him, he kept them company; and because sometimes, when they saw him coming, they hid their cards and dice, he told them, "they were not of the clergy, neither could they continue praying all the day; that cheating, quarrelling, and swearing, were forbid to gamesters, but that play was not forbidden to a soldier." sometimes he played at chess himself, out of compliance, when they whom he studied to withdraw from vice were lovers of that game; and a portuguese gentleman, whose name was don diego norogna, had once a very ill opinion of him for it. this cavalier, who had heard a report of xavier, that he was a saint-like man, and desired much to have a sight of him, happened to be aboard of the same galley. not knowing his person, he enquired which was he, but was much surprised to find him playing at chess with a private soldier; for he had formed in his imagination, the idea of a man who was recollected and austere, one who never appeared in public, but to discourse of eternity, or to work miracles: "what, in the name of god," said norogna, "is this your saint! for my part, i believe not one syllable of his sanctity, and am much deceived if he be not as arrant a priest as any of his fellows." don pedro de castro, his comrade, and cousin, took pains, to little purpose, to persuade norogna of the wonderful things which had been wrought by xavier: norogna still adhered to his opinion, because he always found the father cheerful, and in good humour. the whole company going ashore on the coast of malabar, he perceived xavier taking a walk by himself into a wood, and sent after him one of his servants to observe his actions: the servant found the man of god raised from the ground into the air; his eyes fixed on heaven, and rays about his countenance. he ran to give notice of his discovery to his master; who, upon the report, came thither, and was himself a witness of it. then norogna was satisfied that xavier was truly a saint, and that his holiness was not incompatible with the gaiety of his conversation. by these methods the apostle of the indies attracted the hearts of the soldiery to himself, before he gained them to our lord. he took almost the same measures with the merchants; for he seemed to be concerned for nothing more than for their interests: he gave his benediction to the vessels which they were sending out for traffic, and made many enquiries concerning the success of their affairs, as if he had been co-partner with them. but while he was discoursing with them of ports, of winds, and of merchandizes, he dexterously turned the conversation on the eternal gains of heaven: "how bent are our desires," said he, "on heaping up the frail and perishable treasures of this world, as if there were no other life besides this earthly being, nor other riches besides the gold of japan, the silks of china, and the spices of the moluccas! ah, what profits it a man to gain the universe, and lose his soul?" these very words, which father ignatius had formerly used to xavier, in order to loosen him from the world, were gotten familiar to him, and he had them frequently in his mouth. in respect of the new christians, his conduct was altogether fatherly. he suffered their rough and barbarous behaviour; and required no more from them in the beginning, than what might be expected then from people of base extraction, and grown inveterate in vice as they were generally poor, he took a particular care of their families; and obtained from the king of portugal, that the paravas should be discharged from certain excessive yearly tributes. he protected them more than once from the fury of their neighbouring nations, who made war against them out of hatred to the faith, and induced the governor of the indies to send a royal army to their relief; he saved them even from the violence of the officers, who despoiled them of their goods through avarice, and set bounds to the unjust exactions of those griping ministers, by threatening to complain of them both to king john the third, and to the cardinal infante, who was grand inquisitor. as the sin of impurity was the reigning vice in india amongst the portuguese, he applied himself, in a particular manner, to withdraw them from their voluptuous living. the first rule of his proceeding was to insinuate himself into the favour, not only of the concubinarians, but of their mistresses; and he compassed this by the mildness of his aspect, by the obligingness of his words, and sometimes by good offices. yet we cannot think that the conversions of sinners cost him only these addresses. before he treated with them concerning the important business of their souls, he treated with god at the holy altars; but to render his prayers more efficacious, he joined them with all manner of austerities. having notice that three portuguese soldiers, belonging to the garrison of amboyna, had lived for five years past in great debauchery, he got their good wills by his engaging carriage, and wrought so well, that these libertines, as wicked as they were, lodged him in their quarters during a whole lent, so much they were charmed with his good humour. but while he appeared thus gay amongst them in his outward behaviour, for fear of giving them any disgust of his company, he underwent most rigorous penances to obtain the grace of their conversion, and used his body so unmercifully, that he was languishing for a month of those severities. when xavier had reduced his penitents to that point at which he aimed, that is, when he had brought them to confession, they cost him not less pains than formerly. he always begged of god their perseverance with his tears; and frequently, when he had enjoined them some light penance, paid for them the remainder of their debts with bloody disciplining of his own body. but when he lighted on intractable and stubborn souls, he left them not off for their contumacy, but rather sought their good opinion; and, on occasion, shewed them a better countenance than usual, that thence they might be given to understand how ready he was for their reception. when he went from ternata to amboyna, he left but two persons who were visibly engaged in vice: the first opportunity which the vessels had of repassing to ternata, he writ expressly to one of his friends, that he should salute those two scandalous sinners with all tenderness from him, and let them know, that, upon the least sign which they should make him, he would return to hear their confessions. but these condescensions, and this goodness of the apostle, had nothing in them of meanness, or of weakness; and he knew well enough to make use of severity when there was occasion for it. thus, a lady who had accused herself in confession, to have looked upon a man with too alluring an eye, was thus answered by him: "you are unworthy that god should look on you; since, by those encouraging regards which you have given to a man, you have run the hazard of losing god." the lady was so pierced with these few words, that, during the rest of her life, she durst never look any man in the face. by all these methods, xavier made so many converts. but whatever he performed, he looked on it as no more than an essay; and he wrote, in the year , that if god would be pleased to bestow on him yet ten years more of life, he despaired not but these small beginnings would be attended with more happy consequences. this ardent desire of extending farther the dominion of jesus christ, caused him to write those pressing letters to the king of portugal, and father ignatius, that he might be furnished with a larger supply of missioners: he promised, in his letters, to sweeten the labour of the mission, by serving all his fellows, and loving them better than himself. the year he died, he writ, that when once he had subdued the empire of china, and that of tartary, to the sceptre of jesus christ, he purposed to return into europe by the north, that he might labour in the reduction of heretics, and restoration of discipline in manners; that after this he designed to go over into africa, or to return into asia, in quest of new kingdoms, where he might preach the gospel. for what remains, though he was ever forming new designs, as if he were to live beyond an age, yet he laboured as if he had not a day to live, and so tugged at the work which he had in hand, that two or three days and nights passed over his head without once thinking to take the least manner of nourishment. in saying his office, it often happened to him to leave, for five or six times successively, the same canonical hour, for the good of souls, and he quitted it with the same promptitude that afterwards he resumed it: he broke off his very prayers when the most inconsiderable person had the least occasion for him; and ordered, when he was in the deepest of his retirements, that if any poor man, or even but a child, should desire to be instructed, he might be called from his devotions. no man perhaps was ever known to have run more dangers, both by land and sea, without reckoning into the account the tempests which he suffered in ten years of almost continual navigation. it is known, that being at the moluccas, and passing from isle to isle, he was thrice shipwrecked, though we are not certain of the time or places; and once he was for three days and nights together on a plank, at the mercy of the winds and waves. the barbarians have often shot their arrows at him, and more than once he fell into the hands of an enraged multitude. one day the saracens pursued him, and endeavoured to have stoned him; and the brachmans frequently sought after him to have murdered him, even to that point of merciless barbarity, as to get fire to all the houses where they imagined he might lie concealed. but none of all these dangers were able to affright him; and the apprehension of dying could never hinder him from performing his ordinary functions. it seemed that even dangers served to the redoubling of his courage, and that, by being too intrepid, he sometimes entered into the extreme of rashness. being at japan, he reprehended the king of amanguchi so severely for the infamy and scandal of his vices, that father john fernandez, (who served him for interpreter, as being more conversant than the saint in the language of the court) was amazed and trembled in pronouncing what the father put into his mouth; as we are given to understand in a letter written by the same fernandez. xavier, one day perceiving the fear of his companion, forbade him absolutely either to change or soften any of his words: "i obeyed him," says fernandez, "but expected every moment when the barbarian should strike me with his scymiter, and confess my apprehensions of death were as much too great, as the concernment of father francis was too little." in effect, he was so far from fearing death, that he looked on it as a most pleasing object. "if we die for so good a cause," said xavier on another occasion, "we ought to place it amongst the greatest benefits we receive from god; and shall be very much obliged to those, who, freeing us from a continual death, such as is this mortal life, shall put us in possession of an eternal happiness: so that we are resolved to preach the truth amongst them, in despite of all their threatenings, and, encouraged by the hopes of divine assistance, obey the precept of our saviour, who commands us to prefer the salvation of others above our lives." in the most hazardous undertakings, he hoped all things from god, and from thence drew his assurance of daring all things. behold what he says himself concerning his voyage of japan: "we set out full of confidence in god, and hope, that, having him for our conductor, we shall triumph over all his enemies. "as to what remains, we fear not to enter into the lists with the doctors of japan; for what available knowledge can they have, who are ignorant of the only true god, and of his only son our lord jesus? and besides, what can we justly apprehend, who have no other aim than the glory of god and jesus christ, the preaching of the gospel, and the salvation of souls? supposing that we were not only in a kingdom of barbarians, but in the very dominion of devils, and that naked and disarmed, neither the most cruel barbarity, nor the rage of hell, could hurt us without god's permission. we are afraid of nothing but offending god almighty; and provided that we offend not him, we promise ourselves, through his assistance, an assured victory over all our enemies. since he affords sufficient strength to every man for his service, and for avoiding sin, we hope his mercy will not be wanting to us. but as the sum of all consists in the good or evil use of his benefits, we also hope he will give us grace to employ ourselves for his glory, by the prayers of his spouse, and our holy mother the church, and particularly by the intercession of our society, and those who are well affected to it. our greatest, comfort proceeds from this, that god beholds the scope of this our voyage, that our only aim is to make known the creator of the universe to souls which are made after his own image; to bring those souls to give him the worship due to him, and to spread the christian religion through all regions. "with these encouragements, we doubt not but the issue of our voyage will be prosperous; and two things especially seem to assure us, that we shall vanquish all the opposition of hell; the one is the greatness of our holy enterprize, the other is the care of divine providence, whose dominion is of no less extent over devils than over men. i acknowledge, that in this voyage, i foresee not only great labours, but also dangers of almost inevitable death; and this imagination is frequently presented to my thoughts, that if those of our society, who are endued with the greatest stock of knowledge, should come into the indies, they would certainly accuse us of too much rashness, and would be apt to think, that, in exposing ourselves to these manifest dangers, we tempted god. nevertheless, upon a more serious reflection, i cease to fear; and hope that the spirit of our lord, which animates our society, will regulate their judgments concerning it. for my own particular, i think continually on what i have heard our good father ignatius often say, that those of our society ought to exert their utmost force in vanquishing themselves, and banish from them all those fears which usually hinder us from placing our whole confidence in god. for, though divine hope is purely and simply the grace of god, and that he dispenses it, according to his pleasure, nevertheless, they who endeavour to overcome themselves, receive it more frequently than others. as there is a manifest difference betwixt those, who, abounding with all things, trust in god, and those, who, being sufficiently provided with all necessaries, yet bereave themselves of them, in imitation of jesus christ; so is there also, in those who trust in god's providence, when they are out of danger, and those who, with the assistance of his grace, dare voluntarily expose themselves to the greatest hazards, which are in their proper choice and power to shun." it was in the spirit of this holy confidence, that the saint, writing to simon rodriguez, speaks in this manner to him:-- "our god holds in his hand the tempests which infest the seas of china and japan; the rocks, the gulphs, and banks of sands, which are formidably known by so many shipwrecks, are all of them under his dominion. he is sovereign over all those pirates which cruize the seas, and exercise their cruelties on the portuguese: and for this reason i cannot fear them; i only fear lest god should punish me for being too pusillanimous in his service; and so little capable, through my own frailty, of extending the kingdom of his son amongst those nations who know him not." he speaks in the same spirit to the fathers of goa, in giving them an account of his arrival at japan: "we are infinitely obliged to god, for permitting us to enter into those barbarous countries, where we are to be regardless, and in a manner forgetful of ourselves; for the enemies of the true religion, being masters every where, on whom can we rely, but on god alone? and to whom can we have recourse besides him? in our countries, where the christian faith is flourishing, it happens, i know not how, that every thing hinders us from reposing ourselves on god; the love of our relations, the bonds of friendship, the conveniences of life, and the remedies which we use in sickness; but here, being distant from the place of our nativity, and living amongst barbarians, where all human succours are wanting to us, it is of absolute necessity that our confidence in god alone should be our aid." but the saint perhaps never discoursed better on this subject, than in a letter written at his return from the moluccas, after a dangerous navigation. his words are these: "it has pleased god, that we should not perish; it has also pleased him, to instruct us even by our dangers, and to make us know, by our own experience, how weak we are, when we rely only on ourselves, or on human succours. for when we come to understand the deceitfulness of our hopes, and are entirely diffident of human helps, we rely on god, who alone can deliver us out of those dangers, into which we have engaged ourselves on his account: we shall soon experience that he governs all things; and that the heavenly pleasures, which he confers on his servants on such occasions, ought to make us despise the greatest hazards; even death itself has nothing in it which is dreadful to them, who have a taste of those divine delights; and though, when we have escaped those perils of which we speak, we want words to express the horror of them, there remains in our heart a pleasing memory of the favours which god has done us; and that remembrance excites us, day and night, to labour in the service of so good a master: we are also enlivened by it to honour him during the rest of our lives, hoping, that, out of his abundant mercy, he will bestow on us a new strength, and fresh vigour, to serve him faithfully and generously, even to our death." "may it please the divine goodness," he says elsewhere, "that good men, whom the devil endeavours to affright in the service of god, might fear no other thing besides displeasing him, in leaving off what they have undertaken for his sake. if they would do this, how happy a life would they then lead! how much would they advance in virtue, knowing, by their own experience, that they can do nothing of themselves, but that they can do all things by the assistance of his grace!" he said, "that our most stedfast hold in dangers and temptations, was to have a noble courage against the foe of our salvation, in a distrust of our own strength, but a firm reliance on our lord, so that we should not only fear nothing under the conduct of such a general, but also should not doubt of victory." he said also further, "that, in those dangerous occasions, the want of confidence in god was more to be feared, than any assault of the enemy; and that we should run much greater hazard in the least distrust of the divine assistance, in the greatest dangers, than in exposing ourselves to those very dangers." he added, lastly, "that this danger was so much the more formidable, the more it was hidden, and the less that we perceived it." these thoughts produced in the soul of this holy man an entire diffidence of himself, together with a perfect humility. he was the only discourse of the new world; infidels and christians gave him almost equal honour; and his power over nature was so great, that it was said to be a kind of miracle, when he performed no miracle but all this served only to raise confusion in him; because he found nothing in himself but his own nothingness; and being nothing in his own conceit, he could not comprehend, how it was possible for him to be esteemed. writing to the doctor of navarre, before his voyage to the indies, he told him, "that it was a singular grace of heaven to know ourselves; and that, through the mercy of god, he knew himself to be good for nothing." "humbly beseech our lord," he wrote from the indies to father simon rodriguez, "that i may have power to open the door of china to others; where i am, i have done but little." in many other passages of his letters, he calls himself an exceeding evil man; a great sinner; and conjures his brethren to employ their intercessions to god in his behalf. "bring to pass, by your prayers," says he to one of them, "that though my sins have rendered me unworthy of the ministerial vocation, yet god may vouchsafe, out of his infinite goodness, to make use of me." "i beseech you," says he to another, "to implore the heavenly assistance for us; and to the end you may do it with the greater fervency, i beseech our lord, that he would give you to understand, how much i stand in need of your intercession." "it is of extreme importance to my consolation," he writes to the fathers of goa, "that you understand the wonderful perplexity in which i am. as god knows the multitude and heinousness of my sins, i have a thought which much torments me; it is, that god perhaps may not prosper our undertakings, if we do not amend our lives, and change our manners: it is necessary, on this account, to employ the prayers of all the religious of our society, and of all our friends, in hope that, by their means, the catholic church, which is the spouse of our lord jesus, will communicate her innumerable merits to us; and that the author of all good will accumulate his graces on us, notwithstanding our offences." he attributed all the fruits of his labours to an evident miracle of the divine power, which made use of so vile and weak an instrument as himself, to the end it might appear to be the work of god. he said, "that they who had great talents, ought to labour with great courage for the safety of souls; since he, who was wanting in all the qualities which are requisite to so high a calling, was not altogether unprofitable in his ministry." as he had a mean opinion of himself, and that his own understanding was suspected by him, he frequently, by his letters, requested his brethren of italy, and portugal, to instruct him in the best method of preaching the gospel profitably. "i am going," said he, "to publish jesus christ, to people who are part idolaters, and part saracens; i conjure you, by jesus christ himself, to send me word, after what manner, and by what means, i may instruct them. for i am verily persuaded, that god will suggest those ways to you, which are most proper for the easy reduction of those people into his fold; and if i wander from the right path, while i am in expectation of your letters, i hope i shall return into it, when i shall have received them." all that succeeded well to his endeavours in the service of our lord, he attributed to the intercession of his brethren. "your prayers," he writ to the fathers at rome, "have assuredly obtained for me the knowledge of my infinite offences; and withal the grace of unwearied labouring, in the conversion of idolaters, notwithstanding the multitude of my sins." but if the designs which he was always forming, for the advancement of religion, happened to be thwarted, he acknowledged no other reason of those crosses than his own sins, and complained only of himself. as for those miracles which he continually wrought, they passed, in his opinion, as the effects of innocence in children, or for the fruits of faith in sick persons. and when, at the sight of a miraculous performance, the people were at any time about to give him particular honours, he ran to hide himself in the thickest of a forest; or when he could not steal away, he entered so far into the knowledge of himself, that he stood secure from the least temptation of vain glory. it even seemed, that the low opinion which he had of his own worth, in some sort blinded him, in relation to the wonders which he wrought, so that he perceived not they were miracles. it was the common talk at goa, that he had raised the dead on the coast of fishery. after his return to goa, james borba and cozmo annez, his two intimate friends, requested him to inform them, for god's further glory, how those matters went; and particularly they enquired concerning the child who was drowned in the well. the holy man, at this request, hung down his head, and blushed exceedingly: when he was somewhat recovered of his bashfulness, "jesus," said he, "what, i to raise the dead! can you believe these things of such a wretch as i am?" after which, modestly smiling, he went on, "alas, poor sinner that i am! they set before me a child, whom they reported to be dead, and who perhaps was not; i commanded him, in the name of god, to arise; he arose indeed, and there was the miracle." ordognez cevalio, who travelled almost round the world, tells us, in the relations of his voyages, that, in india, he happened to meet a japonese, who informed him, in a discourse which they had together of these particulars: "know," said he, "that being in japan, a bonza by profession, i was once at an assembly of our bonzas, who, upon the report of so many miracles as were wrought by father francis xavier, resolved to place him in the number of their gods; in order to which, they sent to him a kind of embassy; but the father was seized with horror at the proposition of their deputies. having spoken of god to them, after a most magnificent and elevated manner, he spake of himself in terms so humble, and with so much self-contempt, that all of us were much edified by his procedure; and the greatest part of us seriously reflecting, rather on his carriage than his words, from priests of idols, which we were, became the worshippers of jesus christ." he shunned the offices of the society, and believed himself unworthy of them. "i cannot tell you," wrote he from cochin to father ignatius, "how much i stand obliged to the japonese; in favour of whom, god has given me clearly to understand the infinite number of my sins; for till that time, i was so little recollected, and so far wandered out of myself, that i had not discovered, in the bottom of my heart, an abyss of imperfections and failings. it was not till my labours and sufferings in japan, that i began at length to open my eyes, and to understand, with god's assistance, and by my own experience, that it is necessary for me to have one, who may watch over me, and govern me. may your holy charity be pleased, for this reason, to consider what it is you do, in ranging under my command so many saint-like souls of the fathers and brethren of our society. i am so little endued with the qualities which are requisite for such a charge, and am so sensible that this is true, through god's mercy, that i may reasonably hope, that, instead of reposing on me the care of others, you will repose on others the care of me." he infinitely esteemed those missioners who were his seconds; and accounted his own pains for nothing, in comparison of theirs. after having related, what had been performed by father francis perez in malacca; "i confess, my brethren," said he to paul de camerino and antonio gomez, "that, seeing these things, i am ashamed of myself; and my own lazy cowardice makes me blush, in looking on a missioner, who, infirm and languishing as he is, yet labours without intermission in the salvation of souls." xavier more than once repeats the same thing in his letter, with profound sentiments of esteem for perez, and strange contempt of his own performances. he recommends not any thing so much to the gospel-labourers as the knowledge of themselves, and shunning of pride; and we need only to open any of his letters, to behold his opinions on that subject, "cultivate humility with care, in all those things which depraved nature has in horror; and make sure, by the assistance of divine grace, to gain a thorough knowledge of yourselves; for that understanding of ourselves is the mother of christian humility. beware especially, lest the good opinion, which men have conceived of you, do not give you too much pleasure: for those vain delights are apt to make us negligent; and that negligence, as it were by a kind of enchantment, destroys the humility of our hearts, and introduces pride instead of it. "be distrustful of your proper strength, and build nothing upon human wisdom, nor on the esteem of men, by these means you will be in condition to bear whatsoever troubles shall happen to you; for god strengthens the humble, and gives him courage; he is proof against the greatest labours, and nothing can ever separate him from the charity of jesus christ; not the devil with his evil angels, nor the ocean with its tempests, nor the most brutal nations with all their barbarity. and if god sometimes permits that the devil put impediments in his way, or that the elements make war against him, he is persuaded, that it is only for the expiation of his sins, for the augmentation of his merits, and for the rendering him more humble. "they who fervently desire to advance god's glory, ought to humble themselves, and be nothing in their own opinion; being diffident, even in the smallest matters, of their own abilities; to the end, that in great occasions, becoming much more diffident of themselves, through a principle of christian humility, they may entirely confide in god; and this confidence may give them resolution; for he who knows that he is assisted from above, can never degenerate into weakness. "whatever you undertake will be acceptable in the sight of god, if there appear in your conduct a profound humility, and that you commit the care of your reputation into his hands; for he himself will not be wanting to give you both authority and reputation with men, when they are needful for you; and when he does it not, it is from his knowledge that you will not ascribe to him that which only can proceed from him. i comfort myself with thinking, that the sins of which you find yourselves guilty, and with which you daily upbraid your own consciences, produce in you an extreme horror of windy arrogance, and a great love of perfection; so that human praises will become your crosses, and be useful to admonish you of your failings. "take heed of yourselves, my dearest brethren; many ministers of the gospel, who have opened the way of heaven to other men, are tormented in hell for want of true humility, and for being carried away with a vain opinion of themselves; on the contrary, there is not to be found in hell one single soul which was sincerely humble." these are the instructions which the saint gave in general to his brethren on the subject of humility; and, next, behold some particular admonitions which were addressed to some amongst them:-- "i conjure you to be humble and patient towards all the world," says he to father cyprian, who preached the gospel at meliapore; "for, believe me, nothing is to be done by haughtiness and choler, when it cannot be accomplished by modesty and mildness." he continues; "we deceive ourselves, in exacting submission and respect from men, without any other title to it than being members of our society, and without cultivating that virtue which has acquired us so great an authority in the world; as if we rather chose to recommend ourselves by that credit and reputation, than by the practice of humility and patience, and those other virtues by which our society has maintained its dignity and honour with mankind." "be mindful," writes he to father barzaesus, who was rector of' the college of goa, "to read frequently the instructions which i have left with you, particularly those which concern humility; and take an especial care in considering what god has done by you, and by all the labourers of the society, that you do not forget yourself: for my own particular, i should be glad, that all of you would seriously think how many things god leaves undone, because you are wanting to him in your fidelity; and i would rather that consideration should employ your thoughts, than those great works which it has pleased our lord to accomplish by your ministry; for the first reflection will cover you with confusion, and make you mindful of your weakness; but, instead of that, the second will puff you up with vanity, and expose you to the danger of having thoughts of arrogance." this well-grounded humility in xavier, was the principle of a perfect submission to the will of god. he never undertook any thing without consulting him before-hand; and the divine decrees were his only rule. "i have made continual prayers," says he, speaking of his voyage to macassar, "to know what heaven requires of me; for i was firmly resolved not to be wanting on my part to fulfil the will of god, whensoever it should be made known to me. may it please our lord," said he on the same subject, "that out of his goodness we might understand what he designs by us, to the end we might entirely conform ourselves to his holy will so soon as it shall be discovered to us; for he commands us to be always in a readiness to obey him at the first signal; and it becomes us to be as strangers in this world, always prepared to follow the voice of our conductor." "i wish," said he, in another place, "that god would declare to us his most holy will, concerning the ministries and countries where i may best employ my labours for his glory. i am ready, by his grace, to execute those things which he makes me understand to be most pleasing to him, of whatsoever nature they may be; and, undoubtedly, he has admirable means of signifying his good pleasure to us; such as are our inward sentiments and heavenly illuminations, which leave no remaining scruple concerning the place to which he has designed us, nor what we are to undertake for his service. for we are like travellers, not fixed to any country through which we pass. it is our duty to be prepared to fly from one region to another, or rather into opposite regions, where the voice of heaven shall please to call us. east and west, north and south, are all indifferent to me, provided i may have an opportunity of advancing the glory of our lord." he says elsewhere, "i could wish, that you had ever in your mind this meditation, that a ready and obedient will, which is entirely devoted to god's service, is a more pleasing sacrifice to the divine majesty, than all the pomp and glitter of our noisy actions, without the interior disposition." being thoroughly convinced that the perfection of the creature consists in willing nothing but the will of the creator, he spoke incessantly of god's good pleasure, and concluded almost all his letters with his desires of knowing and fulfilling it. he sacrificed all to that principle; even his ardent wishes to die for jesus by the hands of the barbarians: for though he breathed after martyrdom, he well understood that the tender of our life is not acceptable to god, when he requires it not; and he was more fearful of displeasing him, than desirous of being a martyr for him. so that he died satisfied, when he expired in a poor cabin of a natural death, though he was at that very time on the point of carrying the faith into the kingdom of china: and it may be therefore said, that he sacrificed not only his own glory, but even that of jesus christ, to the good pleasure of god almighty. a man so submissive to the orders of heaven, could not possibly want submission in regard of his superior, who was to him in the place of god. he had for father ignatius, general of the society of jesus, a veneration and reverence, mixed with tenderness, which surpass imagination. he himself has expressed some part of his thoughts on that subject, and we cannot read them without being edified. in one of his letters, which begins in this manner, "my only dear father, in the bowels of jesus christ;" he says at the conclusion, "father of my soul, for whom i have a most profound respect, i write this to you upon my knees, as if you were present, and that i beheld you with my eyes." it was his custom to write to him in that posture; so high was the place which ignatius held within his heart. "god is my witness, my dearest father," says he in another letter, "how much i wish to behold you in this life, that i might communicate to you many matters, which cannot be remedied without your aid; for there is no distance of places which can hinder me from obeying you. i conjure you, my best father, to have some little consideration of us who are in the indies, and who are your children. i conjure you, i say, to send hither some holy man, whose fervour may excite our lazy faintness. i hope, for the rest, that as you know the bottom of our souls, by an illumination from heaven, you will not be wanting to supply us with the means of awakening our languishing and drowsy virtue, and of inspiring us with the love of true perfection." in another of his letters, which is thus superscribed, "to ignatius, my holy father in jesus christ," he sends him word, that the letter which he received from his holy charity, at his return from japan, had replenished him with joy; and that particularly he was most tenderly affected with the last words of it: "i am all yours, yours even to that degree, that it is impossible for me to forget you, ignatius." "when i had read those words," said he, "the tears came flowing into my eyes, and gushing out of them; which makes me, that i cannot forbear writing them, and recalling to my memory that sincere and holy friendship which you always had, and still have, for me; nothing doubting, but that if god has delivered me from so many dangers, it has principally proceeded from your fatherly intercessions for me." he calls himself his son in all his letters, and thus subscribes himself in one: "the least of your children, and most distant from you, francis xavier." but the high ideas which francis had of ignatius, caused him frequently to ask his advice in relation to his own conduct. "you will do a charitable work," said he, "in writing to me a letter, full of spiritual instructions, as a legacy bequeathed to one who is the least of all your children, at the farthest distance from you, and who is as it were banished from your presence, by which i may partake some part of those abundant treasures which heaven has heaped upon you. i beseech you not to be too niggardly in the accomplishment of my desires." "i conjure you," says he elsewhere, "by the tender love of jesus christ, to give me the method which i ought to keep, in admitting those who are to be members of our society; and write to me at large, considering the smallness of my talent, which is well known to you; for if you give me not your assistance, the poor ability which i have in these matters, will be the occasion of my losing many opportunities for the augmentation of god's glory." in prescribing any thing that was difficult to his inferiors, he frequently intermixed the name of ignatius: "i pray you by our lord, and by ignatius, the father of our society. i conjure you by the obedience, and by the love which you owe to our father ignatius." "remember," said he farther, "to what degree, both great and small, respect our father ignatius." with these sentiments, both of affection and esteem, he depended absolutely on his superior. "if i believed," says he, writing from the indies to father simon rodriguez, "that the strength of your body were equal to the vigour of your mind, i should invite you to pass the seas, and desire your company in this new world; i mean, if our father ignatius should approve and counsel such a voyage: for he is our parent, it behoves us to obey him; and it is not permitted us to make one step without his order." in this manner, xavier had recourse to ignatius on all occasions, as much as the distance of places would permit; and the orders which he received, were to him inviolable laws. "you shall not suffer any one," so he writ to gaspar barzæus, rector of the college of goa, "to receive the orders of priesthood, who is not sufficiently learned; and who has not given, for the space of many years, sufficient examples of his good life in our society; because our father ignatius has expressly forbidden it." for the same reason he exactly observed the constitutions of the society. "make not haste," writes he in the same letter to barzæus, "to receive children which are too young; and totally reject such sorts of people, whom father ignatius would have for ever excluded from our order." but nothing, perhaps, can more clearly discover how perfect the submission of xavier was, than what his superior himself thought of it. at the time when xavier died, ignatius had thoughts of recalling him from the indies; not doubting, but at the first notice of his orders, this zealous missioner would leave all things out of his obedience. and on this occasion he wrote to him a letter, bearing date the th of june, in the year . behold the passage which concerns the business of which we are speaking: "i add," says ignatius in his letter, "that having in prospect the salvation of souls, and the greater service of our lord, i have resolved to command you, in virtue of holy obedience, to return into portugal with the first opportunity; and i command you this in the name of christ. but that you may more easily satisfy those, who are desirous of retaining you in the indies, for the good of those countries, i will present you with my reasons: you know, in the first place, of what weight are the orders of the king of portugal, for the confirmation of religion in the east, for the propagation of it in, guinea and brasil; and you can rightly judge, that a prince so religious as he, will do all things necessary for the advancement of god's honour, and the conversion of people, if one of your ability and experience shall personally instruct him; and besides, it is of great importance, that the holy apostolical see should be informed of the present state of india, by some authentic witness; to the end, that popes may issue out spiritual supplies, as well to the new as to the ancient christianity of asia; without which, neither the one nor the other can subsist, or cannot subsist without much trouble; and nobody is more proper than yourself for this, both in respect of your knowledge in the affairs of the new world, and of your reputation in these parts. "you know, moreover, of what consequence it is, that the missioners, who are sent to the indies, should be proper for the end proposed; and it is convenient, on that account, that you come to portugal and rome: for not only many more will be desirous of going on those missions, but you will make a better choice of missioners, and will see more clearly to what parts such and such are proper to be sent. you judge yourself of what consideration it is, not to be mistaken in these affairs; and whatsoever relation you can send us, your letters are not sufficient to give us a true notion of what labourers are fitting for the indies. it is necessary that you, or some one as intelligent as you, should know and practise those who are designed for those countries. besides what it will be in your power to do for the common benefit of the east, you will warm the zeal of the king of portugal, in relation to ethiopia, which has been under consideration for so many years, but nothing yet performed. you will also be of no little use to the affairs of congo and brasil, on which you can have no influence in india, for want of commerce betwixt them and you. but if you think your presence may be necessary, for the government of those of the society who are in the indies, you may govern them more easily from portugal, than you can from china or japan. for what remains, i remit you to the father, master polanque, and recommend myself most cordially to your good prayers, beseeching the divine goodness to multiply his favours on you; to the end, that we may understand his most holy will, and that we may perfectly perform it." father polanque, who was secretary to father ignatius, and confident to all his purposes, has given testimony, that the intention of the holy founder was to make xavier general of the society. the letter of ignatius found xavier dead. but we may judge of what he would have done, by what he writ before his death to ignatius himself, who had testified so earnest a desire to see him: "your holy charity," says he in his letter, "tells me, that you have an earnest desire to see me once again in this present life: god, who looks into the bottom of my heart, can tell how sensibly that mark of your tenderness has touched me. truly, whenever that expression of yours returns to my remembrance, and it frequently returns, the tears come dropping from my eyes, and i cannot restrain them; while i revolve that happy thought, that once, yet once again it may be given me to embrace you. i confess, it appears difficult to compass my desires, but all things are possible to holy obedience." undoubtedly, if the letter of ignatius had found xavier alive, he had soon been seen in europe; for having offered, of his own free motion, to leave the indies, japan, and china, and all the business which he had upon his hands, and having said, that the least beckoning of his superior should be sufficient for it, what would he not have done, when he had received a positive command to abandon all, and repass the seas? his maxims of obedience shew clearly what his own submission was. "there is nothing more certain, nor less subject to mistake, than always to be willing to obey. on the contrary, it is dangerous to live in complaisance to our own wills, and without following the motion of our superiors; for though we chance to perform any good action, yet if we never so little deviate from that which is commanded us, we may rest assured, that our action is rather vicious than good. "the devil, by his malicious suggestions, tempts the greatest part of those who have devoted themselves to god's service: 'what make you there?' he secretly whispers; 'see you not that you do but lose your labour?' resist that thought with all your strength; for it is capable not only of hindering you in the way to perfection, but also of seducing you from it: and let every one of you persuade himself, that he cannot better serve our lord, than in that place where he is set by his superior. be also satisfied, that when the time of god is come, he will inspire your superiors with thoughts of sending you to such places, where your labours shall abundantly succeed. in the mean time, you shall possess your souls in peace. by this means, you will well employ your precious time, though too many do not understand its value, and make great proficiencies in virtue. it is far otherwise with those restless souls, who do no good in those places where they wish to be, because they are not there; and are unprofitable both to themselves and others where they are, because they desire to be otherwhere. "perform, with great affection, what your superiors order you, in relation to domestic discipline, and suffer not yourself to be surprised with the suggestions of the evil spirit, who endeavours to persuade you, that some other employment would be fitter for you; his design is, that you should execute that office ill in which you are employed: i entreat you, therefore, by our lord and saviour jesus christ, to consider seriously, how you may overcome those temptations, which give you a distaste of your employment; and to meditate, more on that, than how to engage yourself in such laborious affairs, as are not commanded you. let no man flatter himself; it is impossible to excel in great matters, before we arrive to excel in less: and it is a gross error, under the pretence of saving souls, to shake off the yoke of obedience, which is light and easy, and to take up a cross, which, without comparison, is more hard and heavy. "it becomes you to submit your will and judgement to your governors; and to believe that god, will inspire them, in reference to you, with that, which will be most profitable to you. for the rest, beware of asking any thing with importunity, as some have done, who press their superiors with such earnestness, that they even tear from them that which they desire, though the thing which they demand be in itself pernicious; or if it be refused them, complain in public, that their life is odious to them: they perceive not, that their unhappiness proceeds from their neglect of their vow, and their endeavour to appropriate that will to themselves, which they have already consecrated to our lord. in effect, the more such people live according to their own capricious fancy, the more uneasy and melancholy is their life." the holy man was so thoroughly persuaded, that the perfection of the society of jesus consisted in obedience, that he frequently commanded his brethren, in virtue of their holy obedience, thereby to increase their merit. "i pray you," said he to two missioners of comorine, "to go to the isles del moro; and to the end you may the better have occasion of meriting by your obedience, i positively command you." but it is impossible to relate, with what tenderness he loved the society, or how much he concerned himself in all their interests, though of the smallest moment. being in portugal, before his voyage to the indies, he wrote not any letters to rome, wherein he did not testisfy his great desire to know what progress it made in italy. writing to the fathers, le gay, and laynez, he says thus: "since our rule is confirmed, i earnestly desire to learn the names of those who are already received into our order, and of such as are upon the point of being admitted. he exhorts them, to thank the king of portugal, for the design which his majesty had to build a college, or a house for the society: and we ought to make this acknowlegment to the king," said he, "to engage him thereby to begin the building." the news which he received from father ignatius, and the other fathers who were at rome, gave him infinite consolation. "i have received your letters, which i expected with much impatience; and have received them with that joy, which children ought to have in receiving some pleasing news from their mother. in effect, i learn from them the prosperous condition of all the society, and the holy employments wherein you engage yourselves without intermission." he could scarcely moderate his joy, whensoever he thought on the establishment of the society. thus he wrote from the indies to rome: "amongst all the favours which i have received from god in this present life, and which i receive daily, the most signal, and most sensible, is to have heard that the institute of our society has been approved and confirmed by the authority of the holy see i give immortal thanks to jesus christ, that he has been pleased his vicar should publicly establish the form of life, which he himself has prescribed in private to his servant, our father ignatius." but xavier also wished nothing more, than to see the society increased; and he felt a redoubling of his joy, by the same proportion, when he had notice of their gaining new houses in the east, or when he heard, from europe, of the foundation of new colleges. to conclude, he had not less affection for the particular persons, who were members of the society, than for the body of it. his brethren were ever present in his thoughts; and he thought it not enough to love them barely, without a continual remembrance of them. "i carry about with me (thus he writes to the fathers at rome) all your names, of your own handwriting, in your letters; and i carry them together with the solemn form of my profession." by which he signifies, not only how dear the sons of the society were to him, but also how much he esteemed the honour of being one of their number. the love which he bore to gospel-poverty, caused him to subsist on alms, and to beg his bread from door to door, when he might have had a better provision made for him. being even in the college of goa, which was well endowed, he sought his livelihood without the walls, the more to conform himself to the poverty of his blessed saviour. he was always very meanly clothed, and most commonly had so many patches on his cassock, that the children of the idolaters derided him. he pieced up his tatters with his own hand, and never changed his habit till it was worn to rags; at least, if the honour of god, and the interest of religion, did not otherwise oblige him. at his return from japan to malacca, where he was received with so much honour, he wore on his back a torn cassock, and a rusty old hat on his head. the portuguese, beholding him always so ill apparelled, often desired him to give them leave to present him with a new habit; but seeing he would not be persuaded, they once devised a way of stealing his cassock while he was asleep. the trick succeeded, and xavier, whose soul was wholly intent on god, put on a new habit, which they had laid in the place of his old garment, without discovering how they had served him. he passed the whole day in the same ignorance of the cheat, and it was not till the evening that he perceived it; for supping with francis payva, and other portuguese, who were privy to the matter,--"it is perhaps to do honour to our table," said one amongst them, "that you are so spruce to-day, in your new habit." then, casting his eyes upon his clothes, he was much surprised to find himself in so strange an equipage. at length, being made sensible of the prank which they had played him, he told them, smiling, "that it was no great wonder that this rich cassock, looking for a master in the dark, could not see its way to somebody who deserved it better." as he lived most commonly amongst the poorer sort of indians, who had nothing to bestow, and who, for the most part, went naked, he enjoyed his poverty without molestation. all his moveables were a mat, on which he lay sometimes, and a little table, whereon were his writings, and some little books, with a wooden crucifix, made of that which the indians call the wood of st thomas. he cheerfully underwent the greatest hardships of poverty; and, writing from japan to the fathers of goa, his words were these:--"assist me, i beseech you, my dear brethren, in acknowledging to almighty god the signal favour he has done me. i am at length arrived at japan, where there is an extreme scarcity of all things, which i place amongst the greatest benefits of providence." mortification is always the companion of poverty, in apostolical persons. xavier bore constantly along with him the instruments of penance; haircloth, chains of iron, and disciplines, pointed at the ends, and exceeding sharp. he treated his flesh with great severity, by the same motive which obliged st paul, the apostle, to chastise his body, and to reduce it into servitude, lest, having preached to other men, he might himself become a reprobate. at sea, the ship tackling served him for a bed; on land, a mat, or the earth itself. he eat so little, that one of his companions assures us, that, without a miracle, he could not have lived. another tells us, that he seldom or never drank wine, unless at the tables of the portuguese; for there he avoided singularity, and took what was given him. but, afterwards, he revenged himself on one of those repasts, by an abstinence of many days. when he was at cape comorine, the viceroy; don alphonso de sosa, sent him two barrels of excellent wine. he did not once taste of it, though he was then brought very low, through the labours of his ministry, but distributed the whole amongst the poor. his ordinary nourishment, in the indies, was rice boiled in water, or some little piece of salt fish; but during the two years and a half of his residence in japan, he totally abstained from fish, for the better edification of that people; and wrote to the fathers at rome, "that he would rather choose to die of hunger, than to give any man the least occasion of scandal." he also says, "i count it for a signal favour, that god has brought me into a country destitute of all the comforts of life, and where, if i were so ill disposed, it would be impossible for me to pamper up my body with delicious fare." he perpetually travelled, by land, on foot, even in japan, where the ways are asperous, and almost impassible; and often walked, with naked feet, in the greatest severity of winter. "the hardships of so long a navigation," says he, "so long a sojourning amongst the gentiles, in a country parched up with excessive heats, all these incommodities being suffered, as they ought to be, for the sake of christ, are truly an abundant source of consolations: for myself, i am verily persuaded, that they, who love the cross of jesus christ, live happy in the midst of sufferings; and that it is a death, when they have no opportunities to suffer. for, can there be a more cruel death, than to live without jesus christ, after once we have tasted of him? is any thing more hard, than to abandon him, that we may satisfy our own inclinations? believe me, there is no other cross which is to be compared to that. how happy is it, on the other side, to live, in dying daily, and in conquering our passions, to search after, not our proper interests, but the interests of jesus christ?" his interior mortification was the principle of these thoughts, in this holy man; from the first years of his conversion, his study was to gain an absolute conquest on himself; and he continued always to exhort others not to suffer themselves to be hurried away by the fury of their natural desires. he writes thus to the fathers and brethren of coimbra, from malacca:--"i have always present, in my thoughts, what i have heard from our holy father ignatius, that the true children of the society of jesus ought to labour exceedingly in overcoming of themselves. "if you search our lord in the spirit of truth," says he to the jesuits of goa, "and generously walk in those ways, which conduct you to him, the spiritual delights, which you taste in his service, will sweeten all those bitter agonies, which the conquest of yourselves will cost you. o my god, how grossly stupid is mankind not to comprehend, that, by a faint and cowardly resistance of the assaults of the devil, they deprive themselves of the most pure and sincere delights which life can give them." by the daily practice of these maxims, xavier came to be so absolute a master of his passions, that he knew not what it was to have the least motion of choler and impatience; and from thence proceeded partly, that tranquillity of soul, that equality of countenance, that perpetual cheerfulness, which rendered him so easy and so acceptable in all companies. it is natural for a man, who is extremely mortified, to be chaste; and so was xavier, to such a degree of perfection, that we have it certified from his ghostly fathers, and, amongst others, from the vicar of meliapore, that he lived and died a virgin. from his youth upward he had an extreme horror for impurity; notwithstanding, that he was of a sanguine complexion, and naturally loved pleasure. while he was a student at paris, and dwelt in the college of sainte barbe, his tutor in philosophy, who was a man lost in debauches, and who died of a dishonest disease, carried his scholars by night to brothel-houses. the abominable man did all he could towards the debauching of francis xavier, who was handsome, and well shaped, but he could never accomplish his wicked purpose; so much was the youth estranged from the uncleanness of all fleshly pleasures. for what remains, nothing can more clearly make out his love to purity, than what happened to him once at rome. simon rodriguez being fallen sick, father ignatius commanded xavier to take care of him during his distemper. one night, the sick man awaking, saw xavier, who was asleep at his bed's feet, thrusting out his arms in a dream, with the action of one who violently repels an enemy; he observed him even casting out blood in great abundance, through his nostrils, and at his mouth. xavier himself awaking, with the labour of that struggling, rodriguez enquired of him the cause of that extreme agitation, and the gushing of his blood. xavier would not satisfy him at that time, and gave him no account of it, till he was just upon his departure to the indies; for then being urged anew by rodriguez, after he had obliged him to secrecy, "know," said he, "my brother, master simon, that god, out of his wonderful mercy, has done me the favour, to preserve me, even till this hour, in entire purity; and that very night i dreamed, that, lodging at an inn, an impudent woman would needs approach me: the motion of my arms was to thrust her from me, and to get rid of her; and the blood, which i threw out, proceeded from my agony." but whatsoever detestation xavier had, even for the shadow of a sin, he was always diffident of himself; and withdrew from all conversation of women, if charity obliged him not to take care of their conversion; and even on such occasions, he kept all imaginable measures, never entertaining them with discourse, unless in public places, and in sight of all the world; nor speaking with them of ought, but what was necessary, and then also sparing of his words, and with a grave, modest, and serious countenance. he would say, "that, in general conversation, we could not be too circumspect in our behaviour towards them; and that, however pious the intentions of their confessors were, there still remained more cause of fear to the directors in those entertainments, than of hope, that any good should result from them to the women-penitents." besides all this, he kept his senses curbed and recollected, examined his conscience often every day, and daily confessed himself when he had the convenience of a priest. by these means, he acquired such a purity of soul and body, that they who were of his intimate acquaintance, have declared, that they could never observe in him ought that was not within the rules of the exactest decency. in like manner, he never forgave himself the least miscarriage; and it is incredible how far the tenderness of his conscience went on all occasions. in that vessel which carried him from lisbon to the indies, a child, who was of years which are capable of instruction, one day happened to die suddenly: xavier immediately inquired if the child had been usually present at catechism, together with the ship's company? it was answered in the negative; and at the same moment the man of god, whose countenance commonly was cheerful, appeared extremely sad. the viceroy, alphonso de sosa, soon observed it; and knowing the cause of his affliction, asked the father if he had any former knowledge that the child came not to catechism? "if i had known it," replied xavier, "i had not failed to have brought him thither:" "but, why then," said the viceroy, "are you thus disquieted for a thing you know not, and of which you are no ways guilty?" "it is," replied the saint, "because i ought to upbraid myself with it as a fault, that i was ignorant that any person, who was embarked with me, wanted to be taught the christian faith." a body so chaste, and a mind so pure, could not have been but of one who was faithfully devoted to the holy virgin. the saint honoured and loved her all his life, with thoughts full of respect and tenderness. it was in the church of mont martre, dedicated to the mother of god, and on the day of her assumption, that he made his first vows. it was in that of loretto that he had his first inspiration, and conceived his first desires of going to the indies. he petitioned for nothing of our lord, but by the intercession of his mother; and in the exposition which he made of the christian doctrine, after addressing himself to jesus to obtain the grace of a lively and constant faith, he failed not of addressing himself to mary. he concluded all his instructions with the _salve regina_; he never undertook any thing but under her protection; and in all dangers, he had always recourse to the blessed virgin as his patroness. for the rest, to shew that he depended on her, and made his glory of that dependence, he commonly wore a chaplet about his neck, to the end that christians might take delight in seeing the chaplet; and made frequent use of it in the operation of his miracles. when he passed whole nights at his devotions in churches, it was almost always before the image of the virgin, and especially he offered his vows to her for the conversion of notorious sinners, and also for the remission of his own offences; as himself testifies in a letter of his, which shews not less his humility than his confidence in the intercession of the blessed virgin: "i have taken the queen of heaven for my patroness, that, by her prayers i may obtain the pardon of my innumerable sins." he was particularly devoted to her immaculate conception, and made a vow to defend it to the utmost of his power. in conversation he frequently spoke of the greatness of the blessed mary, and attracted all men to her service. in fine, being just upon the point of drawing his last breath, he invoked her name with tender words, and besought her to shew herself his mother. these are the principal virtues which were collected, to be presented to the holy see. the archbishop of goa, and all the bishops of india, seconded the designs of the king of portugal, by acting on their side with the pope, for the canonization of xavier; but no one, in process of time, solicited with more splendour than the king of bungo. this prince, who was upon the point of being converted when xavier left japan, had no sooner lost the holy man, but he was regained by the bonzas, and fell into all the disorders of which a pagan can be capable. he confessed the christian law to be the better; but said it was too rigorous, and that a young prince, as he was, born in the midst of pleasures, could not brook it. his luxury hindered him not from the love of arms, nor from being very brave; and he was so fortunate in war, that he reduced four or five kingdoms under his obedience. in the course of all his victories, the last words which father francis had said to him, concerning the vanity of the world, and the necessity of baptism, came into his remembrance: he made serious reflections on them, and was so deeply moved by them, that one day he appeared in public, with a chaplet about his neck, as it were to make an open profession of christianity. the effects were correspondent to the appearances: he had two idols in his palace of great value, which he worshipped every day, prostrating himself before them with his forehead touching the ground; these images he commanded to be thrown into the sea. after this, applying himself to the exercises of piety and penitence, he totally renounced his sensual pleasures, and was finally baptized by father cabira, of the society of jesus. at his baptism he took the name of francis, in memory of the holy apostle francis xavier, whom he acknowledged for the father of his soul, and whom he called by that title during the remainder of his life. the king of bungo had hitherto been so fortunate, that his prosperity passed into a proverb; but god was pleased to try him. two months after his baptism, the most considerable of his subjects entering into a solemn league and covenant against him out of hatred to christianity, and joining with his neighbouring princes, defeated him in a pitched battle, and despoiled him of all his estates. he endured his ill fortune with great constancy; and when he was upbraided by the gentiles, that the change of his religion had been the cause of his ruin, he made a vow at the foot of the altar to live and die a christian; adding, by a holy transport of zeal, that if all japan, and all europe, if the father's of the society, and the pope himself, should renounce our saviour jesus christ; yet, for his own particular, he would confess him to the last gasp; and be always ready, with god's assistance, to shed his blood, in testimony of his faith. as the piety of this prince diminished nothing of his valour nor of his conduct, having gathered up the remainder of his troops, he restored himself by degrees, partly by force of arms, and partly by amicable ways of treaty. his principal care, after his re-establishment, was to banish idolatry out of his estates, and to restore the catholic religion. his devotion led him to send a solemn embassy to pope gregory xiii. who at that time governed the church. don mancio, his ambassador, being arrived at rome, with those of the king of arima, and the prince of omura, was not satisfied with bringing the obedience of the king, his master, to the vicar of jesus christ, by presenting him the letters of don francis, full of submission and respect to the holy see; but he also petitioned him, in the name of his sovereign, to place the apostle of japan amongst those saints whom the faithful honour; and declared to his holiness, "that he could not do a greater favour to the king of bungo." in the mean time, the memory of xavier was venerated more than ever through all asia. an ambassador from the great mogul being come to goa, to desire some fathers of the society might be sent to explain the mysteries of christianity to that emperor, asked permission to see the body of father francis; but he durst not approach it till first himself and all his train had taken off their shoes; after which ceremony, all of them having many times bowed themselves to the very ground, paid their respects to the saint with as much devotion as if they had not been mahometans. the ships which passed in sight of sancian saluted the place of his death with all their cannon: sometimes they landed on the island, only to view the spot of earth where he had been buried for two months and a half, and to bear away a turf of that holy ground; insomuch, that the chinese entering into a belief, that there was some hidden treasure in the place, set guards of soldiers round about it to hinder it from being taken thence. one of the new indian converts, and of the most devoted to the man of god, not content with seeing the place of his death, had also the curiosity to view that of his nativity; insomuch, that travelling through a vast extent of land, and passing through immense oceans, he arrived at the castle of xavier: entering into the chamber where the saint was born, he fell upon his knees, and with great devotion kissed the floor, which he watered also with his tears. after this, without farther thought, or desire of seeing any thing besides in europe, he took his way backwards to the indies; and counted for a mighty treasure a little piece of stone, which he had loosened from the walls of the chamber, and carried away with him in the nature of a relick. for what remains, a series of miracles was blazed abroad in all places. five or six passengers, who had set sail from malacca towards china, in the ship of benedict coeglio, fell sick, even to the point of death. so soon as they were set on shore at sancian, they caused themselves to be carried to the meadow, where xavier had been first interred; and there having covered their heads with that earth which once had touched his holy body, they were perfectly cured upon the spot. xavier appeared to divers people on the coast of travancore, and that of fishery; sometimes to heal them, or to comfort them in the agonies of death; at other times to deliver the prisoners, and to reduce sinners into the ways of heaven. his name was propitious on the seas, in the most evident dangers. the ship of emanuel de sylva, going from cochin, and having taken the way of bengal, in the midst of the gulph there arose so furious a tempest, that they were constrained to cut the mast, and throw all the merchandizes overboard; when nothing less than shipwreck was expected, they all implored the aid of the apostle of the indies, francis xavier. at the same instant, a wave, which was rolling on, and ready to break over the ship, like some vast mountain, went backward on the sudden, and dissipated into foam. the seamen and passengers, at the sight of so manifest a miracle, invoked the saint with loud voices, still as the tempest grew upon them; and the billows failed not of retiring always at the name of xavier; but whenever they ceased from calling on him, the waves outrageously swelled, and beat the ship on every side. it may almost be said, that the saint in person wrought these miracles; but it is inconceivable, how many were performed by the subscriptions of his letters, by the beads of his chaplet, by the pieces of his garments, and, finally, by every thing which had once been any way appertaining to him. the crosses which he had erected with his own hand on sundry coasts, to be seen from far by mariners and travellers, were loaded with the vows and gifts, which christians, saracens, and idolaters, had fastened to them daily, in acknowledgment of favours which they had received, through the intercession of the holy man. but the most celebrated of those crosses, was that at cotata, whereon an image of xavier was placed. a blind man received sight, by embracing of that cross; two sick men were cured on the instant, one of which, who was aged, had a settled palsy, and the other was dying of a bloody flux. copies were made of that miraculous image at cotata; and gasper gonçalez brought one of them to cochin. it was eleven of the clock at night when he entered into the port: an hour afterwards, the house of christopher miranda, adjoining to that of gonçalez, happened to be on fire. the north-wind then blowing, and the building being almost all of wood, the burning began with mighty rage, and immediately a maid belonging to the house was burned. the neighbours, awakened with the cries of fire, cast their goods out at the windows in confusion; there being no probability of preserving the houses, because that of miranda was the highest, and the burning coals which flew out on every side, together with the flames, which were driven by the wind, fell on the tops of the houses, that were only covered with bows of palm-trees, dry, and easy to take fire. in this extremity of danger, gonçalez bethought himself of the holy image which he had brought; falling on his knees, accompanied by all his domestic servants, he held it upwards to the flames, and invoked father francis to his assistance. at the same instant the fire was extinguished of itself; and the town in this manner preserved from desolation, when it was ready to be burned to ashes. a medal, which had on one side the image of the saint, and on the other that of the holy virgin holding the little jesus, wrought yet more admirable effects. it was in the possession of a virtuous widow of cochin, born at tamuzay in china, and named lucy de vellanzan, who had formerly been instructed at malacca in the mysteries of faith by xavier himself; and who was aged an hundred and twenty years, when she was juridically interrogated, concerning the miracles which had been wrought by her medal. all infirm persons, who came to lucy, received their cure so soon as she had made the sign of the cross with her medal over them; or when she had sprinkled them with water, wherein the medal had been dipt; in saying only these words, "in the name of jesus, and of father francis, be your health restored." "i have seen many," says an eye-witness, "who have been cured on the instant, by being only touched with that medal: some, who being only putrified, ejected through the nose corrupted flesh, and matter of a most offensive scent; others, who were reduced to the meagerness of skeletons, by consumptions of many years; but the most celebrated cures, were those of gonsalvo rodriguez, mary dias, and emanuel fernandez figheredo." rodriguez had a great imposthume on the left side, very near the heart, which had been breeding many months. the chirurgeons, for fear of exasperating the malady, by making an incision in so dangerous a part, endeavoured to dry up the humour, by applying other remedies; but the imposthume degenerated into a cancer, which gave the patient intolerable pains, and made him heart and stomach sick. rodriguez having notice given him, what wonders were wrought by the chinese christian, by means of the medal of father xavier, went immediately to her, and kneeled before her. the chinese only touched him thrice, and made the sign of the cross over him, according to her custom, and at the same moment the cancer vanished; the flesh returned to its natural colour, on the part where the ulcer had been formerly, and rodriguez found himself as well as if nothing had ever ailed him. mary dias was not only blind, but taken with the palsy over half her body, on the right side of it; so that her arm hung dead from her shoulder, and she had only the use of one leg: despairing of all natural remedies, she caused herself to be conveyed to lucy's lodgings. the hospitable widow kept her in her house for the space of seven days; and washed her every of those days with the water wherein the medal had been dipt. on the seventh day, she made the sign of the cross over the eyes of the patient with the medal itself, and then dias recovered her sight; her palsy, in like manner, left her, so that she was able to walk alone to the church of the society, where she left her crutches. as for emanuel gonçalez figheredo, both his legs, for a long time, had been covered with ulcers, and were become so rotten, that worms were continually crawling out of them. the physicians, to divert the humours, put in practice all the secrets of their art, but without effect; on the contrary, the sinews were so shrunk up on one side, that one leg was shorter than the other. and for the last addition of misfortunes, figheredo was seized with so terrible a lask, that, in a man of threescore years old, as he was, it was judged mortal. in effect, it had been so, but that he had immediate recourse to the medal of xavier; he drank of the water wherein it had been dipped, after which he was entirely cured both of his ulcers and his disentery. but that which was daily seen at goa, blotted out the memory of the greatest prodigies which were done elsewhere. the body of the saint perpetually entire, the flesh tender, and of a lively colour, was a continued miracle. they who beheld the sacred corpse, could scarcely believe that the soul was separated from it; and dias carvaglio, who had known xavier particularly in his life, seeing his body many years after he had been dead, found the features of his face so lively, and every part of him so fresh, that he could not forbear to cry out, and repeat it often, "ah, he is alive!" the vicar-general of goa, ambrosia ribera, would himself examine, if the inwards were corresponding to the outward appearances. having thrust his finger into the hurt which they gave the saint, when they interred him at malacca, he saw blood and water issue out of it. the same experiment happened at another time to a brother of the society. the saint was one day publicly exposed, with his feet bare, at the importunity of the people, who through devotion petitioned to kiss them. a woman, who passionately desired to have a relick of xavier, drawing near, as if it were to have kissed his foot, fastened her teeth in it, and bit off a little piece of flesh. the blood immediately ran in great abundance out of it; and of so pure a crimson, that the most healthful bodies could not send out a more living colour. the physicians, who visited the corpse from time to time, and who always deposed, that there could be nothing of natural in what they saw, judged, that the blood which came from a body deprived of heat, and issued from a part so distant from the heart as is the foot, could be no other than the effect of a celestial virtue; which not only preserved all parts of it from putrefaction, but also caused the humours to flow, and maintained them in the motion which only life infuses in them. so many wonders, which spread through all the east, and were transmitted into every part of europe, so moved the heart of paul v. that he finally performed what his predecessor had designed. after a juridical examen of the virtues and miracles above-mentioned, he declared beatified francis xavier, priest of the society of jesus, by an express bull, dated the th of october, in the year . gregory xv., who immediately succeeded pope paul v., canonized him afterwards in all the forms, and with all the procedures, which the church observes on the like occasions. the ceremony was performed at rome on the th of march, in the year . but as death prevented him from making the bull of the canonization, it was his successor urban viii. who finally accomplished it. this bull bearing date the th of august, in the year , is an epitome and panegyric of the miraculous life of the saint. it is there said, "that the new apostle of the indies has spiritually received the blessing which god vouchsafed to the patriarch abraham, that he was the father of many nations; and that he saw his children in jesus christ multiplied beyond the stars of heaven, and the sands of the sea: that, for the rest, his apostleship has had the signs of a divine vocation, such as are the gift of tongues, the gift of prophecy, the gift of miracles, with the evangelical virtues in all perfection." the bull reports almost all the miracles which we have seen in his life, particularly the resurrections of the dead; and, amongst other miraculous cures, which were wrought after his decease, it observes those of gonsalvo fernandez, mary bias, and emanuel rodriguez figheredo. it also mentions two famous cures, of which we have said nothing. one is of a blind man, who having prayed to god nine days successively, by the order of xavier, who appeared to him, instantly recovered his sight. the other was of a leper, who being anointed, and rubbed over, with the oil of a lamp, which burned before the image of xavier, was entirely cured. the pope has added in his bull, "that the lamps which hung before the image, which was venerated at cotata, often burned with holy-water, as if they had been full of oil, to the great astonishment of the heathens." the other miracles which we have related, and which are omitted in the bull, are contained in the acts of the process of the canonization. since the time that the holy see has placed the apostle of the indies in the number of the saints, it is incredible how much the public devotion has every where been augmented towards him. cities have taken him for their patron and protector; altars have been erected, and incessant vows have been made to him; men have visited his tomb with more devotion than ever; and the chamber wherein he was born, has been converted into a chapel, to which pilgrims have resorted in great crowds, from all the quarters of the world. for the rest, it was not in vain that they invoked him; and if i should take upon me to relate the miracles which have been lately done through his intercession, they would take up another volume as large as this. neither shall i go about to make a recital of what things were wrought in succeeding years at potamo, and naples; but shall content myself to say, that in those places god was pleased to honour his servant by the performance of such wonders as might seem incredible, if those which preceded had not accustomed us to believe all things of st xavier. i shall even forbear to speak of the famous father mastrilli, who, being in the agony of death, was cured on the instant by the saint; and who, going to japan by the order of the saint himself, to be there martyred, built him a magnificent sepulchre at goa. it is enough for us to know, that never saint has been, perhaps, more honoured, nor more loved, in the church, than st francis xavier; and that even the enemies of the society of jesus have had a veneration and tenderness for him. but these opinions are not confined to catholics alone; the very heretics revere xavier, and baldeus speaks of him in these terms, in his history of the indies: "if the religion of xavier agreed with ours, we ought to esteem and reverence him as another st paul; yet, notwithstanding the difference of religion, his zeal, his vigilance, and the sanctity of his manners, ought to stir up all good men, not to do the work of god negligently; for the gifts which xavier had received, to execute the office of a minister and ambassador of jesus christ, were so eminent, that my soul is not able to express them. if i consider the patience and sweetness wherewith he presented, both to great and small, the holy and living waters of the gospel; if i regard the courage wherewith he suffered injuries and affronts; i am forced to cry out, with the apostle, who is capable, like him, of these wonderful things!" baldeus concludes the panegyric of the saint, with an apostrophe to the saint himself: "might it please almighty god," says he, "that being what you have been, you had been, or would have been, one of ours." richard hackluyt, also a protestant, and, which is more, a minister of england, commends xavier without restriction:[ ] "sancian," says he, "is an island in the confines of china, and near the port of canton, famous for the death of francis xavier, that worthy preacher of the gospel, and that divine teacher of the indians, in what concerns religion; who, after great labours, after many injuries, and infinite crosses, undergone with great patience and joy, died in a cabin, on a desart mountain, on the second of september, in the year , destitute of all worldly conveniences, but accumulated with all sorts of spiritual blessings; having first made known jesus christ to many thousands of those eastern people."[ ] the modern histories of the indies are filled with the excellent virtues, and miraculous operations, of that holy man. [footnote : "the principal navigations, voyages, discoveries, &c. of the english, &c." second part of the second volume.] [footnote : the reader is referred to the original english for the words themselves; the translator not having the work by him.] monsieur tavernier, who is endued with all the probity which a man can have, without the true religion, makes a step farther than these two historians, and speaks like a catholic: "st francis xavier," says he, "ended in this place his mission, together with his life, after he had established the christian faith, with an admirable progress in all places through which he passed, not only by his zeal, but also by his example, and by the holiness of his manners. he had never been in china, but there is great probability, that the religion which he had established in the isle of niphon, extended itself into the neighbouring countries; and multiplyed by the cares of that holy man, who by a just title may be called the st paul and true apostle of the indies." as to what remains, if xavier was endued with all apostolical virtues, does it not follow, that the religion which he preached, was that of the apostles? is there the least appearance, that a man, who was chosen by god to destroy idolatry and impiety in the new world, should be himself an idolater and a wicked man, in adoring jesus christ upon the altars, in invoking of the holy virgin, in engaging himself to god by vows, in desiring indulgences from the pope, in using the sign of the cross and holy-water for the cure of the sick, in praying and saying masses for the dead? in fine, is it possible to believe, that this holy man, this new apostle, this second st paul, continued all his life in the way of perdition, and, instead of enjoying at this present time the happiness of the saints, endures the torments of the damned? let us then pronounce, concluding this work as we began it, that the life of st francis xavier is an authentic testimony of the truth of the gospel; and that we cannot strictly observe what god has wrought by the ministry of his servant, without a full satisfaction in this point, that the catholic, apostolic, and roman church, is the church of our saviour jesus christ. end of the sixteenth volume. * * * * * proofreading team. the augustan reprint society john dryden his majesties declaration defended ( ) with an introduction by godfrey davies publication number (series iv, no. ) los angeles william andrews clark memorial library university of california general editors h. richard archer, clark memorial library richard c. boys, university of michigan edward niles hooker, university of california, los angeles h.t. swedenberg, jr., university of california, los angeles assistant editors w. earl britton, university of michigan john loftis, university of california, los angeles advisory editors emmett l. avery, state college of washington benjamin boyce, university of nebraska louis i. bredvold, university of michigan cleanth brooks, yale university james l. clifford, columbia university arthur friedman, university of chicago samuel h. monk, university of minnesota ernest mossner, university of texas james sutherland, queen mary college, london introduction wherever english literature is studied, john dryden is recognized as the author of some of the greatest political satires in the language. until recently the fact has been overlooked that before he wrote the first of these satires, _absalom and achitophel_, he had entered the political arena with the prose tract here reproduced. the proof that the historiographer royal contributed to the anti-whig propaganda of the spring of depends partly on contemporary or near-contemporary statements but principally on internal evidence. an article by professor roswell g. ham (_the review of english studies_, xi ( ), - ; hugh macdonald, _john dryden, a bibliography_, p. ) demonstrated dryden's authorship so satisfactorily that it is unnecessary to set forth here the arguments that established this thesis. the time when dryden was composing his defence of the royal _declaration_ is approximately fixed from the reference to it on june , , in _the observator_, which had noted the whig pamphlet dryden was answering under the date of may . the bitter controversy into which dryden thrust himself was the culmination of eleven years' political strife. in , by the secret treaty of dover, charles ii and louis xiv agreed that the english king should declare himself a roman catholic, and receive from his brother of france the equivalent of , pounds sterling and, in case of a protestant rebellion, french soldiers. in addition, the two kings were pledged to undertake a war for the partition of the united provinces. in the words of the late lord acton this treaty is "the solid substance of the phantom which is called the popish plot." (_lectures on modern history_ ( ), p. ) the attempt to carry out the second part of the treaty was made in , when england and france attacked the united provinces which made a successful defence, aided by a coalition including the emperor, elector of brandenburg, and king of spain. the unpopularity of the war compelled charles ii to make peace in . meanwhile the king had taken a step to put into operation the first part of the treaty of dover by issuing a declaration of indulgence relieving catholics and dissenters alike from the penal laws. he was forced, however, to withdraw it and to give his assent to the test act which excluded from all public offices those unwilling to take the sacraments according to the rites of the church of england. henceforth charles ii abandoned all hope of restoring catholicism, though his brother and heir, james, duke of york, already a convert, remained resolute to secure at least toleration for his co-religionists. but many englishmen continued to suspect the royal policy. roman catholicism was feared and hated by many englishmen for two distinct reasons. the first was based on bigotry, nourished by memories of the marian persecution, the papal bull dethroning elizabeth, guy fawkes' plot, and by apprehensions that a catholic could not be a loyal subject so long as he recognized the temporal power of the pope. the second was political and assumed that catholicism was the natural support of absolutism. as shaftesbury, the leader of the opposition, stated, popery and slavery went hand in hand. such fears were deepened as the general purport of the treaty of dover became known. into this atmosphere charged with suspicion was interjected the popish plot, said by titus oates and his fellow perjurers to be designed to murder charles ii and place james on the throne. from september , when oates began his series of revelations until the end of march , when the king dissolved at oxford the third parliament elected under the protestant furore excited by the plot, shaftesbury and his followers had the upper hand. the king was obliged to propose concessions to the popular will and to offer to agree to limitations on the authority of a popish successor. but shaftesbury was bent on passing the exclusion bill, which excluded james from the throne and substituted the king's illegitimate son, monmouth. here he made a fatal blunder because he alienated churchmen who believed in the divine right of kings, all whose sense of decency was outraged by the prospect of a bastard's elevation to the throne, and the supporters of william of orange, husband of mary, the elder daughter of james, and the great opponent of louis xiv. also, when it became obvious that the king would not agree to a change in the succession, many feared another civil war with all its attendant dangers of a second military domination. moreover, the lies of oates and his imitators were becoming discredited. though a reaction against the whigs was beginning, propaganda was needed to disabuse the public of two anxieties--that there was still a danger that roman catholicism might be restored and that the three dissolutions might foreshadow a return to unparliamentary government such as charles i had established from to , also after three dissolutions. the royal party was at first on the defensive. their propaganda began with a proclamation issued on april and ordered to be read in all churches. in the proclamation the king posed as the champion of law and order against a disloyal faction trying to overthrow the constitution. it was read in churches on april and, according to luttrell's _brief historical relation_ (i, ), "in many places was not very pleasing, but afforded matter of sport to some persons." among several replies was one entitled _a letter from a person of quality to his friend_. clearly there was need to answer this pamphlet and to state more fully the case against the whigs. this task was undertaken by two of the greatest writers of english prose--george savile, then earl, later marquis of halifax, and john dryden. halifax, in the tract lately identified as his by hugh macdonald (cambridge, ), _observations upon a late libel_--though he might scarify an individual opponent like shaftesbury or pour ridicule upon a sentence from _a letter_, set himself the task of answering the whig case as a whole. the text he dilated upon was: "there seemeth to be no other rule allowed by one sort of men, than that they cannot err, and the king cannot be in the right." with superb irony and wit he demonstrated how inconsistent such an attitude was with the constitution of that day. dryden's tract, _his majesties declaration defended_ is, like the one he is answering, in the form of a letter to a friend who has asked the writer's opinion of the _declaration_ and the answer to it. "i shall obey you the more willingly," dryden responds, "because i know you are a lover of the peace and quietness of your country; which the author of this seditious pamphlet, is endeavouring to disturb." he writes to show the "goodness and equity" of the prince, because once they are understood, the faction will lose its power and the well-meaning but misled crowd will be no longer deceived by "the specious names of religion and liberty." after these introductory paragraphs dryden began to reply to the pamphlet point by point. his method is to quote or, more strictly, partly to quote and partly to paraphrase, a sentence and then refute its argument. in so doing he is following the method of the author of _a letter_. accordingly, to understand and judge the fairness of dryden's refutation, it is well first to read _his majesties declaration_, then _a letter_, and finally dryden. the first has not been reprinted in full but a substantial extract may be found in echard's _history of england_ (iii, - ) and in arthur bryant's _the letters of charles ii_ (pp. - ), the second is available in a not uncommon folio, _state tracts: being a collection of several treatises ... privately printed in the reign of k. charles ii_ ( ), and the third is here reproduced for the first time. after the perusal of these three tracts, the student may well turn to _absalom and achitophel_, and find instruction in comparing the prose and the verse. he may reach the conclusion that while both were written to win converts to the royal cause, the first was designed to weaken the whig party and the second to take advantage of a tide that had turned to ruin the whig leaders. (for a fuller discussion of the relationship of dryden's tract and his poem see the writer's article, "the conclusion of dryden's absalom and achitophel" in the _huntington library quarterly_, x ( - ), - .) in addition to its historical interest dryden's tract is a fine specimen of his masculine, vigorous style so well suited to controversial writing. i desire to thank mr. james m. osborn, yale university, for helpful suggestions in the preparation of this introduction. this facsimile has been made from the copy in the william andrews clark memorial library. _godfrey davies_ _the huntington library_ his majesties declaration defended: in a _letter_ to a friend. being an _answer_ to a _seditious pamphlet_, called _a letter from a person of quality to his friend_: concerning the kings late declaration touching the reasons which moved him to dissolve the two last _parliaments_ at _westminster_ and _oxford_. _london:_ printed for _t. davies, _. the kings declaration defended. sir, since you are pleas'd to require my opinion of the kings declaration, and the answer to it, which you write me word was sent you lately, i shall obey you the more willingly, because i know you are a lover of the peace and quietness of your country; which the author of this seditious pamphlet, is endeavouring to disturb. be pleas'd to understand then, that before the declaration was yet published, and while it was only the common news, that such an one there was intended, to justifie the dissolution of the two last parliaments; it was generally agreed by the heads of the discontented party, that this declaration must be answer'd, and that with all the ingredients of malice which the ablest amongst them could squeeze into it. accordingly, upon the first appearance of it in print, five several pens of their _cabal_ were set to work; and the product of each having been examin'd, a certain person of quality appears to have carried the majority of votes, and to be chosen like a new _matthias_, to succeed in the place of their deceas'd _judas_. he seems to be a man cut out to carry on vigorously the designs of the phanatique party, which are manifestly in this paper, to hinder the king, from making any good impression on his subjects, by giving them all possible satisfaction. and the reason of this undertaking is manifest, for if once the goodness and equity of the prince comes to be truly understood by the people, the authority of the faction is extinguish'd; and the well meaning crowd who are misled, will no longer gape after the specious names of religion and liberty; much like the folly of the _jews_, expecting a _messiah_ still to come, whose history has been written sixteen hundred years ago. thus much in general: i will now confider the cavils of my author against the declaration. he tells us, in the first place, _that the declaration seems to him as a forerunner of another parliament to be speedily call'd:_ and indeed to any man in his right sences, it can seem no other; for 'tis the business of its three last paragraphs to inform the people, that no irregularities in parliament can make the king out of love with them: but that he looks upon them as the best means for healing the distempers of the publick, and for preservation of the monarchy. now if this seems clearly to be the kings intention, i would ask what need there was of the late petition from the city, for another parliament; unless they had rather seem to extort it from his majesty, than to have it pass for his own gracious action? the truth is, there were many of the loyal party absent at that common council: and the whole strength of the other faction was united; for it is the common failing of honest men to trust too much in the goodness of their cause; and to manage it too negligently. but there is a necessity incumbent on such as oppose the establish'd government, to make up with diligence, what they want in the justice of their undertaking. this was the true and only reason why the majority of votes was for the petition: but if the business had not been carried by this surprise, my lord mayor might have only been troubled to have carried the addresses of _southwark_, &c. of another nature: without his offering them with one hand, and the city petition with the other; like the childrens play of, this mill grinds pepper and spice; that mill grinds ratts and mice. in the next place he informs us, _that if has been long the practice of the popish and arbitrary party, that the king should call, frequent, short, and useless parliaments, tell the gentry, grown weary of the great expences of elections, should sit at home, and trouble themselves no more but leave the people expos'd to the practices of them, and of their party; who if they carry one house of commons for their turn, will make us slaves and papists by a law_. _popish_ and _arbitrary_, are words that sound high amongst the multitude; and all men are branded by those names, who are not for setting up fanaticism and a common-wealth. to call short and useless parliaments, can be no intention of the government; because from such means the great end of settlement cannot be expected. but no physician can command his physick to perform the effects for which he has prescrib'd it: yet if it fail the first or second time, he will not in prudence lay aside his art, and despair of his patient: but reiterate his medicines till he effect the cure. for, the king, as he declares himself, is not willing to have too hard an opinion of the representatives of the commons, but hopes that time may open their eyes, and that their next meeting may perfect the settlement of church and state. with what impudence can our author say, _that an house of commons can possibly be so pack'd, as to make us slaves and papists by a law?_ for my part i should as soon suspect they would make themselves arbitrary, which god forbid that any englishman in his right sences should believe. but this supposition of our author, is to lay a most scandalous imputation upon the gentry of _england_; besides, what it tacitly insinuates, that the house of peers and his majesty, (without whom it could not pass into a law,) would suffer it. yet without such artifices, as i said before, the fanatique cause could not possibly subsist: fear of popery and arbitrary power must be kept up; or the st. _georges_ of their side, would have no dragon to encounter; yet they will never persuade a reasonable man, that a king, who in his younger years, when he had all the temptations of power to pursue such a design, yet attempted it not, should now, in the maturity of his judgment, and when he sees the manifest aversion of his subjects to admit of such a change, undertake a work of so much difficulty, destructive to the monarchy, and ruinous to himself, if it succeeded not; and if it succeeded, not capable of making him so truly great as he is by law already. if we add to this, his majesties natural love to peace and quiet, which increases in every man with his years, this ridiculous supposition will vanish of itself; which is sufficiently exploded by daily experiments to the contrary. for let the reign of any of our kings be impartially examin'd, and there will be found in none of them so many examples of moderation, and keeping close to the government by law, as in his. and instead of swelling the regal power to a greater height, we shall here find many gracious priviledges accorded to the subjects, without any one advancement of prerogative. the next thing material in the letter, _is the questioning the legality of the declaration; which the author sayes by the new style of_ his majesty in council, _is order'd to be read in all churches and chappels throughout_ england, _and which no doubt the blind obedience of our clergy, will see carefully perform'd; yet if it be true, that there is no seal, nor order of council, but only the clerks hand to it, they may be call'd in question as publishers of false news, and invectives against a third estate of the kingdom_. since he writes this only upon a supposition, it will be time enough to answer it, when the supposition is made manifest in all its parts: in the meantime, let him give me leave to suppose too, that in case it be true that there be no seal, yet since it is no proclamation, but only a bare declaration of his majesty, to inform and satisfie his subjects, of the reasons which induc'd him to dissolve the two last parliaments, a seal in this case, is not of absolute necessity: for the king speaks not here as commanding any thing, but the printing, publishing and reading. and 'tis not denyed the meanest englishman, to vindicate himself in print, when he has any aspersion cast upon him. this is manifestly the case, that the enemies of the government, had endeavour'd to insinuate into the people such principles, as this answerer now publishes: and therefore his majesty, who is always tender to preserve the affections of his subjects, desir'd to lay before them the necessary reasons, which induc'd him to so unpleasant a thing, as the parting with two successive parliaments. and if the clergy obey him in so just a design, is this to be nam'd a blind obedience! but i wonder why our author is so eager for the calling them to account as accessaries to an invective against a third estate of the kingdom, while he himself is guilty in almost every sentence of his discourse of aspersing the king, even in his own person, with all the virulency and gall imaginable. it appears plainly that an house of commons, is that _leviathan_ which he adores: that is his sovereign in effect, and a third estate is not only greater than the other two, but than him who is presiding over the three. but, though our author cannot get his own seditious pamphlet to be read in churches and in chappels, i dare secure you, he introduces it into conventicles, and coffee-houses of his faction: besides, his sending it in post letters, to infect the populace of every county. 'tis enough, that this declaration is evidently the kings, and the only true exception, which our answerer has to it, is that he would deny his majesty the power of clearing his intentions to the people: and finds himself aggriev'd, that his king should satisfie them in spight of himself and of his party. the next paragraph is wholly spent, in giving us to understand, that a king, of _england_ is no other thing than a duke of _venice_; take the parallell all along: and you will find it true by only changing of the names. a duke of _venice_ can do no wrong; in senate he can make no ill laws; in council no ill orders, in the treasury can dispose of no money, but wisely, and for the interest of the government, and according to such proportions as are every way requisite: if otherwise all officers are answerable, &c. which is in effect, to say he can neither do wrong nor right, nor indeed any thing, _quatenus_ a king. this puts me in mind of _sancho panca_ in his government of the island of _barataria_, when he was dispos'd to eat or drink, his physitian stood up for the people, and snatch'd the dish from him in their right, because he was a publick person, and therefore the nation must be judges to a dram and scruple what was necessary for the sustenance of the head of the body politique. oh, but there is a wicked thing call'd the militia in their way, and they shew'd they had a moneths mind to it, at the first breaking out of the popish plot. if they could once persuade his majesty, to part graciously with that trifle, and with his power of making war and peace; and farther, to resign all offices of trust, to be dispos'd by their nomination, their argument would be an hundred times more clear: for then it would be evident to all the world, that he could do nothing. but if they can work him to part with none of these, then they must content themselves to carry on their new design beyond seas: either of ingaging the _french_ king to fall upon _flanders_, or encouraging the states general to lay aside, or privately to cut off the prince of _orange_, or getting a war declared against _england_ and _france_ conjoyntly: for by that means, either the king can be but a weak enemy, and as they will manage matters, he shall be kept so bare of money, that twelve _holland_ ships shall block up the river, or he shall be forced to cast himself upon a house of commons, and to take money upon their terms, which will sure be as easie, as those of an usurer to an heir in want. these are part of the projects now afoot: and how loyal and conscionable they are, let all indifferent persons judge. in the close of this paragraph, he falls upon the king for appealing to the people against their own representatives. but i would ask him in the first place, if an appeal be to be made, to whom can the king appeal, but to his people? and if he must justifie his own proceedings to their whole body, how can he do it but by blaming their representatives? i believe every honest man is sorry, that any such divisions have been betwixt the king and his house of commons. but since there have been, how could the king complain more modestly, or in terms more expressing grief, than indignation? or what way is left him to obviate the causes of such complaints for the future, but this gentle admonishment for what is past? 'tis easily agreed, he says, (and here i joyn issue with him) _that there were never more occasions for a parliament, than were at the opening of the last, which was held at_ westminster. but where he maliciously adds, _never were our liberties and properties more in danger, nor the protestant religion more expos'd to an utter extirpation both at home and abroad_, he shuffles together truth and falshood: for from the greatness of _france_, the danger of the protestant religion is evident; but that our liberty, religion, and property were in danger from the government, let him produce the instances of it, that they may be answer'd; what dangers there were and are from the antimonarchical party, is not my present business to enquire. as for the growing terrour of the _french_ monarchy, the greater it is, the more need of supply to provide against it. _the ministers tell us in the declaration, that they asked of that parliament the supporting the alliances they had made for the preservation of the general peace in christendom, and had desir'd their advice and assistance for the preservation of_ tangier: _had recommended to them, the farther examination of the plot; and that his majesty had offer'd to concurr in any remedies for the security of the protestant religion, which might consist with the preserving the succession of the crown, in its due and legal course of descent, but to all this they met with most unsuitable returns._ now mark what the gentleman infers, _that the ministers well knew, that their demands of money for the ends abovesaid, were not to be complyed with, till his majesty were pleas'd to change the hands and councils by which his affairs were managed_.--that is, nothing must be given but to such men in whom they could confide, as if neither the king, nor those whom he employed were fit any longer to be trusted. but the supream power, and the management of all things, must be wholly in their party, as it was in _watt tyler_, and _jack cade_ of famous memory, when they had got a king into their possession: for this party, will never think his majesty their own, till they have him as safe, as they had his father. but if they could compass their designs, of bringing the same gentlemen into play once more, who some years since were at the helm; let me ask them, when the affairs of the nation were worse manag'd? who gave the rise to the present greatness of the _french_? or who counsel'd the dissolution of the tripple league? 'tis a miracle to me that the people should think them good patriots, only because they are out of humour with the court, and in disgrace. i suppose they are far other principles, than those of anger and revenge, which constitute an honest statesman. but let men be what they will before, if they once espouse their party, let them be touch'd with that philosophers stone, and they are turn'd into gold immediately. nay, that will do more for them, than was ever pretended to by chymistry; for it will raise up the shape of a worthy patriot, from the ashes of a knave. 'tis a pretty juggle to tell the king they assist him with money, when indeed they design only to give it to themselves; that is, to their own instruments, which is no more, than to shift it from one hand into another. it will be a favour at the long run, if they condescend to acquaint the king, how they intend to lay out his treasure. but our author very roundly tells his majesty, _that at present they will give him no supplyes, because they would be employ'd, to the destruction of his person, and of the protestant religion, and the inslaving the whole nation_, to which i will only add, that of all these matters next and immediately under god, he and his party, constitute themselves the supream judges. _the duke of_ york, _the queen, and the two french dutchesses are the great support and protectors of the popish interest in these kingdoms_. how comes it to pass that our author shuffles the two french dutchesses together? of which the one is an _italian_, the other a _french_ woman, and an _english_ dutchess? is he grown so purblind, that he cannot distinguish friends from foes? has he so soon forgotten the memory of past benefits, that he will not consider one of them as her, to whom all their applications were so lately made? is she so quickly become an old acquaintance, that none of the politick assignations at her lodgings are remembred? after this, who will trust the gratitude of a common-wealth? or who will blame the conduct of a silly court, for being over-reach'd by the whole _french_ council, when the able part of the nation, the designing heads, the gray wisdom, and the beaux garcons, are all foil'd by a single _french_ woman, at their own weapon, dissimulation? for the other _french_ dutchess, since i perceive our author is unacquainted with her character, i will give it him; she is one who loves her ease to that degree, that no advantages of fortune can bribe her into business. let her but have wherewithall to make merry adays, and to play at cards anights, and i dare answer for her, that she will take as little care to disturb their business, as she takes in the management of her own. but if you will say that she only affects idleness, and is a grand intriguer in her heart, i will only answer, that i should shew you just such another as i have describ'd her grace, amongst the heads of your own party: indeed i do not say it is a woman, but 'tis one who loves a woman. as for the dutchess of _m._ either she is a very sincere lover of downright idleness, or she has cousen'd all parts of christendom, where she has wandred for these last ten years. i hope our solid author will pardon me this digression; but now we have had our dance, let us to our serious business. _while these, and their creatures are at the helm, what can we expect for the security of the protestant religion, or what opposition to the ambitious designs of_ france? i suppose more reasonably on the other side, that no such persons are at the helm, and that what he has assum'd is but precarious. but i retort upon him, that if some of his party were the ministers, the protestant religion would receive but very cold assistance from them, who have none at all themselves. and for the growth of the _french_ monarchy, i have already told you, to whose counsels we are beholden for it. _he goes on; you will tell me that the supplyes so given may be appropriated, to these particular ends of supporting our alliances, and the relief of_ tangier: _and it may be so limited by act of parliament, that it cannot be diverted to other uses. but he answers that objection by a story of_ monsieur de sully's _telling of_ h. th _of_ france: _let the states raise the money, and tye it as they please; when they are dissolved, you may dispose of it as you please_. all this is to confirm his first unalterable principle, that the king must be sure to finger nothing; but be us'd as fishers do their cormorant, have his mouth left open, to swallow the prey for them, but his throat gagg'd that nothing may go down. let them bring this to pass, and afterwards they will not need to take away his prerogative of making war: he must do that at his own peril, and be sent to fight his enemies with his hands bound behind him. but what if he thinks not their party fit to be intrusted, least they should employ it against his person? why then, as he told you _they will give him nothing_. now whose will be the fault in common reason, if the allyances be not supported, and _tangier_ not relieved? if they will give him nothing, before they bring him to a necessity of taking it upon their terms, asmuch as in them lyes they dissolve the government: and the interest of the nation abroad must be left in the suds, till they have destroy'd the monarchy at home. but since god, and the laws have put the disposing of the treasury into his majesties hands, it may satisfie any reasonable _englishman_, that the same laws have provided for the mispending of the treasury, by calling the publick officers into question for it before the parliament. for god be thanked we have a house of commons, who will be sure, never to forgoe the least tittle of their priviledges, and not be so meal-mouth'd as the states of _france_, of whom neither monsieur _sully_, nor any of his successors, have never had any cause of apprehension. but since the wisdom of our ancestors have thought this provision sufficient for our security, what has his present majesty deserv'd from his subjects, that he should be made a minor at no less than fifty years of age? or that his house of commons should fetter him beyond any of his predecessors? _where the interest goes, you will say, there goes the power_. but the most ingenious of your authors, i mean _plato redivivus,_ broaches no such principle as that you should force this prerogative from the king, by undue courses. the best use which can be made of all, is rather to support the monarchy, than to have it fall upon your heads. if indeed there were any reasonable fear of an arbitrary government, the adverse party had somewhat to alledge in their defence of not supplying it; but it is not only evident, that the kings temper is wholly averse from any such design, but also demonstrable, that if all his council, were such as this man most falsely suggests them to be, yet the notion of an absolute power in the prince is wholly impracticable, not only in this age, but for ought any wise man can foresee, at any time hereafter. 'tis plain, that the king has reduc'd himself already to live more like a private gentleman than a prince; and since he can content himself in that condition, 'tis as plain, that the supplies which he demands are only for the service of the publick, and not for his own maintenance. monsieur _de sully_ might give what council he thought convenient for _henry_ the fourth, who was then designing that arbitrary power, which his successors have since compass'd, to the ruine of the subjects liberty in _france_; but i appeal to the consciences of those men, who are most averse to the present government, if they think our king would put his peace and quiet at this time of day, upon so desperate an issue. what the necessities, which they are driving him into, may make him part with on the other hand, i know not. but how can they answer it to our posterity, that for private picques, self interest, and causeless jealousies, they would destroy the foundation of so excellent a government, which is the admiration and envy of all _europe_? _the rest of my authors paragraph, is only laying more load upon the ministers, and telling us, that if a sum of money sufficient for those ends were given, while they were managers of affairs, it would be only to set them free from any apprehensions of account to any future parliament_. but this argument having only the imaginary fear of an arbitrary power for its foundation, is already answer'd, he adds in the close of it, _that the prince has a cheap bargain, who gives paper-laws in exchange of money and power. bargains, he tells us, there have always been, and always will be, betwixt prince and people, because it is in the constitution of our goverment, and the chief dependance of our kings is in the love and liberality of their people_. our present king, i acknowledge has often found it so; though no thanks i suppose to this gentleman and his party. but though he cry down paper and parchment at this rate, they are the best evidence he can have for his estate, and his friends the lawyers will advise him to speak with less contempt of those commodities. if laws avail the subject nothing, our ancestors have made many a bad bargain for us. yet i can instance to him one paper, namely, that of the _habeas corpus_ bill; for which the house of commons would have been content to have given a million of good _english_ money, and which they had gratis from his majesty. 'tis true, they boast they got it by a trick; but if the clerk of the parliament had been bidden to forget it, their trick of telling noses might have fail'd them. therefore let us do right on all sides: the nation is oblig'd both to the house of commons for asking it, and more especially to his majesty, for granting it so freely. _but what can we think of his next axiome, that it was never known that laws signified any thing to a people, who had not the sole guard of their own prince, government and laws?_ here all our fore-fathers are arraign'd at once for trusting the executive power of the laws in their princes hands. and yet you see the government has made a shift to shuffle on for so many hundred years together, under this miserable oppression; and no man so wise in so many ages to find out, that _magna charta_ was to no purpose, while there was a king. i confess in countreys, where the monarck governs absolutely, and the law is either his will, or depending on it, this noble maxim might take place; but since we are neither _turks_, _russians_, nor _frenchmen_, to affirm that in our countrey, in a monarchy of so temperate and wholsom a constitution, laws are of no validity, because they are not in the disposition of the people, plainly infers that no government but that of a common-wealth can preserve our liberties and priviledges: for though the title of a prince be allow'd to continue, yet if the people must have the sole guard and government of him and of the laws, 'tis but facing an whole hand of trumps, with an insignificant king of another sute. and which is worst of all, if this be true, there can be no rebellion, for then the people is the supream power. and if the representatives of the commons shall jarr with the other two estates, and with the king, it would be no rebellion to adhere to them in that war: to which i know that every republican who reads this, must of necessity answer, _no more it would not_. then farewell the good act of parliament, which makes it treason to levy arms against the present king, upon any pretences whatsoever. for if this be a right of nature, and consequently never to be resign'd, there never has been, nor ever can be any pact betwixt king and people, and mr. _hobbs_ would tell us, _that we are still in a state of war_. _the next thing our author would establish, is, that there is nothing in nature or in story so ridiculous, as the management of the ministers, in the examination of the popish plot. which being prov'd by_ coleman's _and others letters, and by both houses by declaring the king's life to be in danger_, &c. _yet they have persuaded the king to believe nothing of this danger; but to apprehend the plot to be extreamly improv'd, if not wholly contriv'd by the presbyterians. and to think it more his concernment to have an end of all; then to have it search'd to the bottom: and that this was the true reason, why four parliaments, during the examination of the plot have been dissolv'd:_ reasonable people will conclude, that his majesty and his ministers have proceeded, not ridiculously, but with all that caution which became them. for in the first heat and vehemence of the plot, the avenues of _white-hall_ were more strictly guarded: his majesty abstaining from places of publick entertainment, and the ministers taking all necessary care in council, both to discover conspiracies and to prevent them. so, that simply considered, the popish plot has nothing to do with the dissolution of four parliaments. but the use which has been made of it by the house of commons to dis-inherit the duke, to deny the king supplies, and to make some votes, which the king declares to be illegal, are the real and plain occasions of dissolving those parliaments. 'tis only affirm'd, but never will be prov'd by this author, that the king or his ministers have ever been desirous to stifle the plot, and not to have it search'd into the bottom. for to what end has his majesty so often offer'd the popish lords to be brought to their trial, but that their innocence or guilt, and consequently, that of the whole party might be made manifest? or why, after the execution of the lord _stafford_, did the house of commons stop at the other lords, and not proceed to try them in their turns? did his majesty stifle the plot when he offered them, or did they refuse to sound the depth of it, when they would not touch upon them? if it were for want of witnesses, which is all that can be said, the case is deplorable on the part of the accused; who can neither be bail'd, because impeach'd in parliament, nor admitted to be tryed, for fear they should be acquitted for want of evidence. i do not doubt but his majesty, after having done what in him lies for the utmost discovery of the plot, both by frequent proclamations of indemnity, and reward, to such as would come in, and discover more, and by several others too long to repeat, is desirous (for what good man is not?) that his care and trouble might be over. but i am much deceiv'd, if the antimonarchical party be of the same opinion; or that they desire the plot should be either wholly discover'd, or fully ended. for 'tis evidently their interest to keep it on foot, as long as possibly they can; and to give it hot water, as often as 'tis dying; for while they are in possession of this jewel, they make themselves masters of the people. for this very reason i have often said, even from the beginning of the discovery, that the presbyterians would never let it go out of their hands, but manage it to the last inch upon a save-all. and that if ever they had tryed one lord, they would value themselves upon that conquest, as long as ever it would last with the populace: but whatever came on't, be sure to leave a nest egg in the _tower_: and since i doubt not, but what so mean a judge as i am could so easily discover, could not possibly escape the vigilancy of those who are at the helm; i am apt to think, that his majesty saw at least as great a danger arising to him from the discontented spirits of the popular faction, as from the papists. for is it not plain, that ever since the beginning of the plot, they have been lopping off from the crown whatever part of the prerogative they could reach? and incroaching into soveraignty and arbitrary power themselves, while they seem'd to fear it from the king? how then could his majesty be blam'd, if he were forc'd to dissolve those parliaments, which instead of giving him relief, made their advantages upon his distresses; and while they pretended a care of his person on the one hand, were plucking at his scepter with the other? after this, the pamphleteer gives us a long bead-roll of _dangerfield's_ plot, captain _ely_, young _tongue_, _fitz-gerard_ and mr. _ray_, rails at some, and commends others as far as his skill in hyperbole will carry him. which all put together, amounts to no more than only this, that he whom they called rogue before, when he comes into their party, pays his garnish, and is adopted into the name of an honest man. thus _ray_ was no villain, when he accus'd colonel _sackvile_, before the house of commons; but when he failed of the reward of godliness at their hands, and from a wig became a tearing tory in new cloaths, our author puts him upon the file of rogues, with this brand, _than whom a more notorious and known villian lives not_. the next thing be falls upon, is the succession: which the king declares, _he will have preserved in its due descent_. now our author despairing, it seems, that an exclusion should pass by bill, urges, _that the right of nature and nations will impower subjects to deliver a protestant kingdom from a popish king_. the law of nations, is so undoubtedly, against him, that i am sure he dares not stick to that plea: but will be forc'd to reply, that the civil law was made in favour of monarchy: why then did he appeal to it? and for the law of nature, i know not what it has to do with protestants or papists, except he can prove that the english nation is naturally protestant; and then i would enquire of him what countrymen our fore-fathers were? but if he means by the law of nature, self-preservation and defence; even that neither will look but a squint upon religion; for a man of any religion, and a man of no religion, are equally bound to preserve their lives. but i answer positively to what he would be at; that the law of self-preservation impowers not a subject to rise in arms against his soveraign, of another religion, upon supposition of what he may do in his prejudice hereafter: for, since it is impossible that a moral certainty should be made out of a future contingency, and consequently, that the soveraign may not extend his power to the prejudice of any mans liberty or religion: the probability (which is the worst that they can put it) is not enough to absolve a subject who rises in arms, from rebellion, _in foro conscientiae_. we read of a divine command to obey superior powers: and the duke will lawfully be such, no bill of exclusion having past against him in his brother's life: besides this, we have the examples of primitive christians, even under heathen emperors, always suffering, yet never taking up arms, during ten persecutions. but we have no text, no primitive example encouraging us to rebel against a christian prince, tho of a different perswasion. and to say there were then no christian princes when the new testament was written, will avail our author little; for the argument is a _fortiori_: if it be unlawful to rebel against a heathen emperor, then much more against a christian king. the corollary is this, and every unbiassed sober man will subscribe to it, that since we cannot pry into the secret decrees of god, for the knowledge of future events, we ought to rely upon his providence, for the succession; without either plunging our present king into necessities, for what may never happen; or refusing our obedience to one hereafter, who in the course of nature may succeed him. one, who if he had the will, could never have the power to settle popery in _england_, or to bring in arbitrary government. _but the monarchy will not be destroyed, and the protestant religion will be preserved, if we may have a protestant successor_. if his party had thought, that this had been a true expedient, i am confident it had been mentioned in the last parliament at _westminster_. but there, _altum silentium_ not one word of it. was it because the machine was not then in readiness to move! and that the exclusion must first pass? or more truly was it ever intended to be urged? i am not ashamed to say, that i particularly honour the duke of _monmouth_: but whether his nomination to succeed, would, at the bottom be pleasing to the heads of his cabal, i somewhat doubt. to keep him fast to them by some remote hopes of it, may be no ill policy. to have him in a readiness to head an army, in case it should please god the king should die before the duke, is the design; and then perhaps he has reason to expect more from a chance game, than from the real desires of his party to exalt him to a throne. but 'tis neither to be imagined, that a prince of his spirit, after the gaining of a crown, would be managed by those who helped him to it, let his ingagements and promises be never so strong before, neither that he would be confin'd in the narrow compass of a curtail'd mungril monarchy, half common-wealth. conquerors are not easily to be curbed. and it is yet harder to conceive, that his pretended friends, even design him so much as that. at present, 'tis true, their mutual necessities keep them fast together; and all the several fanatick books fall in, to enlarge the common stream: but suppose the business compassed, as they design'd it, how many, and how contradicting interests are there to be satisfied! every sect of high shooes would then be uppermost; and not one of them endure the toleration of another. and amongst them all, what will become of those fine speculative wits, who drew the plan of this new government, and who overthrew the old? for their comfort, the saints will then account them atheists, and discard them. or they will plead each of them their particular merits, till they quarrel about the dividend. and, the protestant successor himself, if he be not wholly governed by the prevailing party, will first be declared no protestant; and next, no successor. this is dealing sincerely with him, which _plato redivivus_ does not: for all the bustle he makes concerning the duke of _m._ proceeds from a commonwealth principle: he is afraid at the bottom to have him at the head of the party, lest he should turn the absolute republick, now designing, into an arbitrary monarchy. the next thing he exposes, is the project communicated at _oxford_, by a worthy gentleman since deceased. but since he avowed himself, that it was but a rough draught, our author might have paid more respect to his memory, than to endeavour to render it ridiculous. but let us see how he mends the matter in his own which follows. _if the duke were only banished, during life, and the administration put into the hands of protestants, that would establish an unnatural war of expediency, against an avowed right and title. but on the other hand exclude the duke, and all other popish successors, and put down all those guards are now so illegally kept up, and banish the papists, where can be the danger of a war, in a nation unanimous_? i will not be unreasonable with him; i will expect english no where from the barrenness of his country: but if he can make sense of his _unnatural war of expediency_, i will forgive him two false grammars, and three barbarisms, in every period of his pamphlet; and yet leave him enow of each to expose his ignorance, whensoever i design it. but his expedient it self is very solid, if you mark it. _exclude the duke, take away the guards_, and consequently, all manner of defence from the kings person; _banish every mothers son of the papists, whether guilty or not guilty in particular of the plot_. and when papists are to be banished, i warrant you all protestants in masquerade must go for company; and when none but a pack of sectaries and commonwealths-men are left in _england_, where indeed will be the danger of a war, in a nation unanimous? after this, why does not some resenting friend of _marvel_'s, put up a petition to the soveraigns of his party, that his pension of four hundred pounds _per annum_, may be transferred to some one amongst them, who will not so notoriously betray their cause by dullness and insufficiency? as for the illegal guards, let the law help them; or let them be disbanded; for i do not think they have need of any champion. the next twenty lines are only an illustration upon his expedient: for he is so fond of his darling notion, that he huggs it to death, as the ape did her young one. he gives us his bill of tautology once more; for he threatens, that they would not rest at the exclusion; but the papists must again be banish'd, and the dukes creatures put out of office both civil and military. now the dukes creatures, i hope, are papists, or little better; so that this is all the same: as if he had been conning over this ingenious epigram; there was a man who with great labour, and much pain; did break his neck, and break his neck, and break his neck again. at the last, to shew his hand is not out in the whole paragraph, when the duke is excluded, his creatures put out of office, the papists banished twice over; and the church of _england_-men delivered to satan, yet still he says the duke is the great minister of state; and the kings excellent qualities give his brother still opportunities to ruine us and our religion. even excluded, and without friends and faction he can do all this; and the king is endued with most excellent qualities to suffer it. having found my man, methinks i can scarce afford to be serious with him any longer; but to treat him as he deserves, like an ill bouffoon. _he defends the sharpess of the addresses of which his majesty complains_: but i suppose it would be better for him, and me, to let our principals engage, and to stand by ourselves. i confess, i have heard some members of that house, wish, that all proceedings had been carried with less vehemence. but my author goes further on the other hand; _he affirms, that many wise and good men thought they had gone too far, in assuring, nay, in mentioning of money before our safety was fully provided for_. so you see he is still for laying his hand upon the penny. in the mean time i have him in a praemunire for arraigning the house of commons; for he has tacitely confessed, that the wise and good men were the fewer; because the house carryed it for mentioning money in their address. but it seems they went too far, in speaking of a supply, before they had consulted this gentleman, how far the safety of the nation would admit it. i find plainly by his temper, that if matters had come to an accommodation, and a bargain had been a bargain, the knights of the shire must have been the protestant knights no longer. _as for arbitrary power of taking men into custody, for matters that had no relation to privileges of parliament, he says they have erred with their fathers._ if he confess that they have erred, let it be with all their generation, still they have erred: and an error of the first digestion, is seldom mended in the second. but i find him modest in this point; and knowing too well they are not a court of judicature, he does not defend them from arbitrary proceedings, but only excuses, and palliates the matter, by saying, that it concern'd the rights of the people, in suppressing their petitions to the fountain of justice. so, when it makes for him, he can allow the king to be the _fountain of justice_, but at other times he is only a _cistern of the people._ but he knows sufficiently, however he dissembles it, that there were some taken into custody, to whom that crime was not objected. yet since in a manner he yields up the cause, i will not press him too far, where he is so manifestly weak. tho i must tell him by the way, that he is as justly to be proceeded against for calling the kings proclamation illegal, which concerned the matter of petitioning, as some of those, who had pronounced against them by the house of commons, that terrible sentence, of _take him,_ topham. _the strange illegal votes declaring several eminent persons to be enemies to the king and kingdom, are not so strange, he says, but very justifiable_. i hope he does not mean, that illegal votes are now not strange in the house of commons: but observe the reason which he gives: for the house of commons had before address'd for their removal from about the king. it was his business to have prov'd, that an address of the house of commons, without process, order of law, hearing any defence, or offering any proof against them is sufficient ground to remove any person from the king: but instead of this he only proves, that former addresses have been made, _which no body can deny_. when he has throughly settled this important point, that addresses have certainly been made, instead of an argument to back it, he only thinks, that one may affirm by law, _that the king ought to have no person about him, who has the misfortune of such a vote_. but this is too ridiculous to require an answer. they who will have a thing done, and give no reason for it, assume to themselves a manifest arbitrary power. now this power cannot be in the representatives, if it be not in the people: or if it be in them, the people is absolute. but since he wholly thinks it, let him injoy the privilege of every free born subject, to have the bell clinck to him what he imagines. well; all this while he has been in pain about laying his egg: at the last we shall have him cackle. _if the house of commons declare they have just reasons to fear, that such a person puts the king upon arbitrary councils, or betrays his and the nations interest, in such a case, order and process of law is not necessary to remove him; but the opinion and advice of the nation is enough; because bare removing neither fines him, nor deprives him of life, liberty, or offices, wherein state affairs are not concern'd._ hitherto, he has only prov'd, according to his usual logick, that bare removing, is but bare removing, and that to deprive a man of a publick office is not so much as it would be to hang him: all that possibly can be infer'd from this argument, is only that a vote may do a less wrong, but not a greater. let us see how be proceeds. _if he be not remov'd upon such address, you allow him time to act his villany; and the nation runs the hazard_. i answer, if the house have just reasons on their side, 'tis but equitable they should declare them; for an address in this case is an appeal to the king against such a man: and no appeal is supposed to be without the causes which induc'd it. but when they ask a removal, and give no reason for it; they make themselves judges of the matter, and consequently they appeal not, but command. if they please to give their reasons, they justifie their complaint; for then their address is almost in the nature of an impeachment; and in that case they may procure a hearing when they please. but barely to declare, that they suspect any man, without charging him with particular articles, is almost to confess, they can find none against him. to suppose a man has time to act his villanies, must suppose him first to be a villain: and if they suspect him to be such, nothing more easie than to name his crimes, and to take from him all opportunities of future mischief. but at this rate of bare addressing, any one who has a publick profitable employment might be remov'd; for upon the private picque of a member he may have a party rais'd for an address against him. and if his majesty can no sooner reward the services of any one who is not of their party, but they can vote him out of his employment; it must at last follow, that none but their own party must be employ'd, and then a vote of the house of commons, is in effect the government. neither can that be call'd the advice and opinion of the whole nation, by my author's favour, where the other two estates, and the soveraign are not consenting. _'tis no matter_, says this gentleman; _there are some things so reasonable, that they are above any written law: and will in despite of any power on earth have their effect, whereof this is one_. i love a man who deals plainly; he explicitly owns this is not law, and yet it is reasonable; and will have its effect as if it were. see then, in the first place the written law is laid aside: that sence is thrown open to admit reason in a larger denomination. now that reason which is not law, must be either enthusiasm, or the head-strong will of a whole nation combin'd: because in despite of any earthly power it will have its effect; so that, which way soever our author takes it, he must mean fanaticism, or rebellion: law grounded on reason is resolv'd into the absolute power of the people; and this is _ratio ultima reipublicae_. furthermore; _the king is a publick person: in his private capacity_, as we are told, _he can only eat and drink; and perform some other acts of nature which shall be nameless. but his actings without himself,_ says my grave author, _are only as a king. in his politick capacity he ought not to marry, love, hate, make war, or peace, but as a king; and agreeable to the people, and their interest he governs._ in plain terms then, as he is a man he has nothing left to do: for the actions which are mention'd, are those only of an animal, or which are common to man and beast. and as he is a king he has as little business, for there he is at the disposing of the people: and the only use that can be made of such a monarch, is for an innkeeper to let upon a sign-post to draw custom. but these letters of instruction how he should behave himself in his kingly office, cannot but call to mind how he was school'd and tutor'd, when the covenanters made just such another prince of him in _scotland_. when the terrible fasting day was come, if he were sick in bed, no remedy, he must up and to kirk; and that without a mouthful of bread to stay his stomach; for he fasted then in his politick capacity. when he was seated, no looking aside from mr. _john_; not a whisper to any man, but was a disrespect to the divine ordinance. after the first thunderer had spent his lungs, no retirement, the first is reinforc'd by a second and a third: all chosen vessels, dieted for preaching, and the best breath'd of the whole country. when the sun went down, then up went the candles, and the fourth arises to carry on the work of the night, when that of the day was at an end. 'tis true what he says, that our greatest princes have often hearkened to the addresses of their people, and have remov'd some persons from them; but it was when they found those addresses reasonable themselves. but they who consult the manner of addresses in former times, will find them to have been manag'd in the house of commons, with all the calmness and circumspection imaginable. the crimes were first maturely weigh'd, and the whole matter throughly winnow'd in debates. after which, if they thought it necessary for the publick wellfare, that such a person should be remov'd, they dutifully acquainted the king with their opinion, which was often favourably heard; and their desires granted. but now the case is quite otherwise; either no debate, or a very slight one precedes addresses of that nature. but a man is run down with violent harangues; and 'tis thought sufficient, if any member rises up, and offers that he will make out the accusation afterwards: when things are carried in this heady manner, i suppose 'tis no sign of a great prince, to have any of his servants forc'd from him. but such addresses will insensibly grow into presidents: you see our author is nibbling at one already. and we know a house of commons is always forgiving the crescent in their arms. if they gain a point, they never recede from it, they make sure work of every concession from the crown, and immediately put it into the christmass box: from whence there is no redemption. in justification of the two votes against lending or advancing money to the king, he falls to railing, like a sophister in the schools, when his syllogisms are at an end. he arraigns the kings private manner of living, without considering that his not being supplied has forc'd him to it. i do not take upon me to defend any former ill management of the treasury; but, if i am not deceiv'd, the great grievance of the other party at present, is, that it is well manag'd. and, that notwithstanding nothing has been given for so many years, yet a competent provision is still made for all expences of the publick, if not so large as might be wish'd, yet at least as much as is necessary. and i can tell my author for his farther mortification, that at present no money is furnish'd to his majesties occasions, at such unconscionable usury as he mentions. if he would have the tables set up again, let the king be put into a condition, and then let eating and drinking flourish, according to the hearty, honest and greasie hospitality of our ancestors. he would have the king have recourse to parliaments, as the only proper supply to a king of _england_, for those things which the treasury in this low ebb cannot furnish out: but when he comes to the conditions, on which this money is to be had, they are such, that perhaps forty in the hundred to a jew banquer were not more unreasonable. in the mean time, if a parliament will not give, and others must not lend, there is a certain story of the dog in the manger, which out of good manners i will not apply. the vote for not prosecuting protestant dissenters upon the penal laws; which at this time is thought to be a grievance to the subject, a weakning of the protestant religion, and an incouragement to popery, is a matter more tenderly to be handled. but if it be true what has been commonly reported since the plot, that priests, jesuits, and friars, mingle amongst anabaptists, quakers, and other sectaries, and are their teachers, must not they be prosecuted neither? some men would think, that before such an uniting of protestants, a winnowing were not much amiss; for after they were once sent together to the mill, it would be too late to divide the grist. his majesty is well known to be an indulgent prince, to the consciences of his dissenting subjects: but whoever has seen a paper call'd, i think, _an intended bill for uniting_, &c. which lay upon the table of every coffee-house, and was modelling to pass the house of commons, may have found things of such dangerous concernment to the government, as might seem not so much intended to unite dissenters in a protestant church, as to draw together all the forces of the several fanatick parties, against the church of _england_. and when they were encouraged by such a vote, which they value as a law; (for so high that coin is now inhaunc'd) perhaps it is not unreasonable to hold the rod over them. but for my own part, i heartily wish, that there may be no occasion for christians to persecute each other. and since my author speaks with some moderation, candor, and submission to his mother church, i shall only desire him and the dissenting party, to make the use they ought, of the king gracious disposition to them, in not yet proceeding with all the violence which the penal laws require against them. but this calm of my author, was too happy to last long. you find him immediately transported into a storm about the business of _fitz-harris_, which occasion'd the dissolution of the parliament at _oxford_: and accusing, according to his sawcy custom, both his majesty, and the house of lords, concerning it. as for the house of lords, they have already vindicated their own right, by throwing out the impeachment: and sure the people of _england_ ought to own them as the assertors of the publick liberty in so doing; for process being before ordered against him at common law, and no particular crime being laid to his charge by the house of commons, if they had admitted his cause to be tryed before the lordships, this would have grown a president in time, that they must have been forc'd to judge all those whom the house of commons would thrust upon them, till at last the number of impeachments would be so increas'd; that the peers would have no time for any other business of the publick: and the highest court of judicature would have been reduc'd to be the ministers of revenge to the commons. what then would become of our ancient privilege to be tryed _per pares_? which in process of time would be lost to us and our posterity: except a proviso were made on purpose, that this judgment might not be drawn into farther president; and that is never done, but when there is a manifest necessity of breaking rules, which here there was not. otherwise the commons may make spaniels of the lords, throw them a man, and bid them go judge, as we command a dog to fetch and carry. but neither the lords reasons, nor the king first having possession of the prisoner, signifie any thing with our author. he will tell you the reason of the impeachment was to bring out the popish plot. if _fitz-harris_ really know any thing but what relates to his own treason, he chuses a fine time of day to discover it now, when 'tis manifestly to save his neck, that he is forc'd to make himself a greater villain; and to charge himself with new crimes to avoid the punishment of the old. had he not the benefit of so many proclamations, to have come in before, if he then knew any thing worth discovery? and was not his fortune necessitous enough at all times, to catch at an impunity, which was baited with rewards to bribe him? 'tis not for nothing that party has been all along so favourable to him: they are conscious to themselves of some other matters than a popish plot. let him first be tryed for what he was first accus'd: if he be acquitted, his party will be satisfied, and their strength increas'd by the known honesty of another evidence: but if he be condemn'd, let us see what truth will come out of him, when he has _tyburn_ and another world before his eyes. then, if he confess any thing which makes against the cause, their excuse is ready; he died a papist, and had a dispensation from the pope to lie. but if they can bring him silent to the gallows, all their favour will be, to wish him dispatch'd out of his pain, as soon as possibly he may. and in that case they have already promis'd they will be good to his wife, and provide for her, which would be a strong encouragement, for many a woman, to perswade her husband to digest the halter. this remembers me of a certain spanish duke, who commanding a sea-port-town, set an officer of his, underhand to rob the merchants. his grace you may be confident was to have the booty, and the fellow was assur'd if he were taken to be protected. it fell out, after some time, that he was apprehended: his master, according to articles, brought him off. the rogue went again to his vocation, was the second time taken, delivered again, and so the third. at last the matter grew so notorious, that the duke found, it would be both scandalous and difficult to protect him any longer; but the poor malefactor sending his wife to tell him that if he did not save him he must be hanged to morrow, and that he must confess who set him on: his master very civilly sent him this message; _prithee suffer thy self to be hanged this once to do me a courtesie, and it shall be the better for thy wife and children._ 'but that which makes amends for all, says our author, is the kings resolution to have frequent parliaments. yet this, it seems, is no amends neither: for he says parliaments are like terms, if there be ten in a year, and all so short to near no causes, they do no good.' i say on the other hand, if the courts will resolve beforehand to have no causes brought before them, but one which they know they cannot dispatch; let the terms be never so long, they make them as insignificant as a vacation. _the kings prerogative, when and where they should be call'd, and how long they should sit, is but subservient, as our friend tells us, to the great design of government; and must be accommodated to it, or we are either denyed or deluded of that protection and justice we are born to._ my author is the happiest in one faculty, i ever knew. he is still advancing some new position, which without proving, he slurs upon us for an argument: though he knows, that doctrines without proofs will edifie but little. that the kings prerogative is subservient, or in order to the ends of government is granted him. but what strange kind of argument is this, to prove that we are cheated of that protection to which we are born. our kings have always been indued with the power of calling parliaments, nominating the time, appointing of the place, and dissolving them when they thought it for the publick good: and the people have wisely consulted their own welfare in it. suppose, for example, that there be a jarring between the three estates, which renders their sitting at that time impracticable; since none of them can pretend to judge the proceedings of the other two, the judgment of the whole must either reside in a superiour power, or the discord must terminate in the ruine of them all. for if one of the three incroach too far, there is so much lost in the balance of the estates, and so much more arbitrary power in one; 'tis as certain in politiques, as in nature; that where the sea prevails the land loses. if no such discord should arise, my authors argument is of no farther use: for where the soveraign and parliament agree, there can be no deluding of the people; so, that in short, his quarrel is to the constitution of the government. and we see what nettles him, that the king has learnt from the unhappy example of his father, not to perpetuate a parliament. but he will tell you, that they desire only a lasting parliament, which may dispatch all causes necessary and proper for the publick: and i answer him, that it lyes in themselves to make it so. but who shall judge when it shall be proper to put an end to such a parliament? there is no farther answer left him; but only, that the reason of things is the only rule: for when all necessary causes are dispatch'd, then is the proper time of dissolution. but if you mark it, this argumentation is still running in a circle. for the parliament, that is the house of commons, would constitute themselves judges of this reason of things; and of what causes were necessary to be dispatch'd. so that my author had as good have laid down this position bare-fac'd, that a parliament ought never to be dissolved, till an house of commons would sit no longer. my author goes on scoffingly, _that he has nothing to say for those angry men_ (he means of his own party) _whose particular designs are disappointed; only that they might have kept their places; and that he can find no difference betwixt them who are out, and those who are put in, but that the former could have ruin'd us, and would not: and these cannot if they would._ i am willing to let them pass as lightly as he pleases: angry they are, and they know the proverb. i hope i may have leave to observe transiently, that none but angry men, that is, such as hold themselves disobliged at court, are the pillars of his party. and where are then the principles of vertue, honour and religion, which they would persuade the world, have animated their endeavours for the publick? what were they before they were thus angry? or what would they be, could they make so firm an interest in court, that they might venture themselves in that bottom? this, the whole party cannot choose but know; for knaves can easily smell out one another. my author, an experienced man, makes but very little difference, betwixt those who are out, and those who are put in. but the nation begins to be awake: his party is mouldring away, and as it falls out, in all dishonest combinations, are suspecting each other so very fast, that every man is shifting for himself, by a separate treaty: and looking out for a plank in the common shipwrack, so that the point is turn'd upon him; those who are out, would have ruin'd us, and cou'd not; and those who are in, are endeavouring to save us if they can. my adversary himself, now drawing to a conclusion, seems to be inclining to good opinions: and as dying men, are much given to repentance, so finding his cause at the last gasp, he unburthens his conscience and disclaims the principles of a common-wealth, both for himself, and for both houses of parliament, which is indeed to be over-officious: for one of the houses will not think they have need of such a compurgator. but he wisely fears no change of government from any, but the papists. now i am of a better heart, for i fear it neither from papists nor presbyterians. whether democracy will agree with jesuitical principles in _england_ i am not certain; but i can easily prove to him, that no government but a common-wealth is accommodated to the systeme of church-worship invented by _john calvin_. the declaration concludes, that the king is resolv'd to govern in all things by the laws: and here the author of the answer, is for frisking out into a fit of joy, which looks as aukward with his gravity, as ever was king _david_'s dancing before the ark. this similitude i hope has pleas'd him; if it does not, _esop_'s ass stands ready sadled at the door. but a melancholick consideration has already pour'd cold water in his porredge, for all promises he says, _are either kept or broken_: well-fare a good old proverb. i could find in my heart to cap it with another, _that the old woman had never look'd for her daughter in the oven, if she had not been there herself before_. but if the king should keep his word, as all but his enemies conclude he will, then we shall see annual parliaments sit longer i hope; when they meddle only with their proper business. they will lose their time no more, in cutting off the succession, altering the course of nature, and directing the providence of god, before they know it. we shall have no uniting of sects against the church of _england_, nor of counties against the next heir of the crown. the king shall then be advis'd by his parliament, when both houses concur in their advice. there shall be no more need of declarations about the dissolving of parliaments, and no more need of factious fools to answer them; but the people shall be happy, the king shall be supply'd the alliances shall be supported, and my suppos'd author be made a bishop, and renounce the covenant. that many of these things may happen, is the wish of every loyal subject, and particularly of sir, _your most humble servant_ _the editors of_ the augustan reprint society _are pleased to announce that_ the william andrews clark memorial library _of the university of california, los angeles_ will become the publisher of the augustan reprints in may, . the editorial policy of the society will continue unchanged. as in the past, the editors will strive to furnish members inexpensive reprints of rare seventeenth and eighteenth century works. all correspondence concerning subscriptions in the united states and canada should be addressed to the william andrews clark memorial library, west adams blvd., los angeles , california. correspondence concerning editorial matters may be addressed to any of the general editors. membership fee continues $ . per year ($ . in great britain and the continent). british and european subscribers should address b.h. blackwell, broad street, oxford, england. publications for the fourth year ( - ) _(at least six items will be printed in the main from the following list)_ series iv: men, manners, and critics john dryden, _his majesties declaration defended_ ( ) daniel defoe (?), _vindication of the press_ ( ) _critical remarks on sir charles grandison, clarissa, and pamela_ ( ) series v: drama thomas southerne, _oroonoko_ ( ) mrs. centlivre, _the busie body_ ( ) charles johnson, _caelia_ ( ) charles macklin, _man of the world_ ( ) series vi: poetry and language andre dacier, _essay on lyric poetry_ _poems_ by thomas sprat _poems_ by the earl of dorset samuel johnson, _vanity of human wishes_ ( ), and one of the _rambler_ papers. extra series: lewis theobald, _preface to shakespeare's works_ ( ) a few copies of the early publications of the society are still available at the original rate. general editors h. richard archer, william andrews clark memorial library r.c. boys, university of michigan e.n. hooker, university of california, los angeles h.t. swedenberg, jr., university of california, los angeles * * * * * to the augustan reprint society _william andrews clark memorial library_ _ west adams blvd., los angeles , california_ as membership fee i enclose for: the fourth year $ . the third and fourth year . the second, third and fourth year . the first, second, third, and fourth year . [add $. for each year if ordering from great britain or the continent] _name_ _address_ make check or money order payable to the regents of the university of california. _note: all income of the society is devoted to defraying cost of printing and mailing._ publications of the augustan reprint society first year ( - ) . richard blackmore's _essay upon wit_ ( ), and addison's _freeholder_ no. ( ). (i, ) . samuel cobb's _of poetry_ and _discourse on criticism_ ( ). (ii, ) . _letter to a.h. esq.; concerning the stage_ ( ), and richard willis' _occasioned paper no. ix_ ( ). (iii, ) . _essay on wit_ ( ), together with characters by flecknoe, and joseph warton's _adventurer_ nos. and . (i, ) . samuel wesley's _epistle to a friend concerning poetry_ ( ) and _essay on heroic poetry_ ( ). (ii, ) . _representation of the impiety and immorality of the stage_ ( ) and _some thoughts concerning the stage_ ( ). (iii, ) second year ( - ) . john gay's _the present state of wit_ ( ); and a section on wit from _the english theophrastus_ ( ). (i, ) . rapin's _de carmine pastorali_, translated by creech ( ). (ii, ) . t. hanmer's (?) _some remarks on the tragedy of hamlet_ ( ). (iii, ) . corbyn morris' _essay towards fixing the true standards of wit, etc._ ( ). (i, ) . thomas purney's _discourse on the pastoral_ ( ). (ii, ) . essays on the stage, selected, with an introduction by joseph wood krutch. (iii, ) third year ( - ) . sir john falstaff (pseud.), _the theatre_ ( ). (iv, ) . edward moore's _the gamester_ ( ). (v, ) . john oldmixon's _reflections on dr. swift's letter to harley_ ( ); and arthur mainwaring's _the british academy_ ( ). (vi, ) . nevil payne's _fatal jealousy_ ( ). (v, ) . nicholas rowe's _some account of the life of mr. william shakespear_ ( ). (extra series, ) . aaron hill's preface to _the creation_; and thomas brereton's preface to _esther_. (iv, ) comments on the preparation of this e-text square brackets: the square brackets, i.e. [ ] are copied from the printed book, without change, except that a closing bracket "]" has been added to the stage directions. changes to the text: character names have been expanded. for example, cleopatra was cleo. three words in the preface were written in greek characters. these have been transliterated into roman characters, and are set off by angle brackets, for example, <melichroos>. all for love by john dryden introductory note the age of elizabeth, memorable for so many reasons in the history of england, was especially brilliant in literature, and, within literature, in the drama. with some falling off in spontaneity, the impulse to great dramatic production lasted till the long parliament closed the theaters in ; and when they were reopened at the restoration, in , the stage only too faithfully reflected the debased moral tone of the court society of charles ii. john dryden ( - ), the great representative figure in the literature of the latter part of the seventeenth century, exemplifies in his work most of the main tendencies of the time. he came into notice with a poem on the death of cromwell in , and two years later was composing couplets expressing his loyalty to the returned king. he married lady elizabeth howard, the daughter of a royalist house, and for practically all the rest of his life remained an adherent of the tory party. in he began writing for the stage, and during the next thirty years he attempted nearly all the current forms of drama. his "annus mirabilis" ( ), celebrating the english naval victories over the dutch, brought him in the poet laureateship. he had, meantime, begun the writing of those admirable critical essays, represented in the present series by his preface to the "fables" and his dedication to the translation of virgil. in these he shows himself not only a critic of sound and penetrating judgment, but the first master of modern english prose style. with "absalom and achitophel," a satire on the whig leader, shaftesbury, dryden entered a new phase, and achieved what is regarded as "the finest of all political satires." this was followed by "the medal," again directed against the whigs, and this by "mac flecknoe," a fierce attack on his enemy and rival shadwell. the government rewarded his services by a lucrative appointment. after triumphing in the three fields of drama, criticism, and satire, dryden appears next as a religious poet in his "religio laici," an exposition of the doctrines of the church of england from a layman's point of view. in the same year that the catholic james ii. ascended the throne, dryden joined the roman church, and two years later defended his new religion in "the hind and the panther," an allegorical debate between two animals standing respectively for catholicism and anglicanism. the revolution of put an end to dryden's prosperity; and after a short return to dramatic composition, he turned to translation as a means of supporting himself. he had already done something in this line; and after a series of translations from juvenal, persius, and ovid, he undertook, at the age of sixty-three, the enormous task of turning the entire works of virgil into english verse. how he succeeded in this, readers of the "aeneid" in a companion volume of these classics can judge for themselves. dryden's production closes with the collection of narrative poems called "fables," published in , in which year he died and was buried in the poet's corner in westminster abbey. dryden lived in an age of reaction against excessive religious idealism, and both his character and his works are marked by the somewhat unheroic traits of such a period. but he was, on the whole, an honest man, open minded, genial, candid, and modest; the wielder of a style, both in verse and prose, unmatched for clearness, vigor, and sanity. three types of comedy appeared in england in the time of dryden--the comedy of humors, the comedy of intrigue, and the comedy of manners--and in all he did work that classed him with the ablest of his contemporaries. he developed the somewhat bombastic type of drama known as the heroic play, and brought it to its height in his "conquest of granada"; then, becoming dissatisfied with this form, he cultivated the french classic tragedy on the model of racine. this he modified by combining with the regularity of the french treatment of dramatic action a richness of characterization in which he showed himself a disciple of shakespeare, and of this mixed type his best example is "all for love." here he has the daring to challenge comparison with his master, and the greatest testimony to his achievement is the fact that, as professor noyes has said, "fresh from shakespeare's 'antony and cleopatra,' we can still read with intense pleasure dryden's version of the story." dedication to the right honourable, thomas, earl of danby, viscount latimer, and baron osborne of kiveton, in yorkshire; lord high treasurer of england, one of his majesty's most honourable privy council, and knight of the most noble order of the garter. my lord, the gratitude of poets is so troublesome a virtue to great men, that you are often in danger of your own benefits: for you are threatened with some epistle, and not suffered to do good in quiet, or to compound for their silence whom you have obliged. yet, i confess, i neither am or ought to be surprised at this indulgence; for your lordship has the same right to favour poetry, which the great and noble have ever had-- carmen amat, quisquis carmine digna gerit. there is somewhat of a tie in nature betwixt those who are born for worthy actions, and those who can transmit them to posterity; and though ours be much the inferior part, it comes at least within the verge of alliance; nor are we unprofitable members of the commonwealth, when we animate others to those virtues, which we copy and describe from you. it is indeed their interest, who endeavour the subversion of governments, to discourage poets and historians; for the best which can happen to them, is to be forgotten. but such who, under kings, are the fathers of their country, and by a just and prudent ordering of affairs preserve it, have the same reason to cherish the chroniclers of their actions, as they have to lay up in safety the deeds and evidences of their estates; for such records are their undoubted titles to the love and reverence of after ages. your lordship's administration has already taken up a considerable part of the english annals; and many of its most happy years are owing to it. his majesty, the most knowing judge of men, and the best master, has acknowledged the ease and benefit he receives in the incomes of his treasury, which you found not only disordered, but exhausted. all things were in the confusion of a chaos, without form or method, if not reduced beyond it, even to annihilation; so that you had not only to separate the jarring elements, but (if that boldness of expression might be allowed me) to create them. your enemies had so embroiled the management of your office, that they looked on your advancement as the instrument of your ruin. and as if the clogging of the revenue, and the confusion of accounts, which you found in your entrance, were not sufficient, they added their own weight of malice to the public calamity, by forestalling the credit which should cure it. your friends on the other side were only capable of pitying, but not of aiding you; no further help or counsel was remaining to you, but what was founded on yourself; and that indeed was your security; for your diligence, your constancy, and your prudence, wrought most surely within, when they were not disturbed by any outward motion. the highest virtue is best to be trusted with itself; for assistance only can be given by a genius superior to that which it assists; and it is the noblest kind of debt, when we are only obliged to god and nature. this then, my lord, is your just commendation, and that you have wrought out yourself a way to glory, by those very means that were designed for your destruction: you have not only restored but advanced the revenues of your master, without grievance to the subject; and, as if that were little yet, the debts of the exchequer, which lay heaviest both on the crown, and on private persons, have by your conduct been established in a certainty of satisfaction. an action so much the more great and honourable, because the case was without the ordinary relief of laws; above the hopes of the afflicted and beyond the narrowness of the treasury to redress, had it been managed by a less able hand. it is certainly the happiest, and most unenvied part of all your fortune, to do good to many, while you do injury to none; to receive at once the prayers of the subject, and the praises of the prince; and, by the care of your conduct, to give him means of exerting the chiefest (if any be the chiefest) of his royal virtues, his distributive justice to the deserving, and his bounty and compassion to the wanting. the disposition of princes towards their people cannot be better discovered than in the choice of their ministers; who, like the animal spirits betwixt the soul and body, participate somewhat of both natures, and make the communication which is betwixt them. a king, who is just and moderate in his nature, who rules according to the laws, whom god has made happy by forming the temper of his soul to the constitution of his government, and who makes us happy, by assuming over us no other sovereignty than that wherein our welfare and liberty consists; a prince, i say, of so excellent a character, and so suitable to the wishes of all good men, could not better have conveyed himself into his people's apprehensions, than in your lordship's person; who so lively express the same virtues, that you seem not so much a copy, as an emanation of him. moderation is doubtless an establishment of greatness; but there is a steadiness of temper which is likewise requisite in a minister of state; so equal a mixture of both virtues, that he may stand like an isthmus betwixt the two encroaching seas of arbitrary power, and lawless anarchy. the undertaking would be difficult to any but an extraordinary genius, to stand at the line, and to divide the limits; to pay what is due to the great representative of the nation, and neither to enhance, nor to yield up, the undoubted prerogatives of the crown. these, my lord, are the proper virtues of a noble englishman, as indeed they are properly english virtues; no people in the world being capable of using them, but we who have the happiness to be born under so equal, and so well-poised a government;--a government which has all the advantages of liberty beyond a commonwealth, and all the marks of kingly sovereignty, without the danger of a tyranny. both my nature, as i am an englishman, and my reason, as i am a man, have bred in me a loathing to that specious name of a republic; that mock appearance of a liberty, where all who have not part in the government, are slaves; and slaves they are of a viler note, than such as are subjects to an absolute dominion. for no christian monarchy is so absolute, but it is circumscribed with laws; but when the executive power is in the law-makers, there is no further check upon them; and the people must suffer without a remedy, because they are oppressed by their representatives. if i must serve, the number of my masters, who were born my equals, would but add to the ignominy of my bondage. the nature of our government, above all others, is exactly suited both to the situation of our country, and the temper of the natives; an island being more proper for commerce and for defence, than for extending its dominions on the continent; for what the valour of its inhabitants might gain, by reason of its remoteness, and the casualties of the seas, it could not so easily preserve: and, therefore, neither the arbitrary power of one, in a monarchy, nor of many, in a commonwealth, could make us greater than we are. it is true, that vaster and more frequent taxes might be gathered, when the consent of the people was not asked or needed; but this were only by conquering abroad, to be poor at home; and the examples of our neighbours teach us, that they are not always the happiest subjects, whose kings extend their dominions farthest. since therefore we cannot win by an offensive war, at least, a land war, the model of our government seems naturally contrived for the defensive part; and the consent of a people is easily obtained to contribute to that power which must protect it. felices nimium, bona si sua norint, angligenae! and yet there are not wanting malcontents among us, who, surfeiting themselves on too much happiness, would persuade the people that they might be happier by a change. it was indeed the policy of their old forefather, when himself was fallen from the station of glory, to seduce mankind into the same rebellion with him, by telling him he might yet be freer than he was; that is more free than his nature would allow, or, if i may so say, than god could make him. we have already all the liberty which freeborn subjects can enjoy, and all beyond it is but licence. but if it be liberty of conscience which they pretend, the moderation of our church is such, that its practice extends not to the severity of persecution; and its discipline is withal so easy, that it allows more freedom to dissenters than any of the sects would allow to it. in the meantime, what right can be pretended by these men to attempt innovation in church or state? who made them the trustees, or to speak a little nearer their own language, the keepers of the liberty of england? if their call be extraordinary, let them convince us by working miracles; for ordinary vocation they can have none, to disturb the government under which they were born, and which protects them. he who has often changed his party, and always has made his interest the rule of it, gives little evidence of his sincerity for the public good; it is manifest he changes but for himself, and takes the people for tools to work his fortune. yet the experience of all ages might let him know, that they who trouble the waters first, have seldom the benefit of the fishing; as they who began the late rebellion enjoyed not the fruit of their undertaking, but were crushed themselves by the usurpation of their own instrument. neither is it enough for them to answer, that they only intend a reformation of the government, but not the subversion of it: on such pretence all insurrections have been founded; it is striking at the root of power, which is obedience. every remonstrance of private men has the seed of treason in it; and discourses, which are couched in ambiguous terms, are therefore the more dangerous, because they do all the mischief of open sedition, yet are safe from the punishment of the laws. these, my lord, are considerations, which i should not pass so lightly over, had i room to manage them as they deserve; for no man can be so inconsiderable in a nation, as not to have a share in the welfare of it; and if he be a true englishman, he must at the same time be fired with indignation, and revenge himself as he can on the disturbers of his country. and to whom could i more fitly apply myself than to your lordship, who have not only an inborn, but an hereditary loyalty? the memorable constancy and sufferings of your father, almost to the ruin of his estate, for the royal cause, were an earnest of that which such a parent and such an institution would produce in the person of a son. but so unhappy an occasion of manifesting your own zeal, in suffering for his present majesty, the providence of god, and the prudence of your administration, will, i hope, prevent; that, as your father's fortune waited on the unhappiness of his sovereign, so your own may participate of the better fate which attends his son. the relation which you have by alliance to the noble family of your lady, serves to confirm to you both this happy augury. for what can deserve a greater place in the english chronicle, than the loyalty and courage, the actions and death, of the general of an army, fighting for his prince and country? the honour and gallantry of the earl of lindsey is so illustrious a subject, that it is fit to adorn an heroic poem; for he was the protomartyr of the cause, and the type of his unfortunate royal master. yet after all, my lord, if i may speak my thoughts, you are happy rather to us than to yourself; for the multiplicity, the cares, and the vexations of your employment, have betrayed you from yourself, and given you up into the possession of the public. you are robbed of your privacy and friends, and scarce any hour of your life you can call your own. those, who envy your fortune, if they wanted not good-nature, might more justly pity it; and when they see you watched by a crowd of suitors, whose importunity it is impossible to avoid, would conclude, with reason, that you have lost much more in true content, than you have gained by dignity; and that a private gentleman is better attended by a single servant, than your lordship with so clamorous a train. pardon me, my lord, if i speak like a philosopher on this subject; the fortune which makes a man uneasy, cannot make him happy; and a wise man must think himself uneasy, when few of his actions are in his choice. this last consideration has brought me to another, and a very seasonable one for your relief; which is, that while i pity your want of leisure, i have impertinently detained you so long a time. i have put off my own business, which was my dedication, till it is so late, that i am now ashamed to begin it; and therefore i will say nothing of the poem, which i present to you, because i know not if you are like to have an hour, which, with a good conscience, you may throw away in perusing it; and for the author, i have only to beg the continuance of your protection to him, who is, my lord, your lordship's most obliged, most humble, and most obedient, servant, john dryden. preface the death of antony and cleopatra is a subject which has been treated by the greatest wits of our nation, after shakespeare; and by all so variously, that their example has given me the confidence to try myself in this bow of ulysses amongst the crowd of suitors, and, withal, to take my own measures, in aiming at the mark. i doubt not but the same motive has prevailed with all of us in this attempt; i mean the excellency of the moral: for the chief persons represented were famous patterns of unlawful love; and their end accordingly was unfortunate. all reasonable men have long since concluded, that the hero of the poem ought not to be a character of perfect virtue, for then he could not, without injustice, be made unhappy; nor yet altogether wicked, because he could not then be pitied. i have therefore steered the middle course; and have drawn the character of antony as favourably as plutarch, appian, and dion cassius would give me leave; the like i have observed in cleopatra. that which is wanting to work up the pity to a greater height, was not afforded me by the story; for the crimes of love, which they both committed, were not occasioned by any necessity, or fatal ignorance, but were wholly voluntary; since our passions are, or ought to be, within our power. the fabric of the play is regular enough, as to the inferior parts of it; and the unities of time, place, and action, more exactly observed, than perhaps the english theatre requires. particularly, the action is so much one, that it is the only one of the kind without episode, or underplot; every scene in the tragedy conducing to the main design, and every act concluding with a turn of it. the greatest error in the contrivance seems to be in the person of octavia; for, though i might use the privilege of a poet, to introduce her into alexandria, yet i had not enough considered, that the compassion she moved to herself and children was destructive to that which i reserved for antony and cleopatra; whose mutual love being founded upon vice, must lessen the favour of the audience to them, when virtue and innocence were oppressed by it. and, though i justified antony in some measure, by making octavia's departure to proceed wholly from herself; yet the force of the first machine still remained; and the dividing of pity, like the cutting of a river into many channels, abated the strength of the natural stream. but this is an objection which none of my critics have urged against me; and therefore i might have let it pass, if i could have resolved to have been partial to myself. the faults my enemies have found are rather cavils concerning little and not essential decencies; which a master of the ceremonies may decide betwixt us. the french poets, i confess, are strict observers of these punctilios: they would not, for example, have suffered cleopatra and octavia to have met; or, if they had met, there must have only passed betwixt them some cold civilities, but no eagerness of repartee, for fear of offending against the greatness of their characters, and the modesty of their sex. this objection i foresaw, and at the same time contemned; for i judged it both natural and probable, that octavia, proud of her new-gained conquest, would search out cleopatra to triumph over her; and that cleopatra, thus attacked, was not of a spirit to shun the encounter: and it is not unlikely, that two exasperated rivals should use such satire as i have put into their mouths; for, after all, though the one were a roman, and the other a queen, they were both women. it is true, some actions, though natural, are not fit to be represented; and broad obscenities in words ought in good manners to be avoided: expressions therefore are a modest clothing of our thoughts, as breeches and petticoats are of our bodies. if i have kept myself within the bounds of modesty, all beyond, it is but nicety and affectation; which is no more but modesty depraved into a vice. they betray themselves who are too quick of apprehension in such cases, and leave all reasonable men to imagine worse of them, than of the poet. honest montaigne goes yet further: nous ne sommes que ceremonie; la ceremonie nous emporte, et laissons la substance des choses. nous nous tenons aux branches, et abandonnons le tronc et le corps. nous avons appris aux dames de rougir, oyans seulement nommer ce qu'elles ne craignent aucunement a faire: nous n'osons appeller a droit nos membres, et ne craignons pas de les employer a toute sorte de debauche. la ceremonie nous defend d'exprimer par paroles les choses licites et naturelles, et nous l'en croyons; la raison nous defend de n'en faire point d'illicites et mauvaises, et personne ne l'en croit. my comfort is, that by this opinion my enemies are but sucking critics, who would fain be nibbling ere their teeth are come. yet, in this nicety of manners does the excellency of french poetry consist. their heroes are the most civil people breathing; but their good breeding seldom extends to a word of sense; all their wit is in their ceremony; they want the genius which animates our stage; and therefore it is but necessary, when they cannot please, that they should take care not to offend. but as the civilest man in the company is commonly the dullest, so these authors, while they are afraid to make you laugh or cry, out of pure good manners make you sleep. they are so careful not to exasperate a critic, that they never leave him any work; so busy with the broom, and make so clean a riddance that there is little left either for censure or for praise: for no part of a poem is worth our discommending, where the whole is insipid; as when we have once tasted of palled wine, we stay not to examine it glass by glass. but while they affect to shine in trifles, they are often careless in essentials. thus, their hippolytus is so scrupulous in point of decency, that he will rather expose himself to death, than accuse his stepmother to his father; and my critics i am sure will commend him for it. but we of grosser apprehensions are apt to think that this excess of generosity is not practicable, but with fools and madmen. this was good manners with a vengeance; and the audience is like to be much concerned at the misfortunes of this admirable hero. but take hippolytus out of his poetic fit, and i suppose he would think it a wiser part to set the saddle on the right horse, and choose rather to live with the reputation of a plain-spoken, honest man, than to die with the infamy of an incestuous villain. in the meantime we may take notice, that where the poet ought to have preserved the character as it was delivered to us by antiquity, when he should have given us the picture of a rough young man, of the amazonian strain, a jolly huntsman, and both by his profession and his early rising a mortal enemy to love, he has chosen to give him the turn of gallantry, sent him to travel from athens to paris, taught him to make love, and transformed the hippolytus of euripides into monsieur hippolyte. i should not have troubled myself thus far with french poets, but that i find our chedreux critics wholly form their judgments by them. but for my part, i desire to be tried by the laws of my own country; for it seems unjust to me, that the french should prescribe here, till they have conquered. our little sonneteers, who follow them, have too narrow souls to judge of poetry. poets themselves are the most proper, though i conclude not the only critics. but till some genius, as universal as aristotle, shall arise, one who can penetrate into all arts and sciences, without the practice of them, i shall think it reasonable, that the judgment of an artificer in his own art should be preferable to the opinion of another man; at least where he is not bribed by interest, or prejudiced by malice. and this, i suppose, is manifest by plain inductions: for, first, the crowd cannot be presumed to have more than a gross instinct of what pleases or displeases them: every man will grant me this; but then, by a particular kindness to himself, he draws his own stake first, and will be distinguished from the multitude, of which other men may think him one. but, if i come closer to those who are allowed for witty men, either by the advantage of their quality, or by common fame, and affirm that neither are they qualified to decide sovereignly concerning poetry, i shall yet have a strong party of my opinion; for most of them severally will exclude the rest, either from the number of witty men, or at least of able judges. but here again they are all indulgent to themselves; and every one who believes himself a wit, that is, every man, will pretend at the same time to a right of judging. but to press it yet further, there are many witty men, but few poets; neither have all poets a taste of tragedy. and this is the rock on which they are daily splitting. poetry, which is a picture of nature, must generally please; but it is not to be understood that all parts of it must please every man; therefore is not tragedy to be judged by a witty man, whose taste is only confined to comedy. nor is every man, who loves tragedy, a sufficient judge of it; he must understand the excellences of it too, or he will only prove a blind admirer, not a critic. from hence it comes that so many satires on poets, and censures of their writings, fly abroad. men of pleasant conversation (at least esteemed so), and endued with a trifling kind of fancy, perhaps helped out with some smattering of latin, are ambitious to distinguish themselves from the herd of gentlemen, by their poetry-- rarus enim ferme sensus communis in illa fortuna. and is not this a wretched affectation, not to be contented with what fortune has done for them, and sit down quietly with their estates, but they must call their wits in question, and needlessly expose their nakedness to public view? not considering that they are not to expect the same approbation from sober men, which they have found from their flatterers after the third bottle. if a little glittering in discourse has passed them on us for witty men, where was the necessity of undeceiving the world? would a man who has an ill title to an estate, but yet is in possession of it; would he bring it of his own accord, to be tried at westminster? we who write, if we want the talent, yet have the excuse that we do it for a poor subsistence; but what can be urged in their defence, who, not having the vocation of poverty to scribble, out of mere wantonness take pains to make themselves ridiculous? horace was certainly in the right, where he said, "that no man is satisfied with his own condition." a poet is not pleased, because he is not rich; and the rich are discontented, because the poets will not admit them of their number. thus the case is hard with writers: if they succeed not, they must starve; and if they do, some malicious satire is prepared to level them, for daring to please without their leave. but while they are so eager to destroy the fame of others, their ambition is manifest in their concernment; some poem of their own is to be produced, and the slaves are to be laid flat with their faces on the ground, that the monarch may appear in the greater majesty. dionysius and nero had the same longings, but with all their power they could never bring their business well about. 'tis true, they proclaimed themselves poets by sound of trumpet; and poets they were, upon pain of death to any man who durst call them otherwise. the audience had a fine time on't, you may imagine; they sat in a bodily fear, and looked as demurely as they could: for it was a hanging matter to laugh unseasonably; and the tyrants were suspicious, as they had reason, that their subjects had them in the wind; so, every man, in his own defence, set as good a face upon the business as he could. it was known beforehand that the monarchs were to be crowned laureates; but when the show was over, and an honest man was suffered to depart quietly, he took out his laughter which he had stifled, with a firm resolution never more to see an emperor's play, though he had been ten years a-making it. in the meantime the true poets were they who made the best markets: for they had wit enough to yield the prize with a good grace, and not contend with him who had thirty legions. they were sure to be rewarded, if they confessed themselves bad writers, and that was somewhat better than to be martyrs for their reputation. lucan's example was enough to teach them manners; and after he was put to death, for overcoming nero, the emperor carried it without dispute for the best poet in his dominions. no man was ambitious of that grinning honour; for if he heard the malicious trumpeter proclaiming his name before his betters, he knew there was but one way with him. maecenas took another course, and we know he was more than a great man, for he was witty too: but finding himself far gone in poetry, which seneca assures us was not his talent, he thought it his best way to be well with virgil and with horace; that at least he might be a poet at the second hand; and we see how happily it has succeeded with him; for his own bad poetry is forgotten, and their panegyrics of him still remain. but they who should be our patrons are for no such expensive ways to fame; they have much of the poetry of maecenas, but little of his liberality. they are for prosecuting horace and virgil, in the persons of their successors; for such is every man who has any part of their soul and fire, though in a less degree. some of their little zanies yet go further; for they are persecutors even of horace himself, as far as they are able, by their ignorant and vile imitations of him; by making an unjust use of his authority, and turning his artillery against his friends. but how would he disdain to be copied by such hands! i dare answer for him, he would be more uneasy in their company, than he was with crispinus, their forefather, in the holy way; and would no more have allowed them a place amongst the critics, than he would demetrius the mimic, and tigellius the buffoon; ------- demetri, teque, tigelli, discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras. with what scorn would he look down on such miserable translators, who make doggerel of his latin, mistake his meaning, misapply his censures, and often contradict their own? he is fixed as a landmark to set out the bounds of poetry-- ------- saxum antiquum, ingens,-- limes agro positus, litem ut discerneret arvis. but other arms than theirs, and other sinews are required, to raise the weight of such an author; and when they would toss him against enemies-- genua labant, gelidus concrevit frigore sanguis. tum lapis ipse viri, vacuum per inane volatus, nec spatium evasit totum, nec pertulit ictum. for my part, i would wish no other revenge, either for myself, or the rest of the poets, from this rhyming judge of the twelve-penny gallery, this legitimate son of sternhold, than that he would subscribe his name to his censure, or (not to tax him beyond his learning) set his mark: for, should he own himself publicly, and come from behind the lion's skin, they whom he condemns would be thankful to him, they whom he praises would choose to be condemned; and the magistrates, whom he has elected, would modestly withdraw from their employment, to avoid the scandal of his nomination. the sharpness of his satire, next to himself, falls most heavily on his friends, and they ought never to forgive him for commending them perpetually the wrong way, and sometimes by contraries. if he have a friend, whose hastiness in writing is his greatest fault, horace would have taught him to have minced the matter, and to have called it readiness of thought, and a flowing fancy; for friendship will allow a man to christen an imperfection by the name of some neighbour virtue-- vellem in amicitia sic erraremus; et isti errori nomen virtus posuisset honestum. but he would never allowed him to have called a slow man hasty, or a hasty writer a slow drudge, as juvenal explains it-- ------- canibus pigris, scabieque vestusta laevibus, et siccae lambentibus ora lucernae, nomen erit, pardus, tigris, leo; si quid adhuc est quod fremit in terris violentius. yet lucretius laughs at a foolish lover, even for excusing the imperfections of his mistress-- nigra <melichroos> est, immunda et foetida <akosmos> balba loqui non quit, <traylizei>; muta pudens est, etc. but to drive it ad aethiopem cygnum is not to be endured. i leave him to interpret this by the benefit of his french version on the other side, and without further considering him, than i have the rest of my illiterate censors, whom i have disdained to answer, because they are not qualified for judges. it remains that i acquiant the reader, that i have endeavoured in this play to follow the practice of the ancients, who, as mr. rymer has judiciously observed, are and ought to be our masters. horace likewise gives it for a rule in his art of poetry-- ------- vos exemplaria graeca nocturna versate manu, versate diurna. yet, though their models are regular, they are too little for english tragedy; which requires to be built in a larger compass. i could give an instance in the oedipus tyrannus, which was the masterpiece of sophocles; but i reserve it for a more fit occasion, which i hope to have hereafter. in my style, i have professed to imitate the divine shakespeare; which that i might perform more freely, i have disencumbered myself from rhyme. not that i condemn my former way, but that this is more proper to my present purpose. i hope i need not to explain myself, that i have not copied my author servilely: words and phrases must of necessity receive a change in succeeding ages; but it is almost a miracle that much of his language remains so pure; and that he who began dramatic poetry amongst us, untaught by any, and as ben jonson tells us, without learning, should by the force of his own genius perform so much, that in a manner he has left no praise for any who come after him. the occasion is fair, and the subject would be pleasant to handle the difference of styles betwixt him and fletcher, and wherein, and how far they are both to be imitated. but since i must not be over-confident of my own performance after him, it will be prudence in me to be silent. yet, i hope, i may affirm, and without vanity, that, by imitating him, i have excelled myself throughout the play; and particularly, that i prefer the scene betwixt antony and ventidius in the first act, to anything which i have written in this kind. prologue what flocks of critics hover here to-day, as vultures wait on armies for their prey, all gaping for the carcase of a play! with croaking notes they bode some dire event, and follow dying poets by the scent. ours gives himself for gone; y' have watched your time: he fights this day unarmed,--without his rhyme;-- and brings a tale which often has been told; as sad as dido's; and almost as old. his hero, whom you wits his bully call, bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all; he's somewhat lewd; but a well-meaning mind; weeps much; fights little; but is wond'rous kind. in short, a pattern, and companion fit, for all the keeping tonies of the pit. i could name more: a wife, and mistress too; both (to be plain) too good for most of you: the wife well-natured, and the mistress true. now, poets, if your fame has been his care, allow him all the candour you can spare. a brave man scorns to quarrel once a day; like hectors in at every petty fray. let those find fault whose wit's so very small, they've need to show that they can think at all; errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; he who would search for pearls, must dive below. fops may have leave to level all they can; as pigmies would be glad to lop a man. half-wits are fleas; so little and so light, we scarce could know they live, but that they bite. but, as the rich, when tired with daily feasts, for change, become their next poor tenant's guests; drink hearty draughts of ale from plain brown bowls, and snatch the homely rasher from the coals: so you, retiring from much better cheer, for once, may venture to do penance here. and since that plenteous autumn now is past, whose grapes and peaches have indulged your taste, take in good part, from our poor poet's board, such rivelled fruits as winter can afford. all for love or the world well lost a tragedy dramatis personae mark antony. ventidius, his general. dolabella, his friend. alexas, the queen's eunuch. serapion, priest of isis. myris, another priest. servants to antony. cleopatra, queen of egypt. octavia, antony's wife. charmion, cleopatra's maid. iras, cleopatra's maid. antony's two little daughters. scene.--alexandria. act i scene i.--the temple of isis enter serapion, myris, priests of isis serapion. portents and prodigies have grown so frequent, that they have lost their name. our fruitful nile flowed ere the wonted season, with a torrent so unexpected, and so wondrous fierce, that the wild deluge overtook the haste even of the hinds that watched it: men and beasts were borne above the tops of trees, that grew on the utmost margin of the water-mark. then, with so swift an ebb the flood drove backward, it slipt from underneath the scaly herd: here monstrous phocae panted on the shore; forsaken dolphins there with their broad tails, lay lashing the departing waves: hard by them, sea horses floundering in the slimy mud, tossed up their heads, and dashed the ooze about them. enter alexas behind them myris. avert these omens, heaven! serapion. last night, between the hours of twelve and one, in a lone aisle of the temple while i walked, a whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast, shook all the dome: the doors around me clapt; the iron wicket, that defends the vault, where the long race of ptolemies is laid, burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead. from out each monument, in order placed, an armed ghost starts up: the boy-king last reared his inglorious head. a peal of groans then followed, and a lamentable voice cried, egypt is no more! my blood ran back, my shaking knees against each other knocked; on the cold pavement down i fell entranced, and so unfinished left the horrid scene. alexas. and dreamed you this? or did invent the story, [showing himself.] to frighten our egyptian boys withal, and train them up, betimes, in fear of priesthood? serapion. my lord, i saw you not, nor meant my words should reach you ears; but what i uttered was most true. alexas. a foolish dream, bred from the fumes of indigested feasts, and holy luxury. serapion. i know my duty: this goes no further. alexas. 'tis not fit it should; nor would the times now bear it, were it true. all southern, from yon hills, the roman camp hangs o'er us black and threatening like a storm just breaking on our heads. serapion. our faint egyptians pray for antony; but in their servile hearts they own octavius. myris. why then does antony dream out his hours, and tempts not fortune for a noble day, which might redeem what actium lost? alexas. he thinks 'tis past recovery. serapion. yet the foe seems not to press the siege. alexas. oh, there's the wonder. maecenas and agrippa, who can most with caesar, are his foes. his wife octavia, driven from his house, solicits her revenge; and dolabella, who was once his friend, upon some private grudge, now seeks his ruin: yet still war seems on either side to sleep. serapion. 'tis strange that antony, for some days past, has not beheld the face of cleopatra; but here, in isis' temple, lives retired, and makes his heart a prey to black despair. alexas. 'tis true; and we much fear he hopes by absence to cure his mind of love. serapion. if he be vanquished, or make his peace, egypt is doomed to be a roman province; and our plenteous harvests must then redeem the scarceness of their soil. while antony stood firm, our alexandria rivalled proud rome (dominion's other seat), and fortune striding, like a vast colossus, could fix an equal foot of empire here. alexas. had i my wish, these tyrants of all nature, who lord it o'er mankind, rhould perish,--perish, each by the other's sword; but, since our will is lamely followed by our power, we must depend on one; with him to rise or fall. serapion. how stands the queen affected? alexas. oh, she dotes, she dotes, serapion, on this vanquished man, and winds herself about his mighty ruins; whom would she yet forsake, yet yield him up, this hunted prey, to his pursuer's hands, she might preserve us all: but 'tis in vain-- this changes my designs, this blasts my counsels, and makes me use all means to keep him here. whom i could wish divided from her arms, far as the earth's deep centre. well, you know the state of things; no more of your ill omens and black prognostics; labour to confirm the people's hearts. enter ventidius, talking aside with a gentleman of antony's serapion. these romans will o'erhear us. but who's that stranger? by his warlike port, his fierce demeanour, and erected look, he's of no vulgar note. alexas. oh, 'tis ventidius, our emperor's great lieutenant in the east, who first showed rome that parthia could be conquered. when antony returned from syria last, he left this man to guard the roman frontiers. serapion. you seem to know him well. alexas. too well. i saw him at cilicia first, when cleopatra there met antony: a mortal foe was to us, and egypt. but,--let me witness to the worth i hate,-- a braver roman never drew a sword; firm to his prince, but as a friend, not slave, he ne'er was of his pleasures; but presides o'er all his cooler hours, and morning counsels: in short the plainness, fierceness, rugged virtue, of an old true-stampt roman lives in him. his coming bodes i know not what of ill to our affairs. withdraw to mark him better; and i'll acquaint you why i sought you here, and what's our present work. [they withdraw to a corner of the stage; and ventidius, with the other, comes forward to the front.] ventidius. not see him; say you? i say, i must, and will. gentleman. he has commanded, on pain of death, none should approach his presence. ventidius. i bring him news will raise his drooping spirits, give him new life. gentleman. he sees not cleopatra. ventidius. would he had never seen her! gentleman. he eats not, drinks not, sleeps not, has no use of anything, but thought; or if he talks, 'tis to himself, and then 'tis perfect raving: then he defies the world, and bids it pass, sometimes he gnaws his lips, and curses loud the boy octavius; then he draws his mouth into a scornful smile, and cries, "take all, the world's not worth my care." ventidius. just, just his nature. virtue's his path; but sometimes 'tis too narrow for his vast soul; and then he starts out wide, and bounds into a vice, that bears him far from his first course, and plunges him in ills: but, when his danger makes him find his faults, quick to observe, and full of sharp remorse, he censures eagerly his own misdeeds, judging himself with malice to himself, and not forgiving what as man he did, because his other parts are more than man.-- he must not thus be lost. [alexas and the priests come forward.] alexas. you have your full instructions, now advance, proclaim your orders loudly. serapion. romans, egyptians, hear the queen's command. thus cleopatra bids: let labour cease; to pomp and triumphs give this happy day, that gave the world a lord: 'tis antony's. live, antony; and cleopatra live! be this the general voice sent up to heaven, and every public place repeat this echo. ventidius. fine pageantry! [aside.] serapion. set out before your doors the images of all your sleeping fathers, with laurels crowned; with laurels wreath your posts, and strew with flowers the pavement; let the priests do present sacrifice; pour out the wine, and call the gods to join with you in gladness. ventidius. curse on the tongue that bids this general joy! can they be friends of antony, who revel when antony's in danger? hide, for shame, you romans, your great grandsires' images, for fear their souls should animate their marbles, to blush at their degenerate progeny. alexas. a love, which knows no bounds, to antony, would mark the day with honours, when all heaven laboured for him, when each propitious star stood wakeful in his orb, to watch that hour and shed his better influence. her own birthday our queen neglected like a vulgar fate, that passed obscurely by. ventidius. would it had slept, divided far from his; till some remote and future age had called it out, to ruin some other prince, not him! alexas. your emperor, though grown unkind, would be more gentle, than to upbraid my queen for loving him too well. ventidius. does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priest! he knows him not his executioner. oh, she has decked his ruin with her love, led him in golden bands to gaudy slaughter, and made perdition pleasing: she has left him the blank of what he was. i tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmanned him. can any roman see, and know him now, thus altered from the lord of half mankind, unbent, unsinewed, made a woman's toy, shrunk from the vast extent of all his honours, and crampt within a corner of the world? o antony! thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends! bounteous as nature; next to nature's god! couldst thou but make new worlds, so wouldst thou give them, as bounty were thy being! rough in battle, as the first romans when they went to war; yet after victory more pitiful than all their praying virgins left at home! alexas. would you could add, to those more shining virtues, his truth to her who loves him. ventidius. would i could not! but wherefore waste i precious hours with thee! thou art her darling mischief, her chief engine, antony's other fate. go, tell thy queen, ventidius is arrived, to end her charms. let your egyptian timbrels play alone, nor mix effeminate sounds with roman trumpets, you dare not fight for antony; go pray and keep your cowards' holiday in temples. [exeunt alexas, serapion.] re-enter the gentleman of m. antony gent. the emperor approaches, and commands, on pain of death, that none presume to stay. gent. i dare not disobey him. [going out with the other.] ventidius. well, i dare. but i'll observe him first unseen, and find which way his humour drives: the rest i'll venture. [withdraws.] enter antony, walking with a disturbed motion before he speaks antony. they tell me, 'tis my birthday, and i'll keep it with double pomp of sadness. 'tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. why was i raised the meteor of the world, hung in the skies, and blazing as i travelled, 'till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward, to be trod out by caesar? ventidius. [aside.] on my soul, 'tis mournful, wondrous mournful! antony. count thy gains. now, antony, wouldst thou be born for this? glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth has starved thy wanting age. ventidius. how sorrow shakes him! [aside.] so, now the tempest tears him up by the roots, and on the ground extends the noble ruin. [antony having thrown himself down.] lie there, thou shadow of an emperor; the place thou pressest on thy mother earth is all thy empire now: now it contains thee; some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large, when thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn, shrunk to a few ashes; then octavia (for cleopatra will not live to see it), octavia then will have thee all her own, and bear thee in her widowed hand to caesar; caesar will weep, the crocodile will weep, to see his rival of the universe lie still and peaceful there. i'll think no more on't. antony. give me some music, look that it be sad. i'll soothe my melancholy, till i swell, and burst myself with sighing.-- [soft music.] 'tis somewhat to my humour; stay, i fancy i'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature; of all forsaken, and forsaking all; live in a shady forest's sylvan scene, stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak, i lean my head upon the mossy bark, and look just of a piece as i grew from it; my uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe, hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook runs at my foot. ventidius. methinks i fancy myself there too. antony. the herd come jumping by me, and fearless, quench their thirst, while i look on, and take me for their fellow-citizen. more of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts. [soft music again.] ventidius. i must disturb him; i can hold no longer. [stands before him.] antony. [starting up]. art thou ventidius? ventidius. are you antony? i'm liker what i was, than you to him i left you last. antony. i'm angry. ventidius. so am i. antony. i would be private: leave me. ventidius. sir, i love you, and therefore will not leave you. antony. will not leave me! where have you learnt that answer? who am i? ventidius. my emperor; the man i love next heaven: if i said more, i think 'twere scare a sin: you're all that's good, and god-like. antony. all that's wretched. you will not leave me then? ventidius. 'twas too presuming to say i would not; but i dare not leave you: and, 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence so soon, when i so far have come to see you. antony. now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied? for, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough; and, if a foe, too much. ventidius. look, emperor, this is no common dew. [weeping.] i have not wept this forty years; but now my mother comes afresh into my eyes; i cannot help her softness. antony. by heavens, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps! the big round drops course one another down the furrows of his cheeks.--stop them, ventidius, or i shall blush to death, they set my shame, that caused them, full before me. ventidius. i'll do my best. antony. sure there's contagion in the tears of friends: see, i have caught it too. believe me, 'tis not for my own griefs, but thine.--nay, father! ventidius. emperor. antony. emperor! why, that's the style of victory; the conqu'ring soldier, red with unfelt wounds, salutes his general so; but never more shall that sound reach my ears. ventidius. i warrant you. antony. actium, actium! oh!-- ventidius. it sits too near you. antony. here, here it lies a lump of lead by day, and, in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers, the hag that rides my dreams.-- ventidius. out with it; give it vent. antony. urge not my shame. i lost a battle,-- ventidius. so has julius done. antony. thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half thou think'st; for julius fought it out, and lost it fairly. but antony-- ventidius. nay, stop not. antony. antony-- well, thou wilt have it,--like a coward, fled, fled while his soldiers fought; fled first, ventidius. thou long'st to curse me, and i give thee leave. i know thou cam'st prepared to rail. ventidius. i did. antony. i'll help thee.--i have been a man, ventidius. ventidius. yes, and a brave one! but-- antony. i know thy meaning. but i have lost my reason, have disgraced the name of soldier, with inglorious ease. in the full vintage of my flowing honours, sat still, and saw it prest by other hands. fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it, and purple greatness met my ripened years. when first i came to empire, i was borne on tides of people, crowding to my triumphs; the wish of nations, and the willing world received me as its pledge of future peace; i was so great, so happy, so beloved, fate could not ruin me; till i took pains, and worked against my fortune, child her from me, and returned her loose; yet still she came again. my careless days, and my luxurious nights, at length have wearied her, and now she's gone, gone, gone, divorced for ever. help me, soldier, to curse this madman, this industrious fool, who laboured to be wretched: pr'ythee, curse me. ventidius. no. antony. why? ventidius. you are too sensible already of what you've done, too conscious of your failings; and, like a scorpion, whipt by others first to fury, sting yourself in mad revenge. i would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds, cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes. antony. i know thou would'st. ventidius. i will. antony. ha, ha, ha, ha! ventidius. you laugh. antony. i do, to see officious love. give cordials to the dead. ventidius. you would be lost, then? antony. i am. ventidius. i say you are not. try your fortune. antony. i have, to the utmost. dost thou think me desperate, without just cause? no, when i found all lost beyond repair, i hid me from the world, and learnt to scorn it here; which now i do so heartily, i think it is not worth the cost of keeping. ventidius. caesar thinks not so; he'll thank you for the gift he could not take. you would be killed like tully, would you? do, hold out your throat to caesar, and die tamely. antony. no, i can kill myself; and so resolve. ventidius. i can die with you too, when time shall serve; but fortune calls upon us now to live, to fight, to conquer. antony. sure thou dream'st, ventidius. ventidius. no; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours in desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy. up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you, and long to call you chief: by painful journeys i led them, patient both of heat and hunger, down form the parthian marches to the nile. 'twill do you good to see their sunburnt faces, their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands: there's virtue in them. they'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates than yon trim bands can buy. antony. where left you them? ventidius. i said in lower syria. antony. bring them hither; there may be life in these. ventidius. they will not come. antony. why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids, to double my despair? they're mutinous. ventidius. most firm and loyal. antony. yet they will not march to succour me. o trifler! ventidius. they petition you would make haste to head them. antony. i'm besieged. ventidius. there's but one way shut up: how came i hither? antony. i will not stir. ventidius. they would perhaps desire a better reason. antony. i have never used my soldiers to demand a reason of my actions. why did they refuse to march? ventidius. they said they would not fight for cleopatra. antony. what was't they said? ventidius. they said they would not fight for cleopatra. why should they fight indeed, to make her conquer, and make you more a slave? to gain you kingdoms, which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast, you'll sell to her? then she new-names her jewels, and calls this diamond such or such a tax; each pendant in her ear shall be a province. antony. ventidius, i allow your tongue free licence on all my other faults; but, on your life, no word of cleopatra: she deserves more worlds than i can lose. ventidius. behold, you powers, to whom you have intrusted humankind! see europe, afric, asia, put in balance, and all weighed down by one light, worthless woman! i think the gods are antonies, and give, like prodigals, this nether world away to none but wasteful hands. antony. you grow presumptuous. ventidius. i take the privilege of plain love to speak. antony. plain love! plain arrogance, plain insolence! thy men are cowards; thou, an envious traitor; who, under seeming honesty, hast vented the burden of thy rank, o'erflowing gall. o that thou wert my equal; great in arms as the first caesar was, that i might kill thee without a stain to honour! ventidius. you may kill me; you have done more already,--called me traitor. antony. art thou not one? ventidius. for showing you yourself, which none else durst have done? but had i been that name, which i disdain to speak again, i needed not have sought your abject fortunes, come to partake your fate, to die with you. what hindered me to have led my conquering eagles to fill octavius' bands? i could have been a traitor then, a glorious, happy traitor, and not have been so called. antony. forgive me, soldier; i've been too passionate. ventidius. you thought me false; thought my old age betrayed you: kill me, sir, pray, kill me; yet you need not, your unkindness has left your sword no work. antony. i did not think so; i said it in my rage: pr'ythee, forgive me. why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery of what i would not hear? ventidius. no prince but you could merit that sincerity i used, nor durst another man have ventured it; but you, ere love misled your wandering eyes, were sure the chief and best of human race, framed in the very pride and boast of nature; so perfect, that the gods, who formed you, wondered at their own skill, and cried--a lucky hit has mended our design. their envy hindered, else you had been immortal, and a pattern, when heaven would work for ostentation's sake to copy out again. antony. but cleopatra-- go on; for i can bear it now. ventidius. no more. antony. thou dar'st not trust my passion, but thou may'st; thou only lov'st, the rest have flattered me. ventidius. heaven's blessing on your heart for that kind word! may i believe you love me? speak again. antony. indeed i do. speak this, and this, and this. [hugging him.] thy praises were unjust; but, i'll deserve them, and yet mend all. do with me what thou wilt; lead me to victory! thou know'st the way. ventidius. and, will you leave this-- antony. pr'ythee, do not curse her, and i will leave her; though, heaven knows, i love beyond life, conquest, empire, all, but honour; but i will leave her. ventidius. that's my royal master; and, shall we fight? antony. i warrant thee, old soldier. thou shalt behold me once again in iron; and at the head of our old troops, that beat the parthians, cry aloud--come, follow me! ventidius. oh, now i hear my emperor! in that word octavius fell. gods, let me see that day, and, if i have ten years behind, take all: i'll thank you for the exchange. antony. o cleopatra! ventidius. again? antony. i've done: in that last sigh she went. caesar shall know what 'tis to force a lover from all he holds most dear. ventidius. methinks, you breathe another soul: your looks are more divine; you speak a hero, and you move a god. antony. oh, thou hast fired me; my soul's up in arms, and mans each part about me: once again, that noble eagerness of fight has seized me; that eagerness with which i darted upward to cassius' camp: in vain the steepy hill opposed my way; in vain a war of spears sung round my head, and planted on my shield; i won the trenches, while my foremost men lagged on the plain below. ventidius. ye gods, ye gods, for such another honour! antony. come on, my soldier! our hearts and arms are still the same: i long once more to meet our foes; that thou and i, like time and death, marching before our troops, may taste fate to them; mow them out a passage, and, entering where the foremost squadrons yield, begin the noble harvest of the field. [exeunt.] act ii scene i enter cleopatra, iras, and alexas cleopatra. what shall i do, or whither shall i turn? ventidius has o'ercome, and he will go. alexas. he goes to fight for you. cleopatra. then he would see me, ere he went to fight: flatter me not: if once he goes, he's lost, and all my hopes destroyed. alexas. does this weak passion become a mighty queen? cleopatra. i am no queen: is this to be a queen, to be besieged by yon insulting roman, and to wait each hour the victor's chain? these ills are small: for antony is lost, and i can mourn for nothing else but him. now come, octavius, i have no more to lose! prepare thy bands; i'm fit to be a captive: antony has taught my mind the fortune of a slave. iras. call reason to assist you. cleopatra. i have none, and none would have: my love's a noble madness, which shows the cause deserved it. moderate sorrow fits vulgar love, and for a vulgar man: but i have loved with such transcendent passion, i soared, at first, quite out of reason's view, and now am lost above it. no, i'm proud 'tis thus: would antony could see me now think you he would not sigh, though he must leave me? sure he would sigh; for he is noble-natured, and bears a tender heart: i know him well. ah, no, i know him not; i knew him once, but now 'tis past. iras. let it be past with you: forget him, madam. cleopatra. never, never, iras. he once was mine; and once, though now 'tis gone, leaves a faint image of possession still. alexas. think him inconstant, cruel, and ungrateful. cleopatra. i cannot: if i could, those thoughts were vain. faithless, ungrateful, cruel, though he be, i still must love him. enter charmion now, what news, my charmion? will he be kind? and will he not forsake me? am i to live, or die?--nay, do i live? or am i dead? for when he gave his answer, fate took the word, and then i lived or died. charmion. i found him, madam-- cleopatra. a long speech preparing? if thou bring'st comfort, haste, and give it me, for never was more need. iras. i know he loves you. cleopatra. had he been kind, her eyes had told me so, before her tongue could speak it: now she studies, to soften what he said; but give me death, just as he sent it, charmion, undisguised, and in the words he spoke. charmion. i found him, then, encompassed round, i think, with iron statues; so mute, so motionless his soldiers stood, while awfully he cast his eyes about, and every leader's hopes or fears surveyed: methought he looked resolved, and yet not pleased. when he beheld me struggling in the crowd, he blushed, and bade make way. alexas. there's comfort yet. charmion. ventidius fixed his eyes upon my passage severely, as he meant to frown me back, and sullenly gave place: i told my message, just as you gave it, broken and disordered; i numbered in it all your sighs and tears, and while i moved your pitiful request, that you but only begged a last farewell, he fetched an inward groan; and every time i named you, sighed, as if his heart were breaking, but, shunned my eyes, and guiltily looked down: he seemed not now that awful antony, who shook and armed assembly with his nod; but, making show as he would rub his eyes, disguised and blotted out a falling tear. cleopatra. did he then weep? and was i worth a tear? if what thou hast to say be not as pleasing, tell me no more, but let me die contented. charmion. he bid me say,--he knew himself so well, he could deny you nothing, if he saw you; and therefore-- cleopatra. thou wouldst say, he would not see me? charmion. and therefore begged you not to use a power, which he could ill resist; yet he should ever respect you, as he ought. cleopatra. is that a word for antony to use to cleopatra? o that faint word, respect! how i disdain it! disdain myself, for loving after it! he should have kept that word for cold octavia. respect is for a wife: am i that thing, that dull, insipid lump, without desires, and without power to give them? alexas. you misjudge; you see through love, and that deludes your sight; as, what is straight, seems crooked through the water: but i, who bear my reason undisturbed, can see this antony, this dreaded man, a fearful slave, who fain would run away, and shuns his master's eyes: if you pursue him, my life on't, he still drags a chain along. that needs must clog his flight. cleopatra. could i believe thee!-- alexas. by every circumstance i know he loves. true, he's hard prest, by interest and by honour; yet he but doubts, and parleys, and casts out many a long look for succour. cleopatra. he sends word, he fears to see my face. alexas. and would you more? he shows his weakness who declines the combat, and you must urge your fortune. could he speak more plainly? to my ears, the message sounds-- come to my rescue, cleopatra, come; come, free me from ventidius; from my tyrant: see me, and give me a pretence to leave him!-- i hear his trumpets. this way he must pass. please you, retire a while; i'll work him first, that he may bend more easy. cleopatra. you shall rule me; but all, i fear, in vain. [exit with charmion and iras.] alexas. i fear so too; though i concealed my thoughts, to make her bold; but 'tis our utmost means, and fate befriend it! [withdraws.] enter lictors with fasces; one bearing the eagle; then enter antony with ventidius, followed by other commanders antony. octavius is the minion of blind chance, but holds from virtue nothing. ventidius. has he courage? antony. but just enough to season him from coward. oh, 'tis the coldest youth upon a charge, the most deliberate fighter! if he ventures (as in illyria once, they say, he did, to storm a town), 'tis when he cannot choose; when all the world have fixt their eyes upon him; and then he lives on that for seven years after; but, at a close revenge he never fails. ventidius. i heard you challenged him. antony. i did, ventidius. what think'st thou was his answer? 'twas so tame!-- he said, he had more ways than one to die; i had not. ventidius. poor! antony. he has more ways than one; but he would choose them all before that one. ventidius. he first would choose an ague, or a fever. antony. no; it must be an ague, not a fever; he has not warmth enough to die by that. ventidius. or old age and a bed. antony. ay, there's his choice, he would live, like a lamp, to the last wink, and crawl the utmost verge of life. o hercules! why should a man like this, who dares not trust his fate for one great action, be all the care of heaven? why should he lord it o'er fourscore thousand men, of whom each one is braver than himself? ventidius. you conquered for him: philippi knows it; there you shared with him that empire, which your sword made all your own. antony. fool that i was, upon my eagle's wings i bore this wren, till i was tired with soaring, and now he mounts above me. good heavens, is this,--is this the man who braves me? who bids my age make way? drives me before him, to the world's ridge, and sweeps me off like rubbish? ventidius. sir, we lose time; the troops are mounted all. antony. then give the word to march: i long to leave this prison of a town, to join thy legions; and, in open field, once more to show my face. lead, my deliverer. enter alexas alexas. great emperor, in mighty arms renowned above mankind, but, in soft pity to the opprest, a god; this message sends the mournful cleopatra to her departing lord. ventidius. smooth sycophant! alexas. a thousand wishes, and ten thousand prayers, millions of blessings wait you to the wars; millions of sighs and tears she sends you too, and would have sent as many dear embraces to your arms, as many parting kisses to your lips; but those, she fears, have wearied you already. ventidius. [aside.] false crocodile! alexas. and yet she begs not now, you would not leave her; that were a wish too mighty for her hopes, too presuming for her low fortune, and your ebbing love; that were a wish for her more prosperous days, her blooming beauty, and your growing kindness. antony. [aside.] well, i must man it out:--what would the queen? alexas. first, to these noble warriors, who attend your daring courage in the chase of fame,-- too daring, and too dangerous for her quiet,-- she humbly recommends all she holds dear, all her own cares and fears,--the care of you. ventidius. yes, witness actium. antony. let him speak, ventidius. alexas. you, when his matchless valour bears him forward, with ardour too heroic, on his foes, fall down, as she would do, before his feet; lie in his way, and stop the paths of death: tell him, this god is not invulnerable; that absent cleopatra bleeds in him; and, that you may remember her petition, she begs you wear these trifles, as a pawn, which, at your wished return, she will redeem [gives jewels to the commanders.] with all the wealth of egypt: this to the great ventidius she presents, whom she can never count her enemy, because he loves her lord. ventidius. tell her, i'll none on't; i'm not ashamed of honest poverty; not all the diamonds of the east can bribe ventidius from his faith. i hope to see these and the rest of all her sparkling store, where they shall more deservingly be placed. antony. and who must wear them then? ventidius. the wronged octavia. antony. you might have spared that word. ventidius. and he that bribe. antony. but have i no remembrance? alexas. yes, a dear one; your slave the queen-- antony. my mistress. alexas. then your mistress; your mistress would, she says, have sent her soul, but that you had long since; she humbly begs this ruby bracelet, set with bleeding hearts, the emblems of her own, may bind your arm. [presenting a bracelet.] ventidius. now, my best lord,--in honour's name, i ask you, for manhood's sake, and for your own dear safety,-- touch not these poisoned gifts, infected by the sender; touch them not; myriads of bluest plagues lie underneath them, and more than aconite has dipt the silk. antony. nay, now you grow too cynical, ventidius: a lady's favours may be worn with honour. what, to refuse her bracelet! on my soul, when i lie pensive in my tent alone, 'twill pass the wakeful hours of winter nights, to tell these pretty beads upon my arm, to count for every one a soft embrace, a melting kiss at such and such a time: and now and then the fury of her love, when----and what harm's in this? alexas. none, none, my lord, but what's to her, that now 'tis past for ever. antony. [going to tie it.] we soldiers are so awkward--help me tie it. alexas. in faith, my lord, we courtiers too are awkward in these affairs: so are all men indeed: even i, who am not one. but shall i speak? antony. yes, freely. alexas. then, my lord, fair hands alone are fit to tie it; she, who sent it can. ventidius. hell, death! this eunuch pander ruins you. you will not see her? [alexas whispers an attendant, who goes out.] antony. but to take my leave. ventidius. then i have washed an aethiop. you're undone; y' are in the toils; y' are taken; y' are destroyed: her eyes do caesar's work. antony. you fear too soon. i'm constant to myself: i know my strength; and yet she shall not think me barbarous neither, born in the depths of afric: i am a roman, bred in the rules of soft humanity. a guest, and kindly used, should bid farewell. ventidius. you do not know how weak you are to her, how much an infant: you are not proof against a smile, or glance: a sigh will quite disarm you. antony. see, she comes! now you shall find your error.--gods, i thank you: i formed the danger greater than it was, and now 'tis near, 'tis lessened. ventidius. mark the end yet. enter cleopatra, charmion, and iras antony. well, madam, we are met. cleopatra. is this a meeting? then, we must part? antony. we must. cleopatra. who says we must? antony. our own hard fates. cleopatra. we make those fates ourselves. antony. yes, we have made them; we have loved each other, into our mutual ruin. cleopatra. the gods have seen my joys with envious eyes; i have no friends in heaven; and all the world, as 'twere the business of mankind to part us, is armed against my love: even you yourself join with the rest; you, you are armed against me. antony. i will be justified in all i do to late posterity, and therefore hear me. if i mix a lie with any truth, reproach me freely with it; else, favour me with silence. cleopatra. you command me, and i am dumb. ventidius. i like this well; he shows authority. antony. that i derive my ruin from you alone---- cleopatra. o heavens! i ruin you! antony. you promised me your silence, and you break it ere i have scarce begun. cleopatra. well, i obey you. antony. when i beheld you first, it was in egypt. ere caesar saw your eyes, you gave me love, and were too young to know it; that i settled your father in his throne, was for your sake; i left the acknowledgment for time to ripen. caesar stept in, and, with a greedy hand, plucked the green fruit, ere the first blush of red, yet cleaving to the bough. he was my lord, and was, beside, too great for me to rival; but, i deserved you first, though he enjoyed you. when, after, i beheld you in cilicia, an enemy to rome, i pardoned you. cleopatra. i cleared myself---- antony. again you break your promise. i loved you still, and took your weak excuses, took you into my bosom, stained by caesar, and not half mine: i went to egypt with you, and hid me from the business of the world, shut out inquiring nations from my sight, to give whole years to you. ventidius. yes, to your shame be't spoken. [aside.] antony. how i loved. witness, ye days and nights, and all ye hours, that danced away with down upon your feet, as all your business were to count my passion! one day passed by, and nothing saw but love; another came, and still 'twas only love: the suns were wearied out with looking on, and i untired with loving. i saw you every day, and all the day; and every day was still but as the first, so eager was i still to see you more. ventidius. 'tis all too true. antony. fulvia, my wife, grew jealous, (as she indeed had reason) raised a war in italy, to call me back. ventidius. but yet you went not. antony. while within your arms i lay, the world fell mouldering from my hands each hour, and left me scarce a grasp--i thank your love for't. ventidius. well pushed: that last was home. cleopatra. yet may i speak? antony. if i have urged a falsehood, yes; else, not. your silence says, i have not. fulvia died, (pardon, you gods, with my unkindness died); to set the world at peace, i took octavia, this caesar's sister; in her pride of youth, and flower of beauty, did i wed that lady, whom blushing i must praise, because i left her. you called; my love obeyed the fatal summons: this raised the roman arms; the cause was yours. i would have fought by land, where i was stronger; you hindered it: yet, when i fought at sea, forsook me fighting; and (o stain to honour! o lasting shame!) i knew not that i fled; but fled to follow you. ventidius. what haste she made to hoist her purple sails! and, to appear magnificent in flight, drew half our strength away. antony. all this you caused. and, would you multiply more ruins on me? this honest man, my best, my only friend, has gathered up the shipwreck of my fortunes; twelve legions i have left, my last recruits. and you have watched the news, and bring your eyes to seize them too. if you have aught to answer, now speak, you have free leave. alexas. [aside.] she stands confounded: despair is in her eyes. ventidius. now lay a sigh in the way to stop his passage: prepare a tear, and bid it for his legions; 'tis like they shall be sold. cleopatra. how shall i plead my cause, when you, my judge, already have condemned me? shall i bring the love you bore me for my advocate? that now is turned against me, that destroys me; for love, once past, is, at the best, forgotten; but oftener sours to hate: 'twill please my lord to ruin me, and therefore i'll be guilty. but, could i once have thought it would have pleased you, that you would pry, with narrow searching eyes, into my faults, severe to my destruction, and watching all advantages with care, that serve to make me wretched? speak, my lord, for i end here. though i deserved this usage, was it like you to give it? antony. oh, you wrong me, to think i sought this parting, or desired to accuse you more than what will clear myself, and justify this breach. cleopatra. thus low i thank you; and, since my innocence will not offend, i shall not blush to own it. ventidius. after this, i think she'll blush at nothing. cleopatra. you seem grieved (and therein you are kind) that caesar first enjoyed my love, though you deserved it better: i grieve for that, my lord, much more than you; for, had i first been yours, it would have saved my second choice: i never had been his, and ne'er had been but yours. but caesar first, you say, possessed my love. not so, my lord: he first possessed my person; you, my love: caesar loved me; but i loved antony. if i endured him after, 'twas because i judged it due to the first name of men; and, half constrained, i gave, as to a tyrant, what he would take by force. ventidius. o syren! syren! yet grant that all the love she boasts were true, has she not ruined you? i still urge that, the fatal consequence. cleopatra. the consequence indeed-- for i dare challenge him, my greatest foe, to say it was designed: 'tis true, i loved you, and kept you far from an uneasy wife,-- such fulvia was. yes, but he'll say, you left octavia for me;-- and, can you blame me to receive that love, which quitted such desert, for worthless me? how often have i wished some other caesar, great as the first, and as the second young, would court my love, to be refused for you! ventidius. words, words; but actium, sir; remember actium. cleopatra. even there, i dare his malice. true, i counselled to fight at sea; but i betrayed you not. i fled, but not to the enemy. 'twas fear; would i had been a man, not to have feared! for none would then have envied me your friendship, who envy me your love. antony. we are both unhappy: if nothing else, yet our ill fortune parts us. speak; would you have me perish by my stay? cleopatra. if, as a friend, you ask my judgment, go; if, as a lover, stay. if you must perish-- 'tis a hard word--but stay. ventidius. see now the effects of her so boasted love! she strives to drag you down to ruin with her; but, could she 'scape without you, oh, how soon would she let go her hold, and haste to shore, and never look behind! cleopatra. then judge my love by this. [giving antony a writing.] could i have borne a life or death, a happiness or woe, from yours divided, this had given me means. antony. by hercules, the writing of octavius! i know it well: 'tis that proscribing hand, young as it was, that led the way to mine, and left me but the second place in murder.-- see, see, ventidius! here he offers egypt, and joins all syria to it, as a present; so, in requital, she forsake my fortunes, and join her arms with his. cleopatra. and yet you leave me! you leave me, antony; and yet i love you, indeed i do: i have refused a kingdom; that is a trifle; for i could part with life, with anything, but only you. oh, let me die but with you! is that a hard request? antony. next living with you, 'tis all that heaven can give. alexas. he melts; we conquer. [aside.] cleopatra. no; you shall go: your interest calls you hence; yes; your dear interest pulls too strong, for these weak arms to hold you here. [takes his hand.] go; leave me, soldier (for you're no more a lover): leave me dying: push me, all pale and panting, from your bosom, and, when your march begins, let one run after, breathless almost for joy, and cry--she's dead. the soldiers shout; you then, perhaps, may sigh, and muster all your roman gravity: ventidius chides; and straight your brow clears up, as i had never been. antony. gods, 'tis too much; too much for man to bear. cleopatra. what is't for me then, a weak, forsaken woman, and a lover?-- here let me breathe my last: envy me not this minute in your arms: i'll die apace, as fast as e'er i can, and end your trouble. antony. die! rather let me perish; loosened nature leap from its hinges, sink the props of heaven, and fall the skies, to crush the nether world! my eyes, my soul, my all! [embraces her.] ventidius. and what's this toy, in balance with your fortune, honour, fame? antony. what is't, ventidius?--it outweighs them all; why, we have more than conquered caesar now: my queen's not only innocent, but loves me. this, this is she, who drags me down to ruin! "but, could she 'scape without me, with what haste would she let slip her hold, and make to shore, and never look behind!" down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art, and ask forgiveness of wronged innocence. ventidius. i'll rather die, than take it. will you go? antony. go! whither? go from all that's excellent? faith, honour, virtue, all good things forbid, that i should go from her, who sets my love above the price of kingdoms! give, you gods, give to your boy, your caesar, this rattle of a globe to play withal, this gewgaw world, and put him cheaply off: i'll not be pleased with less than cleopatra. cleopatra. she's wholly yours. my heart's so full of joy, that i shall do some wild extravagance of love, in public; and the foolish world, which knows not tenderness, will think me mad. ventidius. o women! women! women! all the gods have not such power of doing good to man, as you of doing harm. [exit.] antony. our men are armed:-- unbar the gate that looks to caesar's camp: i would revenge the treachery he meant me; and long security makes conquest easy. i'm eager to return before i go; for, all the pleasures i have known beat thick on my remembrance.--how i long for night! that both the sweets of mutual love may try, and triumph once o'er caesar ere we die. [exeunt.] act iii scene i at one door enter cleopatra, charmion, iras, and alexas, a train of egyptians: at the other antony and romans. the entrance on both sides is prepared by music; the trumpets first sounding on antony's part: then answered by timbrels, etc., on cleopatra's. charmion and iras hold a laurel wreath betwixt them. a dance of egyptians. after the ceremony, cleopatra crowns antony. antony. i thought how those white arms would fold me in, and strain me close, and melt me into love; so pleased with that sweet image, i sprung forwards, and added all my strength to every blow. cleopatra. come to me, come, my soldier, to my arms! you've been too long away from my embraces; but, when i have you fast, and all my own, with broken murmurs, and with amorous sighs, i'll say, you were unkind, and punish you, and mark you red with many an eager kiss. antony. my brighter venus! cleopatra. o my greater mars! antony. thou join'st us well, my love! suppose me come from the phlegraean plains, where gasping giants lay, cleft by my sword, and mountain-tops paired off each other blow, to bury those i slew. receive me, goddess! let caesar spread his subtle nets; like vulcan, in thy embraces i would be beheld by heaven and earth at once; and make their envy what they meant their sport let those, who took us, blush; i would love on, with awful state, regardless of their frowns, as their superior gods. there's no satiety of love in thee: enjoyed, thou still art new; perpetual spring is in thy arms; the ripened fruit but falls, and blossoms rise to fill its empty place; and i grow rich by giving. enter ventidius, and stands apart alexas. oh, now the danger's past, your general comes! he joins not in your joys, nor minds your triumphs; but, with contracted brows, looks frowning on, as envying your success. antony. now, on my soul, he loves me; truly loves me: he never flattered me in any vice, but awes me with his virtue: even this minute, methinks, he has a right of chiding me. lead to the temple: i'll avoid his presence; it checks too strong upon me. [exeunt the rest.] [as antony is going, ventidius pulls him by the robe.] ventidius. emperor! antony. 'tis the old argument; i pr'ythee, spare me. [looking back.] ventidius. but this one hearing, emperor. antony. let go my robe; or, by my father hercules-- ventidius. by hercules' father, that's yet greater, i bring you somewhat you would wish to know. antony. thou see'st we are observed; attend me here, and i'll return. [exit.] ventidius. i am waning in his favour, yet i love him; i love this man, who runs to meet his ruin; and sure the gods, like me, are fond of him: his virtues lie so mingled with his crimes, as would confound their choice to punish one, and not reward the other. enter antony antony. we can conquer, you see, without your aid. we have dislodged their troops; they look on us at distance, and, like curs scaped from the lion's paws, they bay far off, and lick their wounds, and faintly threaten war. five thousand romans, with their faces upward, lie breathless on the plain. ventidius. 'tis well; and he, who lost them, could have spared ten thousand more. yet if, by this advantage, you could gain an easier peace, while caesar doubts the chance of arms-- antony. oh, think not on't, ventidius! the boy pursues my ruin, he'll no peace; his malice is considerable in advantage. oh, he's the coolest murderer! so staunch, he kills, and keeps his temper. ventidius. have you no friend in all his army, who has power to move him? maecenas, or agrippa, might do much. antony. they're both too deep in caesar's interests. we'll work it out by dint of sword, or perish. ventidius. fain i would find some other. antony. thank thy love. some four or five such victories as this will save thy further pains. ventidius. expect no more; caesar is on his guard: i know, sir, you have conquered against odds; but still you draw supplies from one poor town, and of egyptians: he has all the world, and, at his beck, nations come pouring in, to fill the gaps you make. pray, think again. antony. why dost thou drive me from myself, to search for foreign aids?--to hunt my memory, and range all o'er a waste and barren place, to find a friend? the wretched have no friends. yet i had one, the bravest youth of rome, whom caesar loves beyond the love of women: he could resolve his mind, as fire does wax, from that hard rugged image melt him down, and mould him in what softer form he pleased. ventidius. him would i see; that man, of all the world; just such a one we want. antony. he loved me too; i was his soul; he lived not but in me: we were so closed within each other's breasts, the rivets were not found, that joined us first. that does not reach us yet: we were so mixt, as meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost; we were one mass; we could not give or take, but from the same; for he was i, i he. ventidius. he moves as i would wish him. [aside.] antony. after this, i need not tell his name;--'twas dolabella. ventidius. he's now in caesar's camp. antony. no matter where, since he's no longer mine. he took unkindly, that i forbade him cleopatra's sight, because i feared he loved her: he confessed, he had a warmth, which, for my sake, he stifled; for 'twere impossible that two, so one, should not have loved the same. when he departed, he took no leave; and that confirmed my thoughts. ventidius. it argues, that he loved you more than her, else he had stayed; but he perceived you jealous, and would not grieve his friend: i know he loves you. antony. i should have seen him, then, ere now. ventidius. perhaps he has thus long been labouring for your peace. antony. would he were here! ventidius. would you believe he loved you? i read your answer in your eyes, you would. not to conceal it longer, he has sent a messenger from caesar's camp, with letters. antony. let him appear. ventidius. i'll bring him instantly. [exit ventidius, and re-enters immediately with dolabella.] antony. 'tis he himself! himself, by holy friendship! [runs to embrace him.] art thou returned at last, my better half? come, give me all myself! let me not live, if the young bridegroom, longing for his night, was ever half so fond. dolabella. i must be silent, for my soul is busy about a nobler work; she's new come home, like a long-absent man, and wanders o'er each room, a stranger to her own, to look if all be safe. antony. thou hast what's left of me; for i am now so sunk from what i was, thou find'st me at my lowest water-mark. the rivers that ran in, and raised my fortunes, are all dried up, or take another course: what i have left is from my native spring; i've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate, and lifts me to my banks. dolabella. still you are lord of all the world to me. antony. why, then i yet am so; for thou art all. if i had any joy when thou wert absent, i grudged it to myself; methought i robbed thee of thy part. but, o my dolabella! thou has beheld me other than i am. hast thou not seen my morning chambers filled with sceptred slaves, who waited to salute me? with eastern monarchs, who forgot the sun, to worship my uprising?--menial kings ran coursing up and down my palace-yard, stood silent in my presence, watched my eyes, and, at my least command, all started out, like racers to the goal. dolabella. slaves to your fortune. antony. fortune is caesar's now; and what am i? ventidius. what you have made yourself; i will not flatter. antony. is this friendly done? dolabella. yes; when his end is so, i must join with him; indeed i must, and yet you must not chide; why am i else your friend? antony. take heed, young man, how thou upbraid'st my love: the queen has eyes, and thou too hast a soul. canst thou remember, when, swelled with hatred, thou beheld'st her first, as accessary to thy brother's death? dolabella. spare my remembrance; 'twas a guilty day, and still the blush hangs here. antony. to clear herself, for sending him no aid, she came from egypt. her galley down the silver cydnus rowed, the tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold; the gentle winds were lodged in purple sails: her nymphs, like nereids, round her couch were placed; where she, another sea-born venus, lay. dolabella. no more; i would not hear it. antony. oh, you must! she lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand, and cast a look so languishingly sweet, as if, secure of all beholders' hearts, neglecting, she could take them: boys, like cupids, stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds. that played about her face. but if she smiled a darting glory seemed to blaze abroad, that men's desiring eyes were never wearied, but hung upon the object: to soft flutes the silver oars kept time; and while they played, the hearing gave new pleasure to the sight; and both to thought. 'twas heaven, or somewhat more; for she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath to give their welcome voice. then, dolabella, where was then thy soul? was not thy fury quite disarmed with wonder? didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes and whisper in my ear--oh, tell her not that i accused her with my brother's death? dolabella. and should my weakness be a plea for yours? mine was an age when love might be excused, when kindly warmth, and when my springing youth made it a debt to nature. yours-- ventidius. speak boldly. yours, he would say, in your declining age, when no more heat was left but what you forced, when all the sap was needful for the trunk, when it went down, then you constrained the course, and robbed from nature, to supply desire; in you (i would not use so harsh a word) 'tis but plain dotage. antony. ha! dolabella. 'twas urged too home.-- but yet the loss was private, that i made; 'twas but myself i lost: i lost no legions; i had no world to lose, no people's love. antony. this from a friend? dolabella. yes, antony, a true one; a friend so tender, that each word i speak stabs my own heart, before it reach your ear. oh, judge me not less kind, because i chide! to caesar i excuse you. antony. o ye gods! have i then lived to be excused to caesar? dolabella. as to your equal. antony. well, he's but my equal: while i wear this he never shall be more. dolabella. i bring conditions from him. antony. are they noble? methinks thou shouldst not bring them else; yet he is full of deep dissembling; knows no honour divided from his interest. fate mistook him; for nature meant him for an usurer: he's fit indeed to buy, not conquer kingdoms. ventidius. then, granting this, what power was theirs, who wrought so hard a temper to honourable terms? antony. i was my dolabella, or some god. dolabella. nor i, nor yet maecenas, nor agrippa: they were your enemies; and i, a friend, too weak alone; yet 'twas a roman's deed. antony. 'twas like a roman done: show me that man, who has preserved my life, my love, my honour; let me but see his face. ventidius. that task is mine, and, heaven, thou know'st how pleasing. [exit ventidius.] dolabella. you'll remember to whom you stand obliged? antony. when i forget it be thou unkind, and that's my greatest curse. my queen shall thank him too, dolabella. i fear she will not. antony. but she shall do it: the queen, my dolabella! hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever? dolabella. i would not see her lost. antony. when i forsake her, leave me my better stars! for she has truth beyond her beauty. caesar tempted her, at no less price than kingdoms, to betray me; but she resisted all: and yet thou chidest me for loving her too well. could i do so? dolabella. yes; there's my reason. re-enter ventidius, with octavia, leading antony's two little daughters antony. where?--octavia there! [starting back.] ventidius. what, is she poison to you?--a disease? look on her, view her well, and those she brings: are they all strangers to your eyes? has nature no secret call, no whisper they are yours? dolabella. for shame, my lord, if not for love, receive them with kinder eyes. if you confess a man, meet them, embrace them, bid them welcome to you. your arms should open, even without your knowledge, to clasp them in; your feet should turn to wings, to bear you to them; and your eyes dart out and aim a kiss, ere you could reach the lips. antony. i stood amazed, to think how they came hither. ventidius. i sent for them; i brought them in unknown to cleopatra's guards. dolabella. yet, are you cold? octavia. thus long i have attended for my welcome; which, as a stranger, sure i might expect. who am i? antony. caesar's sister. octavia. that's unkind. had i been nothing more than caesar's sister, know, i had still remained in caesar's camp: but your octavia, your much injured wife, though banished from your bed, driven from your house, in spite of caesar's sister, still is yours. 'tis true, i have a heart disdains your coldness, and prompts me not to seek what you should offer; but a wife's virtue still surmounts that pride. i come to claim you as my own; to show my duty first; to ask, nay beg, your kindness: your hand, my lord; 'tis mine, and i will have it. [taking his hand.] ventidius. do, take it; thou deserv'st it. dolabella. on my soul, and so she does: she's neither too submissive, nor yet too haughty; but so just a mean shows, as it ought, a wife and roman too. antony. i fear, octavia, you have begged my life. octavia. begged it, my lord? antony. yes, begged it, my ambassadress; poorly and basely begged it of your brother. octavia. poorly and basely i could never beg: nor could my brother grant. antony. shall i, who, to my kneeling slave, could say, rise up, and be a king; shall i fall down and cry,--forgive me, caesar! shall i set a man, my equal, in the place of jove, as he could give me being? no; that word, forgive, would choke me up, and die upon my tongue. dolabella. you shall not need it. antony. i will not need it. come, you've all betrayed me,-- my friend too!--to receive some vile conditions. my wife has bought me, with her prayers and tears; and now i must become her branded slave. in every peevish mood, she will upbraid the life she gave: if i but look awry, she cries--i'll tell my brother. octavia. my hard fortune subjects me still to your unkind mistakes. but the conditions i have brought are such, your need not blush to take: i love your honour, because 'tis mine; it never shall be said, octavia's husband was her brother's slave. sir, you are free; free, even from her you loathe; for, though my brother bargains for your love, makes me the price and cement of your peace, i have a soul like yours; i cannot take your love as alms, nor beg what i deserve. i'll tell my brother we are reconciled; he shall draw back his troops, and you shall march to rule the east: i may be dropt at athens; no matter where. i never will complain, but only keep the barren name of wife, and rid you of the trouble. ventidius. was ever such a strife of sullen honour! [apart] both scorn to be obliged. dolabella. oh, she has touched him in the tenderest part;[apart] see how he reddens with despite and shame, to be outdone in generosity! ventidius. see how he winks! how he dries up a tear, [apart] that fain would fall! antony. octavia, i have heard you, and must praise the greatness of your soul; but cannot yield to what you have proposed: for i can ne'er be conquered but by love; and you do all for duty. you would free me, and would be dropt at athens; was't not so? octavia. it was, my lord. antony. then i must be obliged to one who loves me not; who, to herself, may call me thankless and ungrateful man:-- i'll not endure it; no. ventidius. i am glad it pinches there. [aside.] octavia. would you triumph o'er poor octavia's virtue? that pride was all i had to bear me up; that you might think you owed me for your life, and owed it to my duty, not my love. i have been injured, and my haughty soul could brook but ill the man who slights my bed. antony. therefore you love me not. octavia. therefore, my lord, i should not love you. antony. therefore you would leave me? octavia. and therefore i should leave you--if i could. dolabella. her soul's too great, after such injuries, to say she loves; and yet she lets you see it. her modesty and silence plead her cause. antony. o dolabella, which way shall i turn? i find a secret yielding in my soul; but cleopatra, who would die with me, must she be left? pity pleads for octavia; but does it not plead more for cleopatra? ventidius. justice and pity both plead for octavia; for cleopatra, neither. one would be ruined with you; but she first had ruined you: the other, you have ruined, and yet she would preserve you. in everything their merits are unequal. antony. o my distracted soul! octavia. sweet heaven compose it!-- come, come, my lord, if i can pardon you, methinks you should accept it. look on these; are they not yours? or stand they thus neglected, as they are mine? go to him, children, go; kneel to him, take him by the hand, speak to him; for you may speak, and he may own you too, without a blush; and so he cannot all his children: go, i say, and pull him to me, and pull him to yourselves, from that bad woman. you, agrippina, hang upon his arms; and you, antonia, clasp about his waist: if he will shake you off, if he will dash you against the pavement, you must bear it, children; for you are mine, and i was born to suffer. [here the children go to him, etc.] ventidius. was ever sight so moving?--emperor! dolabella. friend! octavia. husband! both children. father! antony. i am vanquished: take me, octavia; take me, children; share me all. [embracing them.] i've been a thriftless debtor to your loves, and run out much, in riot, from your stock; but all shall be amended. octavia. o blest hour! dolabella. o happy change! ventidius. my joy stops at my tongue; but it has found two channels here for one, and bubbles out above. antony. [to octavia] this is thy triumph; lead me where thou wilt; even to thy brother's camp. octavia. all there are yours. enter alexas hastily alexas. the queen, my mistress, sir, and yours-- antony. 'tis past.-- octavia, you shall stay this night: to-morrow, caesar and we are one. [exit leading octavia; dolabella and the children follow.] ventidius. there's news for you; run, my officious eunuch, be sure to be the first; haste forward: haste, my dear eunuch, haste. [exit.] alexas. this downright fighting fool, this thick-skulled hero, this blunt, unthinking instrument of death, with plain dull virtue has outgone my wit. pleasure forsook my earliest infancy; the luxury of others robbed my cradle, and ravished thence the promise of a man. cast out from nature, disinherited of what her meanest children claim by kind, yet greatness kept me from contempt: that's gone. had cleopatra followed my advice, then he had been betrayed who now forsakes. she dies for love; but she has known its joys: gods, is this just, that i, who know no joys, must die, because she loves? enter cleopatra, charmion, iras, and train o madam, i have seen what blasts my eyes! octavia's here. cleopatra. peace with that raven's note. i know it too; and now am in the pangs of death. alexas. you are no more a queen; egypt is lost. cleopatra. what tell'st thou me of egypt? my life, my soul is lost! octavia has him!-- o fatal name to cleopatra's love! my kisses, my embraces now are hers; while i--but thou hast seen my rival; speak, does she deserve this blessing? is she fair? bright as a goddess? and is all perfection confined to her? it is. poor i was made of that coarse matter, which, when she was finished, the gods threw by for rubbish. alexas. she is indeed a very miracle. cleopatra. death to my hopes, a miracle! alexas. a miracle; [bowing.] i mean of goodness; for in beauty, madam, you make all wonders cease. cleopatra. i was too rash: take this in part of recompense. but, oh! [giving a ring.] i fear thou flatterest me. charmion. she comes! she's here! iras. fly, madam, caesar's sister! cleopatra. were she the sister of the thunderer jove, and bore her brother's lightning in her eyes, thus would i face my rival. [meets octavia with ventidius. octavia bears up to her. their trains come up on either side.] octavia. i need not ask if you are cleopatra; your haughty carriage-- cleopatra. shows i am a queen: nor need i ask you, who you are. octavia. a roman: a name, that makes and can unmake a queen. cleopatra. your lord, the man who serves me, is a roman. octavia. he was a roman, till he lost that name, to be a slave in egypt; but i come to free him thence. cleopatra. peace, peace, my lover's juno. when he grew weary of that household clog, he chose my easier bonds. octavia. i wonder not your bonds are easy: you have long been practised in that lascivious art: he's not the first for whom you spread your snares: let caesar witness. cleopatra. i loved not caesar; 'twas but gratitude i paid his love: the worst your malice can, is but to say the greatest of mankind has been my slave. the next, but far above him in my esteem, is he whom law calls yours, but whom his love made mine. octavia. i would view nearer. [coming up close to her.] that face, which has so long usurped my right, to find the inevitable charms, that catch mankind so sure, that ruined my dear lord. cleopatra. oh, you do well to search; for had you known but half these charms, you had not lost his heart. octavia. far be their knowledge from a roman lady, far from a modest wife! shame of our sex, dost thou not blush to own those black endearments, that make sin pleasing? cleopatra. you may blush, who want them. if bounteous nature, if indulgent heaven have given me charms to please the bravest man, should i not thank them? should i be ashamed, and not be proud? i am, that he has loved me; and, when i love not him, heaven change this face for one like that. octavia. thou lov'st him not so well. cleopatra. i love him better, and deserve him more. octavia. you do not; cannot: you have been his ruin. who made him cheap at rome, but cleopatra? who made him scorned abroad, but cleopatra? at actium, who betrayed him? cleopatra. who made his children orphans, and poor me a wretched widow? only cleopatra. cleopatra. yet she, who loves him best, is cleopatra. if you have suffered, i have suffered more. you bear the specious title of a wife, to gild your cause, and draw the pitying world to favour it: the world condemns poor me. for i have lost my honour, lost my fame, and stained the glory of my royal house, and all to bear the branded name of mistress. there wants but life, and that too i would lose for him i love. octavia. be't so, then; take thy wish. [exit with her train.] cleopatra. and 'tis my wish, now he is lost for whom alone i lived. my sight grows dim, and every object dances, and swims before me, in the maze of death. my spirits, while they were opposed, kept up; they could not sink beneath a rival's scorn! but now she's gone, they faint. alexas. mine have had leisure to recollect their strength, and furnish counsel, to ruin her, who else must ruin you. cleopatra. vain promiser! lead me, my charmion; nay, your hand too, iras. my grief has weight enough to sink you both. conduct me to some solitary chamber, and draw the curtains round; then leave me to myself, to take alone my fill of grief: there i till death will his unkindness weep; as harmless infants moan themselves asleep. [exeunt.] act iv scene i enter antony and dolabella dolabella. why would you shift it from yourself on me? can you not tell her, you must part? antony. i cannot. i could pull out an eye, and bid it go, and t'other should not weep. o dolabella, how many deaths are in this word, depart! i dare not trust my tongue to tell her so: one look of hers would thaw me into tears, and i should melt, till i were lost again. dolabella. then let ventidius; he's rough by nature. antony. oh, he'll speak too harshly; he'll kill her with the news: thou, only thou. dolabella. nature has cast me in so soft a mould, that but to hear a story, feigned for pleasure, of some sad lover's death, moistens my eyes, and robs me of my manhood. i should speak so faintly, with such fear to grieve her heart, she'd not believe it earnest. antony. therefore,--therefore thou only, thou art fit: think thyself me; and when thou speak'st (but let it first be long), take off the edge from every sharper sound, and let our parting be as gently made, as other loves begin: wilt thou do this? dolabella. what you have said so sinks into my soul, that, if i must speak, i shall speak just so. antony. i leave you then to your sad task: farewell. i sent her word to meet you. [goes to the door, and comes back.] i forgot; let her be told, i'll make her peace with mine, her crown and dignity shall be preserved, if i have power with caesar.--oh, be sure to think on that. dolabella. fear not, i will remember. [antony goes again to the door, and comes back.] antony. and tell her, too, how much i was constrained; i did not this, but with extremest force. desire her not to hate my memory, for i still cherish hers:--insist on that. dolabella. trust me. i'll not forget it. antony. then that's all. [goes out, and returns again.] wilt thou forgive my fondness this once more? tell her, though we shall never meet again, if i should hear she took another love, the news would break my heart.--now i must go; for every time i have returned, i feel my soul more tender; and my next command would be, to bid her stay, and ruin both. [exit.] dolabella. men are but children of a larger growth; our appetites as apt to change as theirs, and full as craving too, and full as vain; and yet the soul, shut up in her dark room, viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing: but, like a mole in earth, busy and blind, works all her folly up, and casts it outward to the world's open view: thus i discovered, and blamed the love of ruined antony: yet wish that i were he, to be so ruined. enter ventidius above ventidius. alone, and talking to himself? concerned too? perhaps my guess is right; he loved her once, and may pursue it still. dolabella. o friendship! friendship! ill canst thou answer this; and reason, worse: unfaithful in the attempt; hopeless to win; and if i win, undone: mere madness all. and yet the occasion's fair. what injury to him, to wear the robe which he throws by! ventidius. none, none at all. this happens as i wish, to ruin her yet more with antony. enter cleopatra talking with alexas; charmion, iras on the other side. dolabella. she comes! what charms have sorrow on that face! sorrow seems pleased to dwell with so much sweetness; yet, now and then, a melancholy smile breaks loose, like lightning in a winter's night, and shows a moment's day. ventidius. if she should love him too! her eunuch there? that porc'pisce bodes ill weather. draw, draw nearer, sweet devil, that i may hear. alexas. believe me; try [dolabella goes over to charmion and iras; seems to talk with them.] to make him jealous; jealousy is like a polished glass held to the lips when life's in doubt; if there be breath, 'twill catch the damp, and show it. cleopatra. i grant you, jealousy's a proof of love, but 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine; it puts out the disease, and makes it show, but has no power to cure. alexas. 'tis your last remedy, and strongest too: and then this dolabella, who so fit to practise on? he's handsome, valiant, young, and looks as he were laid for nature's bait, to catch weak women's eyes. he stands already more than half suspected of loving you: the least kind word or glance, you give this youth, will kindle him with love: then, like a burning vessel set adrift, you'll send him down amain before the wind, to fire the heart of jealous antony. cleopatra. can i do this? ah, no, my love's so true, that i can neither hide it where it is, nor show it where it is not. nature meant me a wife; a silly, harmless, household dove, fond without art, and kind without deceit; but fortune, that has made a mistress of me, has thrust me out to the wide world, unfurnished of falsehood to be happy. alexas. force yourself. the event will be, your lover will return, doubly desirous to possess the good which once he feared to lose. cleopatra. i must attempt it; but oh, with what regret! [exit alexas. she comes up to dolabella.] ventidius. so, now the scene draws near; they're in my reach. cleopatra. [to dolabella.] discoursing with my women! might not i share in your entertainment? charmion. you have been the subject of it, madam. cleopatra. how! and how! iras. such praises of your beauty! cleopatra. mere poetry. your roman wits, your gallus and tibullus, have taught you this from cytheris and delia. dolabella. those roman wits have never been in egypt; cytheris and delia else had been unsung: i, who have seen--had i been born a poet, should choose a nobler name. cleopatra. you flatter me. but, 'tis your nation's vice: all of your country are flatterers, and all false. your friend's like you. i'm sure, he sent you not to speak these words. dolabella. no, madam; yet he sent me-- cleopatra. well, he sent you-- dolabella. of a less pleasing errand. cleopatra. how less pleasing? less to yourself, or me? dolabella. madam, to both; for you must mourn, and i must grieve to cause it. cleopatra. you, charmion, and your fellow, stand at distance.-- hold up, my spirits. [aside.]--well, now your mournful matter; for i'm prepared, perhaps can guess it too. dolabella. i wish you would; for 'tis a thankless office, to tell ill news: and i, of all your sex, most fear displeasing you. cleopatra. of all your sex, i soonest could forgive you, if you should. ventidius. most delicate advances! women! women! dear, damned, inconstant sex! cleopatra. in the first place, i am to be forsaken; is't not so? dolabella. i wish i could not answer to that question. cleopatra. then pass it o'er, because it troubles you: i should have been more grieved another time. next i'm to lose my kingdom--farewell, egypt! yet, is there ary more? dolabella. madam, i fear your too deep sense of grief has turned your reason. cleopatra. no, no, i'm not run mad; i can bear fortune: and love may be expelled by other love, as poisons are by poisons. dolabella. you o'erjoy me, madam, to find your griefs so moderately borne. you've heard the worst; all are not false like him. cleopatra. no; heaven forbid they should. dolabella. some men are constant. cleopatra. and constancy deserves reward, that's certain. dolabella. deserves it not; but give it leave to hope. ventidius. i'll swear, thou hast my leave. i have enough: but how to manage this! well, i'll consider. [exit.] dolabella. i came prepared to tell you heavy news; news, which i thought would fright the blood from your pale cheeks to hear: but you have met it with a cheerfulness, that makes my task more easy; and my tongue, which on another's message was employed, would gladly speak its own. cleopatra. hold, dolabella. first tell me, were you chosen by my lord? or sought you this employment? dolabella. he picked me out; and, as his bosom friend, he charged me with his words. cleopatra. the message then i know was tender, and each accent smooth, to mollify that rugged word, depart. dolabella. oh, you mistake: he chose the harshest words; with fiery eyes, and contracted brows, he coined his face in the severest stamp; and fury shook his fabric, like an earthquake; he heaved for vent, and burst like bellowing aetna, in sounds scarce human--"hence away for ever, let her begone, the blot of my renown, and bane of all my hopes!" [all the time of this speech, cleopatra seems more and more concerned, till she sinks quite down.] "let her be driven, as far as men can think, from man's commerce! she'll poison to the centre." cleopatra. oh, i can bear no more! dolabella. help, help!--o wretch! o cursed, cursed wretch! what have i done! charmion. help, chafe her temples, iras. iras. bend, bend her forward quickly. charmion. heaven be praised, she comes again. cleopatra. oh, let him not approach me. why have you brought me back to this loathed being; the abode of falsehood, violated vows, and injured love? for pity, let me go; for, if there be a place of long repose, i'm sure i want it. my disdainful lord can never break that quiet; nor awake the sleeping soul, with hollowing in my tomb such words as fright her hence.--unkind, unkind! dolabella. believe me, 'tis against myself i speak; [kneeling.] that sure desires belief; i injured him: my friend ne'er spoke those words. oh, had you seen how often he came back, and every time with something more obliging and more kind, to add to what he said; what dear farewells; how almost vanquished by his love he parted, and leaned to what unwillingly he left! i, traitor as i was, for love of you (but what can you not do, who made me false?) i forged that lie; for whose forgiveness kneels this self-accused, self-punished criminal. cleopatra. with how much ease believe we what we wish! rise, dolabella; if you have been guilty, i have contributed, and too much love has made me guilty too. the advance of kindness, which i made, was feigned, to call back fleeting love by jealousy; but 'twould not last. oh, rather let me lose, than so ignobly trifle with his heart. dolabella. i find your breast fenced round from human reach, transparent as a rock of solid crystal; seen through, but never pierced. my friend, my friend, what endless treasure hast thou thrown away; and scattered, like an infant, in the ocean, vain sums of wealth, which none can gather thence! cleopatra. could you not beg an hour's admittance to his private ear? like one, who wanders through long barren wilds and yet foreknows no hospitable inn is near to succour hunger, eats his fill, before his painful march; so would i feed a while my famished eyes before we part; for i have far to go, if death be far, and never must return. ventidius with octavia, behind ventidius. from hence you may discover--oh, sweet, sweet! would you indeed? the pretty hand in earnest? dolabella. i will, for this reward. [takes her hand.] draw it not back. 'tis all i e'er will beg. ventidius. they turn upon us. octavia. what quick eyes has guilt! ventidius. seem not to have observed them, and go on. [they enter.] dolabella. saw you the emperor, ventidius? ventidius. no. i sought him; but i heard that he was private, none with him but hipparchus, his freedman. dolabella. know you his business? ventidius. giving him instructions, and letters to his brother caesar. dolabella. well, he must be found. [exeunt dolabella and cleopatra.] octavia. most glorious impudence! ventidius. she looked, methought, as she would say--take your old man, octavia; thank you, i'm better here.-- well, but what use make we of this discovery? octavia. let it die. ventidius. i pity dolabella; but she's dangerous: her eyes have power beyond thessalian charms, to draw the moon from heaven; for eloquence, the sea-green syrens taught her voice their flattery; and, while she speaks, night steals upon the day, unmarked of those that hear. then she's so charming, age buds at sight of her, and swells to youth: the holy priests gaze on her when she smiles; and with heaved hands, forgetting gravity, they bless her wanton eyes: even i, who hate her, with a malignant joy behold such beauty; and, while i curse, desire it. antony must needs have some remains of passion still, which may ferment into a worse relapse, if now not fully cured. i know, this minute, with caesar he's endeavouring her peace. octavia. you have prevailed:--but for a further purpose [walks off.] i'll prove how he will relish this discovery. what, make a strumpet's peace! it swells my heart: it must not, shall not be. ventidius. his guards appear. let me begin, and you shall second me. enter antony antony. octavia, i was looking you, my love: what, are your letters ready? i have given my last instructions. octavia. mine, my lord, are written. antony. ventidius. [drawing him aside.] ventidius. my lord? antony. a word in private.-- when saw you dolabella? ventidius. now, my lord, he parted hence; and cleopatra with him. antony. speak softly.--'twas by my command he went, to bear my last farewell. ventidius. it looked indeed [aloud.] like your farewell. antony. more softly.--my farewell? what secret meaning have you in those words of--my farewell? he did it by my order. ventidius. then he obeyed your order. i suppose [aloud.] you bid him do it with all gentleness, all kindness, and all--love. antony. how she mourned, the poor forsaken creature! ventidius. she took it as she ought; she bore your parting as she did caesar's, as she would another's, were a new love to come. antony. thou dost belie her; [aloud.] most basely, and maliciously belie her. ventidius. i thought not to displease you; i have done. octavia. you seemed disturbed, my lord. [coming up.] antony. a very trifle. retire, my love. ventidius. it was indeed a trifle. he sent-- antony. no more. look how thou disobey'st me; [angrily.] thy life shall answer it. octavia. then 'tis no trifle. ventidius. [to octavia.] 'tis less; a very nothing: you too saw it, as well as i, and therefore 'tis no secret. antony. she saw it! ventidius. yes: she saw young dolabella-- antony. young dolabella! ventidius. young, i think him young, and handsome too; and so do others think him. but what of that? he went by your command, indeed 'tis probable, with some kind message; for she received it graciously; she smiled; and then he grew familiar with her hand, squeezed it, and worried it with ravenous kisses; she blushed, and sighed, and smiled, and blushed again; at last she took occasion to talk softly, and brought her cheek up close, and leaned on his; at which, he whispered kisses back on hers; and then she cried aloud--that constancy should be rewarded. octavia. this i saw and heard. antony. what woman was it, whom you heard and saw so playful with my friend? not cleopatra? ventidius. even she, my lord. antony. my cleopatra? ventidius. your cleopatra; dolabella's cleopatra; every man's cleopatra. antony. thou liest. ventidius. i do not lie, my lord. is this so strange? should mistresses be left, and not provide against a time of change? you know she's not much used to lonely nights. antony. i'll think no more on't. i know 'tis false, and see the plot betwixt you.-- you needed not have gone this way, octavia. what harms it you that cleopatra's just? she's mine no more. i see, and i forgive: urge it no further, love. octavia. are you concerned, that she's found false? antony. i should be, were it so; for, though 'tis past, i would not that the world should tax my former choice, that i loved one of so light note; but i forgive you both. ventidius. what has my age deserved, that you should think i would abuse your ears with perjury? if heaven be true, she's false. antony. though heaven and earth should witness it, i'll not believe her tainted. ventidius. i'll bring you, then, a witness from hell, to prove her so.--nay, go not back; [seeing alexas just entering, and starting back.] for stay you must and shall. alexas. what means my lord? ventidius. to make you do what most you hate,--speak truth. you are of cleopatra's private counsel, of her bed-counsel, her lascivious hours; are conscious of each nightly change she makes, and watch her, as chaldaeans do the moon, can tell what signs she passes through, what day. alexas. my noble lord! ventidius. my most illustrious pander, no fine set speech, no cadence, no turned periods, but a plain homespun truth, is what i ask. i did, myself, o'erhear your queen make love to dolabella. speak; for i will know, by your confession, what more passed betwixt them; how near the business draws to your employment; and when the happy hour. antony. speak truth, alexas; whether it offend or please ventidius, care not: justify thy injured queen from malice: dare his worst. octavia. [aside.] see how he gives him courage! how he fears to find her false! and shuts his eyes to truth, willing to be misled! alexas. as far as love may plead for woman's frailty, urged by desert and greatness of the lover, so far, divine octavia, may my queen stand even excused to you for loving him who is your lord: so far, from brave ventidius, may her past actions hope a fair report. antony. 'tis well, and truly spoken: mark, ventidius. alexas. to you, most noble emperor, her strong passion stands not excused, but wholly justified. her beauty's charms alone, without her crown, from ind and meroe drew the distant vows of sighing kings; and at her feet were laid the sceptres of the earth, exposed on heaps, to choose where she would reign: she thought a roman only could deserve her, and, of all romans, only antony; and, to be less than wife to you, disdained their lawful passion. antony. 'tis but truth. alexas. and yet, though love, and your unmatched desert, have drawn her from the due regard of honour, at last heaven opened her unwilling eyes to see the wrongs she offered fair octavia, whose holy bed she lawlessly usurped. the sad effects of this improsperous war confirmed those pious thoughts. ventidius. [aside.] oh, wheel you there? observe him now; the man begins to mend, and talk substantial reason.--fear not, eunuch; the emperor has given thee leave to speak. alexas. else had i never dared to offend his ears with what the last necessity has urged on my forsaken mistress; yet i must not presume to say, her heart is wholly altered. antony. no, dare not for thy life, i charge thee dare not pronounce that fatal word! octavia. must i bear this? good heaven, afford me patience. [aside.] ventidius. on, sweet eunuch; my dear half-man, proceed. alexas. yet dolabella has loved her long; he, next my god-like lord, deserves her best; and should she meet his passion, rejected, as she is, by him she loved---- antony. hence from my sight! for i can bear no more: let furies drag thee quick to hell; let all the longer damned have rest; each torturing hand do thou employ, till cleopatra comes; then join thou too, and help to torture her! [exit alexas, thrust out by antony.] octavia. 'tis not well. indeed, my lord, 'tis much unkind to me, to show this passion, this extreme concernment, for an abandoned, faithless prostitute. antony. octavia, leave me; i am much disordered: leave me, i say. octavia. my lord! antony. i bid you leave me. ventidius. obey him, madam: best withdraw a while, and see how this will work. octavia. wherein have i offended you, my lord, that i am bid to leave you? am i false, or infamous? am i a cleopatra? were i she, base as she is, you would not bid me leave you; but hang upon my neck, take slight excuses, and fawn upon my falsehood. antony. 'tis too much. too much, octavia; i am pressed with sorrows too heavy to be borne; and you add more: i would retire, and recollect what's left of man within, to aid me. octavia. you would mourn, in private, for your love, who has betrayed you. you did but half return to me: your kindness lingered behind with her, i hear, my lord, you make conditions for her, and would include her treaty. wondrous proofs of love to me! antony. are you my friend, ventidius? or are you turned a dolabella too, and let this fury loose? ventidius. oh, be advised, sweet madam, and retire. octavia. yes, i will go; but never to return. you shall no more be haunted with this fury. my lord, my lord, love will not always last, when urged with long unkindness and disdain: take her again, whom you prefer to me; she stays but to be called. poor cozened man! let a feigned parting give her back your heart, which a feigned love first got; for injured me, though my just sense of wrongs forbid my stay, my duty shall be yours. to the dear pledges of our former love my tenderness and care shall be transferred, and they shall cheer, by turns, my widowed nights: so, take my last farewell; for i despair to have you whole, and scorn to take you half. [exit.] ventidius. i combat heaven, which blasts my best designs; my last attempt must be to win her back; but oh! i fear in vain. [exit.] antony. why was i framed with this plain, honest heart, which knows not to disguise its griefs and weakness, but bears its workings outward to the world? i should have kept the mighty anguish in, and forced a smile at cleopatra's falsehood: octavia had believed it, and had stayed. but i am made a shallow-forded stream, seen to the bottom: all my clearness scorned, and all my faults exposed.--see where he comes, enter dollabella who has profaned the sacred name of friend, and worn it into vileness! with how secure a brow, and specious form, he gilds the secret villain! sure that face was meant for honesty; but heaven mismatched it, and furnished treason out with nature's pomp, to make its work more easy. dolabella. o my friend! antony. well, dolabella, you performed my message? dolabella. i did, unwillingly. antony. unwillingly? was it so hard for you to bear our parting? you should have wished it. dolabella. why? antony. because you love me. and she received my message with as true, with as unfeigned a sorrow as you brought it? dolabella. she loves you, even to madness. antony. oh, i know it. you, dolabella, do not better know how much she loves me. and should i forsake this beauty? this all-perfect creature? dolabella. i could not, were she mine. antony. and yet you first persuaded me: how come you altered since? dolabella. i said at first i was not fit to go: i could not hear her sighs, and see her tears, but pity must prevail: and so, perhaps, it may again with you; for i have promised, that she should take her last farewell: and, see, she comes to claim my word. enter cleopatra antony. false dolabella! dolabella. what's false, my lord? antony. why, dolabella's false, and cleopatra's false; both false and faithless. draw near, you well-joined wickedness, you serpents, whom i have in my kindly bosom warmed, till i am stung to death. dolabella. my lord, have i deserved to be thus used? cleopatra. can heaven prepare a newer torment? can it find a curse beyond our separation? antony. yes, if fate be just, much greater: heaven should be ingenious in punishing such crimes. the rolling stone, and gnawing vulture, were slight pains, invented when jove was young, and no examples known of mighty ills; but you have ripened sin, to such a monstrous growth, 'twill pose the gods to find an equal torture. two, two such!-- oh, there's no further name,--two such! to me, to me, who locked my soul within your breasts, had no desires, no joys, no life, but you; when half the globe was mine, i gave it you in dowry with my heart; i had no use, no fruit of all, but you: a friend and mistress was what the world could give. o cleopatra! o dolabella! how could you betray this tender heart, which with an infant fondness lay lulled betwixt your bosoms, and there slept, secure of injured faith? dolabella. if she has wronged you, heaven, hell, and you revenge it. antony. if she has wronged me! thou wouldst evade thy part of guilt; but swear thou lov'st not her. dolabella. not so as i love you. antony. not so? swear, swear, i say, thou dost not love her. dolabella. no more than friendship will allow. antony. no more? friendship allows thee nothing: thou art perjured-- and yet thou didst not swear thou lov'st her not; but not so much, no more. o trifling hypocrite, who dar'st not own to her, thou dost not love, nor own to me, thou dost! ventidius heard it; octavia saw it. cleopatra. they are enemies. antony. alexas is not so: he, he confessed it; he, who, next hell, best knew it, he avowed it. why do i seek a proof beyond yourself? [to dolabella.] you, whom i sent to bear my last farewell, returned, to plead her stay. dolabella. what shall i answer? if to have loved be guilt, then i have sinned; but if to have repented of that love can wash away my crime, i have repented. yet, if i have offended past forgiveness, let not her suffer: she is innocent. cleopatra. ah, what will not a woman do, who loves? what means will she refuse, to keep that heart, where all her joys are placed? 'twas i encouraged, 'twas i blew up the fire that scorched his soul, to make you jealous, and by that regain you. but all in vain; i could not counterfeit: in spite of all the dams my love broke o'er, and drowned by heart again: fate took the occasion; and thus one minute's feigning has destroyed my whole life's truth. antony. thin cobweb arts of falsehood; seen, and broke through at first. dolabella. forgive your mistress. cleopatra. forgive your friend. antony. you have convinced yourselves. you plead each other's cause: what witness have you, that you but meant to raise my jealousy? cleopatra. ourselves, and heaven. antony. guilt witnesses for guilt. hence, love and friendship! you have no longer place in human breasts, these two have driven you out: avoid my sight! i would not kill the man whom i have loved, and cannot hurt the woman; but avoid me: i do not know how long i can be tame; for, if i stay one minute more, to think how i am wronged, my justice and revenge will cry so loud within me, that my pity will not be heard for either. dolabella. heaven has but our sorrow for our sins; and then delights to pardon erring man: sweet mercy seems its darling attribute, which limits justice; as if there were degrees in infinite, and infinite would rather want perfection than punish to extent. antony. i can forgive a foe; but not a mistress and a friend. treason is there in its most horrid shape, where trust is greatest; and the soul resigned, is stabbed by its own guards: i'll hear no more; hence from my sight for ever! cleopatra. how? for ever! i cannot go one moment from your sight, and must i go for ever? my joys, my only joys, are centred here: what place have i to go to? my own kingdom? that i have lost for you: or to the romans? they hate me for your sake: or must i wander the wide world o'er, a helpless, banished woman, banished for love of you; banished from you? ay, there's the banishment! oh, hear me; hear me, with strictest justice: for i beg no favour; and if i have offended you, then kill me, but do not banish me. antony. i must not hear you. i have a fool within me takes your part; but honour stops my ears. cleopatra. for pity hear me! would you cast off a slave who followed you? who crouched beneath your spurn?--he has no pity! see, if he gives one tear to my departure; one look, one kind farewell: o iron heart! let all the gods look down, and judge betwixt us, if he did ever love! antony. no more: alexas! dolabella. a perjured villain! antony. [to cleopatra.] your alexas; yours. cleopatra. oh, 'twas his plot; his ruinous design, to engage you in my love by jealousy. hear him; confront him with me; let him speak. antony. i have; i have. cleopatra. and if he clear me not-- antony. your creature! one, who hangs upon your smiles! watches your eye, to say or to unsay, whate'er you please! i am not to be moved. cleopatra. then must we part? farewell, my cruel lord! the appearance is against me; and i go, unjustified, for ever from your sight. how i have loved, you know; how yet i love, my only comfort is, i know myself: i love you more, even now you are unkind, then when you loved me most; so well, so truly i'll never strive against it; but die pleased, to think you once were mine. antony. good heaven, they weep at parting! must i weep too? that calls them innocent. i must not weep; and yet i must, to think that i must not forgive.-- live, but live wretched; 'tis but just you should, who made me so: live from each other's sight: let me not hear you meet. set all the earth, and all the seas, betwixt your sundered loves: view nothing common but the sun and skies. now, all take several ways; and each your own sad fate, with mine, deplore; that you were false, and i could trust no more. [exeunt severally.] act v scene i enter cleopatra, charmion, and iras charmion. be juster, heaven; such virtue punished thus, will make us think that chance rules all above, and shuffles, with a random hand, the lots, which man is forced to draw. cleopatra. i could tear out these eyes, that gained his heart, and had not power to keep it. o the curse of doting on, even when i find it dotage! bear witness, gods, you heard him bid me go; you, whom he mocked with imprecating vows of promised faith!--i'll die; i will not bear it. you may hold me-- [she pulls out her dagger, and they hold her.] but i can keep my breath; i can die inward, and choke this love. enter alexas iras. help, o alexas, help! the queen grows desperate; her soul struggles in her with all the agonies of love and rage, and strives to force its passage. cleopatra. let me go. art thou there, traitor!--o, o for a little breath, to vent my rage, give, give me way, and let me loose upon him. alexas. yes, i deserve it, for my ill-timed truth. was it for me to prop the ruins of a falling majesty? to place myself beneath the mighty flaw, thus to be crushed, and pounded into atoms, by its o'erwhelming weight? 'tis too presuming for subjects to preserve that wilful power, which courts its own destruction. cleopatra. i would reason more calmly with you. did not you o'errule, and force my plain, direct, and open love, into these crooked paths of jealousy? now, what's the event? octavia is removed; but cleopatra's banished. thou, thou villain, hast pushed my boat to open sea; to prove, at my sad cost, if thou canst steer it back. it cannot be; i'm lost too far; i'm ruined: hence, thou impostor, traitor, monster, devil!-- i can no more: thou, and my griefs, have sunk me down so low, that i want voice to curse thee. alexas. suppose some shipwrecked seaman near the shore, dropping and faint, with climbing up the cliff, if, from above, some charitable hand pull him to safety, hazarding himself, to draw the other's weight; would he look back, and curse him for his pains? the case is yours; but one step more, and you have gained the height. cleopatra. sunk, never more to rise. alexas. octavia's gone, and dolabella banished. believe me, madam, antony is yours. his heart was never lost, but started off to jealousy, love's last retreat and covert; where it lies hid in shades, watchful in silence, and listening for the sound that calls it back. some other, any man ('tis so advanced), may perfect this unfinished work, which i (unhappy only to myself) have left so easy to his hand. cleopatra. look well thou do't; else-- alexas. else, what your silence threatens.--antony is mounted up the pharos; from whose turret, he stands surveying our egyptian galleys, engaged with caesar's fleet. now death or conquest! if the first happen, fate acquits my promise; if we o'ercome, the conqueror is yours. [a distant shout within.] charmion. have comfort, madam: did you mark that shout? [second shout nearer.] iras. hark! they redouble it. alexas. 'tis from the port. the loudness shows it near: good news, kind heavens! cleopatra. osiris make it so! enter serapion serapion. where, where's the queen? alexas. how frightfully the holy coward stares as if not yet recovered of the assault, when all his gods, and, what's more dear to him, his offerings, were at stake. serapion. o horror, horror! egypt has been; our latest hour has come: the queen of nations, from her ancient seat, is sunk for ever in the dark abyss: time has unrolled her glories to the last, and now closed up the volume. cleopatra. be more plain: say, whence thou comest; though fate is in thy face, which from the haggard eyes looks wildly out, and threatens ere thou speakest. serapion. i came from pharos; from viewing (spare me, and imagine it) our land's last hope, your navy-- cleopatra. vanquished? serapion. no: they fought not. cleopatra. then they fled. serapion. nor that. i saw, with antony, your well-appointed fleet row out; and thrice he waved his hand on high, and thrice with cheerful cries they shouted back: 'twas then false fortune, like a fawning strumpet, about to leave the bankrupt prodigal, with a dissembled smile would kiss at parting, and flatter to the last; the well-timed oars, now dipt from every bank, now smoothly run to meet the foe; and soon indeed they met, but not as foes. in few, we saw their caps on either side thrown up; the egyptian galleys, received like friends, passed through, and fell behind the roman rear: and now, they all come forward, and ride within the port. cleopatra. enough, serapion: i've heard my doom.--this needed not, you gods: when i lost antony, your work was done; 'tis but superfluous malice.--where's my lord? how bears he this last blow? serapion. his fury cannot be expressed by words: thrice he attempted headlong to have fallen full on his foes, and aimed at caesar's galley: withheld, he raves on you; cries,--he's betrayed. should he now find you-- alexas. shun him; seek your safety, till you can clear your innocence. cleopatra. i'll stay. alexas. you must not; haste you to your monument, while i make speed to caesar. cleopatra. caesar! no, i have no business with him. alexas. i can work him to spare your life, and let this madman perish. cleopatra. base fawning wretch! wouldst thou betray him too? hence from my sight! i will not hear a traitor; 'twas thy design brought all this ruin on us.-- serapion, thou art honest; counsel me: but haste, each moment's precious. serapion. retire; you must not yet see antony. he who began this mischief, 'tis just he tempt the danger; let him clear you: and, since he offered you his servile tongue, to gain a poor precarious life from caesar, let him expose that fawning eloquence, and speak to antony. alexas. o heavens! i dare not; i meet my certain death. cleopatra. slave, thou deservest it.-- not that i fear my lord, will i avoid him; i know him noble: when he banished me, and thought me false, he scorned to take my life; but i'll be justified, and then die with him. alexas. o pity me, and let me follow you. cleopatra. to death, if thou stir hence. speak, if thou canst, now for thy life, which basely thou wouldst save; while mine i prize at--this! come, good serapion. [exeunt cleopatra, serapion, charmion, and iras.] alexas. o that i less could fear to lose this being, which, like a snowball in my coward hand, the more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away. poor reason! what a wretched aid art thou! for still, in spite of thee, these two long lovers, soul and body, dread their final separation. let me think: what can i say, to save myself from death? no matter what becomes of cleopatra. antony. which way? where? [within.] ventidius. this leads to the monument. [within.] alexas. ah me! i hear him; yet i'm unprepared: my gift of lying's gone; and this court-devil, which i so oft have raised, forsakes me at my need. i dare not stay; yet cannot far go hence. [exit.] enter antony and ventidius antony. o happy caesar! thou hast men to lead: think not 'tis thou hast conquered antony; but rome has conquered egypt. i'm betrayed. ventidius. curse on this treacherous train! their soil and heaven infect them all with baseness: and their young souls come tainted to the world with the first breath they draw. antony. the original villain sure no god created; he was a bastard of the sun, by nile, aped into man; with all his mother's mud crusted about his soul. ventidius. the nation is one universal traitor; and their queen the very spirit and extract of them all. antony. is there yet left a possibility of aid from valour? is there one god unsworn to my destruction? the least unmortgaged hope? for, if there be, methinks i cannot fall beneath the fate of such a boy as caesar. the world's one half is yet in antony; and from each limb of it, that's hewed away, the soul comes back to me. ventidius. there yet remain three legions in the town. the last assault lopt off the rest; if death be your design,-- as i must wish it now,--these are sufficient to make a heap about us of dead foes, an honest pile for burial. antony. they are enough. we'll not divide our stars; but, side by side, fight emulous, and with malicious eyes survey each other's acts: so every death thou giv'st, i'll take on me, as a just debt, and pay thee back a soul. ventidius. now you shall see i love you. not a word of chiding more. by my few hours of life, i am so pleased with this brave roman fate, that i would not be caesar, to outlive you. when we put off this flesh, and mount together, i shall be shown to all the ethereal crowd,-- lo, this is he who died with antony! antony. who knows, but we may pierce through all their troops, and reach my veterans yet? 'tis worth the 'tempting, to o'erleap this gulf of fate, and leave our wandering destinies behind. enter alexas, trembling ventidius. see, see, that villain! see cleopatra stamped upon that face, with all her cunning, all her arts of falsehood! how she looks out through those dissembling eyes! how he sets his countenance for deceit, and promises a lie, before he speaks! let me despatch him first. [drawing.] alexas. o spare me, spare me! antony. hold; he's not worth your killing.--on thy life, which thou may'st keep, because i scorn to take it, no syllable to justify thy queen; save thy base tongue its office. alexas. sir, she is gone. where she shall never be molested more by love, or you. antony. fled to her dolabella! die, traitor! i revoke my promise! die! [going to kill him.] alexas. o hold! she is not fled. antony. she is: my eyes are open to her falsehood; my whole life has been a golden dream of love and friendship; but, now i wake, i'm like a merchant, roused from soft repose, to see his vessel sinking, and all his wealth cast over. ungrateful woman! who followed me, but as the swallow summer, hatching her young ones in my kindly beams, singing her flatteries to my morning wake: but, now my winter comes, she spreads her wings, and seeks the spring of caesar. alexas. think not so; her fortunes have, in all things, mixed with yours. had she betrayed her naval force to rome, how easily might she have gone to caesar, secure by such a bribe! ventidius. she sent it first, to be more welcome after. antony. 'tis too plain; else would she have appeared, to clear herself. alexas. too fatally she has: she could not bear to be accused by you; but shut herself within her monument; looked down and sighed; while, from her unchanged face, the silent tears dropt, as they had not leave, but stole their parting. some indistinguished words she only murmured; at last, she raised her eyes; and, with such looks as dying lucrece cast-- antony. my heart forebodes-- ventidius. all for the best:--go on. alexas. she snatched her poniard, and, ere we could prevent the fatal blow, plunged it within her breast; then turned to me: go, bear my lord, said she, my last farewell; and ask him, if he yet suspect my faith. more she was saying, but death rushed betwixt. she half pronounced your name with her last breath, and buried half within her. ventidius. heaven be praised! antony. then art thou innocent, my poor dear love, and art thou dead? o those two words! their sound should be divided: hadst thou been false, and died; or hadst thou lived, and hadst been true--but innocence and death! this shows not well above. then what am i, the murderer of this truth, this innocence! thoughts cannot form themselves in words so horrid as can express my guilt! ventidius. is't come to this? the gods have been too gracious; and thus you thank them for it! antony. [to alexas.] why stayest thou here? is it for thee to spy upon my soul, and see its inward mourning? get thee hence; thou art not worthy to behold, what now becomes a roman emperor to perform. alexas. he loves her still: his grief betrays it. good! the joy to find she's yet alive, completes the reconcilement. i've saved myself, and her. but, oh! the romans! fate comes too fast upon my wit, hunts me too hard, and meets me at each double. [aside.] [exit.] ventidius. would she had died a little sooner, though! before octavia went, you might have treated: now 'twill look tame, and would not be received. come, rouse yourself, and let's die warm together. antony. i will not fight: there's no more work for war. the business of my angry hours is done. ventidius. caesar is at your gates. antony. why, let him enter; he's welcome now. ventidius. what lethargy has crept into your soul? antony. 'tis but a scorn of life, and just desire to free myself from bondage. ventidius. do it bravely. antony. i will; but not by fighting. o ventidius! what should i fight for now?--my queen is dead. i was but great for her; my power, my empire, were but my merchandise to buy her love; and conquered kings, my factors. now she's dead, let caesar take the world,-- an empty circle, since the jewel's gone which made it worth my strife: my being's nauseous; for all the bribes of life are gone away. ventidius. would you be taken? antony. yes, i would be taken; but, as a roman ought,--dead, my ventidius: for i'll convey my soul from caesar's reach, and lay down life myself. 'tis time the world should have a lord, and know whom to obey. we two have kept its homage in suspense, and bent the globe, on whose each side we trod, till it was dented inwards. let him walk alone upon't: i'm weary of my part. my torch is out; and the world stands before me, like a black desert at the approach of night: i'll lay me down, and stray no farther on. ventidius. i could be grieved, but that i'll not outlive you: choose your death; for, i have seen him in such various shapes, i care not which i take: i'm only troubled, the life i bear is worn to such a rag, 'tis scarce worth giving. i could wish, indeed, we threw it from us with a better grace; that, like two lions taken in the toils, we might at last thrust out our paws, and wound the hunters that inclose us. antony. i have thought on it. ventidius, you must live. ventidius. i must not, sir. antony. wilt thou not live, to speak some good of me? to stand by my fair fame, and guard the approaches from the ill tongues of men? ventidius. who shall guard mine, for living after you? antony. say, i command it. ventidius. if we die well, our deaths will speak themselves and need no living witness. antony. thou hast loved me, and fain i would reward thee. i must die; kill me, and take the merit of my death, to make thee friends with caesar. ventidius. thank your kindness. you said i loved you; and in recompense, you bid me turn a traitor: did i think you would have used me thus?--that i should die with a hard thought of you? antony. forgive me, roman. since i have heard of cleopatra's death, my reason bears no rule upon my tongue, but lets my thoughts break all at random out. i've thought better; do not deny me twice. ventidius. by heaven i will not. let it not be to outlive you. antony. kill me first, and then die thou; for 'tis but just thou serve thy friend, before thyself. ventidius. give me your hand. we soon shall meet again. now, farewell, emperor!-- [embrace.] methinks that word's too cold to be my last: since death sweeps all distinctions, farewell, friend! that's all-- i will not make a business of a trifle; and yet i cannot look on you, and kill you; pray turn your face. antony. i do: strike home, be sure. ventidius. home as my sword will reach. [kills himself.] antony. oh, thou mistak'st; that wound was not of thine; give it me back: thou robb'st me of my death. ventidius. i do indeed; but think 'tis the first time i e'er deceived you, if that may plead my pardon.--and you, gods, forgive me, if you will; for i die perjured, rather than kill my friend. [dies.] antony. farewell! ever my leader, even in death! my queen and thou have got the start of me, and i'm the lag of honour.--gone so soon? is death no more? he used him carelessly, with a familiar kindness: ere he knocked, ran to the door, and took him in his arms, as who should say--you're welcome at all hours, a friend need give no warning. books had spoiled him; for all the learned are cowards by profession. 'tis not worth my further thought; for death, for aught i know, is but to think no more. here's to be satisfied. [falls on his sword.] i've missed my heart. o unperforming hand! thou never couldst have erred in a worse time. my fortune jades me to the last; and death, like a great man, takes state, and makes me wait for my admittance.-- [trampling within.] some, perhaps, from caesar: if he should find me living, and suspect that i played booty with my life! i'll mend my work, ere they can reach me. [rises upon his knees.] enter cleopatra, charmion, and iras cleopatra. where is my lord? where is he? charmion. there he lies, and dead ventidius by him. cleopatra. my tears were prophets; i am come too late. o that accursed alexas! [runs to him.] antony. art thou living? or am i dead before i knew, and thou the first kind ghost that meets me? cleopatra. help me seat him. send quickly, send for help! [they place him in a chair.] antony. i am answered. we live both. sit thee down, my cleopatra: i'll make the most i can of life, to stay a moment more with thee. cleopatra. how is it with you? antony. 'tis as with a man removing in a hurry; all packed up, but one dear jewel that his haste forgot; and he, for that, returns upon the spur: so i come back for thee. cleopatra. too long, ye heavens, you have been cruel to me: now show your mended faith, and give me back his fleeting life! antony. it will not be, my love; i keep my soul by force. say but, thou art not false. cleopatra. 'tis now too late to say i'm true: i'll prove it, and die with you. unknown to me, alexas feigned my death: which, when i knew, i hasted to prevent this fatal consequence. my fleet betrayed both you and me. antony. and dolabella-- cleopatra. scarce esteemed before he loved; but hated now. antony. enough: my life's not long enough for more. thou say'st, thou wilt come after: i believe thee; for i can now believe whate'er thou sayest, that we may part more kindly. cleopatra. i will come: doubt not, my life, i'll come, and quickly too: caesar shall triumph o'er no part of thee. antony. but grieve not, while thou stayest, my last disastrous times: think we have had a clear and glorious day and heaven did kindly to delay the storm, just till our close of evening. ten years' love, and not a moment lost, but all improved to the utmost joys,--what ages have we lived? and now to die each other's; and, so dying, while hand in hand we walk in groves below, whole troops of lovers' ghosts shall flock about us, and all the train be ours. cleopatra. your words are like the notes of dying swans, too sweet to last. were there so many hours for your unkindness, and not one for love? antony. no, not a minute.--this one kiss--more worth than all i leave to caesar. [dies.] cleopatra. o tell me so again, and take ten thousand kisses for that word. my lord, my lord! speak, if you yet have being; sign to me, if you cannot speak; or cast one look! do anything that shows you live. iras. he's gone too far to hear you; and this you see, a lump of senseless clay, the leavings of a soul. charmion. remember, madam, he charged you not to grieve. cleopatra. and i'll obey him. i have not loved a roman, not to know what should become his wife; his wife, my charmion! for 'tis to that high title i aspire; and now i'll not die less. let dull octavia survive, to mourn him dead: my nobler fate shall knit our spousals with a tie, too strong for roman laws to break. iras. will you then die? cleopatra. why shouldst thou make that question? iras. caesar is merciful. cleopatra. let him be so to those that want his mercy: my poor lord made no such covenant with him, to spare me when he was dead. yield me to caesar's pride? what! to be led in triumph through the streets, a spectacle to base plebeian eyes; while some dejected friend of antony's, close in a corner, shakes his head, and mutters a secret curse on her who ruined him! i'll none of that. charmion. whatever you resolve, i'll follow, even to death. iras. i only feared for you; but more should fear to live without you. cleopatra. why, now, 'tis as it should be. quick, my friends, despatch; ere this, the town's in caesar's hands: my lord looks down concerned, and fears my stay, lest i should be surprised; keep him not waiting for his love too long. you, charmion, bring my crown and richest jewels; with them, the wreath of victory i made (vain augury!) for him, who now lies dead: you, iras, bring the cure of all our ills. iras. the aspics, madam? cleopatra. must i bid you twice? [exit charmion and iras.] 'tis sweet to die, when they would force life on me, to rush into the dark abode of death, and seize him first; if he be like my love, he is not frightful, sure. we're now alone, in secrecy and silence; and is not this like lovers? i may kiss these pale, cold lips; octavia does not see me: and, oh! 'tis better far to have him thus, than see him in her arms.--oh, welcome, welcome! enter charmion and iras charmion. what must be done? cleopatra. short ceremony, friends; but yet it must be decent. first, this laurel shall crown my hero's head: he fell not basely, nor left his shield behind him.--only thou couldst triumph o'er thyself; and thou alone wert worthy so to triumph. charmion. to what end these ensigns of your pomp and royalty? cleopatra. dull, that thou art! why 'tis to meet my love; as when i saw him first, on cydnus' bank, all sparkling, like a goddess: so adorned, i'll find him once again; my second spousals shall match my first in glory. haste, haste, both, and dress the bride of antony. charmion. 'tis done. cleopatra. now seat me by my lord. i claim this place, for i must conquer caesar too, like him, and win my share of the world.--hail, you dear relics of my immortal love! o let no impious hand remove you hence: but rest for ever here! let egypt give his death that peace, which it denied his life.-- reach me the casket. iras. underneath the fruit the aspic lies. cleopatra. welcome, thou kind deceiver! [putting aside the leaves.] thou best of thieves: who, with an easy key, dost open life, and, unperceived by us, even steal us from ourselves; discharging so death's dreadful office, better than himself; touching our limbs so gently into slumber, that death stands by, deceived by his own image, and thinks himself but sleep. serapion. the queen, where is she? [within.] the town is yielded, caesar's at the gates. cleopatra. he comes too late to invade the rights of death! haste, bare my arm, and rouse the serpent's fury. [holds out her arm, and draws it back.] coward flesh, wouldst thou conspire with caesar to betray me, as thou wert none of mine? i'll force thee to it, and not be sent by him, but bring, myself, my soul to antony. [turns aside, and then shows her arm bloody.] take hence; the work is done. serapion. break ope the door, [within.] and guard the traitor well. charmion. the next is ours. iras. now, charmion, to be worthy of our great queen and mistress. [they apply the aspics.] cleopatra. already, death, i feel thee in my veins: i go with such a will to find my lord, that we shall quickly meet. a heavy numbness creeps through every limb, and now 'tis at my head: my eyelids fall, and my dear love is vanquished in a mist. where shall i find him, where? o turn me to him, and lay me on his breast!--caesar, thy worst; now part us, if thou canst. [dies.] [iras sinks down at her feet, and dies; charmion stands behind her chair, as dressing her head.] enter serapion, two priests, alexas bound, egyptians priest. behold, serapion, what havoc death has made! serapion. 'twas what i feared.-- charmion, is this well done? charmion. yes, 'tis well done, and like a queen, the last of her great race: i follow her. [sinks down: dies.] alexas. 'tis true, she has done well: much better thus to die, than live to make a holiday in rome. serapion. see how the lovers sit in state together, as they were giving laws to half mankind! the impression of a smile, left in her face, shows she died pleased with him for whom she lived, and went to charm him in another world. caesar's just entering: grief has now no leisure. secure that villain, as our pledge of safety, to grace the imperial triumph.--sleep, blest pair, secure from human chance, long ages out, while all the storms of fate fly o'er your tomb; and fame to late posterity shall tell, no lovers lived so great, or died so well. [exeunt.] epilogue poets, like disputants, when reasons fail, have one sure refuge left--and that's to rail. fop, coxcomb, fool, are thundered through the pit; and this is all their equipage of wit. we wonder how the devil this difference grows betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose: for, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood, 'tis civil war with their own flesh and blood. the threadbare author hates the gaudy coat; and swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot: for 'tis observed of every scribbling man, he grows a fop as fast as e'er he can; prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass, if pink or purple best become his face. for our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays; nor likes your wit just as you like his plays; he has not yet so much of mr. bayes. he does his best; and if he cannot please, would quietly sue out his writ of ease. yet, if he might his own grand jury call, by the fair sex he begs to stand or fall. let caesar's power the men's ambition move, but grace you him who lost the world for love! yet if some antiquated lady say, the last age is not copied in his play; heaven help the man who for that face must drudge, which only has the wrinkles of a judge. let not the young and beauteous join with those; for should you raise such numerous hosts of foes, young wits and sparks he to his aid must call; 'tis more than one man's work to please you all. the works of john dryden, now first collected _in eighteen volumes._ illustrated with notes, historical, critical, and explanatory, and a life of the author, by walter scott, esq. vol. iv. london: printed for william miller, albemarle street, by james ballantyne and co. edinburgh. . * * * * * contents of volume fourth. almanzor and almahide, or the conquest of granada by the spaniards, a tragedy, part first epistle dedicatory to the duke of york of heroic plays, an essay part ii defence of the epilogue; or an essay on the dramatic poetry of the last age marriage-a-la-mode, a comedy epistle dedicatory to the earl of rochester the assignation, or love in a nunnery, a comedy epistle dedicatory to sir charles sedley, bart. * * * * * almanzor and almahide: or, the conquest of granada by the _spaniards._ a tragedy. _--major rerum mihi nascitur ordo; majus opus moveo._ virg. Æneid. the conquest of granada. this play,--for the two parts only constitute an entire drama betwixt them,--seems to have been a favourite with dryden, as well as with the public. in the essay upon heroic plays, as well as in the dedication, the character of almanzor is dwelt upon with that degree of complacency which an author experiences in analyzing a successful effort of his genius. unquestionably the gross improbability of a hero, by his single arm, turning the tide of battle as he lists, did not appear so shocking in the age of dryden, as in ours. there is no doubt, that, while personal strength and prowess were of more consequence than military skill and conduct, the feats of a single man were sometimes sufficient to determine the fate of an engagement, more especially when exerted by a knight, sheathed in complete mail, against the heartless and half-armed mass, which constituted the feudal infantry. those, who have perused barbour's history of robert bruce, geoffrey de vinsauf's account of the wars of richard coeur de lion, or even the battles detailed by froissart and joinville, are familiar with instances of breaches defended, and battles decided, by the prowess of a single arm. the leader of a feudal army was expected by his followers not only to point out the path to victory but to lead the way in person. it is true, that the military art had been changed in this particular long before the days of dryden. complete armour was generally laid aside; fire-arms had superseded the use of the lance and battle-axe; and, above all, the universal institution of standing armies had given discipline and military skill their natural and decisive superiority over untaught strength, and enthusiastic valour. but the memory of what had been, was still familiar to the popular mind, and preserved not only by numerous legends and traditions, but also by the cast of the fashionable works of fiction. it is, indeed, curious to remark, how many minute remnants of a system of ancient manners can be traced long after it has become totally obsolete. even down to the eighteenth century, the portrait of every soldier of rank was attired in complete armour, though, perhaps, he never saw a suit of mail excepting in the tower of london; and on the same principle of prescriptive custom, addison was the first poet who ventured to celebrate a victorious general for skill and conduct, instead of such feats as are appropriated to guy of warwick, or bevis of hampton. the fashion of attributing mighty effects to individual valour being thus prevalent, even in circumstances when every one knew the supposition to be entirely gratuitous, the same principle, with much greater propriety, continued to be applied in works of fiction, where the scene was usually carried back to times in which the personal strength of a champion really had some efficacy. it must be owned, however, that the authors of the french romances carried the influence of individual strength and courage beyond all bounds of modesty and reason. in the grand cyrus, artamenes, upon a moderate computation, exterminates with his own hand, in the course of the work, at least a hundred thousand fighting men. these monstrous fictions, however, constituted the amusement of the young and the gay[ ], in the age of charles ii., and from one of these very books dryden admits his having drawn, at least in part, the character of his moorish warrior. the public was, therefore, every way familiarised with such chivalrous exploits as those of almanzor; and if they did not altogether command the belief, at least they did not revolt the imagination, of an audience: and this must certainly be admitted as a fair apology for the extravagance of his heroic achievements. but, it is not only the actual effects of almanzor's valour, which appear to us unnatural, but also the extraordinary principles and motives by which those exertions are guided. here also, we must look back to the gothic romances, and to those of scudery and calprenede. in fact, the extravagance of sentiment is no less necessary than the extravagance of achievement to constitute a true knight errant; and such is almanzor. honour and love were the sole deities worshipped by this extraordinary race, who, though their memory and manners are preserved chiefly in works of fiction, did once exist in real life, and actually conducted armies, and governed kingdoms, upon principles as strained and hyperbolical as those of the moorish champion. if almanzor, at the command of his mistress, aids his hated rival to the destruction of his own hopes, he only discharges the duty of a good knight, who was bound to sacrifice himself, and all his hopes and wishes, at the slightest command of her, to whom he had vowed his service, and who, in the language of chivalry, was to him as the soul is to the body. the reader may recollect the memorable invasion of england by james iv. of scotland, in which he hazarded and actually lost his own life, and the flower of his nobility, because the queen of france, who called him her knight, had commanded him to march three miles on english ground for her sake. less can be said to justify the extravagant language in which almanzor threatens his enemies, and vaunts his own importance. this is not common in the heroes of romance, who are usually as remarkable for their modesty of language as for their prowess; and still more seldom does, in real life, a vain-glorious boaster vindicate by his actions the threats of his tongue. it is true, that men of a fervent and glowing character are apt to strain their speech beyond the modesty of ordinary conversation, and display, in their language, the fire which glows in their bosoms; but the subject of their effusions is usually connected not with their own personal qualities, or feats, but with some extraneous object of their pursuit, or admiration. thus, the burst of hotspur concerning the pursuit of honour paints his enthusiastic character; but it would be hard to point out a passage indicating that exuberant confidence in his own prowess, and contempt of every one else, so liberally exhibited by almanzor. instances of this defect are but too thickly sown through the piece; for example the following rant. if from thy hands alone my death can be, i am immortal, and a god to thee. if i would kill thee now, thy fate's so low, that i must stoop ere i can give the blow. but mine is fixed so far above thy crown, that all thy men, piled on thy back, can never pull it down. but, at my ease, thy destiny i send, by ceasing from this hour to be thy friend. like heaven, i need but only to stand still; and, not concurring to thy life, i kill. thou canst no title to my duty bring; i am not thy subject, and my soul's thy king. farewell! when i am gone, there's not a star of thine dare stay with thee: i'll whistle thy tame fortune after me; and whirl fate with me wheresoe'er i fly, as winds drive storms before them in the sky. this curious passage did not escape the malicious criticism of settle, who, besides noticing the extravagant egotism of the hero, questions, with some probability, whether abdalla would have chosen to scale almanzor's fate, at the risque of the personal consequences of having all his men piled on his own back. in the same scene, almanzor is so unreasonable as to tell his rival, --thou shalt not dare to be so impudent as to despair. and again, what are ten thousand subjects, such as they? if i am scorned, i'll take myself away. dryden's apology for these extravagancies seems to be, that almanzor is in a passion. but, although talking nonsense is a common effect of passion, it seems hardly one of those consequences adapted to shew forth the character of a hero in theatrical representation. it must be owned, however, that although the part of almanzor contains these and other bombastic passages, there are many also which convey what the poet desired to represent--the aspirations of a mind so heroic as almost to surmount the bonds of society and even the very laws of the universe, leaving us often in doubt whether the vehemence of the wish does not even disguise the impossibility of its accomplishment. good heaven! thy book of fate before me lay, but to tear out the journal of this day. or, if the order of the world below will not the gap of one whole day allow, give me that minute when she made her vow. that minute, even the happy from their bliss might give, and those, who live in grief, a shorter time would live. so small a link, if broke, the eternal chain would, like divided waters, join again. it wonnot be; the fugitive is gone, pressed by the crowd of following minutes on: that precious moment's out of nature fled, and in the heap of common rubbish laid, of things that once have been, and now decayed. in the less inflated parts, the ideas are usually as just, as ingenious and beautiful; for example. no; there is a necessity in fate. why still the brave bold man is fortunate; he keeps his object ever full in sight, and that assurance holds him firm and right. true, 'tis a narrow path that leads to bliss, } but right before there is no precipice; } fear makes men look aside, and then their footing miss. } the character of almanzor is well known as the original of drawcansir, in "the rehearsal," into whose mouth parodies of some of dryden's most extravagant flights have been put by the duke of buckingham. shaftesbury also, whose family had smarted under dryden's satire, attempts to trace the applause bestowed on the "conquest of granada" to what he calls "the correspondence and relation between our _royal theatre_ and popular _circus_, or _bear-garden_. for, in the former of these assemblys, 'tis undeniable that, at least, the two upper regions, or galleries, contain such spectators as indifferently frequent each place of sport. so that 'tis no wonder we hear such applause resounded on the victories of an _almanzor_, when the same parties had possibly no later than the day before bestowed their applause as freely on the victorious _butcher_, the hero of another stage." _miscellaneous reflections. miscell. ._ the other personages of the drama sink into lilliputians, beside the gigantic almanzor, although the under plot of the loves of ozmyn and benzayda is beautiful in itself, and ingeniously managed. the virtuous almahide is a fit object for the adoration of almanzor; but her husband is a poor pageant of royalty. as for lyndaraxa, her repeated and unparalleled treachery can only be justified by the extreme imbecility of her lovers. the plot of the play is, in part, taken from history. during the last years of its existence, granada, the poor remnant of the moorish empire in spain, was torn to pieces with intestine discord, and assailed without by the sword of the christians. the history of the civil wars of granada, affirmed to be translated into spanish from the arabian, gives a romantic, but not altogether fabulous account of their discord. but a romance in the french taste, called almahide, seems to have been the chief source from which our author drew his plot. in the conduct of the story there is much brilliancy of event. the reader, or spectator, is never allowed to repose on the scene before him; and although the changes of fortune are too rapid to be either probable, or altogether pleasing, yet they arrest the attention by their splendour and importance, and interest us in spite of our more sober judgment. the introduction of the ghost of almanzor's mother seems to have been intended to shew how the hero could support even an interview with an inhabitant of the other world. at least, the professed purpose of her coming might have been safely trusted to the virtue of almahide, and her power over her lover. it afforded an opportunity, however, to throw in some fine poetry, of which dryden has not failed to avail himself. were it not a peculiar attribute of the heroic drama, it might be mentioned as a defect, that during the siege of the last possession of the spanish moors, by an enemy hated for his religion, and for his success, the principle of patriotism is hardly once alluded to through the whole piece. the fate, or the wishes, of almahide, lyndaraxa, and benzayda, are all that interest the moorish warriors around them, as if the christian was not thundering at their gates, to exterminate at once their nation and religion. indeed, so essentially necessary are the encouragements of beauty to military achievement, that we find queen isabella ordering to the field of battle a _corps de reserve_ of her maids of honour to animate the fighting warriors with their smiles, and counteract the powerful charms of the moorish damsels. nor is it an inferior fault, that, although the characters are called moors, there is scarce any expression, or allusion, which can fix the reader's attention upon their locality, except an occasional interjection to alha, or mahomet. if, however, the reader can abstract his mind from the qualities now deemed essential to a play, and consider the conquest of granada as a piece of romantic poetry, there are few compositions in the english language, which convey a more lively and favourable display of the magnificence of fable, of language, and of action, proper to that style of composition. amid the splendid ornaments of the structure we lose sight of occasional disproportion and incongruity; and, at an early age particularly, there are few poems which make a more deep impression upon the imagination, than the conquest of granada. the two parts of this drama were brought out in the same season, probably in winter, , or spring, . they were received with such applause, that langbaine conceives their success to have been the occasion of dryden's undervaluing his predecessors in dramatic writing. the conquest of granada was not printed till . footnote: . there is something ludicrous in the idea of a beauty, or a gallant, of that gay and licentious court poring over a work of five or six folio volumes by way of amusement; but such was the taste of the age, that fynes morison, in his precepts to travellers, can "think no book better for his pupils' discourse than amadis of gaule; for the knights errant and the ladies of court do therein exchange courtly speeches." to his royal highness the duke[ ]. sir, heroic poesy has always been sacred to princes, and to heroes. thus virgil inscribed his Æneids to augustus cæsar; and of latter ages, tasso and ariosto dedicated their poems to the house of este. it is indeed but justice, that the most excellent and most profitable kind of writing should be addressed by poets to such persons, whose characters have, for the most part, been the guides and patterns of their imitation; and poets, while they imitate, instruct. the feigned hero inflames the true; and the dead virtue animates the living. since, therefore, the world is governed by precept and example, and both these can only have influence from those persons who are above us; that kind of poesy, which excites to virtue the greatest men, is of the greatest use to human kind. it is from this consideration, that i have presumed to dedicate to your royal highness these faint representations of your own worth and valour in heroick poetry: or, to speak more properly, not to dedicate, but to restore to you those ideas, which in the more perfect part of my characters i have taken from you. heroes may lawfully be delighted with their own praises, both as they are farther incitements to their virtue, and as they are the highest returns which mankind can make them for it. and certainly, if ever nation were obliged, either by the conduct, the personal[ ] valour, or the good fortune of a leader, the english are acknowledging, in all of them, to your royal highness. your whole life has been a continued series of heroick actions; which you began so early, that you were no sooner named in the world, but it was with praise and admiration. even the first blossoms of your youth paid us all that could be expected from a ripening manhood. while you practised but the rudiments of war, you out-went all other captains; and have since found none to surpass, but yourself alone. the opening of your glory was like that of light: you shone to us from afar; and disclosed your first beams on distant nations: yet so, that the lustre of them was spread abroad, and reflected brightly on your native country. you were then an honour to it, when it was a reproach to itself. when the fortunate usurper sent his arms to flanders, many of the adverse party were vanquished by your fame, ere they tried your valour.[ ] the report of it drew over to your ensigns whole troops and companies of converted rebels, and made them forsake successful wickedness, to follow an oppressed and exiled virtue. your reputation waged war with the enemies of your royal family, even within their trenches; and the more obstinate, or more guilty of them, were forced to be spies over those whom they commanded, lest the name of york should disband that army, in whose fate it was to defeat the spaniards, and force dunkirk to surrender. yet, those victorious forces of the rebels were not able to sustain your arms. where you charged in person you were a conqueror. it is true, they afterwards recovered courage; and wrested that victory from others which they had lost to you; and it was a greater action for them to rally, than it was to overcome. thus, by the presence of your royal highness, the english on both sides remained victorious and that army, which was broken by your valour, became a terror to those for whom they conquered. then it was, that at the cost of other nations you informed and cultivated that valour, which was to defend your native country, and to vindicate its honour from the insolence of our encroaching neighbours. when the hollanders, not contented to withdraw themselves from the obedience which they owed their lawful sovereign, affronted those by whose charity they were first protected; and, being swelled up to a pre-eminence of trade, by a supine negligence on our side, and a sordid parsimony on their own, dared to dispute the sovereignty of the seas, the eyes of three nations were then cast upon you; and by the joint suffrage of king and people, you were chosen to revenge their common injuries; to which, though you had an undoubted title by your birth, you had a greater by your courage. neither did the success deceive our hopes and expectations: the most glorious victory which was gained by our navy in that war, was in the first engagement; wherein, even by the confession of our enemies, who ever palliate their own losses, and diminish our advantages, your absolute triumph was acknowledged: you conquered at the hague, as entirely as at london; and the return of a shattered fleet, without an admiral, left not the most impudent among them the least pretence for a false bonfire, or a dissembled day of public thanksgiving. all our achievements against them afterwards, though we sometimes conquered, and were never overcome, were but a copy of that victory, and they still fell short of their original: somewhat of fortune was ever wanting, to fill up the title of so absolute a defeat; or perhaps the guardian angel of our nation was not enough concerned when you were absent, and would not employ his utmost vigour for a less important stake, than the life and honour of a royal admiral. and if, since that memorable day,[ ] you have had leisure to enjoy in peace the fruits of so glorious a reputation; it was occasion only has been wanting to your courage, for that can never be wanting to occasion. the same ardour still incites you to heroick actions, and the same concernment for all the interests of your king and brother continues to give you restless nights, and a generous emulation for your own glory. you are still meditating on new labours for yourself, and new triumphs for the nation; and when our former enemies again provoke us, you will again solicit fate to provide you another navy to overcome, and another admiral to be slain. you will then lead forth a nation eager to revenge their past injuries; and, like the romans, inexorable to peace, till they have fully vanquished. let our enemies make their boast of a surprise,[ ] as the samnities did of a successful stratagem; but the _furcæ caudinæ_ will never be forgiven till they are revenged. i have always observed in your royal highness an extreme concernment for the honour of your country; it is a passion common to you with a brother, the most excellent of kings; and in your two persons are eminent the characters which homer has given us of heroick virtue; the commanding part in agamemnon, and the executive in achilles. and i doubt not from both your actions, but to have abundant matter to fill the annals of a glorious reign, and to perform the part of a just historian to my royal master, without intermixing with it any thing of the poet. in the mean time, while your royal highness is preparing fresh employments for our pens, i have been examining my own forces, and making trial of myself, how i shall be able to transmit you to posterity. i have formed a hero, i confess, not absolutely perfect, but of an excessive and over-boiling courage; but homer and tasso are my precedents. both the greek and the italian poet had well considered, that a tame hero, who never transgresses the bounds of moral virtue, would shine but dimly in an epic poem; the strictness of those rules might well give precepts to the reader, but would administer little of occasion to the writer. but a character of an eccentrick virtue is the more exact image of human life, because he is not wholly exempted from its frailties; such a person is almanzor, whom i present, with all humility, to the patronage of your royal highness. i designed in him a roughness of character, impatient of injuries, and a confidence of himself, almost approaching to an arrogance. but these errors are incident only to great spirits; they are moles and dimples, which hinder not a face from being beautiful, though that beauty be not regular; they are of the number of those amiable imperfections which we see in mistresses, and which we pass over without a strict examination, when they are accompanied with greater graces. and such in almanzor are a frank and noble openness of nature, an easiness to forgive his conquered enemies, and to protect them in distress; and, above all, an inviolable faith in his affection. this, sir, i have briefly shadowed to your royal highness, that you may not be ashamed of that hero, whose protection you undertake. neither would i dedicate him to so illustrious a name, if i were conscious to myself that he did or said any thing which was wholly unworthy of it. however, since it is not just that your royal highness should defend or own what possibly may be my error, i bring before you this accused almanzor in the nature of a suspected criminal. by the suffrage of the most and best he already is acquitted; and by the sentence of some, condemned. but as i have no reason to stand to the award of my enemies, so neither dare i trust the partiality of my friends: i make my last appeal to your royal highness, as to a sovereign tribunal. heroes should only be judged by heroes; because they only are capable of measuring great and heroick actions by the rule and standard of their own. if almanzor has failed in any point of honour, i must therein acknowledge that he deviates from your royal highness, who are the pattern of it. but if at any time he fulfils the parts of personal valour, and of conduct, of a soldier, and of a general; or, if i could yet give him a character more advantageous than what he has, of the most unshaken friend, the greatest of subjects, and the best of masters, i should then draw to all the world a true resemblance of your worth and virtues; at least, as far as they are capable of being copied by the mean abilities of, sir, your royal highness's most humble, and most obedient servant, john dryden. footnotes: . james duke of york, afterwards james ii. . although the valour of the unfortunate james ii. seems to have sunk with his good fortune, there is no reason to question his having merited the compliment in the text. the duke of buckingham, in his memoirs, has borne witness to the intrepidity with which he encountered the dangers of his desperate naval actions with the dutch. captain carlton, who was also an eye-witness of his deportment on that occasion, says, that while the balls were flying thickly around, the duke of york was wont to rub his hands, and exclaim chearfully to his captain, "spragge, spragge, they follow us fast." . when general lockhart commanded the troops of the protector in flanders, the duke of york was a volunteer in the spanish army, and was present at the defeat, which the latter received before dunkirk, th of june, . . the defeat of the dutch off harwich, d june, , in which their admiral, obdam, was blown up, eighteen of their ships taken, and fourteen destroyed. . the author seems to refer to the burning of the english ships at chatham, by the dutch admiral de ruyter. of heroic plays. an essay. whether heroic verse ought to be admitted into serious plays, is not now to be disputed: it is already in possession of the stage, and i dare confidently affirm, that very few tragedies, in this age, shall be received without it. all the arguments which are formed against it, can amount to no more than this, that it is not so near conversation as prose, and therefore not so natural. but it is very clear to all who understand poetry, that serious plays ought not to imitate conversation too nearly. if nothing were to be raised above that level, the foundation of poetry would be destroyed. and if you once admit of a latitude, that thoughts may be exalted, and that images and actions may be raised above the life, and described in measure without rhyme, that leads you insensibly from your own principles to mine: you are already so far onward of your way, that you have forsaken the imitation of ordinary converse. you are gone beyond it; and to continue where you are, is to lodge in the open fields, betwixt two inns. you have lost that which you call natural, and have not acquired the last perfection of art. but it was only custom which cozened us so long; we thought, because shakespeare and fletcher went no farther, that there the pillars of poetry were to be erected; that, because they excellently described passion without rhime, therefore rhime was not capable of describing it. but time has now convinced most men of that error. it is indeed so difficult to write verse, that the adversaries of it have a good plea against many, who undertook that task, without being formed by art or nature for it. yet, even they who have written worst in it, would have written worse without it: they have cozened many with their sound, who never took the pains to examine their sense. in fine, they have succeeded; though, it is true, they have more dishonoured rhime by their good success, than they have done by their ill. but i am willing to let fall this argument: it is free for every man to write, or not to write, in verse, as he judges it to be, or not to be, his talent; or as he imagines the audience will receive it. for heroic plays, in which only i have used it without the mixture of prose, the first light we had of them, on the english theatre, was from the late sir william d'avenant. it being forbidden him in the rebellious times to act tragedies and comedies, because they contained some matter of scandal to those good people, who could more easily dispossess their lawful sovereign, than endure a wanton jest, he was forced to turn his thoughts another way, and to introduce the examples of moral virtue, writ in verse, and performed in recitative music. the original of this music, and of the scenes which adorned his work, he had from the italian operas; but he heightened his characters, as i may probably imagine, from the example of corneille and some french poets. in this condition did this part of poetry remain at his majesty's return; when, growing bolder, as being now owned by a public authority, he reviewed his "siege of rhodes," and caused it be acted as a just drama. but as few men have the happiness to begin and finish any new project, so neither did he live to make his design perfect: there wanted the fulness of a plot, and the variety of characters to form it as it ought; and, perhaps, something might have been added to the beauty of the style. all which he would have performed with more exactness, had he pleased to have given us another work of the same nature. for myself and others, who come after him, we are bound, with all veneration to his memory, to acknowledge what advantage we received from that excellent groundwork which he laid: and, since it is an easy thing to add to what already is invented, we ought all of us, without envy to him, or partiality to ourselves, to yield him the precedence in it. having done him this justice, as my guide, i may do myself so much, as to give an account of what i have performed after him. i observed then, as i said, what was wanting to the perfection of his "siege of rhodes;" which was design, and variety of characters. and in the midst of this consideration by mere accident, i opened the next book that lay by me, which was "ariosto," in italian; and the very first two lines of that poem gave me light to all i could desire; _le donne, i cavalier, l'arme, gli amori, le cortesie, l'audaci imprese io canto,_ &c. for the very next reflection which i made was this, that an heroic play ought to be an imitation, in little, of an heroic poem; and, consequently, that love and valour ought to be the subject of it. both these sir william d'avenant had begun to shadow; but it was so, as first discoverers draw their maps, with headlands, and promontories, and some few outlines of somewhat taken at a distance, and which the designer saw not clearly. the common drama obliged him to a plot well formed and pleasant, or, as the ancients call it, one entire and great action. but this he afforded not himself in a story, which he neither filled with persons, nor beautified with characters, nor varied with accidents. the laws of an heroic poem did not dispense with those of the other, but raised them to a greater height, and indulged him a farther liberty of fancy, and of drawing all things as far above the ordinary proportion of the stage, as that is beyond the common words and actions of human life; and, therefore, in the scanting of his images and design, he complied not enough with the greatness and majesty of an heroic poem. i am sorry i cannot discover my opinion of this kind of writing, without dissenting much from his, whose memory i love and honour. but i will do it with the same respect to him, as if he were now alive, and overlooking my paper while i write. his judgment of an heroic poem was this: "that it ought to be dressed in a more familiar and easy shape; more fitted to the common actions and passions of human life; and, in short, more like a glass of nature, shewing us ourselves in our ordinary habits and figuring a more practicable virtue to us, than was done by the ancients or moderns." thus he takes the image of an heroic poem from the drama, or stage poetry; and accordingly intended to divide it into five books, representing the same number of acts; and every book into several cantos, imitating the scenes which compose our acts. but this, i think, is rather a play in narration, as i may call it, than an heroic poem. if at least you will not prefer the opinion of a single man to the practice of the most excellent authors, both of ancient and latter ages. i am no admirer of quotations; but you shall hear, if you please, one of the ancients delivering his judgment on this question; it is petronius arbiter, the most elegant, and one of the most judicious authors of the latin tongue; who, after he had given many admirable rules for the structure and beauties of an epic poem, concludes all in these following words:-- _"non enim res gestæ versibus comprehendendæ sunt, quod longe melius historici faciunt: sed, per ambages deorumque ministeria, præcipitanaus est liber spiritus, ut potius furentis animi vaticinatio appareat, quam religiosæ orationis, sub testibus, fides."_ in which sentence, and his own essay of a poem, which immediately he gives you, it is thought he taxes lucan, who followed too much the truth of history, crowded sentences together, was too full of points, and too often offered at somewhat which had more of the sting of an epigram, than of the dignity and state of an heroic poem. lucan used not much the help of his heathen deities: there was neither the ministry of the gods, nor the precipitation of the soul, nor the fury of a prophet (of which my author speaks), in his _pharsalia_; he treats you more like a philosopher than a poet, and instructs you in verse, with what he had been taught by his uncle seneca in prose. in one word, he walks soberly afoot, when he might fly. yet lucan is not always this religious historian. the oracle of appius and the witchcraft of erictho, will somewhat atone for him, who was, indeed, bound up by an ill-chosen and known argument, to follow truth with great exactness. for my part, i am of opinion, that neither homer, virgil, statius, ariosto, tasso, nor our english spencer, could have formed their poems half so beautiful, without those gods and spirits, and those enthusiastic parts of poetry, which compose the most noble parts of all their writings. and i will ask any man who loves heroic poetry (for i will not dispute their tastes who do not), if the ghost of polydorus in virgil, the enchanted wood in tasso, and the bower of bliss in spencer (which he borrows from that admirable italian) could have been omitted, without taking from their works some of the greatest beauties in them. and if any man object the improbabilities of a spirit appearing, or of a palace raised by magic; i boldly answer him, that an heroic poet is not tied to a bare representation of what is true, or exceeding probable; but that he may let himself loose to visionary objects and to the representation of such things, as, depending not on sense, and therefore not to be comprehended by knowledge, may give him a freer scope for imagination. it is enough that, in all ages and religions, the greatest part of mankind have believed the power of magic, and that there are spirits or spectres which have appeared. this, i say, is foundation enough for poetry; and i dare farther affirm, that the whole doctrine of separated beings, whether those spirits are incorporeal substances, (which mr hobbes, with some reason, thinks to imply a contradiction) or that they are a thinner and more aërial sort of bodies, (as some of the fathers have conjectured) may better be explicated by poets than by philosophers or divines. for their speculations on this subject are wholly poetical; they have only their fancy for their guide; and that, being sharper in an excellent poet, than it is likely it should in a phlegmatic, heavy gownman, will see farther in its own empire, and produce more satisfactory notions on those dark and doubtful problems. some men think they have raised a great argument against the use of spectres and magic in heroic poetry, by saying they are unnatural; but whether they or i believe there are such things, is not material; it is enough that, for aught we know, they may be in nature; and whatever is, or may be, is not properly unnatural. neither am i much concerned at mr cowley's verses before "gondibert," though his authority is almost sacred to me: it is true, he has resembled the old epic poetry to a fantastic fairy-land; but he has contradicted himself by his own example: for he has himself made use of angels and visions in his "davideis," as well as tasso in his "godfrey." what i have written on this subject will not be thought a digression by the reader, if he please to remember what i said in the beginning of this essay, that i have modelled my heroic plays by the rules of an heroic poem. and if that be the most noble, the most pleasant, and the most instructive way of writing in verse, and withal the highest pattern of human life, as all poets have agreed, i shall need no other argument to justify my choice in this imitation. one advantage the drama has above the other, namely, that it represents to view what the poem only does relate; and, _segnius irritant animum demissa per aures, quam quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus_, as horace tells us. to those who object my frequent use of drums and trumpets, and my representations of battles, i answer, i introduced them not on the english stage: shakespeare used them frequently; and though jonson shews no battle in his "catiline," yet you hear from behind the scenes the sounding of trumpets, and the shouts of fighting armies. but, i add farther, that these warlike instruments, and even their presentations of fighting on the stage, are no more than necessary to produce the effects of an heroic play; that is, to raise the imagination of the audience and to persuade them, for the time, that what they behold on the theatre is really performed. the poet is then to endeavour an absolute dominion over the minds of the spectators; for, though our fancy will contribute to its own deceit, yet a writer ought to help its operation: and that the red bull has formerly done the same, is no more an argument against our practice, than it would be for a physician to forbear an approved medicine, because a mountebank has used it with success. thus i have given a short account of heroic plays. i might now, with the usual eagerness of an author, make a particular defence of this. but the common opinion (how unjust soever) has been so much to my advantage, that i have reason to be satisfied, and to suffer with patience all that can be urged against it. for, otherwise, what can be more easy for me, than to defend the character of almanzor, which is one great exception that is made against the play? 'tis said, that almanzor is no perfect pattern of heroic virtue, that he is a contemner of kings, and that he is made to perform impossibilities. i must therefore avow, in the first place, from whence i took the character. the first image i had of him, was from the achilles of homer; the next from tasso's rinaldo, (who was a copy of the former) and the third from the artaban of monsieur calpranede, who has imitated both. the original of these, achilles, is taken by homer for his hero; and is described by him as one, who in strength and courage surpassed the rest of the grecian army; but, withal, of so fiery a temper, so impatient of an injury, even from his king and general, that when his mistress was to be forced from him by the command of agamemnon, he not only disobeyed it, but returned him an answer full of contumely, and in the most opprobrious terms he could imagine; they are homer's words which follow, and i have cited but some few amongst a multitude. [greek: oinobares, kynos ommat' echôn, kradiên d' elaphoio.] --il. a. v. . [greek: dêmoboros basileus,] &c. --il. a. v. . nay, he proceeded so far in his insolence, as to draw out his sword, with intention to kill him; [greek: elketo d' ek koleoio mega xiphos.] --il. a. v. . and, if minerva had not appeared, and held his hand, he had executed his design; and it was all she could do to dissuade him from it. the event was, that he left the army, and would fight no more. agamemnon gives his character thus to nestor; [greek: all' hod' anêr ethelei peri pantôn emmenai allôn, pantôn men krateein ethelei, pantessi d' anassein.] --il. a. v. , and horace gives the same description of him in his art of poetry. _--honoratum si fortè reponis achillem, inpiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, jura neget sibi nata, nihil non arroget armis._ tasso's chief character, rinaldo, was a man of the same temper; for, when he had slain gernando in his heat of passion, he not only refused to be judged by godfrey, his general, but threatened that if he came to seize him, he would right himself by arms upon him; witness these following lines of tasso: _venga egli, o mundi, io terrò fermo il piede: giudici fian tra noi la sorte, e l'arme; fera tragedia vuol che s'appresenti, per lor diporto, alle nemiche genti._ you see how little these great authors did esteem the point of honour, so much magnified by the french, and so ridiculously aped by us. they made their heroes men of honour; but so, as not to divest them quite of human passions and frailties: they content themselves to shew you, what men of great spirits would certainly do when they were provoked, not what they were obliged to do by the strict rules of moral virtue. for my own part, i declare myself for homer and tasso, and am more in love with achilles and rinaldo, than with cyrus and oroondates. i shall never subject my characters to the french standard, where love and honour are to be weighed by drams and scruples: yet, where i have designed the patterns of exact virtues, such as in this play are the parts of almahide, of ozmyn, and benzayda, i may safely challenge the best of theirs. but almanzor is taxed with changing sides: and what tie has he on him to the contrary? he is not born their subject whom he serves, and he is injured by them to a very high degree. he threatens them, and speaks insolently of sovereign power; but so do achilles and rinaldo, who were subjects and soldiers to agamemnon and godfrey of bulloigne. he talks extravagantly in his passion; but, if i would take the pains to quote an hundred passages of ben jonson's cethegus, i could easily shew you, that the rhodomontades of almanzor are neither so irrational as his, nor so impossible to be put in execution; for cethegus threatens to destroy nature, and to raise a new one out of it; to kill all the senate for his part of the action; to look cato dead; and a thousand other things as extravagant he says, but performs not one action in the play. but none of the former calumnies will stick; and, therefore, it is at last charged upon me, that almanzor does all things; or if you will have an absurd accusation, in their nonsense who make it, that he performs impossibilities: they say, that being a stranger, he appeases two fighting factions, when the authority of their lawful sovereign could not. this is indeed the most improbable of all his actions, but it is far from being impossible. their king had made himself contemptible to his people, as the history of granada tells us; and almanzor, though a stranger, yet was already known to them by his gallantry in the juego de torros, his engagement on the weaker side, and more especially by the character of his person and brave actions, given by abdalla just before; and, after all, the greatness of the enterprise consisted only in the daring, for he had the king's guards to second him: but we have read both of cæsar, and many other generals, who have not only calmed a mutiny with a word, but have presented themselves single before an army of their enemies; which upon sight of them has revolted from their own leaders, and come over to their trenches. in the rest of almanzor's actions you see him for the most part victorious; but the same fortune has constantly attended many heroes, who were not imaginary. yet, you see it no inheritance to him; for, in the first place, he is made a prisoner; and, in the last, defeated, and not able to preserve the city from being taken. if the history of the late duke of guise be true, he hazarded more, and performed not less in naples, than almanzor is feigned to have done in granada. i have been too tedious in this apology; but to make some satisfaction, i will leave the rest of my play exposed to the criticks, without defence. the concernment of it is wholly passed from me, and ought to be in them who have been favourable to it, and are somewhat obliged to defend their opinions that there are errors in it, i deny not; _ast opere in tanto fas est obrepere somnum._ but i have already swept the stakes: and, with the common good fortune of prosperous gamesters, can be content to sit quietly; to hear my fortune cursed by some, and my faults arraigned by others; and to suffer both without reply. on mr dryden's play, the conquest of granada. the applause i gave among the foolish crowd was not distinguished, though i clapped aloud: or, if it had, my judgment had been hid: i clapped for company, as others did. thence may be told the fortune of your play; its goodness must be tried another way. let's judge it then, and, if we've any skill, commend what's good, though we commend it ill. there will be praise enough; yet not so much, as if the world had never any such: ben johnson, beaumont, fletcher, shakespeare, are, as well as you, to have a poet's share. you, who write after, have, besides, this curse, you must write better, or you else write worse. to equal only what was writ before, seems stolen, or borrowed from the former store. though blind as homer all the ancients be, 'tis on their shoulders, like the lame, we see. then not to flatter th' age, nor flatter you, (praises, though less, are greater when they're true,) you're equal to the best, out-done by you; who had out-done themselves, had they lived now. vaughan[ ]. footnote: . john, lord vaughan, eldest surviving son of richard, earl of carbery. prologue to the first part, spoken by mrs ellen gwyn, in a broad-brimmed hat, and waist-belt.[ ] this jest was first of the other house's making, and, five times tried, has never failed of taking; for 'twere a shame a poet should be killed under the shelter of so broad a shield. this is that hat, whose very sight did win ye to laugh and clap as though the devil were in ye. as then, for nokes, so now i hope you'll be so dull, to laugh once more for love of me. i'll write a play, says one, for i have got a broad-brimmed hat, and waist-belt, towards a plot. says the other, i have one more large than that. thus they out-write each other--with a hat! the brims still grew with every play they writ; and grew so large, they covered all the wit. hat was the play; 'twas language, wit, and tale: like them that find meat, drink, and cloth in ale. what dulness do these mongrel wits confess, when all their hope is acting of a dress! thus, two the best comedians of the age must be worn out, with being blocks o' the stage; like a young girl, who better things has known, beneath their poet's impotence they groan. see now what charity it was to save! they thought you liked, what only you forgave; and brought you more dull sense, dull sense much worse than brisk gay nonsense, and the heavier curse. they bring old iron, and glass upon the stage, to barter with the indians of our age. still they write on, and like great authors show; } but 'tis as rollers in wet gardens grow } heavy with dirt, and gathering as they go. } may none, who have so little understood, to like such trash, presume to praise what's good! and may those drudges of the stage, whose fate is damned dull farce more dully to translate, fall under that excise the state thinks fit to set on all french wares, whose worst is wit. french farce, worn out at home, is sent abroad; and, patched up here, is made our english mode. henceforth, let poets, ere allowed to write, be searched, like duelists before they fight, for wheel-broad hats, dull honour, all that chaff, which makes you mourn, and makes the vulgar laugh: for these, in plays, are as unlawful arms, as, in a combat, coats of mail, and charms. footnote: . there is a vague tradition, that, in this grotesque dress, (for the brims of the hat were as broad as a cart-wheel,) nell gwyn had the good fortune first to attract the attention of her royal lover. where the jest lay, is difficult to discover: it seems to have originated with the duke of york's players. dramatis personÆ mahomet boabdelin, _the last king of granada._ _prince_ abdalla, _his brother._ abdelmelech, _chief of the abencerrages._ zulema, _chief of the zegrys._ abenamar, _an old abencerrago._ selin, _an old zegry._ ozmyn, _a brave young abencerrago, son to abenamar._ hamet, _brother to zulema, a zegry._ gomel, _a zegry._ almanzor. ferdinand, _king of spain._ _duke of_ arcos, _his general._ _don_ alonzo d'aguilar, _a spanish captain._ almahide, _queen of granada._ lyndaraxa, _sister of_ zulema, _a zegry lady._ benzayda, _daughter to_ selin. esperanza, _slave to the queen._ halyma, _slave to_ lyndaraxa. isabella, _queen of spain._ _messengers, guards, attendants, men, and women._ scene.--_granada, and the christian camp besieging it._ almanzor and almahide, or, the conquest of granada. the first part. act i. scene i. _enter_ boabdelin, abenamar, abdelmelech, _and guards._ _boab._ thus, in the triumphs of soft peace, i reign; and, from my walls, defy the powers of spain; with pomp and sports my love i celebrate, while they keep distance, and attend my state.-- parent to her, whose eyes my soul enthral, [_to_ aben. whom i, in hope, already father call, abenamar, thy youth these sports has known, of which thy age is now spectator grown; judge-like thou sit'st, to praise, or to arraign the flying skirmish of the darted cane: but, when fierce bulls run loose upon the place, and our bold moors their loves with danger grace, then heat new-bends thy slacken'd nerves again, and a short youth runs warm through every vein. _aben._ i must confess the encounters of this day warmed me indeed, but quite another way,-- not with the fire of youth; but generous rage, to see the glories of my youthful age so far out-done. _abdelm._ castile could never boast, in all its pride; a pomp so splendid, when the lists, set wide, gave room to the fierce bulls, which wildly ran in sierra ronda, ere the war began; who, with high nostrils snuffing up the wind, now stood the champion of the savage kind. just opposite, within the circled place, ten of our bold abencerrages race (each brandishing his bull-spear in his hand,) did their proud jennets gracefully command. on their steel'd heads their demi-lances wore small pennons, which their ladies' colours bore. before this troop did warlike ozmyn go; each lady, as he rode, saluting low; at the chief stands, with reverence more profound, his well-taught courser, kneeling, touched the ground; thence raised, he sidelong bore his rider on, still facing, till he out of sight was gone. _boab._ you praise him like a friend; and i confess, his brave deportment merited no less. _abdelm._ nine bulls were launched by his victorious arm, whose wary jennet, shunning still the harm, seemed to attend the shock, and then leaped wide: mean while, his dext'rous rider, when he spied the beast just stooping, 'twixt the neck and head his lance, with never-erring fury, sped. _aben._ my son did well, and so did hamet too; yet did no more than we were wont to do; but what the stranger did was more than man. _abdelm._ he finished all those triumphs we began. one bull, with curled black head, beyond the rest, and dew-laps hanging from his brawny chest, with nodding front a while did daring stand, and with his jetty hoof spurned back the sand; then, leaping forth, he bellowed out aloud: the amazed assistants back each other crowd, while monarch-like he ranged the listed field; some tossed, some gored, some trampling down he killed. the ignobler moors from far his rage provoke with woods of darts, which from his sides he shook. mean time your valiant son, who had before gained fame, rode round to every mirador; beneath each lady's stand a stop he made, and, bowing, took the applauses which they paid. just in that point of time, the brave unknown approached the lists. _boab._ i marked him, when alone (observed by all, himself observing none) he entered first, and with a graceful pride his fiery arab dextrously did guide, who, while his rider every stand surveyed, sprung loose, and flew into an escapade; not moving forward, yet, with every bound, pressing, and seeming still to quit his ground. what after passed was far from the ventanna where i sate, but you were near, and can the truth relate. [_to_ abdelm. _abdelm._ thus while he stood, the bull, who saw his foe, his easier conquests proudly did forego; and, making at him with a furious bound, from his bent forehead aimed a double wound. a rising murmur ran through all the field, and every lady's blood with fear was chilled: some shrieked, while others, with more helpful care, cried out aloud,--beware, brave youth, beware! at this he turned, and, as the bull drew near, shunned, and received him on his pointed spear: the lance broke short, the beast then bellowed loud, and his strong neck to a new onset bowed. the undaunted youth then drew; and, from his saddle bending low, just where the neck did to the shoulders grow, with his full force discharged a deadly blow. not heads of poppies (when they reap the grain) fall with more ease before the labouring swain, than fell this head: it fell so quick, it did even death prevent, and made imperfect bellowings as it went. then all the trumpets victory did sound, and yet their clangors in our shouts were drown'd. [_a confused noise within. boab._ the alarm-bell rings from our alhambra walls, and from the streets sound drums and ataballes. [_within, a bell, drums, and trumpets._ _enter a messenger._ how now? from whence proceed these new alarms? _mess._ the two fierce factions are again in arms; and, changing into blood the day's delight, the zegrys with the abencerrages fight; on each side their allies and friends appear; the macas here, the alabezes there: the gazuls with the bencerrages join, and, with the zegrys, all great gomel's line. _boab._ draw up behind the vivarambla place; double my guards,--these factions i will face; and try if all the fury they can bring, be proof against the presence of their king. [_exit_ boab. _the factions appear: at the head of the abencerrages,_ ozmyn; _at the head of the zegrys,_ zulema, hamet, gomel, _and_ selin: abenamar _and_ abdelmelech, _joined with the abencerrages._ _zul._ the faint abencerrages quit their ground: press them; put home your thrusts to every wound. _abdelm._ zegry, on manly force our line relies; thine poorly takes the advantage of surprise: unarmed and much out-numbered we retreat; you gain no fame, when basely you defeat. if thou art brave, seek nobler victory; save moorish blood; and, while our bands stand by, let two and two an equal combat try. _ham._ 'tis not for fear the combat we refuse, but we our gained advantage will not lose. _zul._ in combating, but two of you will fall; and we resolve we will dispatch you all. _ozm._ we'll double yet the exchange before we die, and each of ours two lives of yours shall buy. almanzor _enters betwixt them, as they stand ready to engage._ _alm._ i cannot stay to ask which cause is best; but this is so to me, because opprest. [_goes to the aben._ _to them_ boabdelin _and his guards, going betwixt them._ _boab._ on your allegiance, i command you stay; who passes here, through me must make his way; my life's the isthmus; through this narrow line you first must cut, before those seas can join. what fury, zegrys, has possessed your minds? what rage the brave abencerrages blinds? if of your courage you new proofs would show, without much travel you may find a foe. those foes are neither so remote nor few, that you should need each other to pursue. lean times and foreign wars should minds unite; when poor, men mutter, but they seldom fight. o holy alha! that i live to see thy granadines assist their enemy! you fight the christians' battles; every life you lavish thus, in this intestine strife, does from our weak foundations take one prop, which helped to hold our sinking country up. _ozm._ 'tis fit our private enmity should cease; though injured first, yet i will first seek peace. _zul._ no, murderer, no; i never will be won to peace with him, whose hand has slain my son. _ozm._ our prophet's curse on me, and all the abencerrages light, if, unprovoked, i with your son did fight. _abdelm._ a band of zegrys ran within the place, matched with a troop of thirty of our race. your son and ozmyn the first squadrons led, which, ten by ten, like parthians, charged and fled. the ground was strowed with canes where we did meet, which crackled underneath our coursers' feet: when tarifa (i saw him ride a part) changed his blunt cane for a steel-pointed dart, and, meeting ozmyn next,-- who wanted time for treason to provide,-- he basely threw it at him, undefied. _ozm._ [_shewing his arms._] witness this blood--which when by treason sought, that followed, sir, which to myself i ought. _zul._ his hate to thee was grounded on a grudge, which all our generous zegrys just did judge: thy villain-blood thou openly didst place above the purple of our kingly race. _boab._ from equal stems their blood both houses draw, they from morocco, you from cordova. _ham._ their mongrel race is mixed with christian breed; hence 'tis that they those dogs in prisons feed. _abdelm._ our holy prophet wills, that charity should even to birds and beasts extended be: none knows what fate is for himself designed; the thought of human chance should make us kind. _gom._ we waste that time we to revenge should give: fall on: let no abencerrago live. [_advancing before the rest of his party._ almanzor _advancing on the other side, and describing a line with his sword._ _almanz._ upon thy life pass not this middle space; sure death stands guarding the forbidden place. _gom._ to dare that death, i will approach yet nigher; thus,--wert thou compassed in with circling fire. [_they fight._ _boab._ disarm them both; if they resist you, kill. [almanzor, _in the midst of the guards, kills_ gomel, _and then is disarmed._ _almanz._ now you have but the leavings of my will. _boab._ kill him! this insolent unknown shall fall, and be the victim to atone you all. _ozm._ if he must die, not one of us will live: that life he gave for us, for him we give. _boab._ it was a traitor's voice that spoke those words; so are you all, who do not sheath your swords. _zul._ outrage unpunished, when a prince is by, forfeits to scorn the rights of majesty: no subject his protection can expect, who what he owes himself does first neglect. _aben._ this stranger, sir, is he, who lately in the vivarambla place did, with so loud applause, your triumphs grace. _boab._ the word which i have given, i'll not revoke; if he be brave, he's ready for the stroke. _almanz._ no man has more contempt than i of breath, but whence hast thou the right to give me death? obeyed as sovereign by thy subjects be, but know, that i alone am king of me. i am as free as nature first made man, ere the base laws of servitude began, when wild in woods the noble savage ran. _boab._ since, then, no power above your own you know, mankind should use you like a common foe; you should be hunted like a beast of prey: by your own law i take your life away. _almanz._ my laws are made but only for my sake; no king against himself a law can make. if thou pretend'st to be a prince like me, blame not an act, which should thy pattern be. i saw the oppressed, and thought it did belong to a king's office to redress the wrong: i brought that succour, which thou ought'st to bring, and so, in nature, am thy subjects' king. _boab._ i do not want your counsel to direct or aid to help me punish or protect. _almanz._ thou want'st them both, or better thou would'st know, than to let factions in thy kingdom grow. divided interests, while thou think'st to sway, draw, like two brooks, thy middle stream away: for though they band and jar, yet both combine to make their greatness by the fall of thine. thus, like a buckler, thou art held in sight, while they behind thee with each other fight. _boab._ away, and execute him instantly! [_to his guards._ _almanz._ stand off; i have not leisure yet to die. _to them, enter_ abdalla _hastily._ _abdal._ hold, sir! for heaven's sake hold! defer this noble stranger's punishment, or your rash orders you will soon repent. _boab._ brother, you know not yet his insolence. _abdal._ upon yourself you punish his offence: if we treat gallant strangers in this sort, mankind will shun the inhospitable court; and who, henceforth, to our defence will come, if death must be the brave almanzor's doom? from africa i drew him to your aid, and for his succour have his life betrayed. _boab._ is this the almanzor whom at fez you knew, when first their swords the xeriff brothers drew? _abdal._ this, sir, is he, who for the elder fought, and to the juster cause the conquest brought; till the proud santo, seated on the throne, disdained the service he had done to own: then to the vanquished part his fate he led; the vanquished triumphed, and the victor fled. vast is his courage, boundless is his mind, rough as a storm, and humorous as wind: honour's the only idol of his eyes; the charms of beauty like a pest he flies; and, raised by valour from a birth unknown, acknowledges no power above his own. [boabdelin _coming to_ almanzor. _boab._ impute your danger to our ignorance; the bravest men are subject most to chance: granada much does to your kindness owe; but towns, expecting sieges, cannot show more honour, than to invite you to a foe. _almanz._ i do not doubt but i have been to blame: but, to pursue the end for which i came, unite your subjects first; then let us go, and pour their common rage upon the foe. _boab._ [_to the factions._] lay down your arms, and let me beg you cease your enmities. _zul._ we will not hear of peace, till we by force have first revenged our slain. _abdelm._ the action we have done we will maintain. _selin._ then let the king depart, and we will try our cause by arms. _zul._ for us and victory. _boab._ a king entreats you. _almanz._ what subjects will precarious kings regard? a beggar speaks too softly to be heard: lay down your arms! 'tis i command you now. do it--or, by our prophet's soul i vow, my hands shall right your king on him i seize. now let me see whose look but disobeys. _all._ long live king mahomet boabdelin! _almanz._ no more; but hushed as midnight silence go: he will not have your acclamations now. hence, you unthinking crowd!-- [_the common people go off on both parties._ empire, thou poor and despicable thing, when such as these make or unmake a king! _abdal._ how much of virtue lies in one great soul, [_embracing him._ whose single force can multitudes controul! [_a trumpet within._ _enter a messenger._ _messen._ the duke of arcos, sir, does with a trumpet from the foe appear. _boab._ attend him; he shall have his audience here. _enter the duke of_ arcos. _d. arcos._ the monarchs of castile and arragon have sent me to you, to demand this town. to which their just and rightful claim is known. _boab._ tell ferdinand, my right to it appears by long possession of eight hundred years: when first my ancestors from afric sailed, in rodrique's death your gothic title failed. _d. arcos._ the successors of rodrique still remain, and ever since have held some part of spain: even in the midst of your victorious powers, the asturias, and all portugal, were ours. you have no right, except you force allow; and if yours then was just, so ours is now. _boab._ 'tis true from force the noblest title springs; i therefore hold from that, which first made kings. _d. arcos._ since then by force you prove your title true, ours must be just, because we claim from you. when with your father you did jointly reign, invading with your moors the south of spain, i, who that day the christians did command, then took, and brought you bound to ferdinand. _boab._ i'll hear no more; defer what you would say; in private we'll discourse some other day. _d. arcos._ sir, you shall hear, however you are loth, that, like a perjured prince, you broke your oath: to gain your freedom you a contract signed, by which your crown you to my king resigned, from thenceforth as his vassal holding it, and paying tribute such as he thought fit; contracting, when your father came to die, to lay aside all marks of royalty, and at purchena privately to live, which, in exchange, king ferdinand did give. _boab._ the force used on me made that contract void. _d. arcos._ why have you then its benefits enjoyed? by it you had not only freedom then, but, since, had aid of money and of men; and, when granada for your uncle held, you were by us restored, and he expelled. since that, in peace we let you reap your grain, recalled our troops, that used to beat your plain; and more-- _almanz._ yes, yes, you did, with wonderous care, against his rebels prosecute the war, while he secure in your protection slept; for him you took, but for yourself you kept. thus, as some fawning usurer does feed, with present sums, the unwary spendthrift's need, you sold your kindness at a boundless rate, and then o'erpaid the debt from his estate; which, mouldering piecemeal, in your hands did fall, till now at last you come to swoop it all. _d. arcos._ the wrong you do my king, i cannot bear; whose kindness you would odiously compare.-- the estate was his; which yet, since you deny, he's now content, in his own wrong, to buy. _almanz._ and he shall buy it dear! what his he calls, we will not give one stone from out these walls. _boab._ take this for answer, then,-- whate'er your arms have conquered of my land, i will, for peace, resign to ferdinand.-- to harder terms my mind i cannot bring; but, as i still have lived, will die a king. _d. arcos._ since thus you have resolved, henceforth prepare for all the last extremities of war: my king his hope from heaven's assistance draws. _almanz._ the moors have heaven, and me, to assist their cause. [_exit_ arcos. _enter_ esperanza. _esper._ fair almahide, (who did with weeping eyes these discords see, and fears the omen may unlucky be,) prepares a zambra to be danced this night. in hope soft pleasures may your minds unite. _boab._ my mistress gently chides the fault i made: but tedious business has my love delayed,-- business which dares the joys of kings invade. _almanz._ first let us sally out, and meet the foe. _abdal._ led on by you, we on to triumph go. _boab._ then with the day let war and tumult cease; the night be sacred to our love and peace: 'tis just some joys on weary kings should wait; 'tis all we gain by being slaves to state. [_exeunt._ act ii. scene i. _enter_ abdalla, abdelmelech, ozmyn, zulema, _and_ hamet, _as returning from the sally._ _abdal._ this happy day does to granada bring a lasting peace, and triumphs to the king!-- the two fierce factions will no longer jar, since they have now been brothers in the war. those who, apart, in emulation fought, the common danger to one body brought; and, to his cost, the proud castilian finds our moorish courage in united minds. _abdelm._ since to each others aid our lives we owe, lose we the name of faction, and of foe; which i to zulema can bear no more, since lyndaraxa's beauty i adore. _zul._ i am obliged to lyndaraxa's charms, which gain the conquest i should lose by arms; and wish my sister may continue fair, that i may keep a good, of whose possession i should else despair. _ozm._ while we indulge our common happiness, he is forgot, by whom we all possess; the brave almanzor, to whose arms we owe all that we did, and all that we shall do; who, like a tempest, that out-rides the wind, made a just battle ere the bodies joined. _abdelm._ his victories we scarce could keep in view, or polish them so fast as he rough-drew. _abdal._ fate, after him, below with pain did move, and victory could scarce keep pace above: death did at length so many slain forget, and lost the tale, and took them by the great. _enter_ almanzor, _with the duke of_ arcos, _prisoner._ _hamet._ see, here he comes, and leads in triumph him, who did command the vanquished army of king ferdinand. _almanz._ [_to the duke._] thus far your master's arms a fortune find below the swelled ambition of his mind; and alha shuts a misbeliever's reign from out the best and goodliest part of spain. let ferdinand calabrian conquests make, and from the french contested milan take; let him new worlds discover to the old, and break up shining mountains, big with gold; yet he shall find this small domestic foe, still sharp and pointed, to his bosom grow. _d. arcos._ of small advantages too much you boast; you beat the out-guards of my master's host: this little loss, in our vast body, shows so small, that half have never heard the news. fame's out of breath, ere she can fly so far, to tell them all, that you have e'er made war. _almanz._ it pleases me your army is so great; for now i know there's more to conquer yet. by heaven! i'll see what troops you have behind: i'll face this storm, that thickens in the wind; and, with bent forehead, full against it go, 'till i have found the last and utmost foe. _d. arcos._ believe, you shall not long attend in vain: to-morrow's dawn shall cover all the plain; bright arms shall flash upon you from afar, a wood of lances, and a moving war. but i, unhappy, in my bonds, must yet be only pleased to hear of your defeat, and with a slave's inglorious ease remain, 'till conquering ferdinand has broke my chain. _almanz._ vain man, thy hopes of ferdinand are weak! i hold thy chain too fast for him to break. but, since thou threaten'st us, i'll set thee free, that i again may fight, and conquer thee. _d. arcos._ old as i am, i take thee at thy word, and will to-morrow thank thee with my sword. _almanz._ i'll go, and instantly acquaint the king, and sudden orders for thy freedom bring. thou canst not be so pleased at liberty, as i shall be to find thou darest be free. [_exeunt_ almanzor, arcos, _and the rest, excepting only_ abdalla _and_ zulema. _abdal._ of all those christians who infest this town, this duke of arcos is of most renown. _zul._ oft have i heard, that, in your father's reign, his bold adventurers beat the neighbouring plain; then under ponce leon's name he fought, and from our triumphs many prizes brought; till in disgrace from spain at length he went, and since continued long in banishment. _abdal._ but, see, your beauteous sister does appear. _enter_ lyndaraxa. _zul._ by my desire she came to find me here. [zulema _and_ lyndaraxa _whisper; then_ zul. _goes out, and_ lyndar. _is going after._ _abdal._ why, fairest lyndaraxa, do you fly [_staying her._ a prince, who at your feet is proud to die? _lyndar._ sir, i should blush to own so rude a thing, [_staying._ as 'tis to shun the brother of my king. _abdal._ in my hard fortune, i some ease should find, did your disdain extend to all mankind. but give me leave to grieve, and to complain, that you give others what i beg in vain. _lyndar._ take my esteem, if you on that can live; for, frankly, sir, 'tis all i have to give: if from my heart you ask or hope for more, i grieve the place is taken up before. _abdal._ my rival merits you.-- to abdelmelech i will justice do; for he wants worth, who dares not praise a foe. _lyndar._ that for his virtue, sir, you make defence, shows in your own a noble confidence. but him defending, and excusing me, i know not what can your advantage be. _abdal._ i fain would ask, ere i proceed in this, if, as by choice, you are by promise his? _lyndar._ the engagement only in my love does lie, but that's a knot which you can ne'er untie. _abdal._ when cities are besieged, and treat to yield, if there appear relievers from the field, the flag of parley may be taken down, till the success of those without is known; _lyndar._ though abdelmelech has not yet possest, yet i have sealed the treaty in my breast. _abdal._ your treaty has not tied you to a day; some chance might break it, would you but delay. if i can judge the secrets of your heart, ambition in it has the greatest part; and wisdom, then, will shew some difference, betwixt a private person, and a prince. _lyndar._ princes are subjects still.-- subject and subject can small difference bring: the difference is 'twixt subjects and a king. and since, sir, you are none, your hopes remove; for less than empire i'll not change my love. _abdal._ had i a crown, all i should prize in it, should be the power to lay it at your feet. _lyndar._ had you that crown, which you but wish, not hope, then i, perhaps, might stoop, and take it up. but till your wishes and your hopes agree, you shall be still a private man with me. _abdal._ if i am king, and if my brother die,-- _lyndar._ two if's scarce make one possibility. _abdal._ the rule of happiness by reason scan; you may be happy with a private man. _lyndar._ that happiness i may enjoy, 'tis true; but then that private man must not be you. where'er i love, i'm happy in my choice; if i make you so, you shall pay my price. _abdal._ why would you be so great? _lyndar._ because i've seen, this day, what 'tis to hope to be a queen.-- heaven, how you all watched each motion of her eye! none could be seen while almahide was by, because she is to be--her majesty!-- why would i be a queen? because my face would wear the title with a better grace. if i became it not, yet it would be part of your duty, then, to flatter me. these are but half the charms of being great; i would be somewhat, that i know not yet:-- yes! i avow the ambition of my soul, to be that one to live without controul! and that's another happiness to me, to be so happy as but one can be. _abdal._ madam,--because i would all doubts remove,-- would you, were i a king, accept my love? _lyndar._ i would accept it; and, to shew 'tis true, from any other man as soon as you. _abdal._ your sharp replies make me not love you less; but make me seek new paths to happiness.-- what i design, by time will best be seen: you may be mine, and yet may be a queen. when you are so, your word your love assures. _lyndar._ perhaps not love you,--but i will be yours.-- [_he offers to take her hand, and kiss it._ stay, sir, that grace i cannot yet allow; before you set the crown upon my brow.-- that favour which you seek, or abdelmelech, or a king, must have; when you are so, then you may be my slave. [_exit; but looks smiling back on him._ _abdal._ howe'er imperious in her words she were, her parting looks had nothing of severe; a glancing smile allured me to command, and her soft fingers gently pressed my hand: i felt the pleasure glide through every part; her hand went through me to my very heart. for such another pleasure, did he live, i could my father of a crown deprive.-- what did i say?-- father!--that impious thought has shocked my mind: how bold our passions are, and yet how blind!-- she's gone; and now, methinks, there is less glory in a crown: my boiling passions settle, and go down. like amber chafed, when she is near, she acts; when farther oft, inclines, but not attracts. _enter_ zulema. assist me, zulema, if thou wouldst be that friend thou seem'st, assist me against me. betwixt my love and virtue i am tossed; this must be forfeited, or that be lost. i could do much to merit thy applause,-- help me to fortify the better cause; my honour is not wholly put to flight, but would, if seconded, renew the fight. _zul._ i met my sister, but i do not see what difficulty in your choice can be: she told me all; and 'tis so plain a case, you need not ask what counsel to embrace. _abdal._ i stand reproved, that i did doubt at all; my waiting virtue staid but for thy call: 'tis plain that she, who, for a kingdom, now would sacrifice her love, and break her vow, not out of love, but interest, acts alone, and would, even in my arms, lie thinking of a throne. _zul._ add to the rest, this one reflection more: when she is married, and you still adore, think then,--and think what comfort it will bring,-- she had been mine, had i but only dared to be a king! _abdal._ i hope you only would my honour try; i'm loth to think you virtue's enemy. _zul._ if, when a crown and mistress are in place, virtue intrudes, with her lean holy face, virtue's then mine, and not i virtue's foe. why does she come where she has nought to do? let her with anchorites, not with lovers, lie; statesmen and they keep better company. _abdal._ reason was given to curb our head-strong will. _zul._ reason but shews a weak physician's skill; gives nothing, while the raging fit does last, but stays to cure it, when the worst is past. reason's a staff for age, when nature's gone; but youth is strong enough to walk alone, _abdal._ in cursed ambition i no rest should find, but must for ever lose my peace of mind. _zul._ methinks that peace of mind were bravely lost; a crown, whate'er we give, is worth the cost. _abdal._ justice distributes to each man his right; but what she gives not, should i take by might? _zul._ if justice will take all, and nothing give, justice, methinks, is not distributive. _abdal._ had fate so pleased, i had been eldest born, and then, without a crime, the crown had worn!-- _zul._ would you so please, fate yet a way would find; man makes his fate according to his mind. the weak low spirit, fortune makes her slave; but she's a drudge, when hectored by the brave: if fate weaves common thread, he'll change the doom, and with new purple spread a nobler loom. _abdal._ no more!--i will usurp the royal seat; thou, who hast made me wicked, make me great. _zul._ your way is plain: the death of tarifa does on the king our zegrys' hatred draw; though with our enemies in show we close, 'tis but while we to purpose can be foes. selin, who heads us, would revenge his son; but favour hinders justice to be done. proud ozmyn with the king his power maintains, and, in him, each abencerrago reigns. _abdal._ what face of any title can i bring? _zul._ the right an eldest son has to be king. your father was at first a private man, and got your brother ere his reign began; when, by his valour, he the crown had won, then you were born a monarch's eldest son. _abdal._ to sharp-eyed reason this would seem untrue; but reason i through love's false optics view. _zul._ love's mighty power has led me captive too; i am in it unfortunate as you. _abdal._ our loves and fortunes shall together go; thou shalt be happy, when i first am so. _zul._ the zegrys at old selin's house are met, where, in close council, for revenge they sit: there we our common interest will unite; you their revenge shall own, and they your right. one thing i had forgot, which may import: i met almanzor coming back from court, but with a discomposed and speedy pace, a fiery colour kindling all his face: the king his prisoner's freedom has denied, and that refusal has provoked his pride. _abdal._ 'would he were ours!-- i'll try to gild the injustice of his cause, and court his valour with a vast applause. _zul._ the bold are but the instruments o'the wise; they undertake the dangers we advise: and, while our fabric with their pains we raise, we take the profit, and pay them with praise. [_exeunt._ act iii. scene i. _enter_ almanzor _and_ abdalla. _almanz._ that he should dare to do me this disgrace!-- is fool, or coward, writ upon my face? refuse my prisoner!--i such means will use, he shall not have a prisoner to refuse. _abdal._ he said, you were not by your promise tied; that he absolved your word, when he denied. _almanz._ he break my promise, and absolve my vow! 'tis more than mahomet himself can do!-- the word, which i have given, shall stand like fate; not like the king's, that weather-cock of state. he stands so high, with so unfixed a mind, two factions turn him with each blast of wind: but now, he shall not veer! my word is past; i'll take his heart by the roots, and hold it fast. _abdal._ you have your vengeance in your hand this hour; make me the humble creature of your power: the granadines will gladly me obey; (tired with so base and impotent a sway) and, when i shew my title, you shall see, i have a better right to reign than he. _almanz._ it is sufficient that you make the claim; you wrong our friendship when your right you name. when for myself i fight, i weigh the cause; but friendship will admit of no such laws: that weighs by the lump; and, when the cause is light, puts kindness in to set the balance right. true, i would wish my friend the juster side; but, in the unjust, my kindness more is tried: and all the opposition i can bring, is, that i fear to make you such a king. _abdal._ the majesty of kings we should not blame, when royal minds adorn the royal name; the vulgar, greatness too much idolize, but haughty subjects it too much despise. _almanz._ i only speak of him, whom pomp and greatness sit so loose about, that he wants majesty to fill them out. _abdal._ haste, then, and lose no time!-- the business must be enterprised this night: we must surprise the court in its delight. _almanz._ for you to will, for me 'tis to obey: but i would give a crown in open day; and, when the spaniards their assault begin, at once beat those without, and these within. [_exit_ almanz. _enter_ abdelmelech. _abdelm._ abdalla, hold!--there's somewhat i intend to speak, not as your rival, but your friend. _abdal._ if as a friend, i am obliged to hear; and what a rival says i cannot fear. _abdelm._ think, brave abdalla, what it is you do: your quiet, honour, and our friendship too, all for a fickle beauty you forego. think, and turn back, before it be too late. behold in me the example of your fate: i am your sea-mark; and, though wrecked and lost, my ruins stand to warn you from the coast. _abdal._ your counsels, noble abdelmelech, move my reason to accept them, not my love. ah, why did heaven leave man so weak defence, to trust frail reason with the rule of sense! 'tis over-poised and kicked up in the air, while sense weighs down the scale, and keeps it there; or, like a captive king, 'tis borne away, and forced to countenance its own rebels' sway. _abdelm._ no, no; our reason was not vainly lent; nor is a slave, but by its own consent: if reason on his subject's triumph wait, an easy king deserves no better fate. _abdal._ you speak too late; my empire's lost too far: i cannot fight. _abdelm._ then make a flying war; dislodge betimes, before you are beset. _abdal._ her tears, her smiles, her every look's a net. her voice is like a syren's of the land; and bloody hearts lie panting in her hand. _abdelm._ this do you know, and tempt the danger still? _abdal._ love, like a lethargy, has seized my will. i'm not myself, since from her sight i went; i lean my trunk that way, and there stand bent. as one, who, in some frightful dream, would shun his pressing foe, labours in vain to run; and his own slowness, in his sleep, bemoans, with thick short sighs, weak cries, and tender groans, so i-- _abdelm._ some friend, in charity, should shake, and rouse, and call you loudly till you wake. too well i know her blandishments to gain, usurper-like, till settled in her reign; then proudly she insults, and gives you cares, and jealousies, short hopes, and long despairs. to this hard yoke you must hereafter bow, howe'er she shines all golden to you now. _abdul._ like him, who on the ice slides swiftly on, and sees the water near, yet cannot stop himself in his career, so am i carried. this enchanted place, like circe's isle, is peopled with a race of dogs and swine; yet, though their fate i know, i look with pleasure, and am turning too. [lyndaraxa _passes over the stage._ _abdelm._ fly, fly, before the allurements of her face, ere she return with some resistless grace, and with new magic cover all the place. _abdal._ i cannot, will not,--nay, i would not fly: i'll love, be blind, be cozened till i die; and you, who bid me wiser counsel take, i'll hate, and, if i can, i'll kill you for her sake. _abdelm._ even i, that counselled you, that choice approve: i'll hate you blindly, and her blindly love. prudence, that stemmed the stream, is out of breath: and to go down it is the easier death. lyndaraxa _re-enters, and smiles on_ abdalla. [_exit_ abdalla. _abdelm._ that smile on prince abdalla seems to say, you are not in your killing mood to day: men brand, indeed, your sex with cruelty, but you are too good to see poor lovers die. this god-like pity in you i extol; and more, because, like heaven's, 'tis general. _lyndar._ my smile implies not that i grant his suit: 'twas but a bare return of his salute. _abdelm._ it said, you were engaged, and i in place; but, to please both, you would divide the grace. _lyndar._ you've cause to be contented with your part, when he has but the look, and you the heart. _abdelm._ in giving but that look, you give what's mine: i'll not one corner of a glance resign. all's mine; and i am covetous of my store: i have not love enough, i'll tax you more. _lyndar._ i gave not love; 'twas but civility: he is a prince; that's due to his degree. _abdelm._ that prince you smiled on is my rival still, and should, if me you loved, be treated ill. _lyndar._ i know not how to show so rude a spite. _abdelm._ that is, you know not how to love aright; or, if you did, you would more difference see betwixt our souls, than 'twixt our quality. mark, if his birth makes any difference, if to his words it adds one grain of sense. that duty, which his birth can make his due, i'll pay, but it shall not be paid by you: for, if a prince courts her whom i adore, he is my rival, and a prince no more. _lyndar._ and when did i my power so far resign. that you should regulate each look of mine? _abdelm._ then, when you gave your love, you gave that power. _lyndar._ 'twas during pleasure, 'tis revoked this hour. now, call me false, and rail on womankind,-- 'tis all the remedy you're like to find. _abdelm._ yes, there's one more; i'll hate you, and this visit is my last. _lyndar._ do't, if you can; you know i hold you fast: yet, for your quiet, would you could resign your love, as easily as i do mine. _abdelm._ furies and hell, how unconcerned she speaks! with what indifference all her vows she breaks! curse on me, but she smiles! _lyndar._ that smile's a part of love, and all's your due: i take it from the prince, and give it you. _abdelm._ just heaven, must my poor heart your may-game prove, to bandy, and make children's play in love? [_half crying._ ah! how have i this cruelty deserved? i, who so truly and so long have served! and left so easily! oh cruel maid! so easily! it was too unkindly said. that heart, which could so easily remove, was never fixed, nor rooted deep in love. _lyndar._ you lodged it so uneasy in your breast, i thought you had been weary of the guest. first, i was treated like a stranger there; but, when a household friend i did appear, you thought, it seems, i could not live elsewhere. then, by degrees, your feigned respect withdrew; you marked my actions, and my guardian grew. but i am not concerned your acts to blame: my heart to yours but upon liking came; and, like a bird, whom prying boys molest, stays not to breed, where she had built her nest. _abdelm._ i have done ill, and dare not ask you to be less displeased; be but more angry, and my pain is eased. _lyndar._ if i should be so kind a fool, to take this little satisfaction which you make, i know you would presume some other time upon my goodness, and repeat your crime. _abdelm._ oh never, never, upon no pretence; my life's too short to expiate this offence. _lyndar._ no, now i think on't, 'tis in vain to try; 'tis in your nature, and past remedy. you'll still disquiet my too loving heart: now we are friends 'tis best for both to part. [_he takes her hand._ _abdelm._ by this--will you not give me leave to swear? _lyndar._ you would be perjured if you should, i fear: and, when i talk with prince abdalla next, i with your fond suspicions shall be vext. _abdelm._ i cannot say i'll conquer jealousy, but, if you'll freely pardon me, i'll try. _lyndar._ and, till you that submissive servant prove, i never can conclude you truly love. _to them, the_ king, almahide, abenamar, esperanza, _guards, attendants._ _boab._ approach, my almahide, my charming fair, blessing of peace, and recompence of war. this night is yours; and may your life still be the same in joy, though not solemnity. the zambra dance. song. i. _beneath a myrtle shade, which love for none, but happy lovers made, i slept; and straight my love before me brought phyllis, the object of my waking thought. undressed she came my flames to meet, while love strewed flowers beneath her feet; flowers which, so pressed by her, became more sweet._ ii. _from the bright vision's head a careless veil of lawn was loosely spread:_ _from her white temples fell her shaded hair like cloudy sunshine, not too brown nor fair; her hands, her lips, did love inspire; her every grace my heart did fire: but most her eyes, which languished with desire._ iii. _ah, charming fair, said i, how long can you my bliss and yours deny? by nature and by love, this lonely shade was for revenge of suffering lovers made. silence and shades with love agree; both shelter you and favour me: you cannot blush, because i cannot see._ iv. _no, let me die, she said, rather than lose the spotless name of maid!-- faintly, methought, she spoke; for all the while she bid me not believe her, with a smile. then die, said i: she still denied; and is it thus, thus, thus, she cried, you use a harmless maid?--and so she died!_ v. _i waked, and straight i knew, i loved so well, it made my dream prove true: fancy, the kinder mistress of the two, fancy had done what phyllis would not do! ah, cruel nymph, cease your disdain, while, i can dream you scorn in vain,-- asleep or waking you must ease my pain._ [after the dance, a tumultuous noise of drums and trumpets. _to them_ ozmyn; _his sword drawn._ _ozm._ arm, quickly arm; yet all, i fear, too late; the enemy's already at the gate. _boab._ the christians are dislodged; what foe is near? _ozm._ the zegrys are in arms, and almost here: the streets with torches shine, with shoutings ring, and prince abdalla is proclaimed the king. what man could do, i have already done, but bold almanzor fiercely leads them on. _aben._ the alhambra yet is safe in my command; [_to the king._ retreat you thither, while their shock we stand. _boab._ i cannot meanly for my life provide; i'll either perish in't, or stem this tide. to guard the palace, ozmyn, be your care: if they o'ercome, no sword will hurt the fair. _ozm._ i'll either die; or i'll make good the place. _abdelm._ and i with these will bold almanzor face. [_exeunt all but the ladies. an alarum within._ _almah._ what dismal planet did my triumphs light! discord the day, and death does rule the night: the noise my soul does through my senses wound. _lyndar._ methinks it is a noble, sprightly sound, the trumpet's clangor, and the clash of arms! this noise may chill your blood, but mine it warms. [_shouting and clashing of swords within._ we have already passed the rubicon; the dice are mine; now, fortune, for a throne! [_a shout within, and clashing of swords afar off._ the sound goes farther off, and faintly dies; curse of this going back, these ebbing cries! ye winds, waft hither sounds more strong and quick; beat faster, drums, and mingle deaths more thick. i'll to the turrets of the palace go, and add new fire to those that fight below: thence, hero-like, with torches by my side, (far be the omen, though) my love will guide. no; like his better fortune i'll appear, with open arms, loose veil, and flowing hair, just flying forward from my rolling sphere: my smiles shall make abdalla more than man; let him look up, and perish if he can. [_exit._ _an alarum nearer: then enter_ almanzor _and_ selin, _at the head of the zegrys_; ozmyn _prisoner._ _almanz._ we have not fought enough; they fly too soon; and i am grieved the noble sport is done. this only man, of all whom chance did bring [_pointing to_ ozmyn. to meet my arms, was worth the conquering. his brave resistance did my fortune grace; so slow, so threatning forward he gave place. his chains be easy, and his usage fair. _selin._ i beg you would commit him to my care. _almanz._ next, the brave spaniard free without delay; and with a convoy send him safe away. [_exit a guard._ _to them_ hamet _and others._ _hamet._ the king by me salutes you; and, to show that to your valour he his crown does owe, would from your mouth i should the word receive, and that to these you would your orders give. _almanz._ he much o'er-rates the little i have done. [almanzor _goes to the door, and there seems to give out orders, by sending people several ways._ _selin_ to _ozmyn._ now, to revenge the murder of my son, to morrow for thy certain death prepare; this night i only leave thee to despair. _ozmyn._ thy idle menaces i do not fear: my business was to die or conquer here. sister, for you i grieve i could no more: my present state betrays my want of power; but, when true courage is of force bereft, patience, the only fortitude, is left. [_exit with_ selin. _almah._ ah, esperanza, what for me remains but death, or, worse than death, inglorious chains! _esper._ madam, you must not to despair give place; heaven never meant misfortune to that face. suppose there were no justice in your cause, beauty's a bribe that gives her judges laws. that you are brought to this deplored estate, is but the ingenious flattery of your fate; fate fears her succour, like an alms, to give; and would you, god-like, from yourself should live. _almah._ mark but how terribly his eyes appear! and yet there's something roughly noble there, which, in unfashioned nature, looks divine, and, like a gem, does in the quarry shine. [almanzor _returns; she falls at his feet, being veiled._ _almah._ turn, mighty conqueror, turn your face this way, do not refuse to hear the wretched pray! _almanz._ what business can this woman have with me? _almah._ that of the afflicted to the deity. so may your arms success in battle find; so may the mistress of your vows be kind, if you have any; or, if you have none, so may your liberty be still your own! _almanz._ yes, i will turn my face, but not my mind: you bane and soft destruction of mankind, what would you have with me? _almah._ i beg the grace [_unveiling._ you would lay by those terrors of your face. till calmness to your eyes you first restore, i am afraid, and i can beg no more. _almanz._ [_looking fixedly on her._] well; my fierce visage shall not murder you. speak quickly, woman; i have much to do. _almah._ where should i find the heart to speak one word? your voice, sir, is as killing as your sword. as you have left the lightning of your eye, so would you please to lay your thunder by. _almanz._ i'm pleased and pained, since first her eyes i saw, as i were stung with some tarantula. arms, and the dusty field, i less admire, and soften strangely in some new desire; honour burns in me not so fiercely bright, but pale as fires when mastered by the light: even while i speak and look, i change yet more, and now am nothing that i was before. i'm numbed, and fixed, and scarce my eye-balls move: i fear it is the lethargy of love! 'tis he; i feel him now in every part: like a new lord he vaunts about my heart; surveys, in state, each corner of my breast, while poor fierce i, that was, am dispossessed. i'm bound; but i will rouse my rage again; and, though no hope of liberty remain, i'll fright my keeper when i shake my chain. you are-- [_angrily._ _almah._ i know i am your captive, sir. _almanz._ you are--you shall--and i can scarce forbear-- _almah._ alas! _almanz._ 'tis all in vain; it will not do: [_aside._ i cannot now a seeming anger show: my tongue against my heart no aid affords; for love still rises up, and choaks my words. _almah._ in half this time a tempest would be still. _almanz._ 'tis you have raised that tempest in my will. i wonnot love you; give me back my heart; but give it, as you had it, fierce and brave. it was not made to be a woman's slave, but, lion-like, has been in desarts bred, and, used to range, will ne'er be tamely led. restore its freedom to my fettered will, and then i shall have power to use you ill. _almah._ my sad condition may your pity move; but look not on me with the eyes of love:-- i must be brief, though i have much to say. _almanz._ no, speak; for i can hear you now all day. her sueing sooths me with a secret pride: [_softly._ a suppliant beauty cannot be denied: [_aside._ even while i frown, her charms the furrows seize; and i'm corrupted with the power to please. _almah._ though in your worth no cause of fear i see, i fear the insolence of victory; as you are noble, sir, protect me then from the rude outrage of insulting men. _almanz._ who dares touch her i love? i'm all o'er love: nay, i am love; love shot, and shot so fast, he shot himself into my breast at last. _almah._ you see before you her, who should be queen, since she is promised to boabdelin. _almanz._ are you beloved by him? o wretched fate, first that i love at all; then, loved too late! yet, i must love! _almah._ alas, it is in vain; fate for each other did not us ordain. the chances of this day too clearly show that heaven took care that it should not be so. _almanz._ would heaven had quite forgot me this one day! but fate's yet hot-- i'll make it take a bent another way. [_he walks swiftly and discomposedly, studying._ i bring a claim which does his right remove; you're his by promise, but you're mine by love. 'tis all but ceremony which is past; the knot's to tie which is to make you fast. fate gave not to boabdelin that power; he wooed you but as my ambassador. _almah._ our souls are tied by holy vows above. _almanz._ he signed but his: but i will seal my love. i love you better, with more zeal than he. _almah._ this day i gave my faith to him, he his to me. _almanz._ good heaven, thy book of fate before me lay, but to tear out the journal of this day: or, if the order of the world below will not the gap of one whole day allow, give me that minute when she made her vow! that minute, ev'n the happy from their bliss might give; and those, who live in grief, a shorter time would live. so small a link, if broke, the eternal chain would, like divided waters, join again.-- it wonnot be; the fugitive is gone, prest by the crowd of following minutes on: that precious moment's out of nature fled, and in the heap of common rubbish laid, of things that once have been, and are decayed. _almah._ your passion, like a fright, suspends my pain; it meets, o'erpowers, and beats mine back again: but as, when tides against the current flow, the native stream runs its own course below, so, though your griefs possess the upper part, my own have deeper channels in my heart. _almanz._ forgive that fury which my soul does move; 'tis the essay of an untaught first love: yet rude, unfashioned truth it does express; 'tis love just peeping in a hasty dress. retire, fair creature, to your needful rest; there's something noble labouring in my breast: this raging fire, which through the mass does move, shall purge my dross, and shall refine my love. [_exeunt_ almahide _and_ esperanza. she goes, and i like my own ghost appear; it is not living when she is not here. _to him_ abdalla _as king, attended._ _abdal._ my first acknowledgments to heaven are due; my next, almanzor, let me pay to you. _almanz._ a poor surprise, and on a naked foe, whatever you confess, is all you owe; and i no merit own, or understand that fortune did you justice by my hand: yet, if you will that little service pay with a great favour, i can shew the way. _abdal._ i have a favour to demand of you; that is, to take the thing for which you sue. _almanz._ then, briefly, thus: when i the albayzyn won, i found the beauteous almahide alone, whose sad condition did my pity move; and that compassion did produce my love. _abdal._ this needs no suit; in justice, i declare. she is your captive by the right of war. _almanz._ she is no captive then; i set her free; and, rather than i will her jailor be, i'll nobly lose her in her liberty. _abdal._ your generosity i much approve; but your excess of that shows want of love. _almanz._ no, 'tis the excess of love which mounts so high, that, seen far off, it lessens to the eye. had i not loved her, and had set her free, that, sir, had been my generosity; but 'tis exalted passion, when i show i dare be wretched, not to make her so: and, while another passion fills her breast, i'll be all wretched rather than half blest. _abdal._ may your heroic act so prosperous be, that almahide may sigh you set her free. _enter_ zulema. _zul._ of five tall towers which fortify this town, all but the alhambra your dominion own: now, therefore, boldly i confess a flame, which is excused in almahide's name. if you the merit of this night regard, in her possession i have my reward. _almanz._ she your reward! why, she's a gift so great, that i myself have not deserved her yet; and therefore, though i won her with my sword, i have, with awe, my sacrilege restored. _zul._ what you deserve i'll not dispute, because i do not know; this only i will say, she shall not go. _almanz._ thou, single, art not worth my answering: but take what friends, what armies thou canst bring; what worlds; and, when you are united all, then will i thunder in your ears,--she shall. _zul._ i'll not one tittle of my right resign.-- sir, your implicit promise made her mine; when i, in general terms, my love did show, you swore our fortunes should together go. _abdal._ the merits of the cause i'll not decide, but, like my love, i would my gift divide. your equal titles then no longer plead; but one of you, for love of me, recede. _almanz._ i have receded to the utmost line, when, by my free consent, she is not mine: then let him equally recede with me, and both of us will join to set her free. _zul._ if you will free your part of her, you may; but, sir, i love not your romantic way. dream on, enjoy her soul, and set that free; i'm pleased her person should be left for me. _almanz._ thou shalt not wish her thine; thou shalt not dare to be so impudent, as to despair. _zul._ the zegrys, sir, are all concerned to see how much their merit you neglect in me. _hamet._ your slighting zulema, this very hour will take ten thousand subjects from your power. _almanz._ what are ten thousand subjects such as they? if i am scorned--i'll take myself away. _abdal._ since both cannot possess what both pursue, i grieve, my friend, the chance should fall on you; but when you hear what reason i can urge-- _almanz._ none, none that your ingratitude can purge. reason's a trick, when it no grant affords; it stamps the face of majesty on words. _abdal._ your boldness to your services i give: now take it, as your full reward,--to live. _almanz._ to live! if from thy hands alone my death can be, i am immortal, and a god to thee. if i would kill thee now, thy fate's so low, that i must stoop ere i can give the blow: but mine is fixed so far above thy crown, that all thy men, piled on thy back, can never pull it down: but, at my ease, thy destiny i send, by ceasing from this hour to be thy friend. like heaven, i need but only to stand still. and, not concurring to thy life, i kill. thou canst no title to my duty bring; i'm not thy subject, and my soul's thy king. farewell. when i am gone, there's not a star of thine dare stay with thee: i'll whistle thy tame fortune after me; and whirl fate with me wheresoe'er i fly, as winds drive storms before them in the sky. [_exit._ _zul._ let not this insolent unpunished go; give your commands; your justice is too slow. [zulema, hamet, _and others are going after him._ _abdal._ stay, and what part he pleases let him take: i know my throne's too strong for him to shake. but my fair mistress i too long forget; the crown i promised is not offered yet. without her presence all my joys are vain, empire a curse, and life itself a pain. [_exeunt._ act iv. scene i. _enter_ boabdelin, abenamar, _and guards._ _boab._ advise, or aid, but do not pity me: no monarch born can fall to that degree. pity descends from kings to all below; but can, no more than fountains, upward flow. witness, just heaven, my greatest grief has been, i could not make your almahide a queen. _aben._ i have too long the effects of fortune known, either to trust her smiles, or fear her frown. since in their first attempt you were not slain, your safety bodes you yet a second reign. the people like a headlong torrent go, and ev'ry dam they break, or overflow; but, unopposed, they either lose their force, or wind, in volumes, to their former course. _boab._ in walls we meanly must our hopes inclose, to wait our friends, and weary out our foes: while almahide to lawless rebels is exposed a prey, and forced the lustful victor to obey. _aben._ one of my blood, in rules of virtue bred! think better of her, and believe she's dead. _enter_ almanzor. _boab._ we are betrayed, the enemy is here; we have no farther room to hope or fear. _almanz._ it is indeed almanzor whom you see, but he no longer is your enemy. you were ungrateful, but your foes were more; what your injustice lost you, theirs restore. make profit of my vengeance while you may, my two-edged sword can cut the other way.-- i am your fortune, but am swift like her, and turn my hairy front if you defer: that hour, when you deliberate, is too late; i point you the white moment of your fate. _aben._ believe him sent as prince abdalla's spy; he would betray us to the enemy. _almanz_, were i, like thee, in cheats of state grown old, (those public markets, where, for foreign gold, the poorest prince is to the richest sold) then thou mightst think me fit for that low part; but i am yet to learn the statesman's art. my kindness and my hate unmasked i wear; for friends to trust, and enemies to fear. my heart's so plain, that men on every passing through may look, like fishes gliding in a crystal brook; when troubled most, it does the bottom shew, 'tis weedless all above, and rockless all below. _aben._ ere he be trusted, let him then be tried; he may be false, who once has changed his side. _almanz._ in that you more accuse yourselves than me; none who are injured can inconstant be. you were inconstant, you, who did the wrong; to do me justice does to me belong. great souls by kindness only can be tied; injured again, again i'll leave your side. honour is what myself, and friends, i owe; and none can lose it who forsake a foe. since, then, your foes now happen to be mine, though not in friendship, we'll in interest join: so while my loved revenge is full and high, i'll give you back your kingdom by the by. _boab._ that i so long delayed what you desire, [_embracing him._ was, not to doubt your worth, but to admire. _almanz._ this counsellor an old man's caution shows, who fears that little, he has left, to lose: age sets a fortune; while youth boldly throws. but let us first your drooping soldiers cheer; then seek out danger, ere it dare appear: this hour i fix your crown upon your brow; next hour fate gives it, but i give it now. [_exeunt._ scene ii. _enter_ lyndaraxa. _lyndar._ o, could i read the dark decrees of fate, that i might once know whom to love, or hate! for i myself scarce my own thoughts can guess, so much i find them varied by success. as in some weather-glass, my love i hold; which falls or rises with the heat or cold.-- i will be constant yet, if fortune can; i love the king,--let her but name the man. _enter_ halyma. _hal._ madam, a gentleman, to me unknown, desires that he may speak with you alone. _lyndar._ some message from the king.--let him appear. _enter_ abdelmelech; _who throws off his disguise.--she starts._ _abdelm._ i see you are amazed that i am here: but let at once your fear and wonder end. in the usurper's guards i found a friend, who led me safe to you in this disguise. _lyndar._ your danger brings this trouble in my eyes.-- but what affair this 'venturous visit drew? _abdelm._ the greatest in the world,--the seeing you. _lyndar._ the courage of your love i so admire, that, to preserve you, you shall straight retire. [_she leads him to the door._ go, dear! each minute does new dangers bring; you will be taken, i expect the king. _abdelm._ the king!--the poor usurper of an hour: his empire's but a dream of kingly power.-- i warn you, as a lover and a friend, to leave him, ere his short dominion end: the soldier i suborned will wait at night, and shall alone be conscious of your flight. _lyndar._ i thank you, that you so much care bestow; but, if his reign be short, i need not go. for why should i expose my life, and yours, for what, you say, a little time assures? _abdelm_, my danger in the attempt is very small; and, if he loves you, yours is none at all. but, though his ruin be as sure as fate, your proof of love to me would come too late. this trial i in kindness would allow; 'tis easy; if you love me, show it now. _lyndar._ it is because i love you, i refuse; for all the world my conduct would accuse, if i should go with him i love away; and, therefore, in strict virtue, i will stay. _abdelm._ you would in vain dissemble love to me; through that thin veil your artifice i see. you would expect the event, and then declare; but do not, do not drive me to despair: for, if you now refuse with me to fly, rather than love you after this, i'll die; and, therefore, weigh it well before you speak; my king is safe, his force within not weak. _lyndar._ the counsel, you have given me, may be wise; but, since the affair is great, i will advise. _abdelm._ then that delay i for denial take. [_is going._ _lyndar._ stay; you too swift an exposition make. if i should go, since zulema will stay, i should my brother to the king betray. _abdelm._ there is no fear; but, if there were, i see you value still your brother more than me.-- farewell! some ease i in your falsehood find; it lets a beam in, that will clear my mind: my former weakness i with shame confess, and, when i see you next, shall love you less. [_is going again._ _lyndar._ your faithless dealings you may blush to tell: [_weeping._ this is a maid's reward, who loves too well.-- [_he looks back._ remember that i drew my latest breath, in charging your unkindness with my death. _abdelm._ [_coming back_] have i not answered all you can invent, even the least shadow of an argument? _lyndar._ you want not cunning what you please to prove, but my poor heart knows only how to love; and, finding this, you tyrannize the more: 'tis plain, some other mistress you adore; and now, with studied tricks of subtlety, you come prepared to lay the fault on me. [_wringing her hands._ but, oh, that i should love so false a man! _abdelm._ hear me, and then disprove it, if you can. _lyndar._ i'll hear no more; your breach of faith is plain: you would with wit your want of love maintain. but, by my own experience, i can tell, they, who love truly, cannot argue well.-- go faithless man! leave me alone to mourn my misery; i cannot cease to love you, but i'll die. [_leans her head on his arm._ _abdelm._ what man but i so long unmoved could hear [_weeping._ such tender passion, and refuse a tear!-- but do not talk of dying any more, unless you mean that i should die before. _lyndar._ i fear your feigned repentance comes too late; i die, to see you still thus obstinate: but yet, in death my truth of love to show, lead me; if i have strength enough, i'll go. _abdelm._ by heaven, you shall not go! i will not be o'ercome in love or generosity. all i desire, to end the unlucky strife, is but a vow, that you will be my wife. _lyndar._ to tie me to you by a vow is hard; it shows, my love you as no tie regard.-- name any thing but that, and i'll agree. _abdelm._ swear, then, you never will my rival's be. _lyndar._ nay, pr'ythee, this is harder than before.-- name any thing, good dear, but that thing more. _abdelm._ now i too late perceive i am undone; living and seeing, to my death i run. i know you false, yet in your snares i fall; you grant me nothing, and i grant you all. _lyndar._ i would grant all; but i must curb my will, because i love to keep you jealous still. in your suspicion i your passion find; but i will take a time to cure your mind. _halyma._ o, madam, the new king is drawing near! _lyndar._ haste quickly hence, lest he should find you here! _abdelm._ how much more wretched than i came, i go! i more my weakness and your falsehood know; and now must leave you with my greatest foe! [_exit_ abdelm. _lyndar._ go!--how i love thee heaven can only tell: and yet i love thee, for a subject, well.-- yet whatsoever charms a crown can bring, a subject's greater than a little king. i will attend till time this throne secure; and, when i climb, my footing shall be sure.-- [_music without._ music! and, i believe, addressed to me. song. i. _wherever i am, and whatever i do, my phyllis is still in my mind; when angry, i mean not to phyllis to go, my feet, of themselves, the way find: unknown to myself i am just at her door, and, when i would rail, i can bring out no more than, phyllis too fair and unkind!_ ii. _when phyllis i see, my heart bounds in my breast, and the love i would stifle is shown; but asleep, or awake, i am never at rest, when from my eyes phyllis is gone. sometimes a sad dream does delude my sad mind; but, alas! when i wake, and no phyllis i find, how i sigh to myself all alone!_ iii. _should a king be my rival in her i adore, he should offer his treasure in vain: o, let me alone to be happy and poor, and give me my phyllis again! let phyllis be mine, and but ever be kind, i could to a desart with her be confined, and envy no monarch his reign._ iv. _alas! i discover too much of my love, and she too well knows her own power! she makes me each day a new martyrdom prove, and makes me grow jealous each hour: but let her each minute torment my poor mind, i had rather love phyllis, both false and unkind. than ever be freed from her power._ _enter_ abdalla, _with guards._ _abdal._ now, madam, at your feet a king you see; or, rather, if you please, a sceptered slave: 'tis just you should possess the power you gave. had love not made me yours, i yet had been but the first subject to boabdelin. thus heaven declares the crown i bring your due; and had forgot my title, but for you. _lyndar._ heaven to your merits will, i hope, be kind; but, sir, it has not yet declared its mind. 'tis true, it holds the crown above your head; but does not fix it 'till your brother's dead. _abdal._ all, but the alhambra, is within my power; and that my forces go to take this hour. _lyndar._ when, with its keys, your brother's head you bring, i shall believe you are indeed a king. _abdal._ but since the events of all things doubtful are, and, of events, most doubtful those of war; i beg to know before, if fortune frown, must i then lose your favour with my crown? _lyndar._ you'll soon return a conqueror again; and, therefore, sir, your question is in vain. _abdul._ i think to certain victory i move; but you may more assure it, by your love. that grant will make my arms invincible. _lyndar._ my prayers and wishes your success foretell.-- go then, and fight, and think you fight for me; i wait but to reward your victory. _abdal._ but if i lose it, must i lose you too? _lyndar._ you are too curious, if you more would know. i know not what my future thoughts will be: poor women's thoughts are all _extempore_. wise men, indeed, beforehand a long chain of thoughts produce; but ours are only for our present use. _abdal._ those thoughts, you will not know, too well declare. you mean to wait the final doom of war. _lyndar._ i find you come to quarrel with me now; would you know more of me than i allow? whence are you grown that great divinity, that with such ease into my thoughts can pry? indulgence does not with some tempers suit; i see i must become more absolute. _abdal._ i must submit, on what hard terms soe'er my peace be bought. _lyndar._ submit!--you speak as you were not in fault.-- 'tis evident the injury is mine; for why should you my secret thoughts divine? _abdal._ yet if we might be judged by reason's laws-- _lyndar._ then you would have your reason judge my cause!-- either confess your fault, or hold your tongue; for i am sure i'm never in the wrong. _abdal._ then i acknowledge it. _lyndar._ then i forgive. _abdal._ under how hard a law poor lovers live! who, like the vanquished, must their right release, and with the loss of reason buy their peace.-- [_aside._ madam, to show that you my power command, i put my life and safety in your hand:-- dispose of the albayzyn as you please, to your fair hands i here resign the keys. _lyndar._ i take your gift, because your love it shows, and faithful selin for alcade chuse. _abdal._ selin, from her alone your orders take.-- this one request, yet, madam, let me make, that, from those turrets, you the assault will see; and crown, once more, my arms with victory. [_exeunt, leading her out._ [selin _remains with_ gazul _and_ reduan, _his servants._ _selin._ gazul, go tell my daughter that i wait-- you reduan, bring the prisoner to his fate. [_exeunt_ gaz. _and_ red. ere of my charge i will possession take, a bloody sacrifice i mean to make: the manes of my son shall smile this day, while i, in blood, my vows of vengeance pay. _enter at one door_ benzayda, _with_ gazul; _at the other,_ ozmyn _bound, with_ reduan. _selin._ i sent, benzayda, to glad your eyes: these rites we owe your brother's obsequies.-- you two [_to_ gaz. _and_ red.] the cursed abencerrago bind: you need no more to instruct you in my mind. [_they bind him to a corner of the stage._ _benz._ in what sad object am i called to share? tell me, what is it, sir, you here prepare? _selin._ 'tis what your dying brother did bequeath; a scene of vengeance, and a pomp of death! _benz._ the horrid spectacle my soul does fright: i want the heart to see the dismal sight. _selin._ you are my principal invited guest, whose eyes i would not only feed, but feast: you are to smile at his last groaning breath, and laugh to see his eye-balls roll in death; to judge the lingering soul's convulsive strife, when thick short breath catches at parting life. _benz._ and of what marble do you think me made? _selin._ what! can you be of just revenge afraid? _benz._ he killed my brother in his own defence. pity his youth, and spare his innocence. _selin._ art thou so soon to pardon murder won? can he be innocent, who killed my son? abenamar shall mourn as well as i; his ozmyn, for my tarifa, shall die. but since thou plead'st so boldly, i will see that justice, thou would'st hinder, done by thee. here, [_gives her his sword._] take the sword, and do a sister's part: pierce his, fond girl, or i will pierce thy heart. _ozm._ to his commands i join my own request; all wounds from you are welcome to my breast: think only, when your hand this act has done, it has but finished what your eyes begun. i thought, with silence, to have scorned my doom; but now your noble pity has o'ercome; which i acknowledge with my latest breath,-- the first whoe'er began a love in death. _benz._ to _selin._ alas, what aid can my weak hand afford? you see i tremble when i touch a sword: the brightness dazzles me, and turns my sight; or, if i look, 'tis but to aim less right. _ozm._ i'll guide the hand which must my death convey; my leaping heart shall meet it half the way. _selin_ to _benz._ waste not the precious time in idle breath. _benz._ let me resign this instrument of death. [_giving the sword to her father, and then pulling it back._ ah, no! i was too hasty to resign: 'tis in your hand more mortal than in mine. _enter_ hamet. _hamet._ the king is from the alhambra beaten back, and now preparing for a new attack; to favour which, he wills, that instantly you reinforce him with a new supply. _selin_ to _benz._ think not, although my duty calls me hence, that with the breach of yours i will dispense. ere my return, see my commands you do: let me find ozmyn dead, and killed by you.-- gazul and reduan, attend her still; and, if she dares to fail, perform my will. [_exeunt_ selin _and_ hamet. [benzayda _looks languishing on him, with her sword down_; gazul _and_ reduan _standing with drawn swords by her._ _ozm._ defer not, fair benzayda, my death: looking on you, i should but live to sigh away my breath. my eyes have done the work they had to do: i take your image with me, which they drew; and, when they close, i shall die full of you. _benz._ when parents their commands unjustly lay, children are privileged to disobey; yet from that breach of duty i am clear, since i submit the penalty to bear. to die, or kill you, is the alternative; rather than take your life, i will not live. _ozm._ this shows the excess of generosity; but, madam, you have no pretence to die. i should defame the abencerrages race, to let a lady suffer in my place. but neither could that life, you would bestow, save mine; nor do you so much pity owe to me, a stranger, and your house's foe. _benz._ from whencesoe'er their hate our houses drew, i blush to tell you, i have none for you. 'tis a confession which i should not make, had i more time to give, or you to take: but, since death's near, and runs with so much force, we must meet first, and intercept his course. _ozm._ oh, how unkind a comfort do you give! now i fear death again, and wish to live. life were worth taking, could i have it now; but 'tis more good than heaven can e'er allow to one man's portion, to have life and you. _benz._ sure, at our births, death with our meeting planets danced above, or we were wounded by a mourning love!-- [_shouts within._ _red._ the noise returns, and doubles from behind; it seems as if two adverse armies joined.-- time presses us. _gaz._ if longer you delay, we must, though loth, your father's will obey. _ozm._ haste, madam, to fulfil his hard commands. and rescue me from their ignoble hands. let me kiss yours, when you my wound begin, then easy death will slide with pleasure in. _benz._ ah, gentle soldiers, some short time allow! [_to_ gaz. _and_ red. my father has repented him ere now; or will repent him, when he finds me dead. my clue of life is twined with ozmyn's thread. _red._ 'tis fatal to refuse her, or obey.-- but where is our excuse? what can we say? _benz._ say any thing. say, that to kill the guiltless you were loth; or if you did, say, i would kill you both. _gaz._ to disobey our orders is to die.-- i'll do't,--who dares oppose it? _red._ that dare i. [reduan _stands before_ ozmyn, _and fights with_ gazul. benzayda _unbinds_ ozmyn, _and gives him her sword._ _benz._ stay not to see the issue of the fight; [red. _kills_ gaz. but haste to save yourself by speedy flight. [ozmyn _kneels to kiss her hand._ _ozm._ did all mankind against my life conspire. without this blessing i would not retire.-- but madam, can i go and leave you here? your father's anger now for you i fear: consider you have done too much to stay. _benz._ think not of me, but fly yourself away. _red._ haste quickly hence; the enemies are nigh! from every part i see the soldiers fly. the foes not only our assailants beat, but fiercely sally out on their retreat, and, like a sea broke loose, come on amain. _enter_ abenamar, _and a party with their swords drawn, driving in some of the enemies._ _aben._ traitors, you hope to save yourselves in vain!-- your forfeit lives shall for your treason pay; and ozmyn's blood shall be revenged this day. _ozm._ no, sir, your ozmyn lives; and lives to own [_kneeling to his father._ a father's piety to free his son. _aben._ my ozmyn!--o, thou blessing of my age! [_embracing him._ and art thou safe from their deluded rage!-- whom must i praise for thy deliverance? was it thy valour, or the work of chance? _ozm._ nor chance, nor valour, could deliver me; but 'twas a noble pity set me free.-- my liberty, and life, and what your happiness you're pleased to call, we to this charming beauty owe it all. _aben._ instruct me, visible divinity!-- [_to her._ instruct me by what name to worship thee! for to thy virtue i would altars raise, since thou art much above all human praise. but see,-- _enter_ almanzor, _his sword bloody, leading in_ almahide _attended by_ esperanza. my other blessing, almahide, is here!-- i'll to the king, and tell him she is near: you, ozmyn, on your fair deliverer wait, and with your private joys the public celebrate. [_exeunt_ aben. ozm. _and_ benz. _almanz._ the work is done; now, madam, you are free; at least, if i can give you liberty: but you have chains which you yourself have chose; and, o, that i could free you too from those! but you are free from force, and have full power to go, and kill my hopes and me, this hour.-- i see, then, you will go; but yet my toil may he rewarded with a looking while. _almah._ almanzor can from every subject raise new matter for our wonder and his praise. you bound and freed me; but the difference is, that showed your valour; but your virtue this. _almanz._ madam, you praise a funeral victory, at whose sad pomp the conqueror must die. _almah._ conquest attends almanzor every where; i am too small a foe for him to fear: but heroes still must be opposed by some, or they would want occasion to o'ercome. _almanz._ madam, i cannot on bare praises live: those, who abound in praises, seldom give. _almah._ while i to all the world your worth make known, may heaven reward the pity you have shown! _almanz._ my love is languishing, and starved to death; and would you give me charity--in breath? prayers are the alms of churchmen to the poor: they send's to heaven, but drive us from their door. _almah._ cease, cease a suit so vain to you, and troublesome to me, if you will have me think that i am free. if i am yet a slave, my bonds i'll bear; but what i cannot grant, i will not hear. _almanz._ you will not hear!--you must both hear and grant; for, madam, there's an impudence in want. _almah._ your way is somewhat strange to ask relief you ask with threatening, like a begging thief.-- once more, almanzor, tell me, am i free? _almanz._ madam, you are, from all the world,--but me!-- but as a pirate, when he frees the prize he took from friends, sees the rich merchandize, and, after he has freed it, justly buys; so, when i have restored your liberty-- but then, alas, i am too poor to buy! _almah._ nay, now you use me just as pirates do: you free me; but expect a ransom too. _almanz._ you've all the freedom that a prince can have; but greatness cannot be without a slave. a monarch never can in private move, but still is haunted with officious love. so small an inconvenience you may bear; 'tis all the fine fate sets upon the fair. _almah._ yet princes may retire, whene'er they please, and breathe free air from out their palaces: they go sometimes unknown, to shun their state; and then, 'tis manners not to know or wait. _almanz._ if not a subject then, a ghost i'll be; and from a ghost, you know, no place is free. asleep, awake, i'll haunt you every where; from my white shroud groan love into your ear: when in your lover's arms you sleep at night, i'll glide in cold betwixt, and seize my right: and is't not better, in your nuptial bed, to have a living lover than a dead? _almah._ i can no longer bear to be accused, as if what i could grant you, i refused. my father's choice i never will dispute; and he has chosen ere you moved your suit. you know my case; if equal you can be, plead for yourself, and answer it for me. _almanz._ then, madam, in that hope you bid me live; i ask no more than you may justly give: but in strict justice there may favour be, and may i hope that you have that for me? _almah._ why do you thus my secret thoughts pursue, which, known, hurt me, and cannot profit you? your knowledge but new troubles does prepare, like theirs who curious in their fortunes are. to say, i could with more content be yours, tempts you to hope; but not that hope assures. for since the king has right, and favoured by my father in his suit, it is a blossom which can bear no fruit. yet, if you dare attempt so hard a task, may you succeed; you have my leave to ask. _almanz._ i can with courage now my hopes pursue, since i no longer have to combat you. that did the greatest difficulty bring; the rest are small, a father and a king! _almah._ great souls discern not when the leap's too wide, because they only view the farther side. whatever you desire, you think is near; but, with more reason, the event i fear. _almanz._ no; there is a necessity in fate, why still the brave bold man is fortunate: he keeps his object ever full in sight, and that assurance holds him firm and right. true, 'tis a narrow path that leads to bliss, but right before there is no precipice: fear makes men look aside, and then their footing miss. _almah._ i do your merit all the right i can; admiring virtue in a private man: i only wish the king may grateful be, and that my father with my eyes may see. might i not make it as my last request,-- since humble carriage suits a suppliant best,-- that you would somewhat of your fierceness hide-- that inborn fire--i do not call it pride? _almanz._ born, as i am, still to command, not sue, yet you shall see that i can beg for you; and if your father will require a crown, let him but name the kingdom, 'tis his own. i am, but while i please, a private man; i have that soul which empires first began. from the dull crowd, which every king does lead, i will pick out whom i will chuse to head: the best and bravest souls i can select, and on their conquered necks my throne erect. [_exeunt._ act v. scene i. abdalla _alone, under the walls of the albayzyn._ _abdal._ while she is mine, i have not yet lost all, but in her arms shall have a gentle fall: blest in my love, although in war o'ercome, i fly, like antony from actium, to meet a better cleopatra here.-- you of the watch! you of the watch! appear. _sold._ [_above._] who calls below? what's your demand? _abdal._ 'tis i: open the gate with speed; the foe is nigh. _sold._ what orders for admittance do you bring? _abdal._ slave, my own orders; look, and know the king. _sold._ i know you; but my charge is so severe, that none, without exception, enter here. _abdal._ traitor, and rebel! thou shalt shortly see thy orders are not to extend to me. _lyndar._ [_above._] what saucy slave so rudely does exclaim, and brands my subject with a rebel's name? _abdal._ dear lyndaraxa, haste; the foes pursue. _lyndar._ my lord, the prince abdalla, is it you? i scarcely can believe the words i hear; could you so coarsely treat my officer? _abdal._ he forced me; but the danger nearer draws: when i am entered, you shall know the cause. _lyndar._ entered! why, have you any business here? _abdal._ i am pursued, the enemy is near. _lyndar._ are you pursued, and do you thus delay to save yourself? make haste, my lord, away. _abdal._ give me not cause to think you mock my grief: what place have i, but this, for my relief? _lyndar._ this favour does your handmaid much oblige, but we are not provided for a siege: my subjects few; and their provision thin; the foe is strong without, we weak within. this to my noble lord may seem unkind, but he will weigh it in his princely mind; and pardon her, who does assurance want so much, she blushes when she cannot grant. _abdal._ yes, you may blush; and you have cause to weep. is this the faith you promised me to keep? ah yet, if to a lover you will bring no succour, give your succour to a king. _lyndar._ a king is he, whom nothing can withstand; who men and money can with ease command. a king is he, whom fortune still does bless; he is a king, who does a crown possess. if you would have me think that you are he, produce to view your marks of sovereignty; but if yourself alone for proof you bring, you are but a single person, not a king. _abdal._ ungrateful maid, did i for this rebel? i say no more; but i have loved too well. _lyndar._ who but yourself did that rebellion move: did i e'er promise to receive your love? is it my fault you are not fortunate? i love a king, but a poor rebel hate. _abdal._ who follow fortune, still are in the right; but let me be protected here this night. _lyndar._ the place to-morrow will be circled round; and then no way will for your flight be found. _abdal._ i hear my enemies just coming on; [_trampling within._ protect me but one hour, till they are gone. _lyndar._ they'll know you have been here; it cannot be; that very hour you stay, will ruin me: for if the foe behold our interview, i shall be thought a rebel too, like you. haste hence; and, that your flight may prosperous prove, i'll recommend you to the powers above. [_exit_ lynd. _from above._ _abdal._ she's gone: ah, faithless and ungrateful maid!-- i hear some tread; and fear i am betrayed. i'll to the spanish king; and try if he, to countenance his own right, will succour me: there is more faith in christian dogs, than thee. [_exit._ _enter_ ozmyn, benzayda, _and_ abenamar. _benz._ i wish (to merit all these thanks) i could have said, my pity only did his virtue aid; 'twas pity, but 'twas of a love-sick maid. his manly suffering my esteem did move; that bred compassion, and compassion love. _ozm._ o blessing sold me at too cheap a rate! my danger was the benefit of fate. [_to his father._ but that you may my fair deliverer know, she was not only born our house's foe, but to my death by powerful reasons led; at least, in justice, she might wish me dead. _aben._ but why thus long do you her name conceal? _ozm._ to gain belief for what i now reveal: even thus prepared, you scarce can think it true, the saver of my life from selin drew her birth; and was his sister whom i slew. _aben._ no more; it cannot, was not, must not be: upon my blessing, say not it was she. the daughter of the only man i hate! two contradictions twisted in a fate! _ozm._ the mutual hate, which you and selin bore, does but exalt her generous pity more. could she a brother's death forgive to me, and cannot you forget her family? can you so ill requite the life i owe, to reckon her, who gave it, still your foe? it lends too great a lustre to her line, to let her virtue ours so much out-shine. _aben._ thou gav'st her line the advantage which they have, by meanly taking of the life they gave. grant that it did in her a pity shew; but would my son be pitied by a foe? she has the glory of thy act defaced: thou kill'dst her brother; but she triumphs last: poorly for us our enmity would cease; when we are beaten, we receive a peace. _benz._ if that be all in which you disagree, i must confess 'twas ozmyn conquered me. had i beheld him basely beg his life, i should not now submit to be his wife; but when i saw his courage death controul, i paid a secret homage to his soul; and thought my cruel father much to blame, since ozmyn's virtue his revenge did shame. _aben._ what constancy can'st thou e'er hope to find in that unstable, and soon conquered mind? what piety can'st thou expect from her, who could forgive a brother's murderer? or, what obedience hop'st thou to be paid, from one who first her father disobeyed? _ozm._ nature, that bids us parents to obey, bids parents their commands by reason weigh; and you her virtue by your praise did own, before you knew by whom the act was done. _aben._ your reasons speak too much of insolence; her birth's a crime past pardon or defence. know, that as selin was not won by thee, neither will i by selin's daughter be. leave her, or cease henceforth to be my son: this is my will; and this i will have done. [_exit_ aben. _ozm._ it is a murdering will, that whirls along with an impetuous sway, and, like chain-shot, sweeps all things in its way. he does my honour want of duty call; to that, and love, he has no right at all. _benz._ no, ozmyn, no; it is a much less ill to leave me, than dispute a father's will: if i had any title to your love, your father's greater right does mine remove: your vows and faith i give you back again, since neither can be kept without a sin. _ozm._ nothing but death my vows can give me back: they are not yours to give, nor mine to take. _benz._ nay, think not, though i could your vows resign, my love or virtue could dispense with mine. i would extinguish your unlucky fire, to make you happy in some new desire: i can preserve enough for me and you, and love, and be unfortunate, for two. _ozm._ in all that's good and great you vanquish me so fast, that in the end i shall have nothing left me to defend. from every post you force me to remove; but let me keep my last entrenchment, love. _benz._ love then, my ozmyn; i will be content [_giving her hand._ to make you wretched by your own consent: live poor, despised, and banished for my sake, and all the burden of my sorrows take; for, as for me, in whatsoe'er estate, while i have you, i must be fortunate. _ozm._ thus then, secured of what we hold most dear, (each other's love) we'll go--i know not where. for where, alas, should we our flight begin? the foe's without; our parents are within. _benz._ i'll fly to you, and you shall fly to me; our flight but to each other's arms shall be. to providence and chance permit the rest; let us but love enough, and we are blest. [_exeunt._ scene ii. _enter_ boabdelin, abenamar, abdelmelech, _guards:_ zulema _and_ hamet, _prisoners._ _abdelm._ they are lyndaraxa's brothers; for her sake, their lives and pardon my request i make. _boab._ then, zulema and hamet, live; but know, your lives to abdelmelech's suit you owe. _zul._ the grace received so much my hope exceeds, that words come weak and short to answer deeds. you've made a venture, sir, and time must shew, if this great mercy you did well bestow. _boab._ you, abdelmelech, haste before 'tis night, and close pursue my brother in his flight. [_exeunt_ abdelmelech, zulema, _and_ hamet. _enter_ almanzor, almahide, _and_ esperanza. but see, with almahide the brave almanzor comes, whose conquering sword the crown, it once took from me, has restored. how can i recompence so great desert! _almanz._ i bring you, sir, performed in every part, my promise made; your foes are fled or slain; without a rival, absolute you reign. yet though, in justice, this enough may be, it is too little to be done by me: i beg to go, where my own courage and your fortune calls, to chase these misbelievers from our walls. i cannot breathe within this narrow space; my heart's too big, and swells beyond the place. _boab._ you can perform, brave warrior, what you please; fate listens to your voice, and then decrees. now i no longer fear the spanish powers; already we are free, and conquerors. _almanz._ accept, great king, to-morrow, from my hand, the captive head of conquered ferdinand. you shall not only what you lost regain, but o'er the biscayan mountains to the main, extend your sway, where never moor did reign. _aben._ what, in another, vanity would seem, appears but noble confidence in him; no haughty boasting, but a manly pride; a soul too fiery, and too great to guide: he moves excentric, like a wandering star, whose motion's just, though 'tis not regular. _boab._ it is for you, brave man, and only you, greatly to speak, and yet more greatly do. but, if your benefits too far extend, i must be left ungrateful in the end: yet somewhat i would pay, before my debts above all reckoning grow, to keep me from the shame of what i owe. but you are conscious to yourself of such desert, that of your gift i fear to offer part. _almanz._ when i shall have declared my high request, so much presumption there will be confest, that you will find your gifts i do not shun; but rather much o'er-rate the service done. _boab._ give wing to your desires, and let 'em fly, secure they cannot mount a pitch too high. so bless me, alha, both in peace and war, as i accord, whate'er your wishes are. _almanz._ emboldened by the promise of a prince, [_putting one knee to the ground._ i ask this lady now with confidence. _boab._ you ask the only thing i cannot grant. [_the king and_ abenamar _look amazedly on each other._ but, as a stranger, you are ignorant of what by public fame my subjects know; she is my mistress. _aben._ --and my daughter too. _almanz._ believe, old man, that i her father knew: what else should make almanzor kneel to you?-- nor doubt, sir, but your right to her was known: for had you had no claim but love alone, i could produce a better of my own. _almah._ [_softly to him._] almanzor, you forget my last request: your words have too much haughtiness expressed. is this the humble way you were to move? _almanz._ [_to her._] i was too far transported by my love. forgive me; for i had not learned to sue to any thing before, but heaven and you.-- sir, at your feet, i make it my request-- [_to the king._ [_first line kneeling: second, rising, and boldly._ though, without boasting, i deserve her best; for you her love with gaudy titles sought, but i her heart with blood and dangers bought. _boab._ the blood, which you have shed in her defence, shall have in time a fitting recompence: or, if you think your services delayed, name but your price, and you shall soon be paid. _almanz._ my price!--why, king, you do not think you deal with one who sets his services to sale? reserve your gifts for those who gifts regard; and know, i think myself above reward. _boab._ then sure you are some godhead; and our care must be to come with incense and with prayer. _almanz._ as little as you think yourself obliged, you would be glad to do't, when next besieged. but i am pleased there should be nothing due; for what i did was for myself, not you. _boab._ you with contempt on meaner gifts look down; and, aiming at my queen, disdain my crown. that crown, restored, deserves no recompence. since you would rob the fairest jewel thence. dare not henceforth ungrateful me to call; whate'er i owed you, this has cancelled all. _almanz._ i'll call thee thankless, king, and perjured both: thou swor'st by alha, and hast broke thy oath. but thou dost well; thou tak'st the cheapest way; not to own services thou canst not pay. _boab._ my patience more than pays thy service past; but now this insolence shall be thy last. hence from my sight! and take it as a grace, thou liv'st, and art but banished from the place. _almanz._ where'er i go, there can no exile be; but from almanzor's sight i banish thee: i will not now, if thou wouldst beg me, stay; but i will take my almahide away. stay thou with all thy subjects here; but know, we leave thy city empty when we go. [_takes_ almahide's _hand._ _boab._ fall on; take; kill the traitor. [_the guards fall on him; he makes at the king through the midst of them, and falls upon him; they disarm him, and rescue the king._ _almanz._ --base and poor, blush that thou art almanzor's conqueror. [almahide _wrings her hands, then turns and veils her face._ farewell, my almahide! life of itself will go, now thou art gone, like flies in winter, when they lose the sun. [abenamar _whispers the king a little, then speaks aloud._ _aben._ revenge, and taken so secure a way, are blessings which heaven sends not every day. _boab._ i will at leisure now revenge my wrong; and, traitor, thou shalt feel my vengeance long: thou shalt not die just at thy own desire, but see my nuptials, and with rage expire. _almanz._ thou darest not marry her while i'm in sight: with a bent brow thy priest and thee i'll fright; and in that scene, which all thy hopes and wishes should content, the thought of me shall make thee impotent. [_he is led off by guards._ _boab._ as some fair tulip, by a storm oppressed, [_to_ almah. shrinks up, and folds its silken arms to rest; and, bending to the blast, all pale and dead, hears, from within, the wind sing round its head,-- so, shrouded up, your beauty disappears: unveil, my love, and lay aside your fears. the storm, that caused your fright, is passed and done. [almahide _unveiling, and looking round for_ almanzor. _almah._ so flowers peep out too soon, and miss the sun. [_turning from him._ _boab._ what mystery in this strange behaviour lies? _almah._ let me for ever hide these guilty eyes, which lighted my almanzor to his tomb; or, let them blaze, to show me there a room. _boab._ heaven lent their lustre for a nobler end; a thousand torches must their light attend, to lead you to a temple and a crown. why does my fairest almahide frown? am i less pleasing then i was before, or, is the insolent almanzor more? _almah._ i justly own that i some pity have, not for the insolent, but for the brave. _aben._ though to your king your duty you neglect, know, almahide, i look for more respect: and, if a parent's charge your mind can move, receive the blessing of a monarch's love. _almah._ did he my freedom to his life prefer, and shall i wed almanzor's murderer? no, sir; i cannot to your will submit; your way's too rugged for my tender feet. _aben._ you must be driven where you refuse to go; and taught, by force, your happiness to know. _almah._ to force me, sir, is much unworthy you, [_smiling scornfully._ and, when you would, impossible to do. if force could bend me, you might think, with shame, that i debase the blood from whence i came. my soul is soft, which you may gently lay in your loose palm; but, when 'tis pressed to stay, like water, it deludes your grasp, and slips away. _boab._ i find i must revoke what i decreed: almanzor's death my nuptials must precede. love is a magic which the lover ties; but charms still end when the magician dies. go; let me hear my hated rival's dead; [_to his guard._ and, to convince my eyes, bring back his head. _almah._ go on: i wish no other way to prove that i am worthy of almanzor's love. we will in death, at least, united be: i'll shew you i can die as well as he. _boab._ what should i do! when equally i dread almanzor living and almanzor dead!-- yet, by your promise, you are mine alone. _almah._ how dare you claim my faith, and break your own? _aben._ this for your virtue is a weak defence: no second vows can with your first dispense. yet, since the king did to almanzor swear, and in his death ungrateful may appear, he ought, in justice, first to spare his life, and then to claim your promise as his wife. _almah._ whate'er my secret inclinations be, to this, since honour ties me, i agree: yet i declare, and to the world will own, that, far from seeking, i would shun the throne. and with almanzor lead a humble life: there is a private greatness in his wife. _boab._ that little love i have, i hardly buy; you give my rival all, while you deny: yet, almahide, to let you see your power, your loved almanzor shall be free this hour. you are obeyed; but 'tis so great a grace, that i could wish me in my rival's place. [_exeunt_ king _and_ abenamar. _almah._ how blessed was i before this fatal day, when all i knew of love, was to obey! 'twas life becalmed, without a gentle breath; though not so cold, yet motionless as death. a heavy quiet state; but love, all strife, all rapid, is the hurricane of life. had love not shewn me, i had never seen an excellence beyond boabdelin. i had not, aiming higher, lost my rest; but with a vulgar good been dully blest: but, in almanzor, having seen what's rare, now i have learnt too sharply to compare; and, like a favourite quickly in disgrace, just knew the value ere i lost the place. _to her_ almanzor, _bound and guarded._ _almanz._ i see the end for which i'm hither sent, to double, by your sight, my punishment. there is a shame in bonds i cannot bear; far more than death, to meet your eyes i fear. _almah._ that shame of long continuance shall not be: [_unbinding him._ the king, at my entreaty, sets you free. _almanz._ the king! my wonder's greater than before; how did he dare my freedom to restore? he like some captive lion uses me; he runs away before he sets me free, and takes a sanctuary in his court: i'll rather lose my life than thank him for't. _almah._ if any subject for your thanks there be, the king expects them not, you owe them me. our freedoms through each other's hands have past; you give me my revenge in winning last. _almanz._ then fate commodiously for me has done; to lose mine there where i would have it won. _almah._ almanzor, you too soon will understand, that what i win is on another's hand. the king (who doomed you to a cruel fate) gave to my prayers both his revenge and hate; but at no other price would rate your life, than my consent and oath to be his wife. _almanz._ would you, to save my life, my love betray? here; take me; bind me; carry me away; kill me! i'll kill you if you disobey. [_to the guards._ _almah._ that absolute command your love does give, i take, and charge you by that power to live. _almanz._ when death, the last of comforts, you refuse, your power, like heaven upon the damned, you use; you force me in my being to remain, to make me last, and keep me fresh for pain. when all my joys are gone, what cause can i for living longer give, but a dull, lazy habitude to live? _almah._ rash men, like you, and impotent of will, give chance no time to turn, but urge her still; she would repent; you push the quarrel on, and once because she went, she must be gone. _almanz._ she shall not turn; what is it she can do, to recompense me for the loss of you? _almah_, heaven will reward your worth some better way: at least, for me, you have but lost one day. nor is't a real loss which you deplore; you sought a heart that was engaged before. 'twas a swift love which took you in his way; flew only through your heart, but made no stay: 'twas but a dream, where truth had not a place; a scene of fancy, moved so swift a pace, and shifted, that you can but think it was;-- let then, the short vexatious vision pass. _almanz._ my joys, indeed, are dreams; but not my pain: 'twas a swift ruin, but the marks remain. when some fierce fire lays goodly buildings waste, would you conclude there had been none, because the burning's past? _almah._ it was your fault that fire seized all your breast; you should have blown up some to save the rest: but 'tis, at worst, but so consumed by fire, as cities are, that by their fall rise higher. build love a nobler temple in my place; you'll find the fire has but enlarged your space. _almanz._ love has undone me; i am grown so poor, i sadly view the ground i had before, but want a stock, and ne'er can build it more. _almah._ then say what charity i can allow; i would contribute if i knew but how. take friendship; or, if that too small appear, take love,--which sisters may to brothers bear. _almanz._ a sister's love! that is so palled a thing, what pleasure can it to a lover bring? 'tis like thin food to men in fevers spent; just keeps alive, but gives no nourishment. what hopes, what fears, what transports can it move? 'tis but the ghost of a departed love. _almah._ you, like some greedy cormorant, devour all my whole life can give you in an hour. what more i can do for you is to die, and that must follow, if you this deny. since i gave up my love, that you might live, you, in refusing life, my sentence give. _almanz._ far from my breast be such an impious thought! your death would lose the quiet mine had sought. i'll live for you, in spite of misery; but you shall grant that i had rather die. i'll be so wretched, filled with such despair, that you shall see, to live was more to dare. _almah._ adieu, then, o my soul's far better part! your image sticks so close, that the blood follows from my rending heart. a last farewell! for, since a last must come, the rest are vain, like gasps in death, which but prolong our pain. but, since the king is now a part of me, cease from henceforth to be his enemy. go now, for pity go! for, if you stay, i fear i shall have something still to say. thus--i for ever shut you from my sight. [_veils._ _almanz._ like one thrust out in a cold winters night, yet shivering underneath your gate i stay; one look--i cannot go before 'tis day.-- [_she beckons him to be gone._ not one--farewell: whate'er my sufferings be within, i'll speak farewell as loud as she: i will not be out-done in constancy.-- [_she turns her back._ then like a dying conqueror i go; at least i have looked last upon my foe. i go--but, if too heavily i move, i walk encumbered with a weight of love. fain i would leave the thought of you behind, but still, the more i cast you from my mind, you dash, like water, back, when thrown against the wind. [_exit._ _as he goes off, the_ king _meets him with_ abenamar; _they stare at each other without saluting._ _boab._ with him go all my fears: a guard there wait, and see him safe without the city gate. _to them_ abdelmelech. now, abdelmelech, is my brother dead? _abdelm._ th' usurper to the christian camp is fled; whom as granada's lawful king they own, and vow, by force, to seat him on the throne. mean time the rebels in the albayzyn rest; which is in lyndaraxa's name possest. _boab._ haste and reduce it instantly by force. _abdelm._ first give me leave to prove a milder course. she will, perhaps, on summons yield the place. _boab._ we cannot to your suit refuse her grace. [_one enters hastily, and whispers_ abenamar. _aben._ how fortune persecutes this hoary head! my ozmyn is with selin's daughter fled. but he's no more my son: my hate shall like a zegry him pursue, 'till i take back what blood from me he drew. _boab._ let war and vengeance be to-morrow's care; but let us to the temple now repair. a thousand torches make the mosque more bright: this must be mine and almahide's night. hence, ye importunate affairs of state, you should not tyrannize on love, but wait. had life no love, none would for business live; yet still from love the largest part we give; and must be forced, in empire's weary toil, to live long wretched, to be pleased a while. [_exeunt._ epilogue. success, which can no more than beauty last, makes our sad poet mourn your favours past: for, since without desert he got a name, he fears to lose it now with greater shame. fame, like a little mistress of the town, is gained with ease, but then she's lost as soon: for, as those tawdry misses, soon or late, jilt such as keep them at the highest rate; and oft the lacquey, or the brawny clown, gets what is hid in the loose-bodied gown,-- so, fame is false to all that keep her long; and turns up to the fop that's brisk and young. some wiser poet now would leave fame first; but elder wits are, like old lovers, cursed: who, when the vigour of their youth is spent, still grow more fond, as they grow impotent. this, some years hence, our poet's case may prove; but yet, he hopes, he's young enough to love. when forty comes, if e'er he live to see that wretched, fumbling age of poetry, 'twill be high time to bid his muse adieu:-- well may he please himself, but never you. till then, he'll do as well as he began, and hopes you will not find him less a man. think him not duller for this year's delay; he was prepared, the women were away; and men, without their parts, can hardly play. if they, through sickness, seldom did appear, pity the virgins of each theatre: for, at both houses, 'twas a sickly year! and pity us, your servants, to whose cost, in one such sickness, nine whole months are lost. their stay, he fears, has ruined what he writ: long waiting both disables love and wit. they thought they gave him leisure to do well; but, when they forced him to attend, he fell! yet, though he much has failed, he begs, to-day, you will excuse his unperforming play: weakness sometimes great passion does express; he had pleased better, had he loved you less. * * * * * almanzor and almahide: or, the conquest of granada by the _spaniards._ a tragedy. the second part. _--stimulos dedit æmula virtus._ lucan. prologue to the second part. they, who write ill, and they, who ne'er durst write, turn critics, out of mere revenge and spite: a playhouse gives them fame; and up there starts, from a mean fifth-rate wit, a man of parts. (so common faces on the stage appear; we take them in, and they turn beauties here.) our author fears those critics as his fate; and those he fears, by consequence must hate, for they the traffic of all wit invade, as scriveners draw away the bankers' trade. howe'er, the poet's safe enough to day, they cannot censure an unfinished play. but, as when vizard-mask appears in pit, straight every man, who thinks himself a wit, perks up, and, managing his comb with grace, with his white wig sets off his nut-brown face; that done, bears up to th' prize, and views each limb, to know her by her rigging and her trim; then, the whole noise of fops to wagers go,-- "pox on her, 'tmust be she;" and--"damme, no!"-- just, so, i prophesy, these wits to-day will blindly guess at our imperfect play; with what new plots our second part is filled, who must be kept alive, and who be killed. and as those vizard-masks maintain that fashion, to soothe and tickle sweet imagination; so our dull poet keeps you on with masking, to make you think there's something worth your asking. but, when 'tis shown, that, which does now delight you, will prove a dowdy, with a face to fright you. almanzor and almahide, or, the conquest of granada. the second part. act i scene i.--_a camp._ _enter_ king ferdinand, queen isabella, alonzo d'aguilar; _attendants, men and women._ _k. ferd._ at length the time is come, when spain shall be from the long yoke of moorish tyrants free. all causes seem to second our design, and heaven and earth in their destruction join. when empire in its childhood first appears, a watchful fate o'ersees its tender years; till, grown more strong, it thrusts and stretches out, and elbows all the kingdoms round about: the place thus made for its first breathing free, it moves again for ease and luxury; till, swelling by degrees, it has possessed the greater space, and now crowds up the rest; when, from behind, there starts some petty state, and pushes on its now unwieldy fate; then down the precipice of time it goes, and sinks in minutes, which in ages rose. _q. isabel._ should bold columbus in his search succeed, and find those beds in which bright metals breed; tracing the sun, who seems to steal away, that, miser-like, he might alone survey the wealth which he in western mines did lay,-- not all that shining ore could give my heart the joy, this conquered kingdom will impart; which; rescued from these misbelievers' hands, shall now, at once, shake off its double bands: at once to freedom and true faith restored, its old religion and its ancient lord. _k. ferd._ by that assault which last we made, i find, their courage is with their success declined: almanzor's absence now they dearly buy, whose conduct crowned their arms with victory. _alonzo._ their king himself did their last sally guide; i saw him, glistering in his armour, ride to break a lance in honour of his bride: but other thoughts now fill his anxious breast; care of his crown his love has dispossest. _to them_ abdalla. _q. isabel._ but see, the brother of the moorish king: he seems some news of great import to bring. _k. ferd._ he brings a spacious title to our side: those, who would conquer, must their foes divide. _abdal._ since to my exile you have pity shown, and given me courage yet to hope a throne; while you without our common foes subdue, i am not wanting to myself or you; but have, within, a faction still alive, strong to assist, and secret to contrive, and watching each occasion to foment the people's fears into a discontent; which, from almanzor's loss, before were great, and now are doubled by their late defeat: these letters from their chiefs the news assures. [_gives letters to the_ king. _k. ferd._ be mine the honour, but the profit yours. _to them the_ duke of arcos, _with_ ozmyn _and_ benzayda, _prisoners._ _k. ferd._ that tertia of italians did you guide, to take their post upon the river side? _d. arcos._ all are according to your orders placed: my chearful soldiers their intrenchments haste; the murcian foot hath ta'en the upper ground, and now the city is beleaguered round. _k. ferd._ why is not then their leader here again? _d. arcos._ the master of alcantara is slain; but he, who slew him, here before you stands: it is that moor whom you behold in bands. _k. ferd._ a braver man i had not in my host; his murderer shall not long his conquest boast: but, duke of arcos, say, how was he slain? _d. arcos._ our soldiers marched together on the plain; we two rode on, and left them far behind, till, coming where we found the valley wind, we saw these moors; who, swiftly as they could, ran on to gain the covert of a wood. this we observed; and, having crossed their way, the lady, out of breath, was forced to stay: the man then stood, and straight his faulchion drew; then told us, we in vain did those pursue, whom their ill fortune to despair did drive, and yet, whom we should never take alive. neglecting this, the master straight spurred on; but the active moor his horse's shock did shun, and, ere his rider from his reach could go, finished the combat with one deadly blow. i, to revenge my friend, prepared to fight; but now our foremost men were come in sight, who soon would have dispatched him on the place, had i not saved him from a death so base, and brought him to attend your royal doom. _k. ferd._ a manly face, and in his age's bloom; but, to content the soldiers, he must die: go, see him executed instantly. _q. isabel._ stay; i would learn his name before he go: you, prince abdalla, may the prisoner know. _abdal._ ozmyn's his name, and he deserves his fate; his father heads the faction which i hate: but much i wonder, that with him i see the daughter of his mortal enemy. _benz._ 'tis true, by ozmyn's sword my brother fell; but 'twas a death he merited too well. i know a sister should excuse his fault; but you know too, that ozmyn's death he sought, _abdal._ our prophet has declared, by the event, that ozmyn is reserved for punishment; for, when he thought his guilt from danger clear, he, by new crimes, is brought to suffer here. _benz._ in love, or pity, if a crime you find, we two have sinned above all human kind. _ozm._ heaven in my punishment has done a grace; i could not suffer, in a better place: that i should die by christians it thought good, to save your father's guilt, who sought my blood. [_to her._ _benz._ fate aims so many blows to make us fall, that 'tis in vain to think to ward them all: and, where misfortunes great and many are, life grows a burden, and not worth our care. _ozm._ i cast it from me, like a garment torn, ragged, and too indecent to be worn: besides, there is contagion in my fate, [_to_ benz. it makes your life too much unfortunate.-- but, since her faults are not allied to mine, in her protection let your favour shine. to you, great queen, i make this last request, (since pity dwells in every royal breast) safe, in your care, her life and honour be: it is a dying lover's legacy. _benz._ cease, ozmyn, cease so vain a suit to move; i did not give you on those terms my love. leave me the care of me; for, when you go, my love will soon instruct me what to do. _q. isabel._ permit me, sir, these lovers' doom to give: my sentence is, they shall together live. the courts of kings to all distressed should sanctuaries be, but most to lovers in adversity. castile and arragon, which long against each other war did move, my plighted lord and i have joined by love; and, if to add this conquest heaven thinks good, i would not have it stained with lovers' blood. _k. ferd._ whatever isabella shall command shall always be a law to ferdinand. _benz._ the frowns of fate we will no longer fear. ill fate, great queen, can never find us here. _q. isabel._ your thanks some other time i will receive: henceforward safe in my protection live. granada is for noble loves renowned: her best defence is in her lovers found. love's an heroic passion, which can find no room in any base degenerate mind: it kindles all the soul with honour's fire, to make the lover worthy his desire. against such heroes i success should fear, had we not too an host of lovers here. an army, of bright beauties come with me; each lady shall her servant's actions see: the fair and brave on each side shall contest; and they shall overcome, who love the best. [_exeunt._ scene ii.--_the alhambra._ _enter_ zulema. _zul._ true, they have pardoned me; but do they know what folly 'tis to trust a pardoned foe? a blush remains in a forgiven face: it wears the silent tokens of disgrace. forgiveness to the injured does belong; but they ne'er pardon, who have done the wrong. my hopeful fortunes lost! and, what's above all i can name or think, my ruined love! feigned honesty shall work me into trust, and seeming penitence conceal my lust. let heaven's great eye of providence now take one day of rest, and ever after wake. _enter_ boabdelin, abenamar, _and guards._ _boab._ losses on losses! as if heaven decreed almanzor's valour should alone succeed. _aben._ each sally we have made, since he is gone, serves but to pull our speedy ruin on. _boab._ of all mankind, the heaviest fate he bears, who the last crown of sinking empire wears. no kindly planet of his birth took care: heaven's outcast, and the dross of every star! [_a tumultuous noise within._ _enter_ abdelmelech. what new misfortunes do these cries presage? _abdelm._ they are the effects of the mad people's rage. all in despair tumultuously they swarm: the fairest streets already take the alarm; the needy creep from cellars under ground; to them new cries from tops of garrets sound; the aged from the chimneys seek the cold; and wives from windows helpless infants hold. _boab._ see what the many-headed beast demands.-- [_exit_ abdelm. cursed is that king, whose's honour's in their hands. in senates, either they too slowly grant, or saucily refuse to aid my want; and, when their thrift has ruined me in war, they call their insolence my want of care. _aben._ cursed be their leaders, who that rage foment, and veil, with public good, their discontent: they keep the people's purses in their hands, and hector kings to grant their wild demands; but to each lure, a court throws out, descend, and prey on those they promised to defend. _zul._ those kings, who to their wild demands consent, teach others the same way to discontent. freedom in subjects is not, nor can be; but still, to please them, we must call them free. propriety, which they their idol make, or law, or law's interpreters, can shake. _aben._ the name of commonwealth is popular; but there the people their own tyrants are. _boab._ but kings, who rule with limited command, have players' sceptres put into their hand. power has no balance, one side still weighs down, and either hoists the commonwealth or crown; and those, who think to set the scale more right, by various turnings but disturb the weight. _aben._ while people tug for freedom, kings for power, both sink beneath some foreign conqueror: then subjects find too late they were unjust, and want that power of kings, they durst not trust. _to them_ abdelmelech. _abdelm._ the tumult now is high, and dangerous grown: the people talk of rendering up the town; and swear that they will force the king's consent. _boab._ what counsel can this rising storm prevent? _abdelm._ their fright to no persuasions will give ear: there's a deaf madness in a people's fear. _enter a messenger._ _mess._ their fury now a middle course does take; to yield the town, or call almanzor back. _boab._ i'll rather call my death.-- go and bring up my guards to my defence: i'll punish this outrageous insolence. _aben._ since blind opinion does their reason sway, you must submit to cure them their own way. you to their fancies physic must apply; give them that chief on whom they most rely. under almanzor prosperously they fought; almanzor, therefore, must with prayers be brought. _enter a second messenger._ _ mess._ haste all you can their fury to assuage: you are not safe from their rebellious rage. _enter a third messenger._ _ mess._ this minute, if you grant not their desire, they'll seize your person, and your palace fire. _abdelm._ your danger, sir, admits of no delay. _boab._ in tumults people reign, and kings obey.-- go and appease them with the vow i make, that they shall have their loved almanzor back. [_exit_ abdel. almanzor has the ascendant o'er my fate; i'm forced to stoop to one i fear and hate: disgraced, distressed, in exile, and alone, he's greater than a monarch on his throne: without a realm, a royalty he gains; kings are the subjects over whom he reigns. [_a shout of acclamations within._ _aben._ these shouts proclaim the people satisfied. _boab._ we for another tempest must provide. to promise his return as i was loth, so i want power now to perform my oath. ere this, for afric he is sailed from spain. _aben._ the adverse winds his passage yet detain; i heard, last night, his equipage did stay at a small village, short of malaga. _boab._ abenamar, this evening thither haste; desire him to forget his usage past: use all your rhetoric, promise, flatter, pray. _to them_ almahide, _attended._ _aben._ good fortune shows you yet a surer way: nor prayers nor promises his mind will move; 'tis inaccessible to all, but love. _boab._ oh, thou hast roused a thought within my breast, that will for ever rob me of my rest. ah jealousy, how cruel is thy sting! i, in almanzor, a loved rival bring! and now, i think, it is an equal strife, if i my crown should hazard, or my wife. where, marriage, is thy cure, which husbands boast, that in possession their desire is lost? or why have i alone that wretched taste, which, gorged and glutted, does with hunger last? custom and duty cannot set me free, even sin itself has not a charm for me. of married lovers i am sure the first, and nothing but a king could be so curst. _almah._ what sadness sits upon your royal heart? have you a grief, and must not i have part? all creatures else a time of love possess; man only clogs with cares his happiness: and, while he should enjoy his part of bliss, with thoughts of what may be, destroys what is. _boab._ you guess aright; i am oppressed with grief, and 'tis from you that i must seek relief. [_to the company._ leave us; to sorrow there's a reverence due: sad kings, like suns eclipsed, withdraw from view. [_the attendants go off, and chairs are set for the king and queen._ _almah._ so, two kind turtles, when a storm is nigh, look up, and see it gathering in the sky: each calls his mate, to shelter in the groves, leaving, in murmur, their unfinished loves: perched on some drooping branch, they sit alone, and coo, and hearken to each other's moan. _boab._ since, almahide, you seem so kind a wife, [_taking her by the hand._ what would you do to save a husband's life? _almah._ when fate calls on that hard necessity, i'll suffer death, rather than you shall die. _boab._ suppose your country should in danger be; what would you undertake to set it free? _almah._ it were too little to resign my breath: my own free hand should give me nobler death. _boab._ that hand, which would so much for glory do, must yet do more; for it must kill me too. you must kill me, for that dear country's sake; or, what's all one, must call almanzor back. _almah._ i see to what your speech you now direct; either my love or virtue you suspect. but know, that, when my person i resigned, i was too noble not to give my mind. no more the shadow of almanzor fear; i have no room, but for your image, here. _boab._ this, almahide, would make me cease to mourn, were that almanzor never to return: but now my fearful people mutiny; their clamours call almanzor back, not i. their safety, through my ruin, i pursue; he must return, and must be brought by you. _almah._ that hour, when i my faith to you did plight, i banished him for ever from my sight. his banishment was to my virtue due; not that i feared him for myself, but you. my honour had preserved me innocent: but i would, your suspicion to prevent; which, since i see augmented in your mind, i yet more reason for his exile find. _boab._ to your entreaties he will yield alone. and on your doom depend my life and throne. no longer, therefore, my desires withstand; or, if desires prevail not, my command. _almah._ in his return, too sadly i foresee the effects of your returning jealousy. but your command i prize above my life; 'tis sacred to a subject and a wife: if i have power, almanzor shall return. _boab._ cursed be that fatal hour when i was born! [_letting go her hand, and starting up._ you love, you love him; and that love reveal, by your too quick consent to his repeal. my jealousy had but too just a ground; and now you stab into my former wound. _almah._ this sudden change i do not understand. have you so soon forgot your own command? _boab._ grant that i did the unjust injunction lay, you should have loved me more than to obey. i know you did this mutiny design; but i'll your love-plot quickly countermine. let my crown go; he never shall return; i, like a phoenix, in my nest will burn. _almah._ you please me well; that in one common fate you wrap yourself, and me, and all your state. let us no more of proud almanzor hear: 'tis better once to die, than still to fear; and better many times to die, than be obliged, past payment, to an enemy. _boab._ 'tis better; but you wives have still one way: whene'er your husbands are obliged, you pay. _almah._ thou, heaven, who know'st it, judge my innocence!-- you, sir, deserve not i should make defence. yet, judge my virtue by that proof i gave, when i submitted to be made your slave. _boab._ if i have been suspicious or unkind, forgive me; many cares distract my mind: love, and a crown! two such excuses no one man e'er had; and each of them enough to make me mad: but now my reason reassumes its throne, and finds no safety when almanzor's gone. send for him then; i'll be obliged, and sue; 'tis a less evil than to part with you. i leave you to your thoughts; but love me still! forgive my passion, and obey my will. [_exit_ boabdelin. almahide _solus._ my jealous lord will soon to rage return; that fire, his fear rakes up, does inward burn. but heaven, which made me great, has chose for me, i must the oblation for my people be. i'll cherish honour, then, and life despise; what is not pure, is not for sacrifice. yet for almanzor i in secret mourn! can virtue, then, admit of his return? yes; for my love i will by virtue square; my heart's not mine, but all my actions are. i'll like almanzor act; and dare to be as haughty, and as wretched too, as he. what will he think is in my message meant? i scarcely understand my own intent: but, silk-worm like, so long within have wrought, that i am lost in my own web of thought. [_exit_ almahide. act ii. scene i.--_a wood._ _enter_ ozmyn _and_ benzayda. _ozm._ 'tis true, that our protection here has been the effect of honour in the spanish queen; but, while i as a friend continue here, i to my country must a foe appear. _benz._ think not, my ozmyn, that we here remain as friends, but prisoners to the power of spain. fortune dispenses with your country's right; but you desert your honour in your flight. _ozm._ i cannot leave you here, and go away; my honour's glad of a pretence to stay. [_a noise within,_--follow, follow, follow!-- _enter_ selin, _his sword drawn, as pursued._ _selin._ i am pursued, and now am spent and done; my limbs suffice me not with strength to run. and, if i could, alas! what can i save? a year, the dregs of life too, from the grave. [_sits down on the ground._ here will i sit, and here attend my fate, with the same hoary majesty and state, as rome's old senate for the gauls did wait. _benz._ it is my father; and he seems distressed. _ozm._ my honour bids me succour the oppressed; that life he sought, for his i'll freely give; we'll die together, or together live. _benz._ i'll call more succour, since the camp is near, and fly on all the wings of love and fear. [_exit_ benz. _enter_ abenamar, _and four or five moors. he looks and finds_ selin. _aben._ you've lived, and now behold your latest hour. _selin._ i scorn your malice, and defy your power. a speedy death is all i ask you now; and that's a favour you may well allow. _ozm._ [_shewing himself._] who gives you death, shall give it first to me; fate cannot separate our destiny.-- [_knows his father._ my father here! then heaven itself has laid the snare, in which my virtue is betrayed. _aben._ fortune, i thank thee! thou hast kindly done, to bring me back that fugitive, my son; in arms too? fighting for my enemy!-- i'll do a roman justice,--thou shalt die! _ozm._ i beg not you my forfeit life would save; yet add one minute to that breath you gave. i disobeyed you, and deserve my fate; but bury in my grave two houses' hate. let selin live; and see your justice done on me, while you revenge him for his son: your mutual malice in my death may cease, and equal loss persuade you both to peace. _aben._ yes, justice shall be done on him and thee.-- haste and dispatch them both immediately. [_to a soldier._ _ozm._ if you have honour,--since you nature want,-- for your own sake my last petition grant; and kill not a disarmed, defenceless foe, whose death your cruelty, or fear, will show. my father cannot do an act so base:-- my father!--i mistake;--i meant, who was. _aben._ go, then, dispatch him first who was my son! _ozm._ swear but to save his life, i'll yield my own. _aben._ nor tears, nor prayers, thy life, or his, shall buy. _ozm._ then, sir, benzayda's father shall not die!-- [_putting himself before_ selin. and, since he'll want defence when i am gone, i will, to save his life, defend my own. _aben._ this justice, parricides, like thee, should have!-- [aben. _and his party attack them both._ ozm. _parries his father's thrusts, and thrusts at the others._ _enter_ benzayda, _with_ abdalla, _the duke of_ arcos, _and spaniards._ _benz._ o, help my father! and my ozmyn save! _abdal._ villains, that death you have deserved is near! _ozm._ stay, prince! and know, i have a father here!-- [_stops_ abdalla's _hand._ i were that parricide, of whom he spoke, did not my piety prevent your stroke. _d. arcos._ to _aben._ depart, then, and thank heaven you had a son. _aben._ i am not with these shows of duty won. _ozm._ to his _father._ heaven knows, i would that life, you seek, resign; but, while benzayda lives, it is not mine. will you yet pardon my unwilling crime? _aben._ by no entreaties, by no length of time, will i be won; but, with my latest breath, i'll curse thee here, and haunt thee after death. [_exit_ aben. _with his party._ _ozm._ can you be merciful to that degree, [_kneeling to_ selin. as to forgive my father's faults in me? can you forgive the death of him i slew in my defence, and from the malice separate the offence? i can no longer be your enemy: in short, now kill me, sir, or pardon me. [_offers him his sword._ in this your silence my hard fate appears. _selin._ i'll answer you, when i can speak for tears. but, till i can, imagine what must needs be brought to pass; [_embraces him._ my heart's not made of marble, nor of brass. did i for you a cruel death prepare, and have you, have you made my life your care! there is a shame contracted by my faults, which hinders me to speak my secret thoughts. and i will tell you--when the shame's removed-- you are not better by my daughter loved.-- benzayda be yours.--i can no more. _ozm._ blessed be that breath which does my life restore! [_embracing his knees._ _benz._ i hear my father now; these words confess that name, and that indulgent tenderness. _selin._ benzayda, i have been too much to blame; but let your goodness expiate my shame: you ozmyn's virtue did in chains adore, and part of me was just to him before.-- my son!-- _ozm._ my father!-- _selin._ since by you i live, i, for your sake, your family forgive. let your hard father still my life pursue, i hate not him, but for his hate to you; even that hard father yet may one day be by kindness vanquished, as you vanquished me; or, if my death can quench to you his rage, heaven makes good use of my remaining age. _abdal._ i grieve your joys are mingled with my cares; but all take interest in their own affairs; and, therefore, i must ask how mine proceed. _selin._ they now are ripe, and but your presence need: for lyndaraxa, faithless as the wind, yet to your better fortunes will be kind; for, hearing that the christians own your cause, from thence the assurance of a throne she draws. and since almanzor, whom she most did fear, is gone, she to no treaty will give ear; but sent me her unkindness to excuse. _abdal._ you much surprise me with your pleasing news. _selin._ but, sir, she hourly does the assault expect, and must be lost if you her aid neglect: for abdelmelech loudly does declare, he'll use the last extremities of war, if she refuse the fortress to resign. _abdal._ the charge of hastening this relief be mine. _selin._ this while i undertook, whether beset, or else by chance, abenamar i met; who seemed, in haste, returning to the town. _abdal._ my love must in my diligence be shown.-- and [_to_ arcos.] as my pledge of faith to spain, this hour i'll put the fortress in your master's power. _selin._ an open way from hence to it there lies, and we with ease may send in large supplies, free from the shot and sallies of the town. _d. arcos._ permit me, sir, to share in your renown; first to my king i will impart the news, and then draw out what succours we shall use. [_exit duke of_ arcos. _abdal._ [_aside._] grant that she loves me not, at least i see she loves not others, if she loves not me.-- 'tis pleasure, when we reap the fruit of pain: 'tis only pride, to be beloved again. how many are not loved, who think they are! yet all are willing to believe the fair; and, though 'tis beauty's known and obvious cheat, yet man's self-love still favours the deceit. [_exit_ abdal. _selin._ farewell, my children! equally so dear, that i myself am to myself less near: while i repeat the dangers of the war, your mutual safety be each other's care. your father, ozmyn, till the war be done, as much as honour will permit, i'll shun: if by his sword i perish, let him know it was, because i would not be his foe. _ozm._ goodness and virtue all your actions guide; you only err in choosing of your side. that party i, with honour, cannot take; but can much less the care of you forsake: i must not draw my sword against my prince, but yet may hold a shield in your defence. benzayda, free from danger, here shall stay, and for a father and a lover pray. _benz._ no, no! i gave not on those terms my heart, that from my ozmyn i should ever part: that love i vowed, when you did death attend, 'tis just that nothing but my death should end. what merchant is it, who would stay behind, his whole stock ventured to the waves and wind? i'll pray for both, but both shall be in sight; and heaven shall hear me pray, and see you fight. _selin._ no longer, ozmyn, combat a design, where so much love, and so much virtue join. _ozm._ [_to_ benz.] then conquer, and your conquest happy be, both to yourself, your father, and to me.-- with bended knees our freedom we'll demand of isabel, and mighty ferdinand: then while the paths of honour we pursue, we'll interest heaven for us, in right of you. [_exeunt._ scene ii.--_the albayzyn._ _an alarm within; then soldiers running over the stage. enter_ abdelmelech, _victorious, with soldiers._ _abdelm._ 'tis won, 'tis won! and lyndaraxa, now, who scorned to treat, shall to a conquest bow. to every sword i free commission give; fall on, my friends, and let no rebel live. spare only lyndaraxa; let her be in triumph led, to grace my victory. since by her falsehood she betrayed my love, great as that falsehood my revenge shall prove.-- _enter_ lyndaraxa, _as frightened, attended by women._ go, take the enchantress, bring her to me bound! _lyndar._ force needs not, where resistance is not found: i come, myself, to offer you my hands; and, of my own accord, invite your bands. i wished to be my abdelmelech's slave; i did but wish,--and easy fortune gave. _abdelm._ o, more than woman false!--but 'tis in vain.-- can you ere hope to be believed again? i'll sooner trust the hyæna, than your smile; or, than your tears, the weeping crocodile. in war and love none should be twice deceived; the fault is mine if you are now believed. _lyndar._ be overwise, then, and too late repent; your crime will carry its own punishment. i am well pleased not to be justified; i owe no satisfaction to your pride. it will be more advantage to my fame, to have it said, i never owned a flame. _abdelm._ 'tis true, my pride has satisfied itself: i have at length escaped the deadly shelf. the excuses you prepare will be in vain, till i am fool enough to love again. _lyndar._ am i not loved? _abdelm._ i must with shame avow, i loved you once;--but do not love you now. _lyndar._ have i for this betrayed abdalla's trust? you are to me, as i to him, unjust. [_angrily._ _abdelm._ 'tis like you have done much for love of me, who kept the fortress of my enemy. _lyndar._ 'tis true, i took the fortress from his hand; but, since, have kept it in my own command. _abdelm._ that act your foul ingratitude did show. _lyndar._ you are the ungrateful, since 'twas kept for you. _abdelm._ 'twas kept indeed; but not by your intent: for all your kindness i may thank the event. blush, lyndaraxa, for so gross a cheat: 'twas kept for me,--when you refused to treat! [_ironically._ _lyndar._ blind man! i knew the weakness of the place: it was my plot to do your arms this grace. had not my care of your renown been great, i loved enough to offer you to treat. she, who is loved, must little lets create; but you bold lovers are to force your fate. this force, you used, my maiden blush will save; you seemed to take, what secretly i gave. i knew we must be conquered; but i knew what confidence i might repose in you. i knew, you were too grateful to expose my friends, and soldiers, to be used like foes. _abdelm._ well, though i love you not, their lives shall be spared out of pity and humanity.-- alferez, [_to a soldier._] go, and let the slaughter cease. [_exit the alferez._ _lyndar._ then must i to your pity owe my peace? is that the tenderest term you can afford? time was, you would have used another word. _abdelm._ then, for your beauty i your soldiers spare: for, though i do not love you, you are fair. _lyndar._ that little beauty why did heaven impart, to please your eyes, but not to move your heart! i'll shroud this gorgon from all human view, and own no beauty, since it charms not you! reverse your orders, and your sentence give; my soldiers shall not from my beauty live. _abdelm._ then, from your friendship they their lives shall gain; tho' love be dead, yet friendship does remain. _lyndar._ that friendship, which from withered love does shoot, like the faint herbage on a rock, wants root. love is a tender amity, refined: grafted on friendship it exalts the kind. but when the graff no longer does remain, the dull stock lives, but never bears again. _abdelm._ then, that my friendship may not doubtful prove,-- fool that i am to tell you so!--i love. you would extort this knowledge from my breast, and tortured me so long that i confest. now i expect to suffer for my sin; my monarchy must end, and yours begin. _lyndar._ confess not love, but spare yourself that shame, and call your passion by some other name. call this assault, your malice, or your hate; love owns no acts so disproportionate. love never taught this insolence you shew, to treat your mistress like a conquered foe. is this the obedience which my heart should move! this usage looks more like a rape than love. _abdelm._ what proof of duty would you i should give? _lyndar._ 'tis grace enough to let my subjects live! let your rude soldiers keep possession still; spoil, rifle, pillage,--any thing but kill. in short, sir, use your fortune as you please; secure my castle, and my person seize; let your true men my rebels hence remove; i shall dream on, and think 'tis all your love! _abdelm._ you know too well my weakness and your power: why did heaven make a fool a conqueror! she was my slave, 'till she by me was shewn how weak my force was, and how strong her own. now she has beat my power from every part, made her way open to my naked heart: [_to a soldier._ go, strictly charge my soldiers to retreat: those countermand who are not entered yet. on peril of your lives leave all things free. [_exit soldier._ now, madam, love abdalla more than me. i only ask, in duty you would bring the keys of our albayzyn to the king: i'll make your terms as gentle as you please. [_trumpets sound a charge within, and soldiers shout._ what shouts, and what new sounds of war are these? _lyndar._ fortune, i hope, has favoured my intent, [_aside._ of gaining time, and welcome succours sent. _enter the alferez._ _alferez._ all's lost, and you are fatally deceived: the foe is entered, and the place relieved. scarce from the walls had i drawn off my men, when, from their camp, the enemy rushed in, and prince abdalla entered first the gate. _abdelm._ i am betrayed, and find it now too late. when your proud soul to flatteries did descend, [_to her._ i might have known it did some ill portend. the weary seaman stormy weather fears, when winds shift often, and no cause appears. you by my bounty live-- your brothers, too, were pardoned for my sake, and this return your gratitude does make. _lyndar._ my brothers best their own obligement know; without your charging me with what they owe. but, since you think the obligement is so great, i'll bring a friend to satisfy my debt. [_looking behind._ _abdelm._ thou shalt not triumph in thy base design; though not thy fort, thy person shall be mine. [_he goes to take her: she runs and cries out help._ _enter_ abdalla, _duke of_ arcos, _and spaniards._ abdelmelech _retreats fighting, and is pursued by the adverse party off the stage. the alarm within._ _enter again_ abdalla _and the duke of_ arcos, _with_ lyndaraxa. _d. arcos._ bold abdelmelech twice our spaniards faced, though much out-numbered; and retreated last. _abdal._ your beauty, as it moves no common fire, [_to_ lyndaraxa. so it no common courage can inspire. as he fought well, so had he prospered too, if, madam, he, like me, had fought for you. _lyndar._ fortune, at last, has chosen with my eyes; and, where i would have given it, placed the prize. you see, sir, with what hardship i have kept this precious gage, which in my hands you left. but 'twas the love of you which made me fight, and gave me courage to maintain your right. now, by experience, you my faith may find, and are to thank me that i seemed unkind. when your malicious fortune doomed your fall, my care restrained you then from losing all; against your destiny i shut the gate, and gathered up the shipwrecks of your fate; i, like a friend, did even yourself withstand, from throwing all upon a losing hand. _abdal._ my love makes all your acts unquestioned go, and sets a sovereign stamp on all you do. your love i will believe with hood-winked eyes;-- in faith, much merit in much blindness lies. but now, to make you great as you are fair, the spaniards an imperial crown prepare. _lyndar._ that gift's more welcome, which with you i share. let us no time in fruitless courtship lose, but sally out upon our frighted foes. no ornaments of power so please my eyes, as purple, which the blood of princes dies. [_exeunt._ scene iii.--_the alhambra._ boabdelin, abenamar, almahide, _and guards, &c. the queen wearing a scarf._ _aben._ my little journey has successful been, the fierce almanzor will obey the queen. i found him, like achilles on the shore, pensive, complaining much, but threatening more; and, like that injured greek, he heard our woes, which, while i told, a gloomy smile arose from his bent brows: and still, the more he heard, a more severe and sullen joy appeared. but, when he knew we to despair were driven, betwixt his teeth he muttered thanks to heaven. _boab._ how i disdain this aid! which i must take, not for my own, but almahide's sake. _aben._ but when he heard it was the queen who sent, that her command repealed his banishment, he took the summons with a greedy joy, and asked me how she would his sword employ: then bid me say, her humblest slave would come, from her fair mouth with joy to take his doom. _boab._ oh that i had not sent you! though it cost my crown! though i, and it, and all were lost! _aben._ while i, to bring this news, came on before, i met with selin-- _boab._ i can hear no more. _enter_ hamet. _hamet._ almanzor is already at the gate, and throngs of people on his entrance wait. _boab._ thy news does all my faculties surprise; he bears two basilisks in those fierce eyes; and that tame dæmon, which should guard my throne, shrinks at a genius greater than his own. [_exit_ boab. _with_ aben. _and guards._ _enter_ almanzor; _seeing_ almahide _approach him, he speaks._ _almanz._ so venus moves, when to the thunderer, in smiles or tears, she would some suit prefer; when with her cestus girt, and drawn by doves, she cuts the liquid skies, and kindles gentle fires where'er she flies: to every eye a goddess is confest, by all the heavenly nation she is blest, and each with secret joy admits her to his breast.-- madam your new commands i come to know, if yet you can have any where i go. [_to her bowing._ if to the regions of the dead they be, you take the speediest course to send by me. _almah._ heaven has not destined you so soon to rest: heroes must live to succour the distrest. _almanz._ to serve such beauty all mankind should live; and, in our service, our reward you give. but stay me not in torture, to behold and ne'er enjoy. as from another's gold the miser hastens, in his own defence, and shuns the sight of tempting excellence; so, having seen you once so killing fair, a second sight were but to move despair. i take my eyes from what too much would please, as men in fevers famish their disease. _almah._ no; you may find your cure an easier way, if you are pleased to seek it,--in your stay. all objects lose by too familiar view, when that great charm is gone, of being new; by often seeing me, you soon will find defects so many, in my face and mind, that to be freed from love you need not doubt; and, as you looked it in, you'll look it out. _almanz._ i rather, like weak armies, should retreat, and so prevent my more entire defeat. for your own sake in quiet let me go; press not too far on a despairing foe: i may turn back, and armed against you move, with all the furious train of hopeless love. _almah._ your honour cannot to ill thoughts give way, and mine can run no hazard by your stay. _almanz._ do you then think i can with patience see that sovereign good possessed, and not by me? no; i all day shall languish at the sight, and rave on what i do not see all night; my quick imagination will present the scenes and images of your content. _almah._ these are the day-dreams which wild fancy yields, empty as shadows are, that fly o'er fields. oh, whither would this boundless fancy move! 'tis but the raging calenture of love. like a distracted passenger you stand, and see, in seas, imaginary land, cool groves, and flowery meads; and while you think to walk, plunge in, and wonder that you sink. _almanz._ love's calenture too well i understand; but sure your beauty is no fairy-land! of your own form a judge you cannot be; for, glow-worm like, you shine, and do not see. _almah._ can you think this, and would you go away? _almanz._ what recompence attends me, if i stay? _almah._ you know i am from recompence debarred, but i will grant your merit a reward; your flame's too noble to deserve a cheat, and i too plain to practise a deceit. i no return of love can ever make, but what i ask is for my husband's sake; he, i confess, has been ungrateful too, but he and i are ruined if you go: your virtue to the hardest proof i bring;-- unbribed, preserve a mistress and a king. _almanz._ i'll stop at nothing that appears so brave: i'll do't, and now i no reward will have. you've given my honour such an ample field, that i may die, but that shall never yield. spite of myself i'll stay, fight, love, despair; and i can do all this, because i dare. yet i may own one suit-- that scarf, which, since by you it has been borne, is blessed, like relicks which by saints were worn. _almah._ presents like this my virtue durst not make, but that 'tis given you for my husband's sake. [_gives the scarf._ _almanz._ this scarf to honourable rags i'll wear, as conquering soldiers tattered ensigns bear; but oh, how much my fortune i despise, which gives me conquest, while she love denies! [_exeunt._ act iii. scene i.--_the alhambra._ _enter_ almahide _and_ esperanza. _esper._ affected modesty has much of pride; that scarf he begged, you could not have denied; nor does it shock the virtue of a wife, when given that man, to whom you owe your life. _almah._ heaven knows, from all intent of ill 'twas free, yet it may feed my husband's jealousy; and for that cause i wish it were not done. _to them_ boabdelin, _and walks apart._ see, where he comes, all pensive and alone; a gloomy fury has o'erspread his face: 'tis so! and all my fears are come to pass. _boab._ marriage, thou curse of love, and snare of life, [_aside_ that first debased a mistress to a wife! love, like a scene, at distance should appear, but marriage views the gross-daubed landscape near. love's nauseous cure! thou cloyest whom thou should'st please; and, when thou cur'st, then thou art the disease. when hearts are loose, thy chain our bodies ties; love couples friends, but marriage enemies. if love like mine continues after thee, 'tis soon made sour, and turned by jealousy; no sign of love in jealous men remains, but that which sick men have of life--their pains. _almah._ has my dear lord some new affliction had? [_walking to him._ have i done any thing that makes him sad? _boab._ you! nothing: you! but let me walk alone. _almah._ i will not leave you till the cause be known: my knowledge of the ill may bring relief. _boab._ thank ye; you never fail to cure my grief! trouble me not, my grief concerns not you. _almah._ while i have life, i will your steps pursue. _boab._ i'm out of humour now; you must not stay. _almah._ i fear it is that scarf i gave away. _boab._ no, 'tis not that; but speak of it no more: go hence! i am not what i was before. _almah._ then i will make you so; give me your hand! can you this pressing and these tears withstand? _boab._ oh heaven, were she but mine, or mine alone! [_sighing, and going off from her._ ah, why are not the hearts of women known! false women to new joys unseen can move; there are no prints left in the paths of love, all goods besides by public marks are known; but what we most desire to keep, has none. _almah._ why will you in your breast your passion crowd, [_approaching him._ like unborn thunder rolling in a cloud? torment not your poor heart, but set it free, and rather let its fury break on me. i am not married to a god; i know, men must have passions, and can bear from you. i fear the unlucky present i have made! _boab._ o power of guilt! how conscience can upbraid! it forces her not only to reveal, but to repeat what she would most conceal! _almah._ can such a toy, and given in public too-- _boab._ false woman, you contrived it should be so. that public gift in private was designed the emblem of the love you meant to bind. hence from my sight, ungrateful as thou art! and, when i can, i'll banish thee my heart. [_she weeps._ _to them_ almanzor _wearing the scarf. he sees her weep._ _almanz._ what precious drops are those, which silently each other's track pursue, bright as young diamonds in their infant dew? your lustre you should free from tears maintain, like egypt, rich without the help of rain. now cursed be he who gave this cause of grief; and double cursed, who does not give relief! _almah._ our common fears, and public miseries, have drawn these tears from my afflicted eyes. _almanz._ madam, i cannot easily believe it is for any public cause you grieve. on your fair face the marks of sorrow lie; but i read fury in your husband's eye: and, in that passion, i too plainly find that you're unhappy, and that he's unkind. _almah._ not new-made mothers greater love express than he, when with first looks their babes they bless; not heaven is more to dying martyrs kind, nor guardian angels to their charge assigned. _boab._ o goodness counterfeited to the life! o the well-acted virtue of a wife! would you with this my just suspicions blind? you've given me great occasion to be kind! the marks, too, of your spotless love appear; witness the badge of my dishonour there. [_pointing to_ almanzor's _scarf._ _almanz._ unworthy owner of a gem so rare! heavens! why must he possess, and i despair? why is this miser doomed to all this store; he, who has all, and yet believes he's poor? _almah._ [_to_ almanz.] you're much too bold, to blame a jealousy so kind in him, and so desired by me. the faith of wives would unrewarded prove, without those just observers of our love. the greater care the higher passion shows; we hold that clearest we most fear to lose. distrust in lovers is too warm a sun, but yet 'tis night in love when that is gone; and in those climes which most his scorching know, he makes the noblest fruits and metals grow. _almanz._ yes; there are mines of treasure in your breast, seen by that jealous sun, but not possest. he, like a devil, among the blest above, can take no pleasure in your heaven of love. go, take her; and thy causeless fears remove; [_to the king._ love her so well, that i with rage may die: dull husbands have no right to jealousy: if that's allowed, it must in lovers be. _boab._ the succour, which thou bring'st me, makes thee bold: but know, without thy aid, my crown i'll hold; or, if i cannot, i will fire the place, of a full city make a naked space. hence, then, and from a rival set me free! i'll do, i'll suffer any thing but thee. _almanz._ i wonnot go; i'll not be forced away: i came not for thy sake; nor do i stay. it was the queen who for my aid did send; and 'tis i only can the queen defend: i, for her sake, thy sceptre will maintain; and thou, by me, in spite of thee, shalt reign. _boab._ had i but hope i could defend this place three days, thou should'st not live to my disgrace so small a time; might i possess my almahide alone, i would live ages out ere they were gone. i should not be of love or life bereft; all should be spent before, and nothing left. _almah._ [_to_ boab.] as for your sake i for almanzor sent, so, when you please, he goes to banishment. you shall, at last, my loyalty approve: i will refuse no trial of my love. _boab._ how can i think you love me, while i see that trophy of a rival's victory? i'll tear it from his side. _almanz._ i'll hold it fast as life, and when life's gone, i'll hold this last; and if thou tak'st it after i am slain, i'll send my ghost to fetch it back again. _almah._ when i bestowed that scarf, i had not thought, or not considered it might be a fault; but, since my lord's displeased that i should make so small a present, i command it back. without delay the unlucky gift restore; or, from this minute, never see me more. _almanz._ the shock of such a curse i dare not stand: [_pulling it off hastily, and presenting it to her._ thus i obey your absolute command. [_she gives it to the king._ must he the spoils of scorn'd almanzor wear?-- may turnus' fate be thine, who dared to bear the belt of murdered pallas! from afar mayest thou be known, and be the mark of war! live, just to see it from thy shoulders torn by common hands, and by some coward worn. [_an alarm within._ _enter_ abdelmelech, zulema, hamet, abenamar; _their swords drawn._ _abdelm._ is this a time for discord or for grief? we perish, sir, without your quick relief. i have been fooled, and am unfortunate; the foes pursue their fortune and our fate. _zul._ the rebels with the spaniards are agreed. _boab._ take breath; my guards shall to the fight succeed. _aben._ [_to_ almanzor.] why stay you, sir? the conquering foe is near: give us their courage, and give them our fear. _hamet._ take arms, or we must perish in your sight. _almanz._ i care not: perish: for i will not fight, i wonnot lift an arm in his defence: and yet i wonnot stir one foot from hence. i to your king's defence his town resign; this only spot, whereon i stand, is mine.-- madam, be safe, and lay aside your fear, [_to the queen_ you are as in a magic circle here. _boab._ to our own valour our success we'll owe. haste, hamet, with abenamar to go; you two draw up, with all the speed you may, our last reserves, and yet redeem the day. [_exeunt_ hamet _and_ abenamar _one way, the king the other, with_ abdelmelech, _&c. alarm within._ _enter_ abdelmelech, _his sword drawn._ _abdelm._ granada is no more! the unhappy king venturing too far, ere we could succour bring, was by the duke of arcos prisoner made, and, past relief, is to the fort conveyed. _almanz._ heaven, thou art just! go, now despise my aid. _almah._ unkind almanzor, how am i betrayed! betrayed by him in whom i trusted most! but i will ne'er outlive what i have lost. is this your succour, this your boasted love! i will accuse you to the saints above! almanzor vowed he would for honour fight, and lets my husband perish in my sight. [_exeunt_ almahide _and_ esperanza. _almanz._ oh, i have erred; but fury made me blind; and, in her just reproach, my fault i find! i promised even for him to fight, whom i-- but since he's loved by her, he must not die. thus, happy fortune comes to me in vain, when i myself must ruin it again. _to him_ abenamar, hamet, abdelmelech, zulema, _soldiers._ _aben._ the foe has entered the vermillion towers; and nothing but the alhambra now is ours. _almanz._ even that's too much, except we may have more; you lost it all to that last stake before. fate, now come back; thou canst not farther get; the bounds of thy libration here are set. thou know'st this place, and, like a clock wound up, strik'st here for me; now, chance, assert thy own inconstancy, and, fortune, fight, that thou may'st fortune be!-- they come: here, favoured by the narrow place, [_a noise within._ i can, with few, their gross battalion face. by the dead wall, you, abdelmelech, wind; then charge, and their retreat cut off behind. [_exeunt._ [_an alarm within._ _enter_ almanzor _and his party, with_ abdalla _prisoner._ _almanz._ you were my friend: and to that name i owe [_to_ abdal. the just regard, which you refused to show. your liberty i frankly would restore, but honour now forbids me to do more. yet, sir, your freedom in your choice shall be, when you command to set your brother free. _abdal._ the exchange, which you propose, with joy i take; an offer easier than my hopes could make. your benefits revenge my crimes to you, for i my shame in that bright mirror view. _almanz._ no more; you give me thanks you do not owe: i have been faulty, and repent me now. but, though our penitence a virtue be, mean souls alone repent in misery; the brave own faults when good success is given, for then they come on equal terms to heaven. [_exeunt._ scene ii.--_the albayzyn._ _enter_ ozmyn _and_ benzayda. _benz._ i see there's somewhat which you fear to tell; speak quickly, ozmyn, is my father well? why cross you thus your arms, and shake your head? kill me at once, and tell me he is dead. _ozm._ i know not more than you; but fear not less; twice sinking, twice i drew him from the press: but the victorious foe pursued so fast, that flying throngs divided us at last. as seamen parting in a general wreck, when first the loosening planks begin to crack; each catches one, and straight are far disjoined, some borne by tides, and others by the wind; so, in this ruin, from each other rent, with heaved-up hands we mutual farewells sent: methought his eyes, when just i lost his view, were looking blessings to be sent to you. _benz._ blind queen of chance, to lovers too severe, thou rulest mankind, but art a tyrant there! thy widest empire's in a lover's breast: like open seas, we seldom are at rest. upon thy coasts our wealth is daily cast; and thou, like pirates, mak'st no peace to last. _to them_ lyndaraxa, _duke of arcos, and guards._ _d. arcos._ we were surprised when least we did suspect, and justly suffered by our own neglect. _lyndar._ no; none but i have reason to complain! so near a kingdom, yet 'tis lost again! o, how unequally in me were joined a creeping fortune, with a soaring mind! o lottery of fate! where still the wise draw blanks of fortune, and the fools the prize! these cross, ill-shuffled lots from heaven are sent, yet dull religion teaches us content; but when we ask it where the blessing dwells, it points to pedant colleges, and cells; there shows it rude, and in a homely dress, and that proud want mistakes for happiness. [_a trumpet within._ _enter_ zulema. brother! what strange adventure brought you here? _zul._ the news i bring will yet more strange appear. the little care you of my life did show, has of a brother justly made a foe; and abdelmelech who that life did save, as justly has deserved that life he gave. _lyndar._ your business cools, while tediously it stays on the low theme of abdelmelech's praise. _zul._ this i present from prince abdalla's hands. [_delivers a letter, which she reads._ _lyndar._ he has proposed, (to free him from his bands) that, with his brother, an exchange be made. _d. arcos._ it proves the same design which we had laid. before the castle let a bar be set; and when the captives on each side are met, with equal numbers chosen for their guard, just at the time the passage is unbarred, let both at once advance, at once be free. _lyndar._ the exchange i will myself in person see. _benz._ i fear to ask, yet would from doubt be freed,-- is selin captive, sir, or is he dead? _zul._ i grieve to tell you what you needs must know,-- he is a prisoner to his greatest foe; kept with strong guards in the alhambra tower; without the reach even of almanzor's power. _ozm._ with grief and shame i am at once opprest. _zul._ you will be more, when i relate the rest. to you i from abenamar am sent, [_to_ ozmyn. and you alone can selin's death prevent. give up yourself a prisoner in his stead; or, ere to-morrow's dawn, believe him dead. _benz._ ere that appear, i shall expire with grief. _zul._ your action swift, your counsel must be brief. _lyndar._ while for abdalla's freedom we prepare, you in each other's breast unload your care. [_exeunt all but_ ozmyn _and_ benzayda. _benz._ my wishes contradictions must imply; you must not go; and yet he must not die. your reason may, perhaps, the extremes unite; but there's a mist of fate before my sight. _ozm._ the two extremes too distant are, to close; and human wit can no mid way propose. my duty therefore shows the nearest way to free your father, and my own obey. _benz._ your father, whom, since yours, i grieve to blame, has lost, or quite forgot, a parent's name; and, when at once possessed of him and you, instead of freeing one, will murder two. _ozm._ fear not my life; but suffer me to go: what cannot only sons with parents do! 'tis not my death my father does pursue; he only would withdraw my love from you. _benz._ now, ozmyn, now your want of love i see; for would you go, and hazard losing me? _ozm._ i rather would ten thousand lives forsake; nor can you e'er believe the doubt you make. this night i with a chosen band will go, and, by surprise, will free him from the foe. _benz._ what foe! ah whither would your virtue fall! it is your father whom the foe you call. darkness and rage will no distinction make, and yours may perish for my father's sake. _ozm._ thus, when my weaker virtue goes astray. yours pulls it back, and guides me in the way: i'll send him word, my being shall depend on selin's life, and with his death shall end. _benz._ 'tis that, indeed, would glut your father's rage: revenge on ozmyn's youth, and selin's age. _ozm._ whate'er i plot, like sysiphus, in vain i heave a stone, that tumbles down again. _benz._ this glorious work is then reserved for me: he is my father, and i'll set him free. these chains my father for my sake does wear: i made the fault; and i the pains will bear. _ozm._ yes; you no doubt have merited these pains; those hands, those tender limbs, were made for chains! did i not love you, yet it were too base to let a lady suffer in my place. those proofs of virtue you before did show, i did admire; but i must envy now. your vast ambition leaves no fame for me, but grasps at universal monarchy. _benz._ yes, ozmyn, i shall still this palm pursue; i will not yield my glory even to you. i'll break those bonds in which my father's tied, or, if i cannot break them, i'll divide. what, though my limbs a woman's weakness show, i have a soul as masculine as you; and when these limbs want strength my chains to wear, my mind shall teach my body how to bear. [_exit_ benz. _ozm._ what i resolve, i must not let her know; but honour has decreed she must not go. what she resolves, i must prevent with care; she shall not in my fame or danger share. i'll give strict order to the guards which wait, that, when she comes, she shall not pass the gate. fortune, at last, has run me out of breath; i have no refuge but the arms of death: to that dark sanctuary i will go; she cannot reach me when i lie so low. [_exit._ scene iii.--_the albayzyn._ _enter, on one side_, almanzor, abdalla, abdelmelech, zulema, hamet. _on the other side, the duke of_ arcos, boabdelin, lyndaraxa, _and their party. after which the bars are opened; and at the same time_ boabdelin _and_ abdalla _pass by each other, each to his party; when_ abdalla _is passed on the other side, the duke of_ arcos _approaches the bars, and calls to_ almanzor. _d. arcos._ the hatred of the brave with battles ends, and foes, who fought for honour, then are friends. i love thee, brave almanzor, and am proud to have one hour when love may be allowed. this hand, in sign of that esteem, i plight; we shall have angry hours enough to fight. [_giving his hand._ _almanz._ the man who dares, like you, in fields appear, and meet my sword, shall be my mistress here. if i am proud, 'tis only to my foes; rough but to such who virtue would oppose. if i some fierceness from a father drew, a mother's milk gives me some softness too. _d. arcos._ since first you took, and after set me free, (whether a sense of gratitude it be, or some more secret motion of my mind, for which i want a name that's more than kind) i shall be glad, by whate'er means i can, to get the friendship of so brave a man; and would your unavailing valour call, from aiding those whom heaven has doomed to fall. we owe you that respect, which to the gods of foes besieged was shown, to call you out before we take your town. _almanz._ those whom we love, we should esteem them too, and not debauch that virtue which we woo. yet, though you give my honour just offence, i'll take your kindness in the better sense; and, since you for my safety seem to fear, i, to return your bribe, should wish you here. but, since i love you more than you do me, in all events preserve your honour free; for that's your own, though not your destiny. _d. arcos._ were you obliged in honour by a trust, i should not think my own proposals just; but since you fight for an unthankful king, what loss of fame can change of parties bring? _almanz._ it will, and may with justice too be thought, that some advantage in that change i sought. and though i twice have changed for wrongs received, that it was done for profit none believed. the king's ingratitude i knew before; so that can be no cause of changing more. if now i stand, when no reward can be, 'twill show the fault before was not in me. _d. arcos._ yet there is a reward to valour due, and such it is as may be sought by you; that beauteous queen, whom you can never gain, while you secure her husband's life and reign. _almanz._ then be it so; let me have no return [_here_ lyndaraxa _comes near, and hears them._ from him but hatred, and from her but scorn. there is this comfort in a noble fate, that i deserve to be more fortunate. you have my last resolve; and now, farewell: my boding heart some mischief does foretell; but what it is, heaven will not let me know. i'm sad to death, that i must be your foe. _d. arcos._ heaven, when we meet, if fatal it must be to one, spare him, and cast the lot on me. [_they retire._ _lyndar._ ah, what a noble conquest were this heart! i am resolved i'll try my utmost art: in gaining him, i gain that fortune too, which he has wedded, and which i but woo. i'll try each secret passage to his mind, and love's soft bands about his heart-strings wind. not his vowed constancy shall 'scape my snare; while he without resistance does prepare, i'll melt into him ere his love's aware. [_she makes a gesture of invitation to_ almanzor, _who returns again_. _lyndar._ you see, sir, to how strange a remedy a persecuted maid is forced to fly: who, much distressed, yet scarce has confidence to make your noble pity her defence. _almanz._ beauty, like yours, can no protection need; or, if it sues, is certain to succeed. to whate'er service you ordain my hand, name your request, and call it your command. _lyndar._ you cannot, sir, but know, that my ill fate has made me loved with all the effects of hate: one lover would, by force, my person gain; which one, as guilty, would by force detain. rash abdelmelech's love i cannot prize, and fond abdalla's passion i despise. as you are brave, so you are prudent too; advise a wretched woman what to do. _almanz._ have courage, fair one, put your trust in me; you shall, at least, from those you hate, be free. resign your castle to the king's command, and leave your love concernments in my hand. _lyndar._ the king, like them, is fierce, and faithless too; how can i trust him who has injured you? keep for yourself, (and you can grant no less) what you alone are worthy to possess. enter, brave sir; for, when you speak the word, these gates will open of their own accord; the genius of the place its lord will meet, and bend its tow'ry forehead to your feet. that little citadel, which now you see, shall, then, the head of conquered nations be; and every turret, from your coming, rise the mother of some great metropolis. _almanz._ 'tis pity, words, which none but gods should hear, should lose their sweetness in a soldier's ear: i am not that almanzor whom you praise; but your fair mouth can fair ideas raise:-- i am a wretch, to whom it is denied to accept, with honour, what i wish with pride; and, since i light not for myself, must bring the fruits of all my conquests to the king. _lyndar._ say rather to the queen, to whose fair name i know you vow the trophies of your fame. i hope she is as kind as she is fair; kinder than inexperienced virgins are to their first loves; (though she has loved before, and that first innocence is now no more:) but, in revenge, she gives you all her heart, (for you are much too brave to take a part.) though, blinded by a crown, she did not see almanzor greater than a king could be, i hope her love repairs her ill-made choice: almanzor cannot be deluded twice. _almanz._ no, not deluded; for none count their gains, who, like almanzor, frankly give their pains. _lyndar._ almanzor, do not cheat yourself, nor me; your love is not refined to that degree: for, since you have desires, and those not blest, your love's uneasy, and at little rest. _almanz._ 'tis true, my own unhappiness i see; but who, alas, can my physician be? love, like a lazy ague, i endure, which fears the water, and abhors the cure. _lyndar._ 'tis a consumption, which your life does waste, still flattering you with hope, till help be past; but, since of cure from her you now despair, you, like consumptive men, should change your air: love somewhere else; 'tis a hard remedy, but yet you owe yourself so much, to try. _almanz._ my love's now grown so much a part of me, that life would, in the cure, endangered be: at least, it like a limb cut off would show; and better die than like a cripple go. _lyndar._ you must be brought like madmen to their cure, and darkness first, and next new bonds endure: do you dark absence to yourself ordain, and i, in charity, will find the chain. _almanz._ love is that madness which all lovers have; but yet 'tis sweet and pleasing so to rave: 'tis an enchantment, where the reason's bound; but paradise is in the enchanted ground; a palace, void of envy, cares and strife, where gentle hours delude so much of life. to take those charms away, and set me free, is but to send me into misery; and prudence, of whose cure so much you boast, restores those pains, which that sweet folly lost. _lyndar._ i would not, like philosophers, remove, but show you a more pleasing shape of love. you a sad, sullen, froward love did see; i'll show him kind, and full of gaiety. in short, almanzor, it shall be my care to show you love; for you but saw despair. _almanz._ i, in the shape of love, despair did see; you, in his shape, would show inconstancy. _lyndar._ there's no such thing as constancy you call; faith ties not hearts; 'tis inclination all. some wit deformed, or beauty much decayed, first constancy in love a virtue made. from friendship they that land-mark did remove, and falsely placed it on the bounds of love. let the effects of change be only tried; court me, in jest, and call me almahide: but this is only counsel i impart, for i, perhaps, should not receive your heart. _almanz._ fair though you are as summer mornings, and your eyes more bright than stars that twinkle in a winter's night; though you have eloquence to warm and move cold age, and praying hermits, into love; though almahide with scorn rewards my care,-- yet, than to change, 'tis nobler to despair. my love's my soul; and that from fate is free; 'tis that unchanged and deathless part of me. _lyndar._ the fate of constancy your love pursue! still to be faithful to what's false to you. [_turns from him, and goes off angrily._ _almanz._ ye gods, why are not hearts first paired above, but some still interfere in others' love! ere each for each by certain marks are known, you mould them up in haste, and drop them down; and, while we seek what carelessly you sort, you sit in state, and make our pains your sport. [_exeunt on both sides._ act iv. scene i. _enter_ abenamar, _and soldier._ _aben._ haste and conduct the prisoner to my sight. [_exit soldier, and immediately enters with_ selin _bound._ _aben._ did you, according to my orders, write? [_to_ selin and have you summoned ozmyn to appear? _selin._ i am not yet so much a slave to fear, nor has your son deserved so ill of me, that by his death or bonds i would be free. _aben._ against thy life thou dost the sentence give; behold how short a time thou hast to live. _selin._ make haste, and draw the curtain while you may; you but shut out the twilight of my day. beneath the burden of my age i bend: you kindly ease me ere my journey's end. [_to them a soldier with_ ozmyn; ozmyn _kneels._ _aben._ to _selin._ it is enough, my promise makes you free; resign your bonds, and take your liberty. _ozm._ sir, you are just, and welcome are these bands; 'tis all the inheritance a son demands. _selin._ your goodness, o my ozmyn, is too great; i am not weary of my fetters yet: already, when you move me to resign, i feel them heavier on your feet than mine. _enter another soldier._ _sold._ a youth attends you in the outer room, who seems in haste, and does from ozmyn come. _aben._ conduct him in.-- _ozm._ sent from benzayda, i fear, to me. _to them_ benzayda, _in the habit of a man._ _benz._ my ozmyn here! _ozm._ benzayda! 'tis she!-- go youth, i have no business for thee here; go to the albayzyn, and attend me there. i'll not be long away; i pray thee go, by all our love and friendship-- _benz._ ozmyn, no: i did not take on me this bold disguise, for ends so low, to cheat your watchmen's eyes. when i attempted this, it was to do an action, to be envied even by you; but you, alas, have been too diligent, and what i purposed fatally prevent! those chains, which for my father i would bear, i take with less content to find you here; except your father will that mercy show, that i may wear them both for him and you. _aben._ i thank thee, fortune! thou hast, in one hour, put all i could have asked thee in my power. my own lost wealth thou giv'st not only back, but driv'st upon my coast my pirate's wreck. _selin._ with ozmyn's kindness i was grieved before, but yours, benzayda, has' undone me more. _aben._ to a _soldier._ go fetch new fetters, and the daughter bind. _ozm._ be just at least, sir, though you are not kind: benzayda is not as a prisoner brought, but comes to suffer for another's fault. _aben._ then, ozmyn, mark, that justice which i do, i, as severely, will exact from you: the father is not wholly dead in me; or you may yet revive it, if it be. like tapers new blown out, the fumes remain, to catch the light, and bring it back again. benzayda gave you life, and set you free; for that, i will restore her liberty. _ozm._ sir, on my knees i thank you. _aben._ ozmyn, hold; one part of what i purpose is untold: consider, then, it on your part remains, when i have broke, not to resume your chains. like an indulgent father, i have paid all debts, which you, my prodigal, have made. now you are clear, break off your fond design, renounce benzayda, and be wholly mine. _ozm._ are these the terms? is this the liberty? ah, sir, how can you so inhuman be? my duty to my life i will prefer; but life and duty must give place to her. _aben._ consider what you say, for, with one breath, you disobey my will, and give her death. _ozm._ ah, cruel father, what do you propose! must i then kill benzayda, or must lose? i can do neither; in this wretched state. the least that i can suffer is your hate; and yet that's worse than death: even while i sue, and choose your hatred, i could die for you. break quickly, heart, or let my blood be spilt by my own hand, to save a father's guilt. _benz._ hear me, my lord, and take this wretched life, to free you from the fear of ozmyn's wife. i beg but what with ease may granted be, to spare your son, and kill your enemy; or, if my death's a grace too great to give, let me, my lord, without my ozmyn live. far from your sight and ozmyn's let me go, and take from him a care, from you a foe. _ozm._ how, my benzayda! can you thus resign that love, which you have vowed so firmly mine? can you leave me for life and liberty? _benz._ what i have done will show that i dare die; but i'll twice suffer death, and go away, rather than make you wretched by my stay: by this my father's freedom will be won; and to your father i restore a son. _selin._ cease, cease, my children, your unhappy strife, selin will not be ransomed by your life. barbarian, thy old foe defies thy rage; [_to_ aben. turn, from their youth, thy malice to my age. _benz._ forbear, dear father! for your ozmyn's sake, do not such words to ozmyn's father speak. _ozm._ alas, 'tis counterfeited rage; he strives but to divert the danger from our lives: for i can witness, sir, and you might see, how in your person he considered me. he still declined the combat where you were; and you well know it was not out of fear. _benz._ alas, my lord, where can your vengeance fall? your justice will not let it reach us all. selin and ozmyn both would sufferers be; and punishment's a favour done to me. if we are foes, since you have power to kill, 'tis generous in you not to have the will; but, are we foes? look round, my lord, and see; point out that face which is your enemy. would you your hand in selin's blood embrue? kill him unarmed, who, armed, shunned killing you? am i your foe? since you detest my line, that hated name of zegry i resign: for you, benzayda will herself disclaim; call me your daughter, and forget my name. _selin._ this virtue would even savages subdue; and shall it want the power to vanquish you? _ozm._ it has, it has; i read it in his eyes; 'tis now not anger, 'tis but shame denies; a shame of error, that great spirits find, when keeps down virtue struggling in the mind. _aben._ yes, i am vanquished! the fierce conflict's past, and shame itself is now o'ercome at last. 'twas long before my stubborn mind was won; but, melting once, i on the sudden run; nor can i hold my headlong kindness more, than i could curb my cruel rage before. [_runs to_ benz., _and embraces her._ benzayda, 'twas your virtue vanquished me; that could alone surmount my cruelty. [_runs to_ selin, _and unbinds him._ forgive me, selin, my neglect of you; but men, just waking, scarce know what they do. _ozm._ o father! _benz._ father! _aden._ dare i own that name! speak, speak it often, to remove my shame. [_they all embrace him._ o selin, o my children, let me go! i have more kindness than i yet can show. for my recovery i must shun your sight; eyes used to darkness cannot bear the light. [_he runs in, they following him._ scene ii.--_the albayzyn._ _enter_ almanzor, abdelmelech, _soldiers._ _almanz._ 'tis war again, and i am glad 'tis so; success shall now by force and courage go. treaties are but the combat of the brain, where still the stronger lose, and weaker gain. _abdelm._ on this assault, brave sir, which we prepare, depends the sum and fortune of the war. encamped without the fort the spaniard lies, and may, in spite of us, send in supplies. consider yet, ere we attack the place, what 'tis to storm it in an army's face. _almanz._ the minds of heroes their own measures are, they stand exempted from the rules of war. one loose, one sally of the hero's soul, does all the military art controul; while timorous wit goes round, or fords the shore, he shoots the gulph, and is already o'er; and, when the enthusiastic fit is spent, looks back amazed at what he underwent. [_exeunt._ [_an alarum within._ _re-enter_ almanzor _and_ abdelmelech, _with their soldiers._ _abdelm._ they fly, they fly; take breath and charge again. _almanz._ make good your entrance, and bring up more men. i feared, brave friend, my aid had been too late. _abdelm._ you drew us from the jaws of certain fate. at my approach, the gate was open, and the draw-bridge down; but, when they saw i stood, and came not on, they charged with fury on my little band, who, much o'erpowered, could scarce the shock withstand. _almanz._ ere night we shall the whole albayzyn gain. but see, the spaniards march along the plain to its relief; you, abdelmelech, go, and force the rest, while i repulse the foe. [_exit_ almanzor. _enter_ abdalla, _and some few soldiers, who seem fearful._ _abdal._ turn cowards, turn! there is no hope in flight; you yet may live, if you but dare to fight. come, you brave few, who only fear to fly, we're not enough to conquer, but to die. _abdelm._ no, prince, that mean advantage i refuse; 'tis in your power a nobler fate to choose. since we are rivals, honour does command we should not die, but by each other's hand. retire; and, if it prove my destiny [_to his men._ to fall, i charge you let the prince go free. [_the soldiers depart on both sides._ _abdal._ o, abdelmelech, that i knew some way this debt of honour, which i owe, to pay! but fate has left this only means for me, to die, and leave you lyndaraxa free. _abdelm._ he, who is vanquished and is slain, is blest; the wretched conqueror can ne'er have rest; but is reserved a harder fate to prove. bound in the fetters of dissembled love. _abdal._ now thou art base, and i deserve her more; without complaint i will to death adore. dar'st thou see faults, and yet dost love pretend? i will even lyndaraxa's crimes defend. _abdelm._ maintain her cause, then, better than thy own,-- than thy ill got, and worse defended throne. [_they fight,_ abdalla _falls._ _abdelm._ now ask your life. _abdal._ 'tis gone; that busy thing, the soul, is packing up, and just on wing, like parting swallows, when they seek the spring: like them, at its appointed time, it goes, and flies to countries more unknown than those. _enter_ lyndaraxa _hastily, sees them, and is going out again._ abdelmelech _stops her._ _abdelm._ no, you shall stay, and see a sacrifice, not offered by my sword, but by your eyes. from those he first ambitious poison drew, and swelled to empire from the love of you. accursed fair! thy comet-blaze portends a prince's fate; and suffering subjects groan beneath thy weight. _abdal._ cease, rival, cease! i would have forced you, but it wonnot be; i beg you now, upbraid her not for me. you, fairest, to my memory be kind! [_to_ lyndar. lovers like me your sex will seldom find. when i usurped a crown for love of you, i then did more, than, dying, now i do. i'm still the same as when my love begun; and, could i now this fate foresee or shun, would yet do all i have already done. [_dies._ [_she puts her handkerchief to her eyes._ _abdelm._ weep on, weep on, for it becomes you now; these tears you to that love may well allow. his unrepenting soul, if it could move upward in crimes, flew spotted with your love; and brought contagion to the blessed above. _lyndar._ he's gone, and peace go with a constant mind! his love deserved i should have been more kind; but then your love and greater worth i knew: i was unjust to him, but just to you. _abdelm._ i was his enemy, and rival too, yet i some tears to his misfortune owe: you owe him more; weep then, and join with me: so much is due even to humanity. _lyndar._ weep for this wretch, whose memory i hate! whose folly made us both unfortunate! weep for this fool, who did my laughter move! this whining, tedious, heavy lump of love! _abdelm._ had fortune favoured him, and frowned on me, i then had been that heavy fool, not he: just this had been my funeral elegy. thy arts and falsehood i before did know, but this last baseness was concealed till now; and 'twas no more than needful to be known; i could be cured by such an act alone. my love, half blasted, yet in time would shoot; but this last tempest rends it to the root. _lyndar._ these little piques, which now your anger move, will vanish, and are only signs of love. you've been too fierce; and, at some other time, i should not with such ease forgive your crime: but, in a day of public joy like this, i pardon, and forget whate'er's amiss. _abdelm._ these arts have oft prevailed, but must no more: the spell is ended, and the enchantment o'er. you have at last destroyed, with much ado, that love, which none could have destroyed, but you. my love was blind to your deluding art; but blind men feel, when stabbed so near the heart. _lyndar._ i must confess there was some pity due; but i concealed it out of love to you. _abdelm._ no, lyndaraxa; 'tis at last too late: our loves have mingled with too much of fate. i would, but cannot now, myself deceive: o that you still could cheat, and i believe! _lyndar._ do not so light a quarrel long pursue: you grieve your rival was less loved than you. 'tis hard, when men of kindness must complain! _abdelm._ i'm now awake, and cannot dream again. _lyndar._ yet hear-- _abdelm._ no more; nothing my heart can bend: that queen, you scorned, you shall this night attend. your life the king has pardoned for my sake; but on your pride i some revenge must take. see now the effects of what your arts designed! thank your inconstant and ambitious mind. 'tis just that she, who to no love is true, should be forsaken, and contemned, like you. _lyndar._ all arts of injured women i will try: first i will be revenged; and then i'll die. but like some falling tower, whose seeming firmness does the sight beguile, so hold i up my nodding head a while, till they come under; and reserve my fall, that with my ruins i may reach them all, _abdelm._ conduct her hence. [_exit_ lyndar. _guarded._ _enter a soldier._ _sold._ almanzor is victorious without fight; the foes retreated when he came in sight. under the walls, this night, his men are drawn, and mean to seek the spaniard with the dawn. _abdelm._ the sun's declined: command the watch be set without delay, and in the fort let bold benducar stay.-- [_exit sold._ i'll haste to court, where solitude i'll fly, and herd, like wounded deer, in company. but oh, how hard a passion to remove, when i must shun myself, to 'scape from love! [_exit._ scene iii.--_a gallery in the alhambra._ zulema, hamet. _hamet._ i thought your passion for the queen was dead, or that your love had, with your hopes, been fled. _zul._ 'twas like a fire within a furnace pent: i smothered it, and kept it long from vent; but, fed with looks, and blown with sighs so fast, it broke a passage through my lips at last. _hamet._ where found you confidence your suit to move? our broken fortunes are not fit to love. well; you declared your love:--what followed then? _zul._ she looked as judges do on guilty men, when big with fate they triumph in their dooms, and smile before the deadly sentence comes. silent i stood, as i were thunder-struck; condemned and executed with a look. _hamet._ you must, with haste, some remedy prepare: now you are in, you must break through the snare. _zul._ she said, she would my folly yet conceal; but vowed my next attempt she would reveal. _hamet._ 'tis dark; and in this lonely gallery, remote from noise, and shunning every eye, one hour each evening she in private mourns, and prays, and to the circle then returns. _zul._ these lighted tapers show the time is nigh. perhaps my courtship will not be in vain: at least, few women will of force complain. _at the other end of the gallery, enter_ almanzor _and_ esperanza. _hamet._ almanzor, and with him the favourite slave of the sultana queen. _zul._ ere they approach, let us retire unseen, and watch our time when they return again: then force shall give, if favour does deny; and, that once done, we'll to the spaniards fly. [_exeunt_ zul. _and_ hamet. _almanz._ now stand; the apartment of the queen is near; and, from this place, your voice will reach her ear. [esperanza _goes out._ song, in two parts. i. he. _how unhappy a lover am i, while i sigh for my phillis in vain; all my hopes of delight are another man's right, who is happy, while i am in pain!_ ii. she. _since her honour allows no relief, but to pity the pains which you bear, 'tis the best of your fate in a hopeless estate, to give o'er, and betimes to despair._ iii. he. _i have tried the false med'cine in vain; for i wish what i hope not to win: from without, my desire has no food to its fire; but it burns and consumes me within._ iv. she. _yet, at least, 'tis a pleasure to know that you are not unhappy alone: for the nymph you adore is as wretched, and more; and counts all your sufferings her own._ v. he. _o ye gods, let me suffer for both; at the feet of my phyllis i'll lie: i'll resign up my breath, and take pleasure in death to be pitied by her when i die._ vi. she. _what her honour denied you in life, in her death she will give to your love. such flame as is true after fate will renew, for the souls to meet closer above._ _enter_ esperanza _again, after the song._ _almanz._ accept this diamond, till i can present something more worthy my acknowledgement. and now farewell: i will attend, alone, her coming forth; and make my sufferings known. [_exit_ esperanza. a hollow wind comes whistling through that door, and a cold shivering seizes me all o'er; my teeth, too, chatter with a sudden fright:-- these are the raptures of too fierce delight, the combat of the tyrants, hope and fear; which hearts, for want of field-room, cannot bear. i grow impatient;--this, or that's the room:-- i'll meet her;--now methinks, i her her come. [_he goes to the door; the ghost of his mother meets him: he starts back: the ghost stands in the door._ well may'st thou make thy boast, whate'er thou art! thou art the first e'er made almanzor start. my legs shall bear me to thee in their own despite: i'll rush into the covert of thy night, and pull thee backward, by the shroud, to light; or else i'll squeeze thee, like a bladder, there, and make thee groan thyself away to air. [_the ghost retires._ so, thou art gone! thou canst no conquest boast: i thought what was the courage of a ghost.-- the grudging of my ague yet remains; my blood, like icicles, hangs in my veins, and does not drop:--be master of that door, we two will not disturb each other more. i erred a little, but extremes may join; that door was hell's, but this is heaven's and mine. [_goes to the other door, and is met again by the ghost._ again! by heaven, i do conjure thee, speak! what art thou, spirit? and what dost thou seek? [_the ghost comes on softly after the conjuration; and_ almanzor _retires to the middle of the stage._ _ghost._ i am the ghost of her who gave thee birth; the airy shadow of her mouldering earth. love of thy father me through seas did guide; on seas i bore thee, and on seas i died. i died; and for my winding sheet a wave i had, and all the ocean for my grave. but, when my soul to bliss did upward move, i wandered round the crystal walls above; but found the eternal fence so steeply high, that, when i mounted to the middle sky, i flagged, and fluttered down, and could not fly. then, from the battlements of the heavenly tower, a watchman angel bid me wait this hour; and told me, i had yet a task assigned, to warn that little pledge i left behind; and to divert him, ere it were too late, from crimes unknown, and errors of his fate. _almanz._ speak, holy shade; thou parent-form, speak on! [_bowing._ instruct thy mortal-elemented son; for here i wander, to myself unknown. but o, thou better part of heavenly air, teach me, kind spirit, since i'm still thy care, my parents' names: if i have yet a father, let me know to whose old age my humble youth must bow, and pay its duty, if he mortal be, or adoration, if a mind, like thee. _ghost._ then, what i may, i'll tell.-- from ancient blood thy father's lineage springs, thy mother's thou deriv'st from stems of kings. a christian born, and born again that day, when sacred water washed thy sins away. yet, bred in errors, thou dost misemploy that strength heaven gave thee, and its flock destroy. _almanz._ by reason, man a godhead may discern, but how he should be worshipped cannot learn. _ghost._ heaven does not now thy ignorance reprove, but warns thee from known crimes of lawless love. that crime thou knowest, and, knowing, dost not shun, shall an unknown and greater crime pull on: but if, thus warned, thou leav'st this cursed place, then shalt thou know the author of thy race. once more i'll see thee; then my charge is done. far hence, upon the mountains of the moon, is my abode; where heaven and nature smile, and strew with flowers the secret bed of nile. blessed souls are there refined, and made more bright, and, in the shades of heaven, prepared for light. [_exit ghost._ _almanz._ o heaven, how dark a riddle's thy decree, which bounds our wills, yet seems to leave them free! since thy fore-knowledge cannot be in vain, our choice must be what thou didst first ordain. thus, like a captive in an isle confined, man walks at large, a prisoner of the mind: wills all his crimes, while heaven the indictment draws, and, pleading guilty, justifies the laws. let fate be fate; the lover and the brave are ranked, at least, above the vulgar slave. love makes me willing to my death to run; and courage scorns the death it cannot shun. _enter_ almahide _with a taper._ _almah._ my light will sure discover those who talk.-- who dares to interrupt my private walk? _almanz._ he, who dares love, and for that love must die, and, knowing this, dares yet love on, am i. _almah._ that love which you can hope, and i can pay, may be received and given in open day: my praise and my esteem you had before; and you have bound yourself to ask no more. _almanz._ yes, i have bound myself; but will you take the forfeit of that bond, which force did make? _almah._ you know you are from recompence debarred; but purest love can live without reward. _almanz._ pure love had need be to itself a feast; for, like pure elements, 'twill nourish least. _almah._ it therefore yields the only pure content; for it, like angels, needs no nourishment. to eat and drink can no perfection be; all appetite implies necessity. _almanz._ 'twere well, if i could like a spirit live; but, do not angels food to mortals give? what if some demon should my death foreshow, or bid me change, and to the christians go; will you not think i merit some reward, when i my love above my life regard? _almah._ in such a case your change must be allowed: i would myself dispense with what you vowed. _almanz._ were i to die that hour when i possess, this minute shall begin my happiness. _almah._ the thoughts of death your passion would remove; death is a cold encouragement to love. _almanz._ no; from my joys i to my death would run, and think the business of my life well done: but i should walk a discontented ghost, if flesh and blood were to no purpose lost. _almah._ you love me not, almanzor; if you did, you would not ask what honour must forbid. _almanz._ and what is honour, but a love well hid? _almah._ yes, 'tis the conscience of an act well done, which gives us power our own desires to shun; the strong and secret curb of headlong will; the self-reward of good, and shame of ill. _almanz._ these, madam, are the maxims of the day, when honour's present, and when love's away. the duty of poor honour were too hard, in arms all day, at night to mount the guard. let him, in pity, now to rest retire; let these soft hours be watched by warm desire. _almah._ guards, who all day on painful duty keep, in dangers are not privileged to sleep. _almanz._ and with what dangers are you threatened here? am i, alas! a foe for you to fear? see, madam, at your feet this enemy; [_kneels._ without your pity and your love i die. _almah._ rise, rise, and do not empty hopes pursue; yet think that i deny myself, not you. _almanz._ a happiness so high i cannot bear: my love's too fierce, and you too killing fair. i grow enraged to see such excellence!-- if words, so much disordered, give offence, my love's too full of zeal to think of sense. be you like me; dull reason hence remove, and tedious forms, and give a loose to love. love eagerly; let us be gods to-night; and do not, with half yielding, clash delight. _almah._ thou strong seducer, opportunity! of womankind, half are undone by thee! though i resolve i will not be misled, i wish i had not heard what you have said! i cannot be so wicked to comply; and, yet, am most unhappy to deny! away! _almanz._ i will not move me from this place: i can take no denial from that face! _almah._ if i could yield,--but think not that i will,-- you and myself i in revenge should kill; for i should hate us both, when it were done, and would not to the shame of life be won. _almanz._ live but to-night, and trust to-morrow's mind: ere that can come, there's a whole life behind. methinks, already crowned with joys i lie, speechless and breathless, in an ecstasy! not absent in one thought: i am all there: still close, yet wishing still to be more near. _almah._ deny your own desires; for it will be too little now to be denied by me. will he, who does all great, all noble seem, be lost and forfeit to his own esteem? will he, who may with heroes claim a place, belie that fame, and to himself be base? think how august and godlike you did look, when my defence, unbribed, you undertook; but, when an act so brave you disavow, how little, and how mercenary now! _almanz._ are, then, my services no higher prized? and can i fall so low, to be despised? _almah._ yes; for whatever may be bought, is low; and you yourself, who sell yourself, are so. remember the great act you did this day: how did your love to virtue then give way! when you gave freedom to my captive lord,-- that rival who possessed what you adored,-- of such a deed what price can there be made? think well; is that an action to be paid? it was a miracle of virtue shown; and wonders are with wonder paid alone. and would you all that secret joy of mind, which great souls only in great actions find, all that, for one tumultuous minute lose? _almanz_, i would that minute before ages chuse. praise is the pay of heaven for doing good; but love's the best return for flesh and blood. _almah._ you've moved my heart so much, i can deny no move; but know, almanzor, i can die. thus far my virtue yields; if i have shown more love than what i ought, let this atone. [_going to stab herself._ _almanz._ hold, hold! such fatal proofs of love you shall not give: deny me; hate me; both are just,--but live! your virtue i will ne'er disturb again; nor dare to ask, for fear i should obtain. _almah._ 'tis generous to have conquered your desire; you mount above your wish, and lose it higher. there's pride in virtue, and a kindly heat; not feverish, like your love, but full as great. farewell; and may our loves hereafter be but image-like, to heighten piety. _almanz._ 'tis time i should be gone.-- alas! i am but half converted yet; all i resolve, i with one look forget; and, like a lion, whom no arts can tame, shall tear even those, who would my rage reclaim. [_exeunt severally._ [zulema _and_ hamet _watch_ almanzor; _and when he is gone, go in after the queen._ _enter_ abdelmelech _and_ lyndaraxa. _lyndar._ it is enough, you've brought me to this place: here stop, and urge no further my disgrace. kill me; in death your mercy will be seen, but make me not a captive to the queen. _abdelm._ 'tis therefore i this punishment provide: this only can revenge me on your pride. prepare to suffer what you shun in vain; and know, you now are to obey, not reign. _enter_ almahide _shrieking; her hair loose; she runs over the stage._ _almah._ help, help, o heaven, some help! _enter_ zulema _and_ hamet. _zul._ make haste before, and intercept her passage to the door. _abdelm._ villains, what act are you attempting here! _almah._ i thank thee, heaven! some succour does appear. [_as_ abdelmelech _is going to help the queen,_ lyndaraxa _pulls out his sword, and holds it._ _abdelm._ with what ill fate my good design is curst! _zul._ we have no time to think; dispatch him first. _abdelm._ o for a sword! [_they make at_ abdelmelech; _he goes off at one door, while the queen escapes at the other._ _zul._ ruined! _hamet._ undone! _lyndar._ and, which is worst of all, he is escaped. _zul._ i hear them loudly call. _lyndar._ your fear will lose you; call as loud as they: i have not time to teach you what to say. the court will in a moment all be here; but second what i say, and do not fear. call help; run that way; leave the rest to me. [zul. _and_ hamet _retire, and within cry,_--help! _enter, at several doors, the king_, abenamar, selin, ozmyn, almanzor, _with guards attending_ boabdelin. _boab._ what can the cause of all this tumult be? and what the meaning of that naked sword? _lyndar._ i'll tell, when fear will so much breath afford.-- the queen and abdelmelech--'twill not out-- even i, who saw it, of the truth yet doubt, it seems so strange. _almanz._ did she not name the queen? haste; speak. _lyndar._ how dare i speak what i have seen?-- with hamet, and with zulema i went, to pay both theirs, and my acknowledgment to almahide, and by her mouth implore your clemency, our fortunes to restore. we chose this hour, which we believed most free, when she retired from noise and company. the ante-chamber past, we gently knocked, unheard it seems, but found the lodgings locked, in duteous silence while we waited there, we first a noise, and then long whispers hear; yet thought it was the queen at prayers alone, till she distinctly said,--if this were known, my love, what shame, what danger would ensue! yet i,--and sighed,--could venture more for you! _boab._ o heaven, what do i hear! _almanz._ let her go on. _lyndar._ and how,--then murmured in a bigger tone another voice,--and how should it be known? this hour is from your court attendants free; the king suspects almanzor, but not me. _zul._ i find her drift; hamet, be confident; [_at the door._ second her words, and fear not the event. zulema _and_ hamet _enter. the king embraces them._ _boab._ welcome, my only friends;--behold in me, o kings, behold the effects of clemency! see here the gratitude of pardoned foes! that life, i gave them, they for me expose! _hamet._ though abdelmelech was our friend before, when duty called us, he was so no more. _almanz._ damn your delay!--you torturers, proceed! i will not hear one word but almahide. _boab._ when you, within, the traitor's voice did hear, what did you then? _zul._ i durst not trust my ear; but, peeping through the key-hole, i espied the queen, and abdelmelech by her side; she on the couch, he on her bosom lay; her hand about his neck his head did stay, and from his forehead wiped the drops away. _boab._ go on, go on, my friends, to clear my doubt; i hope i shall have life to hear you out. _zul_ what had been, sir, you may suspect too well; what followed, modesty forbids to tell: seeing what we had thought beyond belief, our hearts so swelled with anger and with grief, that, by plain force, we strove the door to break. he, fearful, and with guilt, or love, grown weak, just as we entered, 'scaped the other way; nor did the amazed queen behind him stay. _lyndar._ his sword, in so much haste, he could not mind; but left this witness of his crime behind. _boab._ o proud, ungrateful, faithless womankind! how changed, and what a monster am i made! my love, my honour, ruined and betrayed! _almanz._ your love and honour! mine are ruined worse:-- furies and hell!--what right have you to curse? dull husband as you are, what can your love, or what your honour, be? i am her lover, and she's false to me. _boab._ go; when the authors of my shame are found, let them be taken instantly and bound: they shall be punished as our laws require: 'tis just, that flames should be condemned to fire. this, with the dawn of morning shall be done. _aben._ you haste too much her execution. her condemnation ought to be deferred; with justice, none can be condemned unheard. _boab._ a formal process tedious is, and long; besides, the evidence is full and strong. _lyndar._ the law demands two witnesses; and she is cast, for which heaven knows i grieve, by three. _ozm._ hold, sir! since you so far insist on law, we can from thence one just advantage draw: that law, which dooms adultresses to die, gives champions, too, to slandered chastity. _almanz._ and how dare you, who from my bounty live, intrench upon my love's prerogative? your courage in your own concernments try; brothers are things remote, while i am by. _ozm._ i knew not you thus far her cause would own, and must not suffer you to fight alone: let two to two in equal combat join; you vindicate her person, i her line. _lyndar._ of all mankind, almanzor has least right in her defence, who wrong'd his love, to fight. _almanz._ 'tis false: she is not ill, nor can she be; she must be chaste, because she's loved by me. _zul._ dare you, what sense and reason prove, deny? _almanz._ when she's in question, sense and reason lie. _zul._ for truth, and for my injured sovereign, what i have said, i will to death maintain. _ozm._ so foul a falsehood, whoe'er justifies, is basely born, and, like a villain, lies. in witness of that truth, be this my gage. [_takes a ring from his finger._ _hamet._ i take it; and despise a traitor's rage. _boab._ the combat's yours.--a guard the lists surround; then raise a scaffold in the encompassed ground, and, by it, piles of wood; in whose just fire, her champions slain, the adultress shall expire. _aben._ we ask no favour, but what arms will yield. _boab._ choose, then, two equal judges of the field: next morning shall decide the doubtful strife, condemn the unchaste, or quit the virtuous wife. _almanz._ but i am both ways cursed: for almahide must die, if i am slain; or for my rival i the conquest gain. [_exeunt._ act v. scene i. almanzor _solus._ i have outfac'd myself; and justified, what i knew false, to all the world beside. she was as faithless as her sex could be; and, now i am alone, she's so to me. she's fallen! and, now, where shall we virtue find? she was the last that stood of womankind. could she so holily my flames remove, and fall that hour to abdelmelech's love? yet her protection i must undertake; not now for love, but for my honour's sake, that moved me first, and must oblige me still: my cause is good, however her's be ill. i'll leave her, when she's freed; and let it be her punishment, she could be false to me. _to him_ abdelmelech, _guarded._ _abdelm._ heaven is not heaven, nor are there deities there is some new rebellion in the skies. all that was good and holy is dethroned, and lust and rapine are for justice owned. _almanz._ 'tis true; what justice in that heaven can be, which thus affronts me with the sight of thee? why must i be from just revenge debarred? chains are thy arms, and prisons are thy guard: the death, thou diest, may to a husband be a satisfaction; but 'tis none to me. my love would justice to itself afford; but now thou creep'st to death below my sword. _abdelm._ this threatening would show better were i free. _almanz._ no; wert thou freed, i would not threaten thee; this arm should then--but now it is too late! i could redeem thee to a nobler fate. as some huge rock, rent from its quarry, does the waves divide, so i would souse upon thy guards, and dash them wide: then, to my rage left naked and alone, thy too much freedom thou should'st soon bemoan: dared like a lark, that, on the open plain pursued and cuffed, seeks shelter now in vain; so on the ground wouldst thou expecting lie, not daring to afford me victory. but yet thy fate's not ripe; it is decreed, before thou diest, that almahide be freed. my honour first her danger must remove, and then revenge on thee my injured love. [_exeunt severally._ scene ii. _the_ scene _changes to the vivarambla, and appears filled with spectators; a scaffold hung with black._ _enter the_ queen _guarded, with_ esperanza. _almah._ see how the gazing people crowd the place, all gaping to be filled with my disgrace. [_a shout within._ that shout, like the hoarse peals of vultures, rings, when over fighting fields they beat their wings.-- let never woman trust in innocence, or think her chastity its own defence; mine has betrayed me to this public shame, and virtue, which i served, is but a name. _esper._ leave then that shadow, and for succour fly to him we serve, the christian's deity. virtue's no god, nor has she power divine: but he protects it, who did first enjoin. trust then in him; and from his grace implore faith to believe, what rightly we adore. _almah._ thou power unknown, if i have erred, forgive! my infancy was taught what i believe. but if the christians truly worship thee, let me thy godhead in thy succour see: so shall thy justice in my safety shine, and all my days, which thou shalt add, be thine! _enter the_ king, abenamar, lyndaraxa, benzayda: _then_ abdelmelech _guarded; and after him_ selin _and_ alabez, _as judges of the field._ _boab._ you, judges of the field, first take your place.-- the accusers and accused bring face to face. set guards, and let the lists be opened wide; and may just heaven assist the juster side! _almah._ what! not one tender look, one passing word? farewell, my much unkind, but still loved lord! your throne was for my humble fate too high, and therefore heaven thinks fit that i should die. my story be forgot, when i am dead, lest it should fright some other from your bed; and, to forget me, may you soon adore some happier maid,--yet none could love you more. but may you never think me innocent, lest it should cause you trouble to repent. _boab._ 'tis pity so much beauty should not live; [_aside._ yet i too much am injured, to forgive. [_goes to his seat._ _trumpets: then enter two moors, bearing two naked swords before the accusers_ zulema _and_ hamet, _who follow them. the judges seat themselves; the_ queen _and_ abdelmelech _are led to the scaffold._ _alabez._ say for what end you thus in arms appear; what are your names, and what demand you here? _zul._ the zegrys' ancient race our lineage claims; and zulema and hamet are our names. like loyal subjects in these lists we stand, and justice in our king's behalf demand. _hamet._ for whom, in witness of what both have seen, bound by our duty, we appeach the queen and abdelmelech, of adultery. _zul._ which, like true knights, we will maintain, or die. _alabez._ swear on the alcoran your cause is right, and mahomet so prosper you in fight. [_they touch their foreheads with the alcoran, and bow._ _trumpets on the other side of the stage; two moors, as before, with bare swords before_ almanzor _and_ ozmyn. _selin._ say for what end you thus in arms appear; what are your names, and what demand you here? _almanz._ ozmyn is his, almanzor is my name; we come as champions of the queen's fair fame. _ozm._ to prove these zegrys, like false traitors, lie; which, like true knights, we will maintain, or die. _selin._ [_to_ almah.] madam, do you for champions take these two, by their success to live or die? _almah._ i do. _selin._ swear on the alcoran your cause is right; and mahomet so prosper you in fight. [_they kiss the alcoran._ [ozmyn _and_ benzayda _embrace, and take leave in dumb show; while_ lyndaraxa _speaks to her brother._ _lyndar._ if you o'ercome, let neither of them live, but use with care the advantages i give: one of their swords in fight shall useless be; the bearer of it is suborned by me. [_she and_ benzayda _retire._ _alabez._ now, principals and seconds, all advance, and each of you assist his fellow's chance. _selin._ the wind and sun we equally divide, so let the event of arms the truth decide. the chances of the fight, and every wound, the trumpets, on the victor's part, resound. [_the trumpets sound;_ almanzor _and_ zulema _meet and fight;_ ozmyn _and_ hamet. _after some passes, the sword of_ ozmyn _breaks; he retires, defending himself, and is wounded; the zegrys' trumpets sound their advantage._ almanzor, _in the mean time, drives_ zulema _to the farther end of the stage, till, hearing the trumpets of the adverse party, he looks back, and sees_ ozmyn's _misfortune; he makes at_ zulema _just as_ ozmyn _falls, in retiring, and_ hamet _is thrusting at him._ _hamet._ [_to_ ozmyn, _thrusting._] our difference now shall soon determined be. _almanz._ hold, traitor, and defend thyself from me. [hamet _leaves_ ozmyn _(who cannot rise), and both he and_ zulema _fall on_ almanzor, _and press him; he retires, and_ hamet, _advancing first, is run through the body, and falls. the queen's trumpets sound._ almanzor _pursues_ zulema. _lyndar._ i must make haste some remedy to find:-- treason, almanzor, treason! look behind. [almanzor _looks behind him to see who calls, and_ zulema _takes the advantage, and wounds him; the zegrys' trumpets sound;_ almanzor _turns upon_ zulema, _and wounds him; he falls. the queens trumpets sound._ _almanz._ now triumph in thy sister's treachery. [_stabbing him._ _zul._ hold, hold! i have enough to make me die, but, that i may in peace resign my breath, i must confess my crime before my death. mine is the guilt; the queen is innocent: i loved her, and, to compass my intent, used force, which abdelmelech did prevent. the lie my sister forged; but, o! my fate comes on too soon, and i repent too late. fair queen, forgive; and let my penitence expiate some part of-- [_dies._ _almah._ even thy whole offence! _almanz._ [_to the judges._] if aught remains in the sultana's cause, i here am ready to fulfil the laws. _selin._ the law is fully satisfied, and we pronounce the queen and abdelmelech free. _abdelm._ heaven, thou art just! [_the judges rise from their seats, and go before_ almanzor _to the queens scaffold; he unbinds_ _the queen and_ abdelmelech; _they all go off, the people shouting, and the trumpets sounding the while._ _boab._ before we pay our thanks, or show our joy, let us our needful charity employ. some skilful surgeon speedily be found, to apply fit remedies to ozmyn's wound. _benz._ [_running to ozm._] that be my charge: my linen i will tear; wash it with tears, and bind it with my hair. _ozm._ with how much pleasure i my pains endure, and bless the wound which causes such a cure! [_exit_ ozm. _led by_ benz. _and_ aben. _boab._ some from the place of combat bear the slain.-- next lyndaraxa's death i should ordain: but let her, who this mischief did contrive, for ever banished from granada live. _lyndar._ thou shouldst have punished more, or not at all: by her thou hast not ruined, thou shalt fall. the zegrys shall revenge their branded line, betray their gate, and with the christians join. [_aside._ [_exit_ lyndaraxa _with_ alabez; _the bodies of her brothers are borne after her._ almanzor, almahide, _and_ esperanza, _re-enter to the king._ _almah._ the thanks thus paid, which first to heaven were due, my next, almanzor, let me pay to you: somewhat there is of more concernment too, which 'tis not fit you should in public know. first let your wounds be dressed with speedy care, and then you shall the important secret share. _almanz._ whene'er you speak, were my wounds mortal, they should still bleed on; and i would listen till my life were gone: my soul should even for your last accent stay, and then shout out, and with such speed obey, it should not bait at heaven to stop its way. [_exit_ almanz. _boab._ 'tis true, almanzor did her honour save, but yet what private business can they have? such freedom virtue will not sure allow; i cannot clear my heart, but must my brow. [_aside._ [_he approaches_ almahide. welcome again, my virtuous, loyal wife; welcome to love, to honour, and to life! [_goes to salute her, she starts back._ you seem as if you from a loathed embrace did go! _almah._ then briefly will i speak, since you must know what to the world my future acts will show: but hear me first, and then my reasons weigh. 'tis known, how duty led me to obey my father's choice; and how i since did live, you, sir, can best your testimony give. how to your aid i have almanzor brought, when by rebellious crowds your life was sought; then, how i bore your causeless jealousy, (for i must speak) and after set you free, when you were prisoner in the chance of war: these, sure, are proofs of love. _boab._ i grant they are. _almah._ and could you then, o cruelly unkind! so ill reward such tenderness of mind? could you, denying what our laws afford the meanest subject, on a traitor's word, unheard, condemn, and suffer me to go to death, and yet no common pity show! _boab._ love filled my heart even to the brim before; and then, with too much jealousy, boiled o'er. _almah._ be't love or jealousy, 'tis such a crime, that i'm forewarned to trust a second time. know, then, my prayers to heaven shall never cease, to crown your arms in war, your wars with peace; but from this day i will not know your bed: though almahide still lives, your wife is dead; and with her dies a love so pure and true, it could be killed by nothing but by you. [_exit_ almah. _boab._ yes; you will spend your life in prayers for me, and yet this hour my hated rival see. she might a husband's jealousy forgive; but she will only for almanzor live. it is resolved; i will myself provide that vengeance, which my useless laws denied; and, by almanzor's death, at once remove the rival of my empire, and my love. [_exit_ boab. _enter_ almahide, _led by_ almanzor, _and followed by_ esperanza; _she speaks, entering._ _almah._ how much, almanzor, to your aid i owe, unable to repay, i blush to know; yet, forced by need, ere i can clear that score, i, like ill debtors, come to borrow more. _almanz._ your new commands i on my knees attend: i was created for no other end. born to be yours, i do by nature serve, and, like the labouring beast, no thanks deserve. _almah._ yet first your virtue to your succour call, for in this hard command you'll need it all. _almanz._ i stand prepared; and whatsoe'er it be, nothing is hard to him, who loves like me. _almah._ then know, i from your love must yet implore one proof:--that you would never see me more. _almanz._ i must confess, [_starting back._ for this last stroke i did no guard provide; i could suspect no foe was near that side. from winds and thickening clouds we thunder fear, none dread it from that quarter which is clear; and i would fain believe, 'tis but your art to shew you knew where deepest you could wound my heart. _almah._ so much respect is to your passion due, that sure i could not practise arts on you. but that you may not doubt what i have said, this hour i have renounced my husband's bed: judge, then, how much my fame would injured be, if, leaving him, i should a lover see. _almanz._ if his unkindness have deserved that curse, must i, for loving well, be punished worse? _almah._ neither your love nor merits i compare, but my unspotted name must be my care. _almanz._ i have this day established its renown. _almah._ would you so soon, what you have raised, throw down? _almanz._ but, madam, is not yours a greater guilt, to ruin him, who has that fabric built? _almah._ no lover should his mistress' prayers withstand, yet you contemn my absolute command. _almanz._ 'tis not contempt, when your command is issued out too late; 'tis past my power, and all beyond is fate. i scarce could leave you, when to exile sent, much less when now recalled from banishment; for if that heat your glances cast were strong, your eyes, like glasses, fire, when held so long. _almah._ then, since you needs will all my weakness know, i love you; and so well, that you must go. i am so much obliged, and have withal a heart so boundless and so prodigal, i dare not trust myself, or you, to stay, but, like frank gamesters, must forswear the play. _almanz._ fate, thou art kind to strike so hard a blow: i am quite stunned, and past all feeling now. yet--can you tell me you have power and will to save my life, and at that instant kill? _almah._ this, had you staid, you never must have known; but, now you go, i may with honour own. _almanz._ but, madam, i am forced to disobey: in your defence my honour bids me stay. i promised to secure your life and throne, and, heaven be thanked, that work is yet undone. _almah._ i here make void that promise which you made, for now i have no farther need of aid. that vow, which to my plighted lord was given, i must not break, but may transfer to heaven: i will with vestals live: there needs no guard at a religious door; few will disturb the praying and the poor. _almanz._ let me but near that happy temple stay, and through the grates peep on you once a day; to famished hope i would no banquet give: i cannot starve, and wish but just to live. thus, as a drowning man sinks often, and does still more faintly rise, with his last hold catching whate'er he spies; so, fallen from those proud hopes i had before, your aid i for a dying wretch implore. _almah._ i cannot your hard destiny withstand, boabdelin, _and guards above._ but slip, like bending rushes, from your hand. sink all at once, since you must sink at last. _almanz._ can you that last relief of sight remove, and thrust me out the utmost line of love! then, since my hopes of happiness are gone, denied all favours, i will seize this one. [_catches her hand, and kisses it._ _boab._ my just revenge no longer i'll forbear: i've seen too much; i need not stay to hear. [_descends._ _almanz._ as a small shower to the parched earth does some refreshment give, so, in the strength of this, one day i'll live: a day,--a year,--an age,--for ever, now; [_betwixt each word he kisses her hand by force; she struggling._ i feel from every touch a new soul flow. [_she snatches her hand away._ my hoped eternity of joy is past! 'twas insupportable, and could not last. were heaven not made of less, or duller joy, 'twould break each minute, and itself destroy. _enter king and guards, below._ _boab._ this, this, is he, for whom thou didst deny to share my bed:--let them together die. _almah._ hear me, my lord. _boab._ your flattering arts are vain: make haste, and execute what i ordain. [_to the guards._ _almanz._ cut piece-meal in this cause, from every wound i should new vigour take, and every limb should new almanzors make. [_he puts himself before the queen; the guards attack him, with the king._ _enter_ abdelmelech. _abdelm._ what angry god, to exercise his spite, [_to the king._ has arm'd your left hand, to cut off your right? [_the king turns, the fight ceases._ the foes are entered at the elvira gate: false lyndaraxa has the town betrayed, and all the zegrys give the spaniards aid. _boab._ o mischief, not suspected nor foreseen! _abdelm._ already they have gained the zacatin, and thence the vivarambla place possest, while our faint soldiers scarce defend the rest. the duke of arcos does one squadron head, the next by ferdinand himself is led. _almah._ now, brave almanzor, be a god again; above our crimes and your own passions reign. my lord has been by jealousy misled, to think i was not faithful to his bed. i can forgive him, though my death he sought, for too much love can never be a fault. protect him, then; and what to his defence you give not, give to clear my innocence. _almanz._ listen, sweet heaven, and all ye blessed above, take rules of virtue from a mortal love! you've raised my soul; and if it mount more high, 'tis as the wren did on the eagle fly. yes, i once more will my revenge neglect, and, whom you can forgive, i can protect. _boab._ how hard a fate is mine, still doomed to shame! i make occasions for my rival's fame! [_exeunt. an alarm within._ _enter_ ferdinand, isabella, _don_ alonzo d'aguilar; _spaniards and ladies._ _k. ferd._ already more than half the town is gained, but there is yet a doubtful fight maintained. _alonz._ the fierce young king the entered does attack, and the more fierce almanzor drives them back. _k. ferd._ the valiant moors like raging lions fight; each youth encouraged by his lady's sight. _q. isabel._ i will advance with such a shining train, that moorish beauties shall oppose in vain. into the press of clashing swords we'll go, and, where the darts fly thickest, seek the foe. _k. ferd._ may heaven, which has inspired this generous thought, avert those dangers you have boldly sought! call up more troops; the women, to our shame, will ravish from the men their part of fame. [_exeunt_ isabella _and ladies._ _enter_ alabez, _and kisses the king's hand._ _alabez._ fair lyndaraxa, and the zegry line, have led their forces with your troops to join; the adverse part, which obstinately fought, are broke, and abdelmelech prisoner brought. _k. ferd._ fair lyndaraxa, and her friends, shall find the effects of an obliged and grateful mind. _alabez._ but, marching by the vivarambla place, the combat carried a more doubtful face: in that vast square the moors and spaniards met, where the fierce conflict is continued yet; but with advantage on the adverse side, whom fierce almanzor does to conquest guide. _k. ferd._ with my castilian foot i'll meet his rage; [_is going out: shouts within are heard,_--victoria! victoria! but these loud clamours better news presage. _enter the_ duke of arcos, _and soldiers; their swords drawn and bloody._ _d. arcos._ granada now is yours; and there remain no moors, but such as own the power of spain. that squadron, which their king in person led, we charged, but found almanzor on their head: three several times we did the moors attack, and thrice with slaughter did he drive us back: our troops then shrunk; and still we lost more ground, 'till from our queen we needful succour found: her guards to our assistance bravely flew, and with fresh vigour did the fight renew: at the same time did lyndaraxa with her troops appear, and, while we charged the front, engaged the rear: then fell the king, slain by a zegry's hand. _k. ferd._ how could he such united force withstand? _d. arcos._ discouraged with his death, the moorish powers fell back, and, falling back, were pressed by ours; but as, when winds and rain together crowd, they swell till they have burst the bladdered cloud; and first the lightning, flashing deadly clear, flies, falls, consumes, kills ere it does appear,-- so from his shrinking troops, almanzor flew, each blow gave wounds, and with each wound he slew: his force at once i envied and admired, and rushing forward, where my men retired, advanced alone. _k. ferd._ you hazarded too far your person, and the fortune of the war. _d. arcos._ already both our arms for fight did bare, already held them threatening in the air, when heaven (it must be heaven) my sight did guide to view his arm, upon whose wrist i spied a ruby cross in diamond bracelets tied; and just above it, in the brawnier part, by nature was engraved a bloody heart: struck with these tokens, which so well i knew, and staggering back some paces, i withdrew: he followed, and supposed it was my fear; when, from above, a shrill voice reached his ear:-- "strike not thy father!"--it was heard to cry; amazed, and casting round his wondrous eye, he stopped; then, thinking that his fears were vain, he lifted up his thundering arm again: again the voice withheld him from my death; "spare, spare his life," it cried, "who gave thee breath!" once more he stopped; then threw his sword away; "blessed shade," he said, "i hear thee, i obey thy sacred voice;" then, in the sight of all, he at my feet, i on his neck did fall. _k. ferd._ o blessed event! _d. arcos._ the moors no longer fought; but all their safety by submission sought: mean time my son grew faint with loss of blood, and on his bending sword supported stood; yet, with a voice beyond his strength, he cried, "lead me to live or die by almahide." _k. ferd._ i am not for his wounds less grieved than you: for, if what now my soul divines prove true, this is that son, whom in his infancy you lost, when by my father forced to fly. _d. arcos._ his sister's beauty did my passion move, (the crime for which i suffered was my love.) our marriage known, to sea we took our flight: there, in a storm, almanzor first saw light. on his right arm a bloody heart was graved, (the mark by which, this day, my life was saved:) the bracelets and the cross his mother tied about his wrist, ere she in childbed died. how we were captives made, when she was dead, and how almanzor was in afric bred, some other hour you may at leisure hear, for see, the queen in triumph does appear. _enter_ queen isabella, lyndaraxa, _ladies, moors and spaniards mixed as guards,_ abdelmelech, abenamar, selin, _prisoners._ _k. ferd._ [_embracing q. isabel._] all stories which granada's conquest tell, shall celebrate the name of isabel. your ladies too, who, in their country's cause, led on the men, shall share in your applause; and, for your sakes, henceforward i ordain, no lady's dower shall questioned be in spain, fair lyndaraxa, for the help she lent, shall, under tribute, have this government. _abdelm._ o heaven, that i should live to see this day! _lyndar._ you murmur now, but you shall soon obey. i knew this empire to my fate was owed; heaven held it back as long as e'er it could; for thee, base wretch, i want a torture yet-- [_to_ abdelm. i'll cage thee; thou shalt be my bajazet. i on no pavement but on thee will tread; and, when i mount, my foot shall know thy head. _abdelm._ (_stabbing her with a poniard._) this first shall know thy heart. _lyndar._ o! i am slain! _abdelm._ now, boast thy country is betrayed to spain. _k. ferd._ look to the lady!--seize the murderer! _abdelm._ (_stabbing himself._) i do myself that justice i did her. thy blood i to thy ruined country give, [_to_ lyndar. but love too well thy murder to out-live. forgive a love, excused by its excess, which, had it not been cruel, had been less. condemn my passion, then, but pardon me, and think i murdered him who murdered thee. [_dies._ _lyndar._ die for us both; i have not leisure now; a crown is come, and will not fate allow: and yet i feel something like death is near, my guards, my guards,-- let not that ugly skeleton appear! sure destiny mistakes; this death's not mine; she dotes, and meant to cut another line. tell her i am a queen;--but 'tis too late; dying, i charge rebellion on my fate. bow down, ye slaves:-- [_to the moors._ bow quickly down, and your submission show.-- [_they bow._ i'm pleased to taste an empire ere i go. [_dies._ _selin._ she's dead, and here her proud ambition ends. _aben._ such fortune still such black designs attends. _k. ferd._ remove those mournful objects from our eyes, and see performed their funeral obsequies. [_the bodies are carried off._ _enter_ almanzor _and_ almahide, ozmyn _and_ benzayda; almahide _brought in a chair;_ almanzor _led betwixt soldiers._ isabella _salutes_ almahide _in dumb show._ _d. arcos._ (_presenting_ almanzor _to the king._) see here that son, whom i with pride call mine; and who dishonours not your royal line. _k. ferd._ i'm now secure, this sceptre, which i gain, shall be continued in the power of spain; since he, who could alone my foes defend, by birth and honour is become my friend; yet i can own no joy, nor conquest boast, [_to_ almanz. while in this blood i see how dear it cost. _almanz._ this honour to my veins new blood will bring; streams cannot fail, fed by so high a spring. but all court-customs i so little know, that i may fail in those respects i owe. i bring a heart which homage never knew; yet it finds something of itself in you: something so kingly, that my haughty mind is drawn to yours, because 'tis of a kind. _q. isabel._ and yet that soul, which bears itself so high, if fame be true, admits a sovereignty. this queen, in her fair eyes, such fetters brings, as chain that heart, which scorns the power of kings. _almah._ little of charm in these sad eyes appears; if they had any, now 'tis lost in tears. a crown, and husband, ravished in one day!-- excuse a grief, i cannot choose but pay. _q. isabel._ have courage, madam; heaven has joys in store, to recompence those losses you deplore. _almah._ i know your god can all my woes redress; to him i made my vows in my distress: and, what a misbeliever vowed this day, though not a queen, a christian yet shall pay. _q. isabel._ (_embracing her._) that christian name you shall receive from me, and isabella of granada be. _benz._ this blessed change we all with joy receive; and beg to learn that faith which you believe. _q. isabel._ with reverence for those holy rites prepare; and all commit your fortunes to my care. _k. ferd._ to _almah._ you, madam, by that crown you lose, may gain, if you accept, a coronet of spain, of which almanzor's father stands possest. _q. isabel._ to _almah._ may you in him, and he in you, be blest! _almah._ i owe my life and honour to his sword; but owe my love to my departed lord. _almanz._ thus, when i have no living force to dread, fate finds me enemies amongst the dead. i'm now to conquer ghosts, and to destroy the strong impressions of a bridal joy. _almah._ you've yet a greater foe than these can be,-- virtue opposes you, and modesty. _almanz._ from a false fear that modesty does grow, and thinks true love, because 'tis fierce, its foe. 'tis but the wax whose seals on virgins stay: let it approach love's fire, 'twill melt away:-- but i have lived too long; i never knew, when fate was conquered, i must combat you. i thought to climb the steep ascent of love; but did not think to find a foe above. 'tis time to die, when you my bar must be, whose aid alone could give me victory; without, i'll pull up all the sluices of the flood, and love, within, shall boil out all my blood. _q. isabel._ fear not your love should find so sad success, while i have power to be your patroness. i am her parent now, and may command so much of duty as to give her hand. [_gives him_ almahide's _hand._ _almah._ madam, i never can dispute your power, or as a parent, or a conqueror; but, when my year of widowhood expires, shall yield to your command, and his desires. _almanz._ move swiftly, sun, and fly a lover's pace; leave weeks and months behind thee in thy race! _k. ferd._ mean time, you shall my victories pursue, the moors in woods and mountains to subdue. _almanz._ the toils of war shall help to wear each day, and dreams of love shall drive my nights away.-- our banners to the alhambra's turrets bear; then, wave our conquering crosses in the air, and cry, with shouts of triumph,--live and reign, great ferdinand and isabel of spain! [_exeunt._ epilogue. they, who have best succeeded on the stage, have still conformed their genius to their age. thus jonson did mechanic humour show, when men were dull, and conversation low. then comedy was faultless, but 'twas coarse: cobb's tankard was a jest, and otter's horse[ ]. and, as their comedy, their love was mean; except, by chance, in some one laboured scene, which must atone for an ill-written play. they rose, but at their height could seldom stay. fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped; and they have kept it since, by being dead. but, were they now to write, when critics weigh each line, and every word, throughout a play, none of them, no not jonson in his height, could pass, without allowing grains for weight. think it not envy, that these truths are told; our poet's not malicious, though he's bold. 'tis not to brand them, that their faults are shown, but, by their errors, to excuse his own. if love and honour now are higher raised, 'tis not the poet, but the age is praised. wit's now arrived to a more high degree; our native language more refined and free. our ladies and our men now speak more wit in conversation, than those poets writ. then, one of these is, consequently, true; that what this poet writes comes short of you, and imitates you ill (which most he fears), or else his writing is not worse than theirs. yet, though you judge (as sure the critics will), that some before him writ with greater skill, in this one praise he has their fame surpast, to please an age more gallant than the last. footnote: . the characters alluded to are cobb, the water bearer, in "every man in his humour;" and captain otter, in "epicene, or the silent woman," whose humour it was to christen his drinking cups by the names of horse, bull, and bear.] defence of the epilogue; or, an essay on the dramatic poetry of the last age. the promises of authors, that they will write again, are, in effect, a threatening of their readers with some new impertinence; and they, who perform not what they promise, will have their pardon on easy terms. it is from this consideration, that i could be glad to spare you the trouble, which i am now giving you, of a postscript, if i were not obliged, by many reasons, to write somewhat concerning our present plays, and those of our predecessors on the english stage. the truth is, i have so far engaged myself in a bold epilogue to this play, wherein i have somewhat taxed the former writing, that it was necessary for me either not to print it, or to show that i could defend it. yet i would so maintain my opinion of the present age, as not to be wanting in my veneration for the past: i would ascribe to dead authors their just praises in those things wherein they have excelled us; and in those wherein we contend with them for the pre-eminence, i would acknowledge our advantages to the age, and claim no victory from our wit. this being what i have proposed to myself, i hope i shall not be thought arrogant when i enquire into their errors: for we live in an age so sceptical, that as it determines little, so it takes nothing from antiquity on trust; and i profess to have no other ambition in this essay, than that poetry may not go backward, when all other arts and sciences are advancing. whoever censures me for this inquiry, let him hear his character from horace: _ingeniis non ille favet, plauditque sepultis, nostra sed impugnat; nos nostraque lividus odit._ he favours not dead wits, but hates the living. it was upbraided to that excellent poet, that he was an enemy to the writings of his predecessor lucilius, because he had said, _lucilium lutulentum fluere_, that he ran muddy; and that he ought to have retrenched from his satires many unnecessary verses. but horace makes lucilius himself to justify him from the imputation of envy, by telling you that he would have done the same, had he lived in an age which was more refined: _si foret hoc nostrum fato delapsus in ævum, detereret sibi multa, recideret omne quod, ultra perfectum traheretur, &c._ and, both in the whole course of that satire, and in his most admirable epistle to augustus, he makes it his business to prove, that antiquity alone is no plea for the excellency of a poem; but that, one age learning from another, the last (if we can suppose an equality of wit in the writers,) has the advantage of knowing more and better than the former and this, i think, is the state of the question in dispute. it is therefore my part to make it clear, that the language, wit, and conversation of our age, are improved and refined above the last; and then it will not be difficult to infer, that our plays have received some part of those advantages. in the first place, therefore, it will be necessary to state, in general, what this refinement is, of which we treat; and that, i think, will not be defined amiss, "an improvement of our wit, language and conversation; or, an alteration in them for the better." to begin with language. that an alteration is lately made in ours, or since the writers of the last age (in which i comprehend shakespeare, fletcher, and jonson), is manifest. any man who reads those excellent poets, and compares their language with what is now written, will see it almost in every line; but that this is an improvement of the language or an alteration for the better, will not so easily be granted. for many are of a contrary opinion that the english tongue was then in the height of its perfection; that from jonson's time to ours it has been in a continual declination, like that of the romans from the age of virgil to statius, and so downward to claudian; of which, not only petronius, but quintilian himself so much complains, under the person of _secundus_, in his famous dialogue _de causis corruptæ eloquentiæ_. but, to shew that our language is improved, and that those people have not a just value for the age in which they live, let us consider in what the refinement of a language principally consists: that is, "either in rejecting such old words, or phrases, which are ill sounding, or improper; or in admitting new, which are more proper, more sounding, and more significant." the reader will easily take notice, that when i speak of rejecting improper words and phrases, i mention not such as are antiquated by custom only and, as i may say, without any fault of theirs. for in this case the refinement can be but accidental; that is, when the words and phrases, which are rejected, happen to be improper. neither would i be understood, when i speak of impropriety of language, either wholly to accuse the last age, or to excuse the present, and least of all myself; for all writers have their imperfections and failings: but i may safely conclude in the general, that our improprieties are less frequent, and less gross than theirs. one testimony of this is undeniable, that we are the first who have observed them; and, certainly, to observe errors is a great step to the correcting of them. but, malice and partiality set apart, let any man, who understands english, read diligently the works of shakespeare and fletcher, and i dare undertake, that he will find in every page either some solecism of speech, or some notorious flaw in sense[ ]; and yet these men are reverenced, when we are not forgiven. that their wit is great, and many times their expressions noble, envy itself cannot deny. _--neque ego illis detrahere ausim hærentem capiti multâ cum laude coronam._ but the times were ignorant in which they lived. poetry was then, if not in its infancy among us, at least not arrived to its vigour and maturity: witness the lameness of their plots; many of which, especially those which they writ first (for even that age refined itself in some measure), were made up of some ridiculous incoherent story, which in one play many times took up the business of an age. i suppose i need not name "pericles, prince of tyre," nor the historical plays of shakespeare: besides many of the rest, as the "winter's tale," "love's labour lost," "measure for measure," which were either grounded on impossibilities, or at least so meanly written, that the comedy neither caused your mirth, nor the serious part your concernment[ ]. if i would expatiate on this subject, i could easily demonstrate, that our admired fletcher, who wrote after him, neither understood correct plotting, nor that which they call "the decorum of the stage." i would not search in his worst plays for examples: he who will consider his "philaster," his "humorous lieutenant," his "faithful shepherdess," and many others which i could name, will find them much below the applause which is now given them. he will see philaster wounding his mistress, and afterwards his boy, to save himself; not to mention the clown, who enters immediately, and not only has the advantage of the combat against the hero, but diverts you from your serious concernment, with his ridiculous and absurd raillery. in his "humorous lieutenant," you find his demetrius and leontius staying in the midst of a routed army, to hear the cold mirth of the lieutenant; and demetrius afterwards appearing with a pistol in his hand, in the next age to alexander the great[ ]. and for his shepherd, he falls twice into the former indecency of wounding women. but these absurdities, which those poets committed, may more properly be called the age's fault than theirs. for, besides the want of education and learning, (which was their particular unhappiness) they wanted the benefit of converse: but of that i shall speak hereafter, in a place more proper for it. their audiences knew no better; and therefore were satisfied with what they brought. those, who call theirs the golden age of poetry, have only this reason for it, that they were then content with acorns before they knew the use of bread; or that [greek: alis druos] was become a proverb. they had many who admired them, and few who blamed them; and certainly a severe critic is the greatest help to a good wit: he does the office of a friend, while he designs that of an enemy; and his malice keeps a poet within those bounds, which the luxuriancy of his fancy would tempt him to overleap. but it is not their plots which i meant principally to tax; i was speaking of their sense and language; and i dare almost challenge any man to shew me a page together which is correct in both. as for ben jonson, i am loth to name him, because he is a most judicious writer; yet he very often falls into these errors: and i once more beg the reader's pardon for accusing him of them. only let him consider, that i live in an age where my least faults are severely censured; and that i have no way left to extenuate my failings, but by showing as great in those whom we admire: _cædimus, inque vicem præbemus crura sagittis._ i cast my eyes but by chance on catiline; and in the three or four last pages, found enough to conclude that jonson writ not correctly. --let the long-hid seeds of treason, in thee, now shoot forth in deeds ranker than horror. in reading some bombast speeches of macbeth, which are not to be understood, he used to say that it was horror; and i am much afraid that this is so. thy parricide late on thy only son, after his mother, to make empty way for thy last wicked nuptials, worse than they that blaze that act of thy incestuous life, which gained thee at once a daughter and a wife. the sense is here extremely perplexed; and i doubt the word _they_ is false grammar. --and be free not heaven itself from thy impiety. a synchysis, or ill-placing of words, of which tully so much complains in oratory. the waves and dens of beasts could not receive the bodies that those souls were frighted _from_. the preposition in the end of the sentence; a common fault with him, and which i have but lately observed in my own writings. what all the several ills that visit earth, plague, famine, fire, could not reach _unto_, the sword, nor surfeits, let thy fury do. here are both the former faults: for, besides that the preposition _unto_ is placed last in the verse, and at the half period, and is redundant, there is the former synchysis in the words "the sword, nor surfeits" which in construction ought to have been placed before the other. catiline says of cethegus, that for his sake he would _go on upon_ the gods, kiss lightning, wrest the engine from the cyclops, and _give fire at face of a full cloud_, and stand _his ire_. to "go on upon," is only to go on twice[ ]. to "give fire at face of a full cloud," was not understood in his own time; "and stand _his ire_," besides the antiquated word _ire_, there is the article _his_, which makes false construction: and giving fire at the face of a cloud, is a perfect image of shooting, however it came to be known in those days to catiline. --others there are, whom envy to the state draws and pulls on, for contumelies received; and such are sure _ones_. _ones_, in the plural number: but that is frequent with him; for he says, not long after, cæsar and crassus, if they be ill men, are mighty _ones_. such men, _they_ do not succour more the cause, &c. _they_ redundant. though heaven should speak with all _his_ wrath at once, we should stand upright and _unfeared_. _his_ is ill syntax with _heaven_; and by _unfeared_ he means _unafraid_: words of a quite contrary signification. "the ports are open." he perpetually uses ports for gates; which is an affected error in him, to introduce latin by the loss of the english idiom; as, in the translation of tully's speeches, he usually does. well-placing of words, for the sweetness of pronunciation was not known till mr waller introduced it; and, therefore, it is not to be wondered if ben jonson has many such lines as these: "but being bred up in his father's needy fortunes; brought up in's sister's prostitution," &c. but meanness of expression one would think not to be his error in a tragedy, which ought to be more high and sounding than any other kind of poetry; and yet, amongst others in "catiline," i find these four lines together: so asia, thou art cruelly even with us, for all the blows thee given; when we, whose virtues conquered thee, thus by thy vices ruined be. _be_ there is false english for _are_; though the rhyme hides it. but i am willing to close the book, partly out of veneration to the author, partly out of weariness to pursue an argument which is so fruitful in so small a compass. and what correctness, after this, can be expected from shakespeare or from fletcher, who wanted that learning and care which jonson had? i will, therefore, spare my own trouble of enquiring into their faults; who, had they lived now, had doubtless written more correctly. i suppose it will be enough for me to affirm, (as i think i safely may) that these, and the like errors, which i taxed in the most correct of the last age, are such into which we do not ordinarily fall. i think few of our present writers would have left behind them such a line as this: contain your spirit in more stricter bounds. but that gross way of two comparatives was then ordinary; and, therefore, more pardonable in jonson. as for the other part of refining, which consists in receiving new words and phrases, i shall not insist much on it. it is obvious that we have admitted many, some of which we wanted, and therefore our language is the richer for them, as it would be by importation of bullion: others are rather ornamental than necessary; yet, by their admission, the language is become more courtly, and our thoughts are better drest. these are to be found scattered in the writers of our age, and it is not my business to collect them. they, who have lately written with most care, have, i believe, taken the rule of horace for their guide; that is, not to be too hasty in receiving of words, but rather stay till custom has made them familiar to us: _quern penes arbitrium est, et jus, et norma loquendi._ for i cannot approve of their way of refining, who corrupt our english idiom by mixing it too much with french: that is a sophistication of language not an improvement of it; a turning english into french, rather than a refining of english by french. we meet daily with those fops, who value themselves on their travelling, and pretend they cannot express their meaning in english, because they would put off to us some french phrase of the last edition; without considering, that, for aught they know, we have a better of our own. but these are not the men who are to refine us; their talent is to prescribe fashions, not words: at best, they are only serviceable to a writer, so as ennius was to virgil. he may _aurum ex stercore colligere:_ for it is hard if, amongst many insignificant phrases, there happen not something worth preserving; though they themselves, like indians, know not the value of their own commodity. there is yet another way of improving language, which poets especially have practised in all ages; that is, by applying received words to a new signification; and this, i believe, is meant by horace, in that precept which is so variously construed by expositors: _dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum reddiderit junctura novum._ and, in this way, he himself had a particular happiness; using all the tropes, and particular metaphors, with that grace which is observable in his odes, where the beauty of expression is often greater than that of thought; as, in that one example, amongst an infinite number of others, "_et vultus nimium lubricus aspici._" and therefore, though he innovated a little, he may justly be called a great refiner of the roman tongue. this choice of words, and heightening of their natural signification, was observed in him by the writers of the following ages; for petronius says of him, "_et horatii curiosa felicitas._" by this graffing, as i may call it, on old words, has our tongue been beautified by the three before-mentioned poets, shakespeare, fletcher, and jonson, whose excellencies i can never enough admire; and in this they have been followed, especially by sir john suckling and mr waller, who refined upon them. neither have they, who succeeded them, been wanting in their endeavours to adorn our mother tongue: but it is not so lawful for me to praise my living contemporaries, as to admire my dead predecessors. i should now speak of the refinement of wit; but i have been so large on the former subject, that i am forced to contract myself in this. i will therefore only observe to you, that the wit of the last age was yet more incorrect than their language. shakespeare, who many times has written better than any poet, in any language, is yet so far from writing wit always, or expressing that wit according to the dignity of the subject, that he writes, in many places, below the dullest writers of ours, or any precedent age. never did any author precipitate himself from such height of thought to so low expressions, as he often does. he is the very janus of poets; he wears almost every where two faces; and you have scarce begun to admire the one, ere you despise the other. neither is the luxuriance of fletcher, which his friends have taxed in him, a less fault than the carelessness of shakespeare. he does not well always; and, when he does, he is a true englishman,--he knows not when to give over. if he wakes in one scene, he commonly slumbers in another; and, if he pleases you in the first three acts, he is frequently so tired with his labour, that he goes heavily in the fourth, and sinks under his burden in the fifth. for ben jonson, the most judicious of poets, he always writ properly, and as the character required; and i will not contest farther with my friends, who call that wit: it being very certain, that even folly itself, well represented, is wit in a larger signification; and that there is fancy, as well as judgment, in it, though not so much or noble: because all poetry being imitation, that of folly is a lower exercise of fancy, though perhaps as difficult as the other; for it is a kind of looking downward in the poet, and representing that part of mankind which is below him. in these low characters of vice and folly, lay the excellency of that inimitable writer; who, when at any time he aimed at wit in the stricter sense, that is, sharpness of conceit, was forced either to borrow from the ancients, as to my knowledge he did very much from plautus; or, when he trusted himself alone, often fell into meanness of expression. nay, he was not free from the lowest and most groveling kind of wit, which we call clenches, of which "every man in his humour" is infinitely full; and, which is worse, the wittiest persons in the drama speak them. his other comedies are not exempt from them. will you give me leave to name some few? asper, in which character he personates himself, (and he neither was nor thought himself a fool) exclaiming against the ignorant judges of the age, speaks thus: how monstrous and detested is't, to see a fellow, that has neither art nor brain, sit like an _aristarchus_, or _stark-ass_, taking men's lines, with a _tobacco face_, in _snuff_, &c. and presently after: "i marvel whose wit 'twas to put a prologue in yond sackbut's mouth. they might well think he would be out of tune, and yet you'd play upon him too."--will you have another of the same stamp? "o, i cannot abide these limbs of _sattin_, or rather _satan_." but, it may be, you will object that this was asper, macilente, or carlo buffone; you shall, therefore, hear him speak in his own person, and that in the two last lines, or sting of an epigram. it is inscribed to _fine grand_, who, he says, was indebted to him for many things which he reckons there; and concludes thus: forty things more, dear _grand_, which you know true, for which, or pay me quickly, or i'll pay you. this was then the mode of wit, the vice of the age, and not ben jonson's; for you see, a little before him, that admirable wit, sir philip sidney, perpetually playing with his words. in his time, i believe, it ascended first into the pulpit, where (if you will give me leave to clench too) it yet finds the benefit of its clergy; for they are commonly the first corrupters of eloquence, and the last reformed from vicious oratory; as a famous italian has observed before me, in his treatise of the corruption of the italian tongue; which he principally ascribes to priests and preaching friars. but, to conclude with what brevity i can, i will only add this, in defence of our present writers, that, if they reach not some excellencies of ben jonson, (which no age, i am confident, ever shall) yet, at least, they are above that meanness of thought which i have taxed, and which is frequent in him. that the wit of this age is much more courtly, may easily be proved, by viewing the characters of gentlemen which were written in the last. first, for jonson:--true-wit, in the "silent woman," was his master-piece; and truewit was a scholar-like kind of man, a gentleman with an allay of pedantry, a man who seems mortified to the world, by much reading. the best of his discourse is drawn, not from the knowledge of the town, but books; and, in short, he would be a fine gentleman in an university. shakespeare shewed the best of his skill in his mercutio; and he said himself, that he was forced to kill him in the third act, to prevent being killed by him. but, for my part, i cannot find he was so dangerous a person: i see nothing in him but what was so exceeding harmless, that he might have lived to the end of the play, and died in his bed, without offence to any man. fletcher's don john is our only bugbear; and yet i may affirm, without suspicion of flattery, that he now speaks better, and that his character is maintained with much more vigour in the fourth and fifth acts, than it was by fletcher in the three former. i have always acknowledged the wit of our predecessors, with all the veneration which becomes me; but, i am sure, their wit was not that of gentlemen; there was ever somewhat that was ill-bred and clownish in it, and which confessed the conversation of the authors. and this leads me to the last and greatest advantage of our writing, which proceeds from conversation. in the age wherein those poets lived, there was less of gallantry than in ours; neither did they keep the best company of theirs. their fortune has been much like that of epicurus, in the retirement of his gardens; to live almost unknown, and to be celebrated after their decease. i cannot find that any of them had been conversant in courts, except ben jonson; and his genius lay not so much that way, as to make an improvement by it. greatness was not then so easy of access, nor conversation so free, as now it is. i cannot, therefore, conceive it any insolence to affirm, that, by the knowledge and pattern of their wit who writ before us, and by the advantage of our own conversation, the discourse and raillery of our comedies excel what has been written by them. and this will be denied by none, but some few old fellows who value themselves on their acquaintance with the black friars; who, because they saw their plays, would pretend a right to judge ours. the memory of these grave gentlemen is their only plea for being wits. they can tell a story of ben jonson, and, perhaps, have had fancy enough to give a supper in the apollo, that they might be called his sons[ ]: and, because they were drawn in to be laughed at in those times, they think themselves now sufficiently entitled to laugh at ours. learning i never saw in any of them; and wit no more than they could remember. in short, they were unlucky to have been bred in an unpolished age, and more unlucky to live to a refined one. they have lasted beyond their own, and are cast behind ours; and, not contented to have known little at the age of twenty, they boast of their ignorance at threescore. now, if they ask me, whence it is that our conversation is so much refined? i must freely, and without flattery, ascribe it to the court; and, in it, particularly to the king, whose example gives a law to it. his own misfortunes, and the nation's, afforded him an opportunity, which is rarely allowed to sovereign princes, i mean of travelling, and being conversant in the most polished courts of europe; and, thereby, of cultivating a spirit which was formed by nature to receive the impressions of a gallant and generous education. at his return, he found a nation lost as much in barbarism as in rebellion: and, as the excellency of his nature forgave the one, so the excellency of his manners reformed the other. the desire of imitating so great a pattern first awakened the dull and heavy spirits of the english from their natural reservedness; loosened them from their stiff forms of conversation, and made them easy and pliant to each other in discourse. thus, insensibly, our way of living became more free; and the fire of the english wit, which was before stifled under a constrained, melancholy way of breeding, began first to display its force, by mixing the solidity of our nation with the air and gaiety of our neighbours[ ]. this being granted to be true, it would be a wonder if the poets, whose work is imitation, should be the only persons in three kingdoms who should not receive advantage by it; or, if they should not more easily imitate the wit and conversation of the present age than of the past. let us therefore admire the beauties and the heights of shakespeare, without falling after him into a carelessness, and, as i may call it, a lethargy of thought, for whole scenes together. let us imitate, as we are able, the quickness and easiness of fletcher, without proposing him as a pattern to us, either in the redundancy of his matter, or the incorrectness of his language. let us admire his wit and sharpness of conceit; but let us at the same time acknowledge, that it was seldom so fixed, and made proper to his character, as that the same things might not be spoken by any person in the play. let us applaud his scenes of love; but let us confess, that he understood not either greatness or perfect honour in the parts of any of his women. in fine, let us allow, that he had so much fancy, as when he pleased he could write wit; but that he wanted so much judgment, as seldom to have written humour, or described a pleasant folly. let us ascribe to jonson, the height and accuracy of judgment in the ordering of his plots, his choice of characters, and maintaining what he had chosen to the end: but let us not think him a perfect pattern of imitation, except it be in humour; for love, which is the foundation of all comedies in other languages, is scarcely mentioned in any of his plays: and for humour itself, the poets of this age will be more wary than to imitate the meanness of his persons. gentlemen will now be entertained with the follies of each other; and, though they allow cobb and tib to speak properly, yet they are not much pleased with their tankard, or with their rags: and surely their conversation can be no jest to them on the theatre, when they would avoid it in the street. to conclude all, let us render to our predecessors what is their due, without confining ourselves to a servile imitation of all they writ; and, without assuming to ourselves the title of better poets, let us ascribe to the gallantry and civility of our age the advantage which we have above them, and, to our knowledge of the customs and manners of it, the happiness we have to please beyond them. * * * * * the bold epilogue, which is here defended with so much animation, and the censure which it threw on the fathers of the stage, seems to have given great offence. it is thus severely assailed by rochester: but does not dryden find even jonson dull? beaumont and fletcher incorrect, and full of lewd lines, as he calls them? shakespeare's style stiff and affected? to his own, the while, allowing all the justice that his pride so arrogantly had to these denied: and may i not have leave impartially to search and censure dryden's works, and try if those gross faults, his choice pen doth commit, proceed from want of judgment, or of wit? or if his lumpish fancy doth refuse spirit and grace to his loose slattern muse? five hundred verses, every morning writ, prove him no more a poet than a wit. it is a bold, perhaps a presumptuous task, to attempt to separate the true from the false criticism in the foregoing essay; for who is qualified to be umpire betwixt shakespeare and dryden? nevertheless, our knowledge of the manners of the respective ages which these extraordinary men adorned, and the remoteness of our own from both, may enable us, with impartiality at least, to sift the grounds of dryden's censure. the nature of the stage in the days of shakespeare has been ascertained, by the sedulous exertions of his commentators. a variety of small theatres, all of them accessible to the lowest of the people, poor and rude in all the arts of decoration, were dispersed through london when shakespeare and jonson wrote for the stage. it was a natural consequence, that the writings of these great men were biassed by the taste of those, for whom they wrote; for those, who live to please, must please, to live. art was not demanded; and when used by jonson, he complains it was not duly appreciated. men of a middle rank were then probably worse educated than our mere vulgar. but the good old time bore rough and manly spirits, who came prepared with a tribute of tears and laughter, to bursts of pathos, or effusions of humour, although incapable of receiving the delights which a cultivated mind derives from the gradual developement of a story, the just dependence of its parts upon each other, the minute beauties of language, and the absence of every thing incongruous or indecorous. dryden, on the other hand, wrote for a stage patronized by a monarch and his courtiers, who were professed judges of dramatic composition; while the rigour of religious prejudice, and perhaps a just abhorrence of the licentious turn of the drama, banished from the theatres a great proportion of the middle classes, always the most valuable part of an audience; because, with a certain degree of cultivation, they unite an unhacknied energy of feeling. art, therefore, became, in the days of dryden, not only a requisite qualification, but even the principal attribute of the dramatic poet. he was to address himself to the heads and judgments of his audience, on the acuteness of which they piqued themselves; not to their feelings, stupified, probably, by selfish dissipation. even the acquisition and exercise of critical knowledge tends to blunt the sense of natural beauties, as a refined harmonist becomes indifferent to the strains of simple melody. hence the sacrifices which shakespeare made, without being aware, to the taste of his age, were amply compensated by his being called upon, and, as it were, compelled, by the nature of his audience, to rouse them with his thunder, and to melt them with his dew. i question much if the age of charles ii. would have borne the introduction of othello or falstaff. we may find something like dryden's self-complacent opinion expressed by the editor of corneille, where he civilly admits, "_corneille etoit inegal comme shakespeare, et plein de genie comme lui: mais le genie de corneille etoit a celui de shakespeare ce qu' un seigneur est a l'egard d'un homme de peuple, né avec le meme esprit que lui._" in other words, the works of the one retain the rough, bold tints of nature and originality, while those of the other are qualified by the artificial restraints which fashion imposes upon the _homme de condition_. it is, therefore, unjustly, that dryden dwells so long on shakespeare's irregularities, amongst which i cannot help suspecting he includes some of his greatest beauties. while we do not defend his quibbles and carwitchets, as bibber would have termed them, we may rejoice that he purchased, at so slight a sacrifice, the power and privilege of launching into every subject with a liberty as unbounded as his genius; as there is music, uninformed by art, in those wild notes, which, with a merry heart, the birds in unfrequented shades express, which better taught at home, yet please us less. footnotes: . in mitigation of the censure which must be passed on our author for this hasty and ill-considered judgment, let us remember the very inaccurate manner in which shakespeare's plays were printed in the early editions. . mr malone has judiciously remarked, that dryden seems to have been ignorant of the order in which shakespeare wrote his plays; and there will be charity in believing, that he was not intimately acquainted with those he so summarily and unjustly censures. . in these criticisms, we see the effects of the refinement which our stage had now borrowed from the french. it is probable, that, in the age of heroic plays, any degree of dulness, or extravagance, would have been tolerated in the dialogue, rather than an offence against the decorum of the scene. . jonson seems to have used it for to _go on against_. . the apollo was ben jonson's favourite club-room in the devil tavern. the custom of adopting his admirers and imitators, by bestowing upon them the title of son, is often alluded to in his works. in dryden's time, the fashion had so far changed, that the poetical progeny of old ben seem to have incurred more ridicule than honour by this ambitious distinction. oldwit, in shadwell's play, called bury fair, is described as "a paltry old-fashioned wit and punner of the last age, that pretends to have been one of ben jonson's sons, and to have seen plays at the blackfriars." . this passage, though complimentary to charles, contains much sober truth: having considerable taste for the belles lettres, he cultivated them during his exile, and was naturally swayed by the french rules of composition, particularly as applicable to the theatre. these he imported with him at his restoration; and hence arose the heroic drama, so much cultivated by our author. * * * * * marriage a-la-mode: a comedy. _--quicquid sum ego, quamvis infra lucili censum ingeniumque, tamen me cum magnis vixisse, invita fatebitur usque invidia, et fragili quærens illidere dentem, offendet solido._ horat. serm. marriage a-la-mode marriage a-la-mode was one of dryden's most successful comedies. a venerable praiser of the past time, in a curious letter printed in the gentleman's magazine for , gives us this account of its first representation. "this comedy, acted by his majesty's servants at the theatre-royal, made its first appearance with extraordinary lustre. divesting myself of the old man, i solemnly declare, that you have seen no such acting, no, not in any degree since. the players were then, , on a court establishment, seventeen men, and eight women." _gent. mag._ vol. xv. p. . from a copy of verses, to which this letter is annexed, we learn the excellence of the various performers by whom the piece was first presented. they are addressed to a young actress. henceforth, in livelier characters excel, though 'tis great merit to act folly well; take, take from dryden's hand melantha's part, the gaudy effort of luxuriant art, in all imagination's glitter drest; what from her lips fantastic montfort caught, and almost moved the thing the poet thought. these scenes, the glory of a comic age, (it decency could blanch each sullied page) peruse, admire, and give unto the stage; or thou, or beauteous woffington, display what dryden's self, with pleasure, might survey. even he, before whose visionary eyes, melantha, robed in ever-varying dies, gay fancy's work, appears, actor renowned. like roscius, with theatric laurels crowned, cibber will smile applause, and think again of harte, and mohun, and all the female train, coxe, marshal, dryden's reeve, bet slade, and charles's reign. mrs monfort, who, by her second marriage, became mrs verbruggen, was the first who appeared in the highly popular part of melantha, and the action and character appear to have been held incomparable by that unquestionable judge of the humour of a coquette, or coxcomb, the illustrious colley cibber. "melantha" says cibber, "is as finished an impertinent as ever fluttered in a drawing-room; and seems to contain the most complete system of female foppery that could possibly be crowded into the tortured form of a fine lady. her language, dress, motion, manners, soul, and body, are in a continual hurry to be something more than is necessary or commendable. and, though i doubt it will be a vain labour to offer you a just likeness of mrs monfort's action, yet the fantastic expression is still so strong in my memory, that i cannot help saying something, though fantastically, about it. the first ridiculous airs, that break from her, are upon a gallant never seen before, who delivers her a letter from her father, recommending him to her good graces as an honourable lover. here, now, one would think she might naturally shew a little of the sex's decent reserve, though never so slightly covered. no, sir, not a tittle of it: modesty is a poor-souled country gentlewoman; she is too much a court lady to be under so vulgar a confusion. she reads the letter, therefore, with a careless dropping lip, and an erected brow, humming it hastily over, as if she were impatient to outgo her father's commands, by making a complete conquest of him at once; and, that the letter might not embarrass the attack, crack! she crumbles it at once into her palm, and pours down upon him her whole artillery of airs, eyes, and motion; down goes her dainty diving body to the ground, as it she were sinking under the conscious load of her own attractions; then launches into a flood of fine language and compliment, still playing her chest forward in fifty falls and risings, like a swan upon waving water; and, to complete her impertinence, she is so rapidly fond of her own wit, that she will not give her lover leave to praise it. silent assenting bows, and vain endeavours to speak, are all the share of the conversation he is admitted to, which, at last, he is removed from by her engagement to half a score of visits, which she swims from him to make, with a promise to return in a twinkling." _cibber's apology_, p. . by this lively sketch, some judgment may be formed of the effect produced by the character of melantha, when ably represented; but, to say the truth, we could hardly have drawn the same deduction from a simple perusal of the piece. of the french phrases, which the affected lady throws into her conversation, some have been since naturalized, as _good graces_, _minuet_, _chagrin_, _grimace_, _ridicule_, and others. little can be said of the tragic part of the drama. the sudden turn of fortune in the conclusion is ridiculed in "the rehearsal." the researches of mr malone have ascertained that "marriage a-la-mode" was first acted in , in an old theatre in lincoln's inn fields, occupied by the king's company, after that in drury-lane had been burned, and during its re-building. the play was printed in the same year. to the right honourable the earl of rochester[ ]. my lord, i humbly dedicate to your lordship that poem, of which you were pleased to appear an early patron, before it was acted on the stage. i may yet go farther, with your permission, and say, that it received amendment from your noble hands ere it was fit to be presented. you may please likewise to remember, with how much favour to the author, and indulgence to the play, you commended it to the view of his majesty, then at windsor, and, by his approbation of it in writing, made way for its kind reception on the theatre. in this dedication, therefore, i may seem to imitate a custom of the ancients, who offered to their gods the firstlings of the flock, (which, i think, they called _ver sacrum_) because they helped them to increase. i am sure, if there be any thing in this play, wherein i have raised myself beyond the ordinary lowness of my comedies, i ought wholly to acknowledge it to the favour of being admitted into your lordship's conversation. and not only i, who pretend not to this way, but the best comic writers of our age, will join with me to acknowledge, that they have copied the gallantries of courts, the delicacy of expression, and the decencies of behaviour, from your lordship, with more success, than if they had taken their models from the court of france. but this, my lord, will be no wonder to the world, which knows the excellency of your natural parts, and those you have acquired in a noble education. that which, with more reason, i admire, is that being so absolute a courtier, you have not forgot either the ties of friendship, or the practice of generosity. in my little experience of a court, (which, i confess, i desire not to improve) i have found in it much of interest, and more of detraction: few men there have that assurance of a friend, as not to be made ridiculous by him when they are absent. there are a middling sort of courtiers, who become happy by their want of wit; but they supply that want by an excess of malice to those who have it. and there is no such persecution as that of fools: they can never be considerable enough to be talked of themselves; so that they are safe only in their obscurity, and grow mischievous to witty men, by the great diligence of their envy, and by being always present to represent and aggravate their faults. in the mean time, they are forced, when they endeavour to be pleasant, to live on the offals of their wit whom they decry; and either to quote it, (which they do unwillingly) or to pass it upon others for their own. these are the men who make it their business to chace wit from the knowledge of princes, lest it should disgrace their ignorance. and this kind of malice your lordship has not so much avoided, as surmounted. but if by the excellent temper of a royal master, always more ready to hear good than ill; if by his inclination to love you; if by your own merit and address; if by the charms of your conversation, the grace of your behaviour, your knowledge of greatness, and habitude in courts, you have been able to preserve yourself with honour in the midst of so dangerous a course; yet at least the remembrance of those hazards has inspired you with pity for other men, who, being of an inferior wit and quality to you, are yet persecuted, for being that in little, which your lordship is in great[ ]. for the quarrel of those people extends itself to any thing of sense; and if i may be so vain to own it, amongst the rest of the poets, has sometimes reached to the very borders of it, even to me. so that, if our general good fortune had not raised up your lordship to defend us, i know not whether any thing had been more ridiculous in court than writers. it is to your lordship's favour we generally owe our protection and patronage; and to the nobleness of your nature, which will not suffer the least shadow of your wit to be contemned in other men. you have been often pleased, not only to excuse my imperfections, but to vindicate what was tolerable in my writings from their censures; and, what i never can forget, you have not only been careful of my reputation, but of my fortune. you have been solicitous to supply my neglect of myself; and to overcome the fatal modesty of poets, which submits them to perpetual wants, rather than to become importunate with those people who have the liberality of kings in their disposing, and who, dishonouring the bounty of their master, suffer such to be in necessity who endeavour at least to please him; and for whose entertainment he has generously provided, if the fruits of his royal favour were not often stopped in other hands. but your lordship has given me occasion, not to complain of courts whilst you are there. i have found the effects of your mediation in all my concernments; and they were so much the more noble in you, because they were wholly voluntary. i, became your lordship's, (if i may venture on the similitude) as the world was made, without knowing him who made it; and brought only a passive obedience to be your creature. this nobleness of yours i think myself the rather obliged to own, because otherwise it must have been lost to all remembrance: for you are endowed with that excellent quality of a frank nature, to forget the good which you have done. but, my lord, i ought to have considered, that you are as great a judge, as you are a patron; and that in praising you ill, i should incur a higher note of ingratitude, than that i thought to have avoided. i stand in need of all your accustomed goodness for the dedication of this play; which, though perhaps it be the best of my comedies, is yet so faulty, that i should have feared you for my critic, if i had not, with some policy, given you the trouble of being my protector. wit seems to have lodged itself more nobly in this age, than in any of the former; and people of my mean condition are only writers, because some of the nobility, and your lordship in the first place, are above the narrow praises which poesy could give you. but, let those who love to see themselves exceeded, encourage your lordship in so dangerous a quality; for my own part, i must confess, that i have so much of self-interest, as to be content with reading some papers of your verses, without desiring you should proceed to a scene, or play; with the common prudence of those who are worsted in a duel, and declare they are satisfied, when they are first wounded. your lordship has but another step to make, and from the patron of wit, you may become its tyrant; and oppress our little reputations with more ease than you now protect them. but these, my lord, are designs, which i am sure you harbour not, any more than the french king is contriving the conquest of the swissers. it is a barren triumph, which is not worth your pains; and would only rank him amongst your slaves, who is already, my lord, your lordship's most obedient, and most faithful servant, john dryden. footnotes: . the patron, whom dryden here addresses, was the famous john wilmot, earl of rochester, the wittiest, perhaps, and most dissolute, among the witty and dissolute courtiers of charles ii. it is somewhat remarkable, and may be considered as a just judgment upon the poet, that he was, a few years afterwards, way-laid and severely beaten by bravoes, whom lord rochester employed to revenge the share which dryden is supposed to have had in the essay on satire. the reader is referred to the life of the author for the particulars of this occurrence, which is here recalled to his recollection, as a striking illustration of the inutility, as well as meanness, of ill applied praise; since even the eulogy of dryden, however liberally bestowed and beautifully expressed, failed to save him from the most unmanly treatment at the hands of the worthless and heartless object, on whom it was wasted. it is melancholy to see dryden, as may be fairly inferred from his motto, piqueing himself on being admitted into the society of such men as rochester, and enjoying their precarious favour. mr malone has remarked, that even in the course of the year , when this dedication came forth, rochester entertained the perverse ambition of directing the public favour, not according to merit, but to his own caprice. accordingly, he countenanced settle in his impudent rivalry of dryden, and wrote a prologue to the "empress of morocco," when it was exhibited at whitehall. perhaps, joined to a certain envy of dryden's talents, the poet's intimacy with sheffield earl of mulgrave gave offence to rochester. it is certain they were never afterwards reconciled; and even after rochester's death, dryden only mentions his once valued patron, as "a man of quality whose ashes he will not disturb."--_essay on the origin and progress of satire_, prefixed to juvenal. it would seem, however, that this dedication was very favourably received by rochester, since a letter of dryden's to that nobleman is still extant, in which he acknowledges a flattering return of compliment from his lordship in exchange for it. . when this play was acted for the first time in . but about , rochester contrived to give such offence as even the excellent temper of his royal master was unable to digest. this was by writing a lampoon called "the insipids," in which the person and character of charles are treated with most merciless and irreverent severity. it begins thus: chaste, pious, prudent, charles the second, the miracle of thy restoration may like to that of quails be reckoned, rained on the israelitish nation; the wished-for blessing, from heaven sent, became their curse and punishment. for this satiric effusion the author was banished from the court. prologue. lord, how reformed and quiet are we grown, since all our braves and all our wits are gone! fop-corner now is free from civil war, white-wig and vizard make no longer jar. france, and the fleet, have swept the town so clear, that we can act in peace, and you can hear. 'twas a sad sight, before they marched from home, to see our warriors in red waistcoats come, with hair tucked up, into our tireing-room. but 'twas more sad to hear their last adieu: the women sobbed, and swore they would be true; and so they were, as long as e'er they could, but powerful guinea cannot be withstood, and they were made of play-house flesh and blood. fate did their friends for double use ordain; in wars abroad they grinning honour gain, and mistresses, for all that stay, maintain. now they are gone, 'tis dead vacation here, for neither friends nor enemies appear. poor pensive punk now peeps ere plays begin, sees the bare bench, and dares not venture in; but manages her last half-crown with care, and trudges to the mall, on foot, for air. our city friends so far will hardly come, they can take up with pleasures nearer home; and see gay shows, and gaudy scenes elsewhere; for we presume they seldom come to hear. but they have now ta'en up a glorious trade, and cutting morecraft[ ] struts in masquerade. there's all our hope, for we shall shew to-day a masking ball, to recommend our play; nay, to endear them more, and let them see we scorn to come behind in courtesy, we'll follow the new mode which they begin, and treat them with a room, and couch within: for that's one way, howe'er the play fall short, to oblige the town, the city, and the court. footnote: . in the conclusion of beaumont and fletcher's play of "the scornful lady," morecraft, an usurer, turns a cutter, or, as we now say, a buck. dryden seems to allude to ravenscroft's play of "the citizen turned gentleman," a transmigration somewhat resembling that of cutting morecraft. this play was now acting by the duke's company in dorset gardens, which, from its situation, says mr malone, was much frequented by citizens, as here insinuated. dramatis personÆ. polydamas, _usurper of sicily._ leonidas, _the rightful prince, unknown._ argaleon, _favourite to_ polydamas. hermogenes, _foster-father to_ leonidas. eubulus, _his friend and companion._ rhodophil, _captain of the guards._ palamede, _a courtier._ palmyra, _daughter to the usurper._ amalthea, _sister to_ argaleon. doralice, _wife to_ rhodophil. melantha, _an affected lady._ philotis, _woman to_ melantha. beliza, _woman to_ doralice. artemis, _a court lady._ scene,--_sicily._ marriage a-la-mode. act i. scene i.--_walks near the court._ _enter_ doralice _and_ beliza. _dor._ beliza, bring the lute into this arbour; the walks are empty: i would try the song the princess amalthea bade me learn. [_they go in, and sing._ i. _why should a foolish marriage vow, which long ago was made, oblige us to each other now, when passion is decayed? we loved, and we loved, as long as we could, 'till our love was loved out in us both; but our marriage is dead, when the pleasure is fled: 'twas pleasure first made it an oath._ ii. _if i have pleasures for a friend, and further love in store, what wrong has he, whose joys did end, and who could give no more?_ _'tis a madness that he should be jealous of me, or that i should bar him of another: for all we can gain, is to give ourselves pain, when neither can hinder the other._ _enter_ palamede, _in a riding-habit, and hears the song. re-enter_ doralice _and_ beliza. _bel._ madam, a stranger. _dor._ i did not think to have had witnesses of my bad singing. _pala._ if i have erred, madam, i hope you'll pardon the curiosity of a stranger; for i may well call myself so, after five years absence from the court: but you have freed me from one error. _dor._ what's that, i beseech you? _pala._ i thought good voices, and ill faces, had been inseparable; and that to be fair, and sing well, had been only the privilege of angels. _dor._ and how many more of these fine things can you say to me? _pala._ very few, madam; for if i should continue to see you some hours longer, you look so killingly that i should be mute with wonder. _dor._ this will not give you the reputation of a wit with me. you travelling monsieurs live upon the stock you have got abroad, for the first day or two: to repeat with a good memory, and apply with a good grace, is all your wit; and, commonly, your gullets are sewed up, like cormorants. when you have regorged what you have taken in, you are the leanest things in nature. _pala._ then, madam, i think you had best make that use of me; let me wait on you for two or three days together, and you shall hear all i have learnt of extraordinary in other countries; and one thing which i never saw 'till i came home, that is, a lady of a better voice, better face, and better wit, than any i have seen abroad. and, after this, if i should not declare myself most passionately in love with you, i should have less wit than yet you think i have. _dor._ a very plain, and pithy declaration. i see, sir, you have been travelling in spain or italy, or some of the hot countries, where men come to the point immediately. but are you sure these are not words of course? for i would not give my poor heart an occasion of complaint against me, that i engaged it too rashly, and then could not bring it off. _pala._ your heart may trust itself with me safely; i shall use it very civilly while it stays, and never turn it away, without fair warning to provide for itself. _dor._ first, then, i do receive your passion with as little consideration, on my part, as ever you gave it me, on yours. and now, see what a miserable wretch you have made yourself! _pala._ who, i miserable? thank you for that. give me love enough, and life enough, and i defy fortune. _dor._ know, then, thou man of vain imagination, know, to thy utter confusion, that i am virtuous. _pala._ such another word, and i give up the ghost. _dor._ then, to strike you quite dead, know that i am married too. _pala._ art thou married? o thou damnable virtuous woman! _dor._ yes, married to a gentleman; young, handsome rich, valiant, and with all the good qualities that will make you despair, and hang yourself. _pala._ well, in spite of all that, i'll love you: fortune has cut us out for one another; for i am to be married within these three days; married, past redemption to a young, fair, rich, and virtuous lady; and it shall go hard but i will love my wife as little, as, i perceive, you do your husband. _dor._ remember, i invade no propriety: my servant you are, only 'till you are married. _pala._ in the meantime, you are to forget you have a husband. _dor._ and you, that you are to have a wife. _bel._ [_aside, to her lady._] o madam, my lord's just at the end of the walks! and, if you make not haste, will discover you. _dor._ some other time, new servant, we'll talk further of the premises; in the mean while, break not my first commandment, that is, not to follow me. _pala._ but where, then, shall i find you again? _dor._ at court. yours, for two days, sir. _pala._ and nights, i beseech you, madam. [_exeunt_ doralice _and_ beliz. _pala._ well, i'll say that for thee, thou art a very dexterous executioner; thou hast done my business at one stroke: yet i must marry another--and yet i must love this; and if it lead me into some little inconveniencies, as jealousies, and duels, and death, and so forth--yet, while sweet love is in the case, fortune, do thy worst, and avaunt, mortality! _enter_ rhodophil, _who seems speaking to one within._ _rho._ leave 'em with my lieutenant, while i fetch new orders from the king.--how? palamede! [_sees_ palamede. _pala._ rhodophil! _rho._ who thought to have seen you in sicily? _pala._ who thought to have found the court so far from syracuse? _rho._ the king best knows the reason of the progress. but, answer me, i beseech you, what brought you home from travel? _pala._ the commands of an old rich father. _rho._ and the hopes of burying him? _pala._ both together, as you see, have prevailed on my good nature. in few words, my old man has already married me; for he has agreed with another old man, as rich and as covetous as himself; the articles are drawn, and i have given my consent, for fear of being disinherited; and yet know not what kind of woman i am to marry. _rho._ sure your father intends you some very ugly wife, and has a mind to keep you in ignorance till you have shot the gulf. _pala._ i know not that; but obey i will, and must. _rho._ then i cannot chuse but grieve for all the good girls and courtezans of france and italy. they have lost the most kind-hearted, doting, prodigal humble servant, in europe. _pala._ all i could do, in these three years i staid behind you, was to comfort the poor creatures for the loss of you. but what's the reason that, in all this time, a friend could never hear from you? _rho._ alas, dear palamede! i have had no joy to write, nor indeed to do any thing in the world to please me. the greatest misfortune imaginable is fallen upon me. _pala._ pr'ythee, what's the matter? _rho._ in one word, i am married: wretchedly married; and have been above these two years. yes, faith, the devil has had power over me, in spite of my vows and resolutions to the contrary. _pala._ i find you have sold yourself for filthy lucre; she's old, or ill conditioned. _rho._ no; none of these: i'm sure she's young; and, for her humour, she laughs, sings, and dances eternally; and, which is more, we never quarrel about it, for i do the same. _pala._ you're very unfortunate indeed: then the case is plain, she is not handsome. _rho._ a great beauty too, as people say. _pala._ as people say? why, you should know that best yourself. _rho._ ask those, who have smelt to a strong perfume two years together, what's the scent. _pala._ but here are good qualities enough for one woman. _rho._ ay, too many, palamede. if i could put them into three or four women, i should be content. _pala._ o, now i have found it! you dislike her for no other reason but because she's your wife. _rho._ and is not that enough? all that i know of her perfections now, is only by memory. i remember indeed, that about two years ago i loved her passionately; but those golden days are gone, palamede: yet i loved her a whole half year, double the natural term of any mistress; and i think, in my conscience, i could have held out another quarter, but then the world began to laugh at me, and a certain shame, of being out of fashion, seized me. at last, we arrived at that point, that there was nothing left in us to make us new to one another. yet still i set a good face upon the matter, and am infinite fond of her before company; but when we are alone, we walk like lions in a room; she one way, and i another. and we lie with our backs to each other, so far distant, as if the fashion of great beds was only invented to keep husband and wife sufficiently asunder. _pala._ the truth is, your disease is very desperate; but, though you cannot be cured you may be patched up a little: you must get you a mistress, rhodophil. that, indeed, is living upon cordials; but, as fast as one fails, you must supply it with another. you're like a gamester who has lost his estate; yet, in doing that, you have learned the advantages of play, and can arrive to live upon't. _rho._ truth is, i have been thinking on't, and have just resolved to take your counsel; and, faith, considering the damned disadvantages of a married man, i have provided well enough, for a poor humble sinner, that is not ambitious of great matters. _pala._ what is she, for a woman? _rho._ one of the stars of syracuse, i assure you: young enough, fair enough; and, but for one quality, just such a woman as i could wish. _pala._ o friend, this is not an age to be critical in beauty. when we had good store of handsome women, and but few chapmen, you might have been more curious in your choice; but now the price is enhanced upon us, and all mankind set up for mistresses, so that poor little creatures, without beauty, birth, or breeding, but only impudence, go off at unreasonable rates: and a man, in these hard times, snaps at them, as he does at broad gold; never examines the weight, but takes light or heavy, as he can get it. _rho._ but my mistress has one fault, that's almost unpardonable; for, being a town-lady, without any relation to the court, yet she thinks herself undone if she be not seen there three or four times a day with the princess amalthea. and, for the king, she haunts and watches him so narrowly in a morning, that she prevents even the chemists, who beset his chamber, to turn their mercury into his gold. _pala._ yet, hitherto, methinks, you are no very unhappy man. _rho._ with all this, she's the greatest gossip in nature; for, besides the court, she's the most eternal visitor of the town; and yet manages her time so well, that she seems ubiquitary. for my part, i can compare her to nothing but the sun; for, like him, she takes no rest, nor ever sets in one place, but to rise in another. _pala._ i confess, she had need be handsome, with these qualities. _rho._ no lady can be so curious of a new fashion, as she is of a new french word: she's the very mint of the nation; and as fast as any bullion comes out of france, coins it immediately into our language. _pala._ and her name is-- _rho._ no naming; that's not like a cavalier: find her, if you can, by my description; and i am not so ill a painter that i need write the name beneath the picture. _pala._ well, then, how far have you proceeded in your love? _rho._ 'tis yet in the bud, and what fruit it may bear i cannot tell; for this insufferable humour, of haunting the court, is so predominant, that she has hitherto broken all her assignations with me, for fear of missing her visits there. _pala._ that's the hardest part of your adventure. but, for aught i see, fortune has used us both alike: i have a strange kind of mistress too in court, besides her i am to marry. _rho._ you have made haste to be in love, then; for, if i am not mistaken, you are but this day arrived. _pala._ that's all one: i have seen the lady already, who has charmed me; seen her in these walks, courted her, and received, for the first time, an answer that does not put me into despair. _to them_ argaleon, amalthea, _and_ artemis. i'll tell you more at leisure my adventures. the walks fill apace, i see. stay, is not that the young lord argaleon, the king's favourite? _rho._ yes, and as proud as ever, as ambitious, and as revengeful. _pala._ how keeps he the king's favour with these qualities? _rho._ argaleon's father helped him to the crown: besides, he gilds over all his vices to the king, and, standing in the dark to him, sees all his inclinations, interests, and humours, which he so times and soothes, that, in effect, he reigns. _pala._ his sister amalthea, who, i guess, stands by him, seems not to be of his temper. _rho._ o, she's all goodness and generosity. _arga._ rhodophil, the king expects you earnestly. _rho._ 'tis done, my lord, what he commanded: i only waited his return from hunting. shall i attend your lordship to him? _arga._ no; i go first another way. [_exit hastily._ _pala._ he seems in haste, and discomposed. _amal._ [_to_ rhod. _after a short whisper._] your friend? then he must needs be of much merit. _rho._ when he has kissed the king's hand, i know he'll beg the honour to kiss yours. come, palamede. [_exeunt_ rhodo. _and_ pala. _bowing to_ amal. _arte._ madam, you tell me most surprising news. _amal._ the fear of it, you see, has discomposed my brother; but to me, all, that can bring my country good, is welcome. _arte._ it seems incredible, that this old king, whom all the world thought childless, should come to search the farthest parts of sicily, in hope to find an heir. _amal._ to lessen your astonishment, i will unfold some private passages of state, of which you are yet ignorant: know, first, that this polydamus, who reigns, unjustly gained the crown. _arte._ somewhat of this i have confusedly heard. _amal._ i'll tell you all in brief: theagenes, our last great king, had, by his queen, one only son, an infant of three years old, called, after him, theagenes. the general, this polydamus, then married; the public feasts for which were scarcely past, when a rebellion in the heart of sicily called out the king to arms. _arte._ polydamus had then a just excuse to stay behind. _amal._ his temper was too warlike to accept it. he left his bride, and the new joys of marriage, and followed to the field. in short, they fought, the rebels were o'ercome; but in the fight the too bold king received a mortal wound. when he perceived his end approaching near, he called the general, to whose care he left his widow queen, and orphan son; then died. _arte._ then false polydamus betrayed his trust? _amal._ he did; and, with my father's help,--for which heaven pardon him!--so gained their soldiers' hearts, that, in a few days, he was saluted king: and when his crimes had impudence enough to bear the eye of day, he marched his army back to syracuse. but see how heaven can punish wicked men, in granting their desires: the news was brought him, that day he was to enter it, that eubulus, whom his dead master had left governor, was fled, and with him bore away the queen, and royal orphan; but, what more amazed him, his wife, now big with child, and much detesting her husband's practices, had willingly accompanied their flight. _arte._ how i admire her virtue! _amal._ what became of her, and them, since that, was never known; only, some few days since, a famous robber was taken with some jewels of vast price, which, when they were delivered to the king, he knew had been his wife's; with these, a letter, much torn and sullied, but which yet he knew to be her writing. _arte._ sure, from hence he learned he had a son? _amal._ it was not left so plain: the paper only said, she died in child-bed; but when it should have mentioned son or daughter, just there it was torn off. _arte._ madam, the king. _to them_ polydamus, argaleon, _guard and attendants._ _arga._ the robber, though thrice racked, confessed no more. but that he took those jewels near this place. _poly._ but yet the circumstances strongly argue, that those, for whom i search, are not far off. _arga._ i cannot easily believe it. _arte._ no, you would not have it so. [_aside._ _poly._ those, i employed, have in the neighbouring hamlet, amongst the fishers' cabins, made discovery of some young persons, whose uncommon beauty, and graceful carriage, make it seem suspicious they are not what they seem: i therefore sent the captain of my guards, this morning early, with orders to secure and bring them to me. _enter_ rhodophil _and_ palamede. o, here he is.--have you performed my will? _rho._ sir, those, whom you commanded me to bring, are waiting in the walks. _poly._ conduct them hither. _rho._ first, give me leave to beg your notice of this gentleman. _poly._ he seems to merit it. his name and quality? _rho._ palamede, son to lord cleodemus of palermo, and new returned from travel. [palamede _approaches, and kneels to kiss the kings hand._ _poly._ you are welcome. i knew your father well, he was both brave and honest; we two once were fellow soldiers in the last civil wars. _pala._ i bring the same unquestion'd honesty and zeal to serve your majesty; the courage you were pleased to praise in him, your royal prudence, and your people's love, will never give me leave to try, like him, in civil wars; i hope it may in foreign. _poly._ attend the court, and it shall be my care to find out some employment, worthy you. go, rhodophil, and bring in those without. [_exeunt_ rho. _and_ pala. rhodophil _returns again immediately, and with him enter_ hermogenes, leonidas, _and_ palmyra. behold two miracles! [_looking earnestly on_ leon. _and_ palmyra. of different sexes, but of equal form: so matchless both, that my divided soul can scarcely ask the gods a son or daughter, for fear of losing one. if from your hands, you powers, i shall this day receive a daughter, argaleon, she is yours; but, if a son, then amalthea's love shall make him happy. _arga._ grant, heaven, this admirable nymph may prove that issue, which he seeks! _amal._ venus urania, if thou art a goddess, grant that sweet youth may prove the prince of sicily! _poly._ tell me, old man, and tell me true, from whence [_to_ herm. had you that youth and maid? _her._ from whence you had your sceptre, sir: i had them from the gods. _poly._ the gods then have not such another gift. say who their parents were. _her._ my wife, and i. _arga._ it is not likely, a virgin, of so excellent a beauty, should come from such a stock. _amal._ much less, that such a youth, so sweet, so graceful, should be produced from peasants. _her._ why, nature is the same in villages, and much more fit to form a noble issue, where it is least corrupted. _poly._ he talks too like a man that knew the world, to have been long a peasant. but the rack will teach him other language. hence with him! [_as the guards are carrying him away, his peruke falls off._ sure i have seen that face before. hermogenes! 'tis he, 'tis he, who fled away with eubulus, and with my dear eudoxia. _her._ yes, sir, i am hermogenes; and if to have been loyal be a crime, i stand prepared to suffer. _poly._ if thou would'st live, speak quickly, what is become of my eudoxia? where is the queen and young theagenes? where eubulus? and which of these is mine? [_pointing to_ leon. _and_ palm. _her._ eudoxia is dead, so is the queen, the infant king, her son, and eubulus. _poly._ traitor, 'tis false: produce them, or-- _her._ once more i tell you, they are dead; but leave to threaten, for you shall know no further. _poly._ then prove indulgent to my hopes, and be my friend for ever. tell me, good hermogenes, whose son is that brave youth? _her._ sir, he is yours. _poly._ fool that i am! thou see'st that so i wish it, and so thou flatter'st me. _her._ by all that's holy! _poly._ again. thou canst not swear too deeply.-- yet hold, i will believe thee:--yet i doubt. _her._ you need not, sir. _arga._ believe him not; he sees you credulous, and would impose his own base issue on you, and fix it to your crown. _amal._ behold his goodly shape and feature, sir; methinks he much resembles you. _arga._ i say, if you have any issue here, it must be that fair creature; by all my hopes i think so. _amal._ yes, brother, i believe you by your hopes, for they are all for her. _poly._ call the youth nearer. _her._ leonidas, the king would speak with you. _poly._ come near, and be not dazzled with the splendour, and greatness of a court. _leon._ i need not this encouragement; i can fear nothing but the gods. and, for this glory, after i have seen the canopy of state spread wide above in the abyss of heaven, the court of stars, the blushing morning, and the rising sun, what greater can i see? _poly._ this speaks thee born a prince; thou art, thyself, [_embracing him._ that rising sun, and shalt not see, on earth, a brighter than thyself. all of you witness, that for my son i here receive this youth, this brave, this--but i must not praise him further, because he now is mine. _leon._ i wo'not, sir, believe [_kneeling._ that i am made your sport; for i find nothing in myself, but what is much above a scorn. i dare give credit to whatsoe'er a king, like you, can tell me. either i am, or will deserve to be, your son. _arga._ i yet maintain it is impossible this young man should be yours; for, if he were, why should hermogenes so long conceal him, when he might gain so much by his discovery? _her._ i staid a while to make him worthy, sir, of you. [_to the king._ but in that time i found somewhat within him, which so moved my love, i never could resolve to part with him. _leon._ you ask too many questions, and are [_to_ arga. too saucy for a subject. _arga._ you rather over-act your part, and are too soon a prince. _leon._ too soon you'll find me one. _poly._ enough, argaleon! i have declared him mine; and you, leonidas, live well with him i love. _arga._ sir, if he be your son, i may have leave to think your queen had twins. look on this virgin; hermogenes would enviously deprive you of half your treasure. _her._ sir, she is my daughter. i could, perhaps, thus aided by this lord, prefer her to be yours; but truth forbid i should procure her greatness by a lie! _poly._ come hither, beauteous maid: are you not sorry your father will not let you pass for mine? _palm._ i am content to be what heaven has made me. _poly._ could you not wish yourself a princess then? _palm._ not to be sister to leonidas. _poly._ why, my sweet maid? _palm._ indeed i cannot tell; but i could be content to be his handmaid. _arga._ i wish i had not seen her. [_aside._ _palm._ i must weep for your good fortune; [_to_ leon. pray, pardon me, indeed i cannot help it. leonidas,--alas! i had forgot, now i must call you prince,--but must i leave you? _leon._ i dare not speak to her; for, if i should, i must weep too. [_aside._ _poly._ no, you shall live at court, sweet innocence, and see him there. hermogenes, though you intended not to make me happy, yet you shall be rewarded for the event. come, my leonidas, let's thank the gods; thou for a father, i for such a son. [_exeunt all but_ leon. _and_ palm. _leon._ my dear palmyra, many eyes observe me, and i have thoughts so tender, that i cannot in public speak them to you: some hours hence, i shall shake off these crowds of fawning courtiers, and then-- [_exit_ leon. _palm._ fly swift, you hours! you measure time for me in vain, 'till you bring back leonidas again. be shorter now; and, to redeem that wrong, when he and i are met, be twice as long! [_exit._ act ii. scene i. _enter_ melantha _and_ philotis. _phil._ count rhodophil's a fine gentleman indeed, madam; and, i think, deserves your affection. _mel._ let me die but he's a fine man; he sings and dances _en françois_, and writes the _billets doux_ to a miracle. _phil._ and those are no small talents, to a lady that understands, and values the french air, as your ladyship does. _mel._ how charming is the french air! and what an _etourdi bête_ is one of our untravelled islanders! when he would make his court to me, let me die but he is just Æsop's ass, that would imitate the courtly french in his addresses; but, instead of those, comes pawing upon me, and doing all things so _mal a droitly_. _phil._ 'tis great pity rhodophil's a married man, that you may not have an honourable intrigue with him. _mel._ intrigue, philotis! that's an old phrase; i have laid that word by; amour sounds better. but thou art heir to all my cast words, as thou art to my old wardrobe. oh, count rhodophil! ah _mon cher_! i could live and die with him. _enter_ palamede, _and a servant._ _serv._ sir, this is my lady. _pala._ then this is she that is to be divine, and nymph, and goddess, and with whom i am to be desperately in love. [_bows to her, delivering a letter._ this letter, madam, which i present you from your father, has given me both the happy opportunity, and the boldness, to kiss the fairest hands in sicily. _mel._ came you lately from palermo, sir? _pala._ but yesterday, madam. _mel._ [reading the letter.] _daughter, receive the bearer of this letter, as a gentleman whom i have chosen to make you happy._ [o venus, a new servant sent me! and let me die but he has the air of a _gallant homme_!] _his father is the rich lord cleodemus, our neighbour: i suppose you'll find nothing disagreeable in his person or his converse; both which he has improved by travel. the treaty is already concluded, and i shall be in town within these three days; so that you have nothing to do but to obey your careful father._ [_to_ pala.] sir, my father, for whom i have a blind obedience, has commanded me to receive your passionate addresses; but you must also give me leave to avow, that i cannot merit them from so accomplished a cavalier. _pala._ i want many things, madam, to render me accomplished; and the first and greatest of them is your favour. _mel._ let me die, philotis, but this is extremely french; but yet count rhodophil--a gentleman, sir, that understands the _grand monde_ so well, who has haunted the best conversations, and who, in short, has voyaged, may pretend to the good graces of a lady. _pala._ [_aside._] hey-day! _grand monde! conversation! voyaged!_ and _good graces!_ i find my mistress is one of those that run mad in new french words. _mel._ i suppose, sir, you have made the tour of france; and, having seen all that's fine there, will make a considerable reformation in the rudeness of our court: for let me die, but an unfashioned, untravelled, mere sicilian, is a _bête_; and has nothing in the world of an _honnête homme_. _pala._ i must confess, madam, that-- _mel._ and what new minuets have you brought over with you? their minuets are to a miracle! and our sicilian jiggs are so dull and sad to them! _pala._ for minuets, madam-- _mel._ and what new plays are there in vogue? and who danced best in the last grand ballet? come, sweet servant, you shall tell me all. _pala._ [_aside._] tell her all? why, she asks all, and will hear nothing.--to answer in order, madam, to your demands-- _mel._ i am thinking what a happy couple we shall be! for you shall keep up your correspondence abroad, and every thing that's new writ, in france, and fine, i mean all that's delicate, and _bien tourné_, we will have first. _pala._ but, madam, our fortune-- _mel._ i understand you, sir; you'll leave that to me: for the _menage_ of a family, i know it better than any lady in sicily. _pala._ alas, madam, we-- _mel._ then, we will never make visits together, nor see a play, but always apart; you shall be every day at the king's levee, and i at the queen's; and we will never meet, but in the drawing-room. _phil._ madam, the new prince is just passed by the end of the walk. _mel._ the new prince, sayest thou? adieu, dear servant; i have not made my court to him these two long hours. o, it is the sweetest prince! so _obligeant_, _charmant_, _ravissant_, that--well, i'll make haste to kiss his hands, and then make half a score visits more, and be with you again in a twinkling. [_exit running, with_ phil. _pala._ [_solus._] now heaven, of thy mercy, bless me from this tongue! it may keep the field against a whole army of lawyers, and that in their own language, french gibberish. it is true, in the day-time, it is tolerable, when a man has field room to run from it; but to be shut up in a bed with her, like two cocks in a pit, humanity cannot support it. i must kiss all night in my own defence, and hold her down, like a boy at cuffs, and give her the rising blow every time she begins to speak. _enter_ rhodophil. but here comes rhodophil. it is pretty odd that my mistress should so much resemble his: the same newsmonger, the same passionate lover of a court, the same--but, basta, since i must marry her. i'll say nothing, because he shall not laugh at my misfortune. _rho._ well, palamede, how go the affairs of love? you have seen your mistress? _pala._ i have so. _rho._ and how, and how? has the old cupid, your father, chosen well for you? is he a good woodman? _pala._ she's much handsomer than i could have imagined: in short, i love her, and will marry her. _rho._ then you are quite off from your other mistress? _pala._ you are mistaken; i intend to love them both, as a reasonable man ought to do: for, since all women have their faults and imperfections, it is fit that one of them should help out the other. _rho._ this were a blessed doctrine, indeed, if our wives would hear it; but they are their own enemies: if they would suffer us but now and then to make excursions, the benefit of our variety would be theirs; instead of one continued, lazy, tired love, they would, in their turns, have twenty vigorous, fresh, and active lovers. _pala._ and i would ask any of them, whether a poor narrow brook, half dry the best part of the year, and running ever one way, be to be compared to a lusty stream, that has ebbs and flows? _rho._ ay, or is half so profitable for navigation? _enter_ doralice, _walking by, and reading._ _pala._ ods my life, rhodophil, will you keep my counsel? _rho._ yes: where's the secret? _pala._ there it is: [_shewing_ dor.] i may tell you, as my friend, _sub sigillo_, &c. this is that very lady, with whom i am in love. _rho._ by all that's virtuous, my wife! [_aside._ _pala._ you look strangely: how do you like her? is she not very handsome? _rho._ sure he abuses me. [_aside._]--why the devil do you ask my judgment? _pala._ you are so dogged now, you think no man's mistress handsome but your own. come, you shall hear her talk too; she has wit, i assure you. _rho._ this is too much, palamede. [_going back._ _pala._ pr'ythee do not hang back so: of an old tried lover, thou art the most bashful fellow! [_pulling him forward._ _dor._ were you so near, and would not speak, dear husband? [_looking up._ _pala._ husband, quoth a! i have cut out a fine piece of work for myself. [_aside._ _rho._ pray, spouse, how long have you been acquainted with this gentleman? _dor._ who? i acquainted with this stranger? to my best knowledge, i never saw him before. _enter_ melantha _at the other end._ _pala._ thanks, fortune, thou hast helped me. [_aside._ _rho._ palamede, this must not pass so. i must know your mistress a little better. _pala._ it shall be your own fault else. come, i'll introduce you. _rho._ introduce me! where? _pala._ there. to my mistress. [_pointing to_ melantha, _who swiftly passes over the stage._ _rho._ who? melantha! o heavens, i did not see her. _pala._ but i did: i am an eagle where i love; i have seen her this half hour. _dor._ [_aside._] i find he has wit, he has got off so readily; but it would anger me, if he should love melantha. _rho._ [_aside._] now, i could even wish it were my wife he loved; i find he's to be married to my mistress. _pala._ shall i run after, and fetch her back again, to present you to her? _rho._ no, you need not; i have the honour to have some small acquaintance with her. _pala._ [_aside._] o jupiter! what a blockhead was i, not to find it out! my wife, that must be, is his mistress. i did a little suspect it before. well, i must marry her, because she's handsome, and because i hate to be disinherited by a younger brother, which i am sure i shall be, if i disobey; and yet i must keep in with rhodophil, because i love his wife.--[_to_ rho.] i must desire you to make my excuse to your lady, if i have been so unfortunate to cause any mistake; and, withal, to beg the honour of being known to her. _rho._ o, that is but reason.--hark you, spouse, pray look upon this gentleman as my friend; whom, to my knowledge, you have never seen before this hour. _dor._ i am so obedient a wife, sir, that my husband's commands shall ever be a law to me. _enter_ melantha _again, hastily, and runs to embrace_ doralice. _mel._ o, my dear, i was just going to pay my devoirs to you; i had not time this morning, for making my court to the king, and our new prince. well, never nation was so happy, and all that, in a young prince; and he is the kindest person in the world to me, let me die if he is not. _dor._ he has been bred up far from court, and therefore-- _mel._ that imports not: though he has not seen the _grand monde_, and all that, let me die but he has the air of the court most absolutely. _pala._ but yet, madam, he-- _mel._ o, servant, you can testify that i am in his good graces. well, i cannot stay long with you, because i have promised him this afternoon to--but hark you, my dear, i'll tell you a secret. [_whispers to_ dor. _rho._ the devil's in me, that i must love this woman. [_aside._ _pala._ the devil's in me, that i must marry this woman. [_aside._ _mel._ [_raising her voice._] so the prince and i--but you must make a secret of this, my dear; for i would not for the world your husband should hear it, or my tyrant, there, that must be. _pala._ well, fair impertinent, your whisper is not lost, we hear you. [_aside._ _dor._ i understand then, that-- _mel._ i'll tell you, my dear, the prince took me by the hand, and pressed it _a la derobbée_, because the king was near, made the _doux yeux_ to me, and, _ensuite_, said a thousand gallantries, or let me die, my dear. _dor._ then i am sure you-- _mel._ you are mistaken, my dear. _dor._ what, before i speak? _mel._ but i know your meaning. you think, my dear, that i assumed something of _fierté_ into my countenance, to _rebute_, him; but, quite contrary, i regarded him,--i know not how to express it in our dull sicilian language,--_d'un air enjoüé_; and said nothing but _ad autre, ad autre,_ and that it was all _grimace_, and would not pass upon me. _enter_ artemis: melantha _sees her, and runs away from_ doralice. [_to_ artemis.] my dear, i must beg your pardon, i was just making a loose from doralice, to pay my respects to you. let me die, if i ever pass time so agreeably as in your company, and if i would leave it for any lady's in sicily. _arte._ the princess amalthea is coming this way. _enter_ amalthea: melantha _runs to her._ _mel._ o, dear madam! i have been at your lodging in my new _galeche_, so often, to tell you of a new amour, betwixt two persons whom you would little suspect for it, that, let me die if one of my coach-horses be not dead, and another quite tired, and sunk under the fatigue. _amal._ o, melantha, i can tell you news; the prince is coming this way. _mel._ the prince? o sweet prince! he and i are to--and i forgot it.-- your pardon, sweet madam, for my abruptness.--adieu, my dear servant,--rhodophil.--servant, servant, servant all. [_exit running._ _amal._ rhodophil, a word with you. [_whispers._ _dor._ [_to pala._] why do you not follow your mistress, sir? _pala._ follow her? why, at this rate she'll be at the indies within this half hour. _dor._ however, if you cannot follow her all day, you will meet her at night, i hope? _pala._ but can you, in charity, suffer me to be so mortified, without affording me some relief? if it be but to punish that sign of a husband there, that lazy matrimony, that dull insipid taste, who leaves such delicious fare at home, to dine abroad on worse meat, and pay dear for it into the bargain. _dor._ all this is in vain: assure yourself, i will never admit of any visit from you in private. _pala._ that is to tell me, in other words, my condition is desperate. _dor._ i think you in so ill a condition, that i am resolved to pray for you, this very evening, in the close walk behind the terrace; for that's a private place, and there i am sure nobody will disturb my devotions. and so, good-night, sir. [_exit._ _pala._ this is the newest way of making an appointment i ever heard of. let women alone to contrive the means; i find we are but dunces to them. well, i will not be so prophane a wretch as to interrupt her devotions; but, to make them more effectual, i'll down upon my knees, and endeavour to join my own with them. [_exit._ _amal._ [_to_ rho.] i know already they do not love each other; and that my brother acts but a forced obedience to the king's commands; so that if a quarrel should arise betwixt the prince and him, i were most miserable on both sides. _rho._ there shall be nothing wanting in me, madam, to prevent so sad a consequence. _enter the king and_ leonidas; _the king whispers_ amalthea. [_to himself._] i begin to hate this palamede, because he is to marry my mistress: yet break with him i dare not, for fear of being quite excluded from her company. it is a hard case, when a man must go by his rival to his mistress: but it is, at worst, but using him like a pair of heavy boots in a dirty journey; after i have fouled him all day, i'll throw him off at night. [_exit._ _amal._ [_to the king._] this honour is too great for me to hope. _poly._ you shall this hour have the assurance of it.-- leonidas, come hither; you have heard, i doubt not, that the father of this princess was my most faithful friend, while i was yet a private man; and when i did assume this crown, he served me in the high attempt. you see, then, to what gratitude obliges me; make your addresses to her. _leon._ sir, i am yet too young to be a courtier; i should too much betray my ignorance, and want of breeding to so fair a lady. _amal._ your language speaks you not bred up in desarts, but in the softness of some asian court, where luxury and ease invent kind words, to cozen tender virgins of their hearts. _poly._ you need not doubt, but in what words soe'er a prince can offer his crown and person, they will be received. you know my pleasure, and you know your duty. _leon._ yes, sir, i shall obey, in what i can. _poly._ in what you can, leonidas? consider, he's both your king, and father, who commands you. besides, what is there hard in my injunction? _leon._ 'tis hard to have my inclination forced. i would not marry, sir; and, when i do, i hope you'll give me freedom in my choice. _poly._ view well this lady, whose mind as much transcends her beauteous face, as that excels all others. _amal._ my beauty, as it ne'er could merit love, so neither can it beg: and, sir, you may believe, that what the king has offered you, i should refuse, did i not value more your person than your crown. _leon._ think it not pride, or my new fortunes swell me to contemn you; think less, that i want eyes to see your beauty; and, least of all, think duty wanting in me to obey a father's will: but-- _poly._ but what, leonidas? for i must know your reason; and be sure it be convincing too. _leon._ sir, ask the stars, which have imposed love on us, like a fate, why minds are bent to one, and fly another? ask, why all beauties cannot move all hearts? for though there may be made a rule for colour, or for feature, there can be none for liking. _poly._ leonidas, you owe me more than to oppose your liking to my pleasure. _leon._ i owe you all things, sir; but something, too, i owe myself. _poly._ you shall dispute no more; i am a king, and i will be obeyed. _leon._ you are a king, sir, but you are no god; or, if you were, you could not force my will. _poly._ [_aside._] but you are just, ye gods; o you are just, in punishing the crimes of my rebellion with a rebellious son! yet i can punish him, as you do me.-- leonidas, there is no jesting with my will: i ne'er had done so much to gain a crown, but to be absolute in all things. _amal._ o, sir, be not so much a king, as to forget you are a father: soft indulgence becomes that name. tho' nature gives you power to bind his duty, 'tis with silken bonds: command him, then, as you command yourself; he is as much a part of you, as are your appetite and will, and those you force not, but gently bend, and make them pliant to your reason. _poly._ it may be i have used too rough a way.-- forgive me, my leonidas; i know i lie as open to the gusts of passion, as the bare shore to every, beating surge: i will not force thee now; but i entreat thee, absolve a father's vow to this fair virgin; a vow, which hopes of having such a son first caused. _leon._ show not my disobedience by your prayers; for i must still deny you, though i now appear more guilty to myself than you: i have some reasons, which i cannot utter, that force my disobedience; yet i mourn to death, that the first thing, you e'er enjoined me, should be that only one command in nature, which i could not obey. _poly._ i did descend too much below myself, when i entreated him.--hence, to thy desart! thou'rt not my son, or art not fit to be. _amal._ great sir, i humbly beg you, make not me [_kneeling._ the cause of your displeasure. i absolve your vow; far from me be such designs; so wretched a desire of being great, by making him unhappy. you may see something so noble in the prince's nature, as grieves him more, not to obey, than you, that you are not obeyed. _poly._ then, for your sake, i'll give him one day longer to consider, not to deny; for my resolves are firm as fate, that cannot change. [_exeunt king and_ amal. _leon._ and so are mine. this beauteous princess, charming as she is, could never make me happy: i must first be false to my palmyra, and then wretched. but, then, a father's anger! suppose he should recede from his own vow, he never would permit me to keep mine. _enter_ palmyra; argaleon _following her, a little after._ see, she appears! i'll think no more of any thing, but her. yet i have one good hour ere i am wretched. but, oh! argaleon follows her! so night treads on the footsteps of a winter's sun, and stalks all black behind him. _palm._ o, leonidas, for i must call you still by that dear name, free me from this bad man. _leon._ i hope he dares not be injurious to you. _arga._ i rather was injurious to myself, than her. _leon._ that must be judged, when i hear what you said. _arga._ i think you need not give yourself that trouble: it concerned us alone. _leon._ you answer saucily, and indirectly: what interest can you pretend in her? _arga._ it may be, sir, i made her some expressions which i would not repeat, because they were below my rank, to one of hers. _leon._ what did he say, palmyra? _palm._ i'll tell you all: first, he began to look, and then he sighed, and then he looked again; at last, he said, my eyes wounded his heart: and, after that, he talked of flames and fires, and such strange words, that i believed he conjured. _leon._ o my heart!--leave me, argaleon. _arga._ come, sweet palmyra, i will instruct you better in my meaning: you see he would be private. _leon._ go yourself, and leave her here. _arga._ alas, she's ignorant, and is not fit to entertain a prince. _leon._ first learn what's fit for you; that's to obey. _arga._ i know my duty is to wait on you. a great king's son, like you, ought to forget such mean converse. _leon._ what? a disputing subject? hence, or my sword shall do me justice on thee. _arga._ yet i may find a time-- [_going._ _leon._ what's that you mutter, [_going after him._ to find a time?-- _arga._ to wait on you again-- in the mean while i'll watch you. [_softly._ [_exit, and watches during the scene._ _leon._ how precious are the hours of love in courts! in cottages, where love has all the day, full, and at ease, he throws it half away. time gives himself, and is not valued, there; but sells at mighty rates, each minute, here: there, he is lazy, unemployed, and slow; here, he's more swift; and yet has more to do. so many of his hours in public move, that few are left for privacy and love. _palm._ the sun, methinks, shines faint and dimly, here; light is not half so long, nor half so clear: but, oh! when every day was yours and mine, how early up! what haste he made to shine! _leon._ such golden days no prince must hope to see, whose every subject is more blessed than he. _palm._ do you remember, when their tasks were done, how all the youth did to our cottage run? while winter-winds were whistling loud without, our cheerful hearth was circled round about: with strokes in ashes, maids their lovers drew; and still you fell to me, and i to you. _leon._ when love did of my heart possession take, i was so young, my soul was scarce awake: i cannot tell when first i thought you fair; but sucked in love, insensibly as air. _palm._ i know too well when, first my love began, when at our wake you for the chaplet ran: then i was made the lady of the may, and, with the garland, at the goal did stay: still, as you ran, i kept you full in view; i hoped, and wished, and ran, methought, for you. as you came near, i hastily did rise, and stretched my arm outright, that held the prize. the custom was to kiss whom i should crown; you kneeled, and in my lap your head laid down: i blushed, and blushed, and did the kiss delay; at last my subjects forced me to obey: but, when i gave the crown, and then the kiss, i scarce had breath to say, take that,--and this. _leon._ i felt, the while, a pleasing kind of smart; that kiss went, tingling, to my very heart. when it was gone, the sense of it did stay; the sweetness clinged upon my lips all day, like drops of honey, loth to fall away. _palm._ life, like a prodigal, gave all his store to my first youth, and now can give no more. you are a prince; and, in that high degree, no longer must converse with humble me. _leon._ 'twas to my loss the gods that title gave; a tyrant's son is doubly born a slave: he gives a crown; but, to prevent my life from being happy, loads it with a wife. _palm._ speak quickly; what have you resolved to do? _leon._ to keep my faith inviolate to you. he threatens me with exile, and with shame, to lose my birthright, and a prince's name; but there's a blessing which he did not mean, to send me back to love and you again. _palm._ why was not i a princess for your sake? but heaven no more such miracles can make: and, since that cannot, this must never be; you shall not lose a crown for love of me. live happy, and a nobler choice pursue; i shall complain of fate, but not of you. _leon._ can you so easily without me live? or could you take the counsel, which you give? were you a princess, would you not be true? _palm._ i would; but cannot merit it from you. _leon._ did you not merit, as you do, my heart, love gives esteem, and then it gives desert. but if i basely could forget my vow, poor helpless innocence, what would you do? _palm._ in woods, and plains, where first my love began, there would i live, retired from faithless man: i'd sit all day within some lonely shade, or that close arbour which your hands have made: i'd search the groves, and every tree, to find where you had carved our names upon the rind: your hook, your scrip, all that was yours, i'd keep, and lay them by me when i went to sleep. thus would i live: and maidens, when i die, upon my hearse white true-love-knots should tie; and thus my tomb should be inscribed above, _here the forsaken virgin rests from love._ _leon._ think not that time or fate shall e'er divide those hearts, which love and mutual vows have tied. but we must part; farewell, my love. _palm._ till when? _leon._ till the next age of hours we meet again. meantime, we may, when near each other we in public stand, contrive to catch a look, or steal a hand: fancy will every touch and glance improve; and draw the most spirituous parts of love. our souls sit close, and silently within, and their own web from their own entrails spin; and when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, that, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch. [_exeunt._ act iii. scene i. _enter_ rhodophil, _meeting_ doralice _and_ artemis; rhodophil _and_ doralice _embrace._ _rho._ my own dear heart! _dor._ my own true love! [_she starts back._] i had forgot myself to be so kind; indeed, i am very angry with you, dear; you are come home an hour after you appointed: if you had staid a minute longer, i was just considering whether i should stab, hang, or drown myself. [_embracing him._ _rho._ nothing but the king's business could have hindered me; and i was so vexed, that i was just laying down my commission, rather than have failed my dear. [_kisses her hand._ _arte._ why, this is love as it should be betwixt man and wife: such another couple would bring marriage into fashion again. but is it always thus betwixt you? _rho._ always thus! this is nothing. i tell you, there is not such a pair of turtles in sicily; there is such an eternal cooing and kissing betwixt us, that indeed it is scandalous before civil company. _dor._ well, if i had imagined i should have been this fond fool, i would never have married the man i loved: i married to be happy, and have made myself miserable by over-loving. nay, and now my case is desperate; for i have been married above these two years, and find myself every day worse and worse in love: nothing but madness can be the end on't. _arte._ doat on, to the extremity, and you are happy. _dor._ he deserves so infinitely much, that, the truth is, there can be no doating in the matter; but, to love well, i confess, is a work that pays itself: 'tis telling gold, and, after, taking it for one's pains. _rho._ by that i should be a very covetous person; for i am ever pulling out my money, and putting it into my pocket again. _dor._ o dear rhodophil! _rho._ o sweet doralice! [_embracing each other._ _arte._ [_aside._] nay, i am resolved, i'll never interrupt lovers: i'll leave them as happy as i found them. [_steals away._ _rho._ what, is she gone? [_looking up._ _dor._ yes; and without taking leave. _rho._ then there's enough for this time. [_parting from her._ _dor._ yes, sure, the scene is done, i take it. _they walk contrary ways on the stage; he, with his hands in his pockets, whistling; she singing a dull melancholy tune._ _rho._ pox o'your dull tune, a man can't think for you. _dor._ pox o'your damned whistling; you can neither be company to me yourself, nor leave me to the freedom of my own fancy. _rho._ well, thou art the most provoking wife! _dor._ well, thou art the dullest husband, thou art never to be provoked. _rho._ i was never thought dull till i married thee; and now thou hast made an old knife of me; thou hast whetted me so long, till i have no edge left. _dor._ i see you are in the husband's fashion; you reserve all your good humours for your mistresses, and keep your ill for your wives. _rho._ prythee leave me to my own cogitations; i am thinking over all my sins, to find for which of them it was i married thee. _dor._ whatever your sin was, mine's the punishment. _rho._ my comfort is, thou art not immortal; and, when that blessed, that divine day comes of thy departure, i'm resolved i'll make one holiday more in the almanack for thy sake. _dor._ ay, you had need make a holiday for me, for i am sure you have made me a martyr. _rho._ then, setting my victorious foot upon thy head, in the first hour of thy silence, (that is, the first hour thou art dead, for i despair of it before) i will swear by thy ghost,--an oath as terrible to me as styx is to the gods,--never more to be in danger of the banes of matrimony. _dor._ and i am resolved to marry the very same day thou diest, if it be but to show how little i'm concerned for thee. _rho._ pray thee, doralice, why do we quarrel thus a-days? ha! this is but a kind of heathenish life, and does not answer the ends of marriage. if i have erred, propound what reasonable atonement may be made before we sleep, and i will not be refractory; but withal consider, i have been married these three years, and be not too tyrannical. _dor._ what should you talk of a peace a-bed, when you can give no security for performance of articles? _rho._ then, since we must live together, and both of us stand upon our terms, as to matters of dying first, let us make ourselves as merry as we can with our misfortunes. why, there's the devil on't! if thou could'st make my enjoying thee but a little easy, or a little more unlawful, thou should'st see what a termagant lover i would prove. i have taken such pains to enjoy thee, doralice, that i have fancied thee all the fine women of the town--to help me out: but now there's none left for me to think on, my imagination is quite jaded. thou art a wife, and thou wilt be a wife, and i can make thee another no longer. [_exit_ rho. _dor._ well, since thou art a husband, and wilt be a husband, i'll try if i can find out another. 'tis a pretty time we women have on't, to be made widows while we are married. our husbands think it reasonable to complain, that we are the same, and the same to them, when we have more reason to complain, that they are not the same to us. because they cannot feed on one dish, therefore we must be starved. 'tis enough that they have a sufficient ordinary provided, and a table ready spread for them: if they cannot fall too, and eat heartily, the fault is theirs; and 'tis pity, methinks, that the good creature should be lost, when many a poor sinner would be glad on't. _enter_ melantha _and_ artemis _to her._ _mel._ dear, my dear, pity me, i am so _chagrin_ to day, and have had the most signal affront at court! i went this afternoon to do my devoir to princess amalthea, found her, conversed with her, and helped to make her court some half an hour; after which, she went to take the air, chose out two ladies to go with her, that came in after me, and left me most barbarously behind her. _arte._ you are the less to be pitied, melantha, because you subject yourself to these affronts, by coming perpetually to court, where you have no business nor employment. _mel._ i declare, i had rather of the two be rallied nay, _mal traitée_ at court, than be deified in the town; for, assuredly, nothing can be so _ridicule_ as a mere town lady. _dor._ especially at court. how i have seen them crowd and sweat in the drawing-room on a holiday-night! for that's their time to swarm and invade the presence. o, how they catch at a bow, or any little salute from a courtier, to make show of their acquaintance! and, rather than be thought to be quite unknown, they court'sy to one another; but they take true pains to come near the circle, and press and peep upon the princess, to write letters into the country how she was dressed, while the ladies, that stand about, make their court to her with abusing them. _arte._ these are sad truths, melantha; and therefore i would e'en advise you to quit the court, and live either wholly in the town, or, if you like not that, in the country. _dor._ in the country! nay, that's to fall beneath the town, for they live upon our offals here. their entertainment of wit is only the remembrance of what they had when they were last in town;--they live this year upon the last year's knowledge, as their cattle do all night, by chewing the cud of what they eat in the afternoon. _mel._ and they tell, for news, such unlikely stories! a letter from one of us is such a present to them, that the poor souls wait for the carrier's-day with such devotion, that they cannot sleep the night before. _arte._ no more than i can, the night before i am to go a journey. _dor._ or i, before i am to try on a new gown. _mel._ a song, that's stale here, will be new there a twelvemonth hence; and if a man of the town by chance come amongst them, he's reverenced for teaching them the tune. _dor._ a friend of mine, who makes songs sometimes, came lately out of the west, and vowed he was so put out of countenance with a song of his; for, at the first country gentleman's he visited, he saw three tailors cross legged upon the table in the hall, who were tearing out as loud as ever they could sing, --after the pangs of a desperate lover, &c. and that all day he heard of nothing else, but the daughters of the house, and the maids, humming it over in every corner, and the father whistling it. _arte._ indeed, i have observed of myself, that when i am out of town but a fortnight, i am so humble, that i would receive a letter from my tailor or mercer for a favour. _mel._ when i have been at grass in the summer, and am new come up again, methinks i'm to be turned into ridicule by all that see me; but when i have been once or twice at court, i begin to value myself again, and to despise my country acquaintance. _arte._ there are places where all people may be adored, and we ought to know ourselves so well as to choose them. _dor._ that's very true; your little courtier's wife, who speaks to the king but once a month, need but go to a town lady, and there she may vapour and cry,--"the king and i," at every word. your town lady, who is laughed at in the circle, takes her coach into the city, and there she's called your honour, and has a banquet from the merchant's wife, whom she laughs at for her kindness. and, as for my finical cit, she removes but to her country house, and there insults over the country gentlewoman that never comes up, who treats her with furmity and custard, and opens her dear bottle of _mirabilis_ beside, for a gill-glass of it at parting. _arte._ at last, i see, we shall leave melantha where we found her; for, by your description of the town and country, they are become more dreadful to her than the court, where she was affronted. but you forget we are to wait on the princess amalthea. come, doralice. _dor._ farewell, melantha. _mel._ adieu, my dear. _arte._ you are out of charity with her, and therefore i shall not give your service. _mel._ do not omit it, i beseech you; for i have such a _tendre_ for the court, that i love it even from the drawing-room to the lobby, and can never be _rebutée_ by any usage. but hark you, my dears; one thing i had forgot, of great concernment. _dor._ quickly then, we are in haste. _mel._ do not call it my service, that's too vulgar; but do my _baise mains_ to the princess amalthea; that is _spirituelle_! _dor._ to do you service, then, we will _prendre_ the _carosse_ to court, and do your _baise mains_ to the princess amalthea, in your phrase _spirituelle_. [_exeunt_ artemis _and_ doralice. _enter_ philotis, _with a paper in her hand._ _mel._ o, are you there, minion? and, well, are not you a most precious damsel, to retard all my visits for want of language, when you know you are paid so well for furnishing me with new words for my daily conversation? let me die, if i have not run the risque already to speak like one of the vulgar, and if i have one phrase left in all my store, that is not thread-bare _et usé_, and fit for nothing but to be thrown to peasants. _phil._ indeed, madam, i have been very diligent in my vocation; but you have so drained all the french plays and romances, that they are not able to supply you with words for your daily expence. _mel._ drained? what a word's there! _epuisée_, you sot you. come, produce your morning's work. _phil._ 'tis here, madam. [_shows the paper._ _mel._ o, my venus! fourteen or fifteen words to serve me a whole day! let me die, at this rate i cannot last till night. come, read your works: twenty to one, half of them will not pass muster neither. phil. _sottises._ [_reads._ mel. _sottises: bon._ that's an excellent word to begin withal; as, for example, he or she said a thousand _sottises_ to me. proceed. phil. _figure:_ as, what a _figure_ of a man is there! _naive, and naiveté._ _mel._ _naive!_ as how? _phil._ speaking of a thing that was naturally said, it was so _naive;_ or, such an innocent piece of simplicity 'twas such a _naiveté._ _mel._ truce with your interpretations. make haste. phil. _foible, chagrin, grimace, embarrasse, double entendre, equivoque, ecclaircissement, suittè, beveue, façon, penchant, coup d'etourdy,_ and _ridicule._ _mel._ hold, hold; how did they begin? _phil._ they began at _sottises_, and ended _en ridicule_. _mel._ now, give me your paper in my hand, and hold you my glass, while i practise my postures for the day. [melantha _laughs in the glass._] how does that laugh become my face? _phil._ sovereignly well, madam. _mel._ sovereignly? let me die, that's not amiss. that word shall not be yours; i'll invent it, and bring it up myself: my new point gorget shall be yours upon't. not a word of the word, i charge you. _phil._ i am dumb, madam. _mel._ that glance, how suits it with my face? [_looking in the glass again._ _phil._ 'tis so _languissant_! _mel._ _languissant!_ that word shall be mine too, and my last indian gown thine for't. that sigh? [_looks again._ _phil._ 'twill make a man sigh, madam. 'tis a mere _incendiary_. _mel._ take my guimp petticoat for that truth. if thou hast most of these phrases, let me die but i could give away all my wardrobe, and go naked for them. _phil._ go naked? then you would be a venus, madam. o jupiter! what had i forgot? this paper was given me by rhodophil's page. _mel._ [_reading the letter._] beg the favour from you.--gratify my passion--so far--assignation--in the grotto--behind the terrace--clock this evening--well, for the _billets doux_ there is no man in sicily must dispute with rhodophil; they are so french, so _gallant_, and so _tendre_, that i cannot resist the temptation of the assignation. now, go you away, philotis; it imports me to practise what to say to my servant when i meet him. [_exit_ philotis.] rhodophil, you'll wonder at my assurance to meet you here;--let me die, i am so out of breath with coming, that i can render you no reason of it.--then he will make this _repartee_; madam, i have no reason to accuse you for that which is so great a favour to me.--then i reply, but why have you drawn me to this solitary place? let me die, but i am apprehensive of some violence from you.--then says he, solitude, madam, is most fit for lovers; but by this fair hand--nay, now i vow you're rude, sir. o fy, fy, fy; i hope you'll be honourable?--you'd laugh at me if i should, madam.--what, do you mean to throw me down thus? ah me! ah! ah! ah! _enter_ polydamas, leonidas, _and guards._ o venus! the king and court. let me die, but i fear they have found my foible, and will turn me into _ridicule_. [_exit, running._ _leon._ sir, i beseech you. _poly._ do not urge my patience. _leon._ i'll not deny, but what your spies informed you of is true: i love the fair palmyra; but i loved her before i knew your title to my blood. _enter_ palmyra _guarded._ see, here she comes, and looks, amidst her guards, like a weak dove under the falcon's gripe. o heaven, i cannot bear it. _poly._ maid, come hither. have you presumed so far, as to receive my son's affections? _palm._ alas, what shall i answer? to confess it will raise a blush upon a virgin's face; yet i was ever taught 'twas base to lie. _poly._ you've been too bold, and you must love no more. _palm._ indeed i must; i cannot help my love; i was so tender when i took the bent, that now i grow that way. _poly._ he is a prince, and you are meanly born. _leon._ love either finds equality, or makes it: like death, he knows no difference in degrees, but plains, and levels all. _palm._ alas! i had not rendered up my heart, had he not loved me first; but he preferred me above the maidens of my age and rank,-- still shunned their company, and still sought mine. i was not won by gifts, yet still he gave; and all his gifts, though small, yet spoke his love. he picked the earliest strawberries in woods, the clustered filberds, and the purple grapes; he taught a prating stare to speak my name; and, when he found a nest of nightingales, or callow linnets, he would show them me, and let me take them out. _poly._ this is a little mistress, meanly born, fit only for a prince's vacant hours, and then, to laugh at her simplicity, not fix a passion there. now hear my sentence. _leon._ remember, ere you give it, 'tis pronounced against us both. _poly._ first, in her hand there shall be placed a player's painted sceptre, and, on her head, a gilded pageant crown: thus shall she go, with all the boys attending on her triumph; that done, be put alone into a boat, with bread and water only for three days; so on the sea she shall be set adrift, and who relieves her dies. _palm._ i only beg that you would execute the last part first: let me be put to sea; the bread and water for my three days life i give you back, i would not live so long; but let me 'scape the shame. _leon._ look to me, piety; and you, o gods, look to my piety! keep me from saying that, which misbecomes a son; but let me die before i see this done. _poly._ if you for ever will abjure her sight, i can be yet a father; she shall live. _leon._ hear, o you powers! is this to be a father? i see 'tis all my happiness and quiet you aim at, sir; and take them: i will not save even my palmyra's life at that ignoble price; but i'll die with her. _palm._ so had i done by you, had fate made me a princess.--death, methinks, is not a terror now: he is not fierce, or grim, but fawns, and sooths me, and slides along, like cleopatra's aspick, offering his service to my troubled breast. _leon._ begin what you have purposed when you please; lead her to scorn, your triumph shall be doubled. as holy priests, in pity, go with dying malefactors, so i will share her shame. _poly._ you shall not have your will so much; first part them, then execute your office. _leon._ no; i'll die in her defence. [_draws his sword._ _palm._ ah, hold, and pull not on a curse, to make me worthy of my death: do not by lawless force oppose your father, whom you have too much disobeyed for me. _leon._ here, take it, sir, and with it pierce my heart: [_presenting his sword to his father upon his knees._ you have done more in taking my palmyra. you are my father; therefore i submit. _poly._ keep him from any thing he may design against his life, while the first fury lasts; and now perform what i commanded you. _leon._ in vain; if sword and poison be denied me, i'll hold my breath and die. _palm._ farewell, my last leonidas; yet live, i charge you, live, 'till you believe me dead. i cannot die in peace, if you die first; if life's a blessing, you shall have it last. _poly._ go on with her, and lead him after me. _enter_ argaleon _hastily, with_ hermogenes. _arga._ i bring you, sir, such news as must amaze you, and such as will prevent you from an action, which would have rendered all your life unhappy. [hermogenes _kneels._ _poly._ hermogenes, you bend your knees in vain, my doom's already past. _her._ i kneel not for palmyra, for i know she will not need my prayers; but for myself: with a feigned tale i have abused your ears, and, therefore, merit death: but since, unforced, i first accuse myself, i hope your mercy. _poly._ haste to explain your meaning. _her._ then, in few words, palmyra is your daughter. _poly._ how can i give belief to this impostor? he, who has once abused me, often may. i'll hear no more. _arga._ for your own sake, you must. _her._ a parent's love,--for i confess my crime,-- moved me to say, leonidas was yours; but when i heard palmyra was to die, the fear of guiltless blood so stung my conscience, that i resolved, even with my shame, to save your daughter's life. _poly._ but how can i be certain, but that interest, which moved you first to say your son was mine, does not now move you too, to save your daughter? _her._ you had but then my word; i bring you now authentic testimonies. sir, in short, [_delivers on his knees a jewel, and letter._ if this will not convince you, let me suffer. _poly._ i know this jewel well; 'twas once my mother's, [_looking first on the jewel._ which, marrying, i presented to my wife. and this, o this is my eudocia's hand. _this was the pledge of love given to eudocia,_ [reads. _who, dying, to her young palmyra leaves it;_ _and this, when you, my dearest lord, receive, own her, and think on me, dying eudocia._ take it; 'tis well there is no more to read. [_to_ arga. my eyes grow full, and swim in their own light. [_he embraces_ palm. _palm._ i fear, sir, this is your intended pageant. you sport yourself at poor palmyra's cost; but if you think to make me proud, indeed i cannot be so: i was born with humble thoughts, and lowly, like my birth. a real fortune could not make me haughty, much less a feigned. _poly._ this was her mother's temper. i have too much deserved thou shouldst suspect that i am not thy father; but my love shall henceforth show i am. behold my eyes, and see a father there begin to flow: this is not feigned, palmyra. _palm._ i doubt no longer, sir; you are a king, and cannot lie: falsehood's a vice too base to find a room in any royal breast. i know, in spite of my unworthiness, i am your child; for when you would have killed me, methought i loved you then. _arga._ sir, we forget the prince leonidas; his greatness should not stand neglected thus. _poly._ guards, you may now retire; give him his sword, and leave him free. _leon._ then the first use i make of liberty shall be, with your permission, mighty sir, to pay that reverence to which nature binds me. [_kneels to_ hermogenes. _arga._ sure you forget your birth, thus to misplace this act of your obedience; you should kneel to nothing but to heaven, and to a king. _leon._ i never shall forget what nature owes, nor be ashamed to pay it; though my father be not a king, i know him brave and honest, and well deserving of a worthier son. _poly._ he bears it gallantly. _leon._ why would you not instruct me, sir, before, [_to_ herm. where i should place my duty? from which, if ignorance have made me swerve, i beg your pardon for an erring son. _palm._ i almost grieve i am a princess, since it makes him lose a crown. _leon._ and next, to you, my king, thus low i kneel, to implore your mercy; if in that small time i had the honour to be thought your son, i paid not strict obedience to your will. i thought, indeed, i should not be compelled, but thought it as your son; so what i took in duty from you, i restored in courage; because your son should not be forced. _poly._ you have my pardon for it. _leon._ to you, fair princess, i congratulate your birth; of which i ever thought you worthy: and give me leave to add, that i am proud the gods have picked me out to be the man, by whose dejected fate yours is to rise; because no man could more desire your fortune, or franklier part with his, to make you great. _palm._ i know the king, though you are not his son, will still regard you as my foster-brother, and so conduct you downward from a throne, by slow degrees, so unperceived and soft, that it may seem no fall: or, if it be, may fortune lay a bed of down beneath you! _poly._ he shall be ranked with my nobility, and kept from scorn by a large pension given him. _leon._ you are all great and royal in your gifts; [_bowing._ but at the donor's feet i lay them down: should i take riches from you, it would seem as i did want a soul to bear that poverty, to which the gods designed my humble birth: and should i take your honours without merit, it would appear, i wanted manly courage to hope them, in your service, from my sword. _poly._ still brave, and like yourself. the court shall shine this night in its full splendour, and celebrate this new discovery. argaleon, lead my daughter: as we go, i shall have time to give her my commands, in which you are concerned. [_exeunt all but_ leonidas. _leon._ methinks, i do not want that huge long train of fawning followers, that swept a furlong after me. 'tis true i am alone; so was the godhead, ere he made the world, and better served himself, than served by nature. and yet i have a soul above this humble fate. i could command, love to do good, give largely to true merit, all that a king should do: but though these are not my province, i have scene enough within, to exercise my virtue. all that a heart, so fixed as mine, can move, is, that my niggard fortune starves my love. [_exit._ scene ii. palamede _and_ doralice _meet: she, with a book in her hand, seems to start at the sight of him._ _dor._ 'tis a strange thing that no warning will serve your turn; and that no retirement will secure me from your impertinent addresses! did not i tell you, that i was to be private here at my devotions? _pala._ yes; and you see i have observed my cue exactly: i am come to relieve you from them. come, shut up, shut up your book; the man's come who is to supply all your necessities. _dor._ then, it seems, you are so impudent to think it was an assignation? this, i warrant, was your lewd interpretation of my innocent meaning. _pala._ venus forbid, that i should harbour so unreasonable a thought of a fair young lady, that you should lead me hither into temptation. i confess, i might think indeed it was a kind of honourable challenge, to meet privately without seconds, and decide the difference betwixt the two sexes; but heaven forgive me, if i thought amiss. _dor._ you thought too, i'll lay my life on't, that you might as well make love to me, as my husband does to your mistress. _pala._ i was so unreasonable to think so too. _dor._ and then you wickedly inferred, that there was some justice in the revenge of it; or, at least, but little injury for a man to endeavour to enjoy that, which he accounts a blessing, and which is not valued as it ought by the dull possessor. confess your wickedness,--did you not think so? _pala._ i confess i was thinking so, as fast as i could; but you think so much before me, that you will let me think nothing. _dor._ 'tis the very thing that i designed; i have forestalled all your arguments, and left you without a word more, to plead for mercy. if you have any thing farther to offer, ere sentence pass--poor animal, i brought you hither only for my diversion. _pala._ that you may have, if you'll make use of me the right way; but i tell thee, woman, i am now past talking. _dor._ but it may be, i came hither to hear what fine things you could say for yourself. _pala._ you would be very angry, to my knowledge, if i should lose so much time to say many of them.--by this hand you would! _dor._ fye, palamede, i am a woman of honour. _pala._ i see you are; you have kept touch with your assignation: and before we part, you shall find that i am a man of honour. yet i have one scruple of conscience-- _dor._ i warrant you will not want some naughty argument, or other, to satisfy yourself.--i hope you are afraid of betraying your friend? _pala._ of betraying my friend! i am more afraid of being betrayed by you to my friend. you women now are got into the way of telling first yourselves: a man, who has any care of his reputation, will be loth to trust it with you. _dor._ o, you charge your faults upon our sex! you men are like cocks; you never make love, but you clap your wings, and crow when you have done. _pala._ nay, rather you women are like hens; you never lay, but you cackle an hour after, to discover your nest.--but i'll venture it for once. _dor._ to convince you that you are in the wrong, i'll retire into the dark grotto, to my devotion, and make so little noise, that it shall be impossible for you to find me. _pala._ but if i find you-- _dor._ ay, if you find me--but i'll put you to search in more corners than you imagine. [_she runs in, and he after her._ _enter_ rhodophil _and_ melantha. _mel._ let me die, but this solitude, and that grotto are scandalous; i'll go no further; besides, you have a sweet lady of your own. _rho._ but a sweet mistress, now and then, makes my sweet lady so much more sweet. _mel._ i hope you will not force me? _rho._ but i will, if you desire it. _pala._ [_within._] where the devil are you, madam? 'sdeath, i begin to be weary of this hide and seek: if you stay a little longer, till the fit's over, i'll hide in my turn, and put you to the finding me. [_he enters, and sees_ rhodophil _and_ melantha.] how! rhodophil and my mistress! _mel._ my servant, to apprehend me! this is _surprenant au dernier_. _rho._ i must on; there's nothing but impudence can help me out. _pala._ rhodophil, how came you hither in so good company? _rho._ as you see, palamede; an effect of pure friendship; i was not able to live without you. _pala._ but what makes my mistress with you? _rho._ why, i heard you were here alone, and could not in civility but bring her to you. _mel._ you'll pardon the effects of a passion which i may now avow for you, if it transported me beyond the rules of _bienseance._ _pala._ but, who told you i was here? they, that told you that, may tell you more, for aught i know. _rho._ o, for that matter, we had intelligence. _pala._ but let me tell you, we came hither so very privately, that you could not trace us. _rho._ us! what us? you are alone. _pala._ us! the devil's in me for mistaking:--me, i meant. or us, that is, you are me, or i you, as we are friends: that's us. _dor._ palamede, palamede! [_within._ _rho._ i should know that voice; who's within there, that calls you? _pala._ faith, i can't imagine; i believe the place is haunted. _dor._ palamede, palamede, all-cocks hidden. [_within._ _pala._ lord, lord, what shall i do?--well, dear friend, to let you see i scorn to be jealous, and that i dare trust my mistress with you, take her back, for i would not willingly have her frighted, and i am resolved to see who's there; i'll not be daunted with a bugbear, that's certain:--prithee, dispute it not, it shall be so; nay do not put me to swear, but go quickly: there's an effort of pure friendship for you now. _enter_ doralice, _and looks amazed, seeing them._ _rho._ doralice! i am thunder-struck to see you here. _pala._ so am i! quite thunder-struck. was it you, that called me within?--i must be impudent. _rho._ how came you hither, spouse? _pala._ ay, how came you hither? and, which is more, how could you be here without my knowledge? _dor._ [_to her husband._] o, gentlemen, have i caught you i'faith! have i broke forth in ambush upon you! i thought my suspicions would prove true. _rho._ suspicions! this is very fine, spouse! prithee, what suspicions? _dor._ o, you feign ignorance: why, of you and melantha; here have i staid these two hours, waiting with all the rage of a passionate, loving wife, but infinitely jealous, to take you two in the manner; for hither i was certain you would come. _rho._ but you are mistaken, spouse, in the occasion; for we came hither on purpose to find palamede, on intelligence he was gone before. _pala._ i'll be hanged then, if the same party, who gave you intelligence i was here, did not tell your wife you would come hither. now i smell the malice on't on both sides. _dor._ was it so, think you? nay, then, i'll confess my part of the malice too. as soon as ever i spied my husband and melantha come together, i had a strange temptation to make him jealous in revenge; and that made me call palamede, palamede! as though there had been an intrigue between us. _mel._ nay, i avow, there was an appearance of an intrigue between us too. _pala._ to see how things will come about! _rho._ and was it only thus, my dear doralice? [_embrace._ _dor._ and did i wrong n'own rhodophil, with a false suspicion? [_embracing him._ _pala._ [_aside._] now i am confident we had all four the same design: 'tis a pretty odd kind of game this, where each of us plays for double stakes: this is just thrust and parry with the same motion; i am to get his wife, and yet to guard my own mistress. but i am vilely suspicious, that, while i conquer in the right wing, i shall be routed in the left; for both our women will certainly betray their party, because they are each of them for gaining of two, as well as we; and i much fear. if their necessities and ours were known, they have more need of two, than we of one. [_exeunt, embracing one another._ act iv. scene i. _enter_ leonidas, _musing;_ amalthea, _following him._ _amal._ yonder he is; and i must speak or die; and yet 'tis death to speak: yet he must know i have a passion for him, and may know it with a less blush; because to offer it to his low fortunes, shows i loved before, his person, not his greatness. _leon._ first scorned, and now commanded from the court! the king is good; but he is wrought to this by proud argaleon's malice. what more disgrace can love and fortune join to inflict upon one man? i cannot now behold my dear palmyra: she, perhaps, too, is grown ashamed of a mean ill-placed love. _amal._ assist me, venus, for i tremble when i am to speak, but i must force myself. [_aside._ sir, i would crave but one short minute with you, and some few words. _leon._ the proud argaleon's sister! [_aside._ _amal._ alas! it will not out; shame stops my mouth. [_aside._ pardon my error, sir; i was mistaken, and took you for another. _leon._ in spite of all his guards, i'll see palmyra; [_aside._ though meanly born, i have a kingly soul. _amal._ i stand upon a precipice, where fain i would retire, but love still thrusts me on: now i grow bolder, and will speak to him. [_aside._ sir, 'tis indeed to you that i would speak, and if-- _leon._ o, you are sent to scorn my fortunes? your sex and beauty are your privilege; but should your brother-- _amal._ now he looks angry, and i dare not speak. i had some business with you, sir, but 'tis not worth your knowledge. _leon._ then 'twill be charity to let me mourn my griefs alone, for i am much disordered. _amal._ 'twill be more charity to mourn them with you: heaven knows i pity you. _leon._ your pity, madam, is generous, but 'tis unavailable. _amal._ you know not till 'tis tried. your sorrows are no secret; you have lost a crown, and mistress. _leon._ are not these enough? hang two such weights on any other soul, and see if it can bear them. _amal._ more; you are banished, by my brother's means, and ne'er must hope again to see your princess; except as prisoners view fair walks and streets, and careless passengers going by their grates, to make them feel the want of liberty. but, worse than all, the king this morning has enjoined his daughter to accept my brother's love. _leon._ is this your pity? you aggravate my griefs, and print them deeper, in new and heavier stamps. _amal._ 'tis as physicians show the desperate ill, to endear their art, by mitigating pains they cannot wholly cure: when you despair of all you wish, some part of it, because unhoped for, may be grateful; and some other-- _leon._ what other? _amal._ some other may-- my shame again has seized me, and i can go [_aside._ no farther. _leon._ these often failing sighs and interruptions make me imagine you have grief like mine: have you ne'er loved? _amal._ i? never!--'tis in vain: i must despair in silence. [_aside._ _leon._ you come, as i suspected then, to mock, at least observe, my griefs: take it not ill, that i must leave you. [_is going._ _amal._ you must not go with these unjust opinions. command my life and fortunes: you are wise; think, and think well, what i can do to serve you. _leon._ i have but one thing in my thoughts and wishes: if, by your means, i can obtain the sight of my adored palmyra; or, what's harder, one minute's time, to tell her, i die hers-- [_she starts back._ i see i am not to expect it from you; nor could, indeed, with reason. _amal._ name any other thing! is amalthea so despicable, she can serve your wishes in this alone? _leon._ if i should ask of heaven, i have no other suit. _amal._ to show you, then, i can deny you nothing, though 'tis more hard to me than any other, yet i will do it for you. _leon._ name quickly, name the means! speak, my good angel! _amal._ be not so much o'erjoyed; for, if you are, i'll rather die than do't. this night the court will be in masquerade; you shall attend on me; in that disguise you may both see and speak to her, if you dare venture it. _leon._ yes; were a god her guardian, and bore in each hand thunder, i would venture. _amal._ farewell, then; two hours hence i will expect you:-- my heart's so full, that i can stay no longer. [_exit._ _leon._ already it grows dusky: i'll prepare with haste for my disguise. but who are these? _enter_ hermogenes _and_ eubulus. _her._ 'tis he; we need not fear to speak to him. _eub._ leonidas? _leon._ sure i have known that voice. _her._ you have some reason, sir: 'tis eubulus, who bred you with the princess; and, departing, bequeathed you to my care. _leon._ my foster-father! let my knees express my joys for your return! [_kneeling._ _eub._ rise, sir; you must not kneel. _leon._ e'er since you left me, i have been wandering in a maze of fate, led by false fires of a fantastic glory, and the vain lustre of imagined crowns. but, ah! why would you leave me? or how could you absent yourself so long? _eub._ i'll give you a most just account of both: and something more i have to tell you, which i know must cause your wonder; but this place, though almost hid in darkness, is not safe. already i discern some coming towards us [_torches appear._ with lights, who may discover me. hermogenes, your lodgings are hard by, and much more private. _her._ there you may freely speak. _leon._ let us make haste; for some affairs, and of no small importance, call me another way. [_exeunt._ scene ii. _enter_ palamede _and_ rhodophil, _with vizor masques in their hands, and torches before them._ _pala._ we shall have noble sport to-night, rhodophil; this masquerading is a most glorious invention. _rho._ i believe it was invented first by some jealous lover, to discover the haunts of his jilting mistress; or, perhaps, by some distressed servant, to gain an opportunity with a jealous man's wife. _pala._ no, it must be the invention of a woman, it has so much of subtilty and love in it. _rho._ i am sure 'tis extremely pleasant; for to go unknown, is the next degree to going invisible. _pala._ what with our antic habits and feigned voices,--_do you know me?_ and--_i know you,_--methinks we move and talk just like so many overgrown puppets. _rho._ masquerade is only vizor-mask improved; a heightening of the same fashion. _pala._ no, masquerade is vizor-mask in debauch, and i like it the better for't: for, with a vizor-mask, we fool ourselves into courtship, for the sake of an eye that glanced; or a hand that stole itself out of the glove sometimes, to give us a sample of the skin: but in masquerade there is nothing to be known, she's all _terra incognita_; and the bold discoverer leaps ashore, and takes his lot among the wild indians and savages, without the vile consideration of safety to his person, or of beauty, or wholesomeness in his mistress. _enter_ beliza. _rho._ beliza, what make you here? _bel._ sir, my lady sent me after you, to let you know, she finds herself a little indisposed; so that she cannot be at court, but is retired to rest in her own apartment, where she shall want the happiness of your dear embraces to night. _rho._ a very fine phrase, beliza, to let me know my wife desires to lie alone. _pala._ i doubt, rhodophil, you take the pains sometimes to instruct your wife's woman in these elegancies. _rho._ tell my dear lady, that since i must be so unhappy as not to wait on her to-night, i will lament bitterly for her absence. 'tis true i shall be at court, but i will take no divertisement there; and when i return to my solitary bed, if i am so forgetful of my passion as to sleep, i will dream of her; and betwixt sleep and waking, put out my foot towards her side, for midnight consolation; and, not finding her, i will sigh, and imagine myself a most desolate widower. _bel._ i shall do your commands, sir. [_exit._ _rho._ [_aside._] she's sick as aptly for my purpose, as if she had contrived it so. well, if ever woman was a help-mate for man, my spouse is so; for within this hour i received a note from melantha, that she would meet me this evening in masquerade, in boys' habit, to rejoice with me before she entered into fetters; for i find she loves me better than palamede, only because he's to be her husband. there's something of antipathy in the word _marriage_ to the nature of love: marriage is the mere ladle of affection, that cools it when 'tis never so fiercely boiling over. _pala._ dear rhodophil, i must needs beg your pardon; there is an occasion fallen out which i had forgot: i cannot be at court to-night. _rho._ dear palamede, i am sorry we shall not have one course together at the herd; but i find your game lies single: good fortune to you with your mistress. [_exit._ _pala._ he has wished me good fortune with his wife; there's no sin in this then, there's fair leave given. well, i must go visit the sick; i cannot resist the temptations of my charity. o what a difference will she find betwixt a dull resty husband and a quick vigorous lover! he sets out like a carrier's horse, plodding on, because he knows he must, with the bells of matrimony chiming so melancholy about his neck, in pain till he's at his journey's end; and, despairing to get thither, he is fain to fortify imagination with the thoughts of another woman: i take heat after heat, like a well-breathed courser, and--but hark, what noise is that? swords! [_clashing of swords within._] nay, then, have with you. [_exit_ pala. _re-enter_ palamede, _with_ rhodophil; _and_ doralice _in man's habit._ _rho._ friend, your relief was very timely, otherwise i had been oppressed. _pala._ what was the quarrel? _rho._ what i did was in rescue of this youth. _pala._ what cause could he give them? _dor._ the cause was nothing but only the common cause of fighting in masquerades: they were drunk, as i was sober. _rho._ have they not hurt you? _dor._ no; but i am exceeding ill with the fright on't. _pala._ let's lead him to some place, where he may refresh himself. _rho._ do you conduct him then. _pala._ [_aside._] how cross this happens to my design of going to doralice! for i am confident she was sick on purpose that i should visit her. hark you, rhodophil, could not you take care of the stripling? i am partly engaged to-night. _rho._ you know i have business; but come, youth, if it must be so. _dor._ to _rho._ no, good sir, do not give yourself that trouble; i shall be safer, and better pleased with your friend here. _rho._ farewell, then; once more i wish you a good adventure. _pala._ damn this kindness! now must i be troubled with this young rogue, and miss my opportunity with doralice. [_exit_ rho. _alone;_ pala. _with_ dor. scene iii. _enter_ polydamus. _poly._ argaleon counselled well to banish him: he has, i know not what, of greatness in his looks, and of high fate, that almost awes me; but i fear my daughter, who hourly moves me for him; and i marked, she sighed when i but named argaleon to her. but see, the maskers: hence, my cares, this night! at least take truce, and find me on my pillow. _enter the princess in masquerade, with ladies. at the other end,_ argaleon _and gentlemen in masquerade; then_ leonidas _leading_ amalthea. _the king sits. a dance. after the dance,_ _amal._ to _leon._ that's the princess; i saw the habit ere she put it on. _leon._ i know her by a thousand other signs; she cannot hide so much divinity. disguised, and silent, yet some graceful motion breaks from her, and shines round her like a glory. [_goes to_ palmyra. _amal._ thus she reveals herself, and knows it not; like love's dark lanthorn, i direct his steps, and yet he sees not that, which gives him light. _palm._ i know you; but, alas! leonidas, why should you tempt this danger on yourself? _leon._ madam, you know me not, if you believe; i would not hazard greater for your sake. but you, i fear, are changed. _palm._ no, i am still the same; but there are many things became palmyra, which ill become the princess. _leon_, i ask nothing which honour will not give you leave to grant: one hour's short audience, at my father's house, you cannot sure refuse me. _palm._ perhaps i should, did i consult strict virtue; but something must be given to love and you. when would you i should come? _leon._ this evening, with the speediest opportunity. i have a secret to discover to you, which will surprise and please you. _palm._ 'tis enough. go now; for we may be observed and known. i trust your honour; give me not occasion to blame myself, or you. _leon._ you never shall repent your good opinion. [_kisses her hand, and exit._ _arga._ i cannot be deceived; that is the princess: one of her maids betrayed the habit to me. but who was he with whom she held discourse? 'tis one she favours, for he kissed her hand. our shapes are like, our habits near the same; she may mistake, and speak to me for him. i am resolved; i'll satisfy my doubts, though to be more tormented. song. i. _whilst alexis lay prest in her arms he loved best, with his hands round her neck, and his head on her breast, he found the fierce pleasure too hasty to stay, and his soul in the tempest just flying away._ ii. _when cælia saw this, with a sigh and a kiss, she cried,--o, my dear, i am robbed of my bliss! 'tis unkind to your love, and unfaithfully done, to leave me behind you, and die all alone._ iii. _the youth, though in haste, and breathing his last, in pity died slowly, while she died more fast; till at length she cried,--now, my dear, now let us go; now die, my alexis, and i will die too!_ iv. _thus entranced they did lie, till alexis did try to recover new breath, that again he might die: then often they died; but the more they did so, the nymph died more quick, and the shepherd more slow._ _another dance. after it,_ argaleon _re-enters, and stands by the princess._ _palm._ leonidas, what means this quick return? [_to_ arga. _arga._ o heaven! 'tis what i feared. _palm._ is aught of moment happened since you went? _arga._ no, madam; but i understood not fully your last commands. _palm._ and yet you answered to them. retire; you are too indiscreet a lover: i'll meet you where i promised. [_exit._ _arga._ o my curst fortune! what have i discovered! but i will be revenged. [_whispers to the king._ _poly._ but are you certain you are not deceived? _arga._ upon my life. _poly._ her honour is concerned. somewhat i'll do; but i am yet distracted, and know not where to fix. i wished a child, and heaven, in anger, granted my request. so blind we are, our wishes are so vain, that what we most desire, proves most our pain. [_exeunt._ scene iv. _an eating-house. bottles of wine on the table._ palamede, _and_ doralice, _in man's habit._ _dor._ [_aside._] now cannot i find in my heart to discover myself, though i long he should know me. _pala._ i tell thee, boy, now i have seen thee safe, i must be gone: i have no leisure to throw away on thy raw conversation; i am a person that understands better things, i. _dor._ were i a woman, oh how you would admire me! cry up every word i said, and screw your face into a submissive smile; as i have seen a dull gallant act wit, and counterfeit pleasantness, when he whispers to a great person in a play-house; smile, and look briskly, when the other answers, as if something of extraordinary had past betwixt them, when, heaven knows, there was nothing else but,--what a clock does your lordship think it is? and my lord's _repartee_ is,--it is almost park-time: or, at most,--shall we out of the pit, and go behind the scenes for an act or two--and yet such fine things as these would be wit in a mistress's mouth. _pala._ ay, boy; there dame nature's in the case: he, who cannot find wit in a mistress, deserves to find nothing else, boy. but these are riddles to thee, child, and i have not leisure to instruct thee; i have affairs to dispatch, great affairs; i am a man of business. _dor._ come, you shall not go: you have no affairs but what you may dispatch here, to my knowledge. _pala._ i find now, thou art a boy of more understanding than i thought thee; a very lewd wicked boy: o' my conscience, thou would'st debauch me, and hast some evil designs upon my person. _dor._ you are mistaken, sir; i would only have you shew me a more lawful reason why you would leave me, than i can why you should not, and i'll not stay you; for i am not so young, but i understand the necessities of flesh and blood, and the pressing occasions of mankind, as well as you. _pala._ a very forward and understanding boy! thou art in great danger of a page's wit, to be brisk at fourteen, and dull at twenty. but i'll give thee no further account; i must, and will go. _dor._ my life on it, your mistress is not at home. _pala._ this imp will make me very angry.--i tell thee, young sir, she is at home, and at home for me; and, which is more, she is a-bed for me, and sick for me. _dor._ for you only? _pala._ aye, for me only. _dor._ but how do you know she's sick a-bed? _pala._ she sent her husband word so. _dor._ and are you such a novice in love, to believe a wife's message to her husband? _pala._ why, what the devil should be her meaning else? _dor._ it may be, to go in masquerade, as well as you; to observe your haunts, and keep you company without your knowledge. _pala._ nay, i'll trust her for that: she loves me too well, to disguise herself from me. _dor._ if i were she, i would disguise on purpose to try your wit; and come to my servant like a riddle,--read me, and take me. _pala._ i could know her in any shape: my good genius would prompt me to find out a handsome woman: there's something that would attract me to her without my knowledge. _dor._ then you make a load-stone of your mistress? _pala._ yes, and i carry steel about me, which has been so often touched, that it never fails to point to the north pole. _dor._ yet still my mind gives me, that you have met her disguised to-night, and have not known her. _pala._ this is the most pragmatical conceited little fellow, he will needs understand my business better than myself. i tell thee, once more, thou dost not know my mistress. _dor._ and i tell you once more, that i know her better than you do. _pala._ the boy's resolved to have the last word. i find i must go without reply. [_exit._ _dor._ ah mischief, i have lost him with my fooling. palamede, palamede! _he returns. she plucks off her peruke, and puts it on again when he knows her._ _pala._ o heavens! is it you, madam? _dor._ now, where was your good genius, that would prompt you to find me out? _pala._ why, you see i was not deceived; you yourself were my good genius. _dor._ but where was the steel, that knew the load-stone? ha? _pala._ the truth is, madam, the steel has lost its virtue: and, therefore, if you please, we'll new touch it. _enter_ rhodophil; _and_ melantha _in boys habit._ rhodophil _sees_ palamede _kissing_ doralice's _hand._ _rho._ palamede again! am i fallen into your quarters? what? engaging with a boy? is all honourable? _pala._ o, very honourable on my side. i was just chastising this young villain; he was running away, without paying his share of the reckoning. _rho._ then i find i was deceived in him. _pala._ yes, you are deceived in him: 'tis the archest rogue, if you did but know him. _mel._ good rhodophil, let us get off _a-la derobbée_, for fear i should be discovered. _rho._ there's no retiring now; i warrant you for discovery. now have i the oddest thought, to entertain you before your servant's face, and he never the wiser; it will be the prettiest juggling trick, to cheat him when he looks upon us. _mel._ this is the strangest caprice in you. _pala._ [_to_ doralice.] this rhodophil's the unluckiest fellow to me! this is now the second time he has barred the dice when we were just ready to have nicked him; but if ever i get the box again-- _dor._ do you think he will not know me? am i like myself? _pala._ no more than a picture in the hangings. _dor._ nay, then he can never discover me, now the wrong side of the arras is turned towards him. _pala._ at least, it will be some pleasure to me, to enjoy what freedom i can while he looks on; i will storm the out-works of matrimony even before his face. _rho._ what wine have you there, palamede? _pala._ old chios, or the rogue's damn'd that drew it. _rho._ come,--to the most constant of mistresses! that, i believe, is yours, palamede. _dor._ pray spare your seconds; for my part i am but a weak brother. _pala._ now,--to the truest of turtles! that is your wife, rhodophil, that lies sick at home, in the bed of honour. _rho._ now let us have one common health, and so have done. _dor._ then, for once, i'll begin it. here's to him that has the fairest lady of sicily in masquerade to night. _pala._ this is such an obliging health, i'll kiss thee, dear rogue, for thy invention. [_kisses her._ _rho._ he, who has this lady, is a happy man, without dispute,--i'm most concerned in this, i am sure. [_aside._ _pala._ was it not well found out, rhodophil? _mel._ ay, this was _bien trouvée_ indeed. _dor._ [_to_ melantha.] i suppose i shall do you a kindness, to enquire if you have not been in france, sir? _mel._ to do you service, sir. _dor._ o, monsieur, _votre valet bien humble_. [_saluting her._ _mel._ _votre esclave, monsieur, de tout mon coeur._ [_returning the salute._ _dor._ i suppose, sweet sir, you are the hope and joy of some thriving citizen, who has pinched him self at home, to breed you abroad, where you have learned your exercises, as it appears, most awkwardly, and are returned, with the addition of a new-laced bosom and a clap, to your good old father, who looks at you with his mouth, while you spout french with your man monsieur. _pala._ let me kiss thee again for that, dear rogue. _mel._ and you, i imagine, are my young master, whom your mother durst not trust upon salt-water, but left you to be your own tutor at fourteen, to be very brisk and _entreprenant_, to endeavour to be debauched ere you have learned the knack of it, to value yourself upon a clap before you can get it, and to make it the height of your ambition to get a player for your mistress. _rho._ [_embracing_ melantha.] o dear young bully thou hast tickled him with a _repartee_, i'faith. _mel._ you are one of those that applaud our country plays, where drums, and trumpets, and blood, and wounds, are wit. _rho._ again, my boy? let me kiss thee most abundantly. _dor._ you are an admirer of the dull french poetry, which is so thin, that it is the very leaf-gold of wit, the very wafers and whip'd cream of sense, for which a man opens his mouth, and gapes, to swallow nothing: and to be an admirer of such profound dulness, one must be endowed with a great perfection of impudence and ignorance. _pala._ let me embrace thee most vehemently. _mel._ i'll sacrifice my life for french poetry. [_advancing._ _dor._ i'll die upon the spot for our country wit. _rho._ [_to_ melantha.] hold, hold, young mars! palamede, draw back your hero. _pala._ 'tis time; i shall be drawn in for a second else at the wrong weapon. _mel._ o that i were a man, for thy sake! _dor._ you'll be a man as soon as i shall. _enter a messenger to_ rhodophil. _mess._ sir, the king has instant business with you; i saw the guard drawn up by your lieutenant, before the palace-gate, ready to march. _rho._ 'tis somewhat sudden; say that i am coming. [_exit messenger._ now, palamede, what think you of this sport? this is some sudden tumult; will you along? _pala._ yes, yes, i will go; but the devil take me if ever i was less in humour. why the pox could they not have staid their tumult till to-morrow? then i had done my business, and been ready for them. truth is, i had a little transitory crime to have committed first; and i am the worst man in the world at repenting, till a sin be thoroughly done: but what shall we do with the two boys? _rho._ let them take a lodging in the house, 'till the business be over. _dor._ what, lie with a boy? for my part, i own it, i cannot endure to lie with a boy. _pala._ the more's my sorrow, i cannot accommodate you with a better bed-fellow. _mel._ let me die, if i enter into a pair of sheets with him that hates the french. _dor._ pish, take no care for us, but leave us in the streets; i warrant you, as late as it is, i'll find my lodging as well as any drunken bully of them all. _rho._ i'll light in mere revenge, and wreak my passion, on all that spoil this hopeful assignation. [_aside._ _pala._ i'm sure we light in a good quarrel: rogues may pretend religion, and the laws; but a kind mistress is the good old cause. [_exuent._ scene v. _enter_ palmyra, eubulus, _and_ hermogenes. _palm._ you tell me wonders; that leonidas is prince theagenes, the late king's son. _eub._ it seems as strange to him, as now to you, before i had convinced him; but, besides his great resemblance to the king his father, the queen his mother lives, secured by me in a religious house, to whom, each year, i brought the news of his increasing virtues. my last long absence from you both was caused by wounds, which in my journey i received, when set upon by thieves; i lost those jewels and letters, which your dying mother left. _herm._ the same he means, which, since, brought to the king, made him first know he had a child alive: 'twas then my care of prince leonidas, caused me to say he was the usurper's son; till after, forced by your apparent danger, i made the true discovery of your birth, and once more hid my prince's. _enter_ leonidas. _leon._ hermogenes, and eubulus, retire; those of our party, whom i left without, expect your aid and counsel. [_exeunt_ herm. _and_ eub. _palm._ i should, leonidas, congratulate this happy change of your exalted fate; but, as my joy, so you my wonder move. your looks have more of business than of love; and your last words some great design did shew. _leon._ i frame not any to be hid from you; you, in my love, all my designs may see. but what have love and you designed for me? fortune, once more, has set the balance right; first, equalled us in lowness; then, in height. both of us have so long, like gamesters, thrown, till fate comes round, and gives to each his own. as fate is equal, so may love appear: tell me, at least, what i must hope, or fear. _palm._ after so many proofs, how can you call my love in doubt? fear nothing, and hope all. think what a prince, with honour, may receive, or i may give, without a parent's leave. _leon._ you give, and then restrain the grace you shew; as ostentatious priests, when souls they woo, promise their heaven to all, but grant to few. but do for me, what i have dared for you: i did no argument from duty bring; duty's a name, and love's a real thing. _palm._ man's love may, like wild torrents, overflow; woman's as deep, but in its banks must go. my love is mine, and that i can impart; but cannot give my person, with my heart. _leon._ your love is then no gift: for, when the person it does not convey, 'tis to give gold, and not to give the key. _palm._ then ask my father. _leon._ he detains my throne; who holds back mine, will hardly give his own. _palm._ what then remains? _leon._ that i must have recourse to arms, and take my love and crown, by force. hermogenes is forming the design; and with him all the brave and loyal join. _palm._ and is it thus you court palmyra's bed? can she the murderer of her parent wed? desist from force: so much you well may give to love, and me, to let my father live. _leon._ each act of mine my love to you has shewn; but you who tax my want of it, have none. you bid me part with you, and let him live; but they should nothing ask, who nothing give. _palm._ i give what virtue, and what duty can, in vowing ne'er to wed another man. _leon._ you will be forced to be argaleon's wife. _palm._ i'll keep my promise, though i lose my life. _leon._ then you lose love, for which we both contend; for life is but the means, but love's the end. _palm._ our souls shall love hereafter. _leon._ i much fear, that soul, which could deny the body here to taste of love, would be a niggard there. _palm._ then 'tis past hope: our cruel fate, i see, will make a sad divorce 'twixt you and me. for, if you force employ, by heaven i swear, and all blessed beings,-- _leon._ your rash oath forbear. _palm._ i never-- _leon._ hold once more. but yet, as he, who 'scapes a dangerous leap, looks back to see; so i desire, now i am past my fear, to know what was that oath you meant to swear. _palm._ i meant, that if you hazarded your life, or sought my father's, ne'er to be your wife. _leon._ see now, palmyra, how unkind you prove! could you, with so much ease, forswear my love? _palm._ you force me with your ruinous design. _leon._ your father's life is more your care, than mine. _palm._ you wrong me: 'tis not, though it ought to be; you are my care, heaven knows, as well as he. _leon._ if now the execution i delay, my honour, and my subjects, i betray. all is prepared for the just enterprise; and the whole city will to-morrow rise. the leaders of the party are within, and eubulus has sworn that he will bring, to head their arms, the person of their king. _palm._ in telling this, you may be guilty too; i therefore must discover what i know: what honour bids you do, nature bids me prevent; but kill me first, and then pursue your black intent. _leon._ palmyra, no; you shall not heed to die; yet i'll not trust so strict a piety. within there! _enter_ eubulus. eubulus, a guard prepare; here, i commit this prisoner to your care. [_kisses_ palmyra's _hand, then gives it to_ eubulus. _palm._ leonidas, i never thought these bands could e'er be given me by a lover's hands. _leon._ palmyra, thus your judge himself arraigns; [_kneeling._ he, who imposed these bands, still wears your chains: when you to love or duty false must be, or to your father guilty, or to me, these chains, alone, remain to set you free. [_noise of swords clashing._ _poly._ [_within._] secure these, first: then search the inner room. _leon._ from whence do these tumultuous clamours come? _enter_ hermogenes, _hastily._ _herm._ we are betrayed; and there remains alone this comfort, that your person is not known. _enter the king,_ argaleon, rhodophil, palamede, _guards; some like citizens, as prisoners._ _poly._ what mean these midnight consultations here, where i like an unsummoned guest appear? _leon._ sir-- _arga._ there needs no excuse; 'tis understood; you were all watching for your prince's good. _poly._ my reverend city friends, you are well met! on what great work were your grave wisdoms set? which of my actions were you scanning here? what french invasion have you found to fear? _leon._ they are my friends; and come, sir, with intent, to take their leaves, before my banishment. _poly._ your exile in both sexes friends can find: i see the ladies, like the men, are kind. [_seeing_ palmyra. _palm._ alas, i came but-- [_kneeling._ _poly._ add not to your crime a lie: i'll hear you speak some other time. how? eubulus! nor time, nor thy disguise, can keep thee undiscovered from my eyes. a guard there! seize them all. _rho._ yield, sir; what use of valour can be shewn? _pala._ one, and unarmed, against a multitude! _leon._ oh for a sword! [_he reaches at one of the guards' halberds, and is seized behind._ i wonnot lose my breath in fruitless prayers; but beg a speedy death. _palm._ o spare leonidas, and punish me! _poly._ mean girl, thou want'st an advocate for thee. now the mysterious knot will be untied; whether the young king lives, or where he died: to-morrow's dawn shall the dark riddle clear, crown all my joys, and dissipate my fear. [_exeunt._ act v. scene i. palamede, strato. palamede _with a letter in his hand._ _pala._ this evening, sayest thou? will they both be here? _stra._ yes, sir, both my old master, and your mistress's father. the old gentlemen ride hard this journey; they say, it shall be the last time they will see the town; and both of them are so pleased with this marriage, which they have concluded for you, that i am afraid they will live some years longer to trouble you, with the joy of it. _pala._ but this is such an unreasonable thing, to impose upon me to be married to-morrow; 'tis hurrying a man to execution, without giving him time to say his prayers. _stra._ yet, if i might advise you, sir, you should not delay it; for your younger brother comes up with them, and is got already into their favours. he has gained much upon my old master, by finding fault with innkeepers' bills, and by starving us, and our horses, to shew his frugality; and he is very well with your mistress's father, by giving him recipes for the spleen, gout and scurvy, and other infirmities of old age. _pala._ i'll rout him, and his country education: pox on him, i remember him before i travelled, he had nothing in him but mere jockey; used to talk loud, and make matches, and was all for the crack of the field: sense and wit were as much banished from his discourse, as they are when the court goes out of town to a horse race. go now and provide your master's lodgings. _stra._ i go, sir. [_exit._ _pala._ it vexes me to the heart, to leave all my designs with doralice unfinished; to have flown her so often to a mark, and still to be bobbed at retrieve: if i had once enjoyed her, though i could not have satisfied my stomach with the feast, at least i should have relished my mouth a little; but now-- _enter_ philotis. _phil._ oh, sir, you are happily met; i was coming to find you. _pala._ from your lady. i hope. _phil._ partly from her; but more especially from myself: she has just now received a letter from her father, with an absolute command to dispose herself to marry you to-morrow. _pala._ and she takes it to the death? _phil._ quite contrary: the letter could never have come in a more lucky minute; for it found her in an ill-humour with a rival of yours, that shall be nameless, about the pronunciation of a french word. _pala._ count rhodophil? never disguise it, i know the amour: but i hope you took the occasion to strike in for me? _phil._ it was my good fortune to do you some small service in it; for your sake i discommended him all over,--clothes, person, humour, behaviour, every thing; and, to sum up all, told her, it was impossible to find a married man that was otherwise; for they were all so mortified at home with their wives' ill humours, that they could never recover themselves to be company abroad. _pala._ most divinely urged! _phil._ then i took occasion to commend your good qualities; as the sweetness of your humour, the comeliness of your person, your good mein, your valour; but, above all, your liberality. _pala._ i vow to gad i had like to have forgot that good quality in myself, if thou hadst not remembered me of it: here are five pieces for thee. _phil._ lord, you have the softest hand, sir, it would do a woman good to touch it: count rhodophil's is not half so soft; for i remember i felt it once, when he gave me ten pieces for my new-years-gift. _pala._ o, i understand you, madam; you shall find my hand as soft again as count rhodophil's: there are twenty pieces for you. the former was but a retaining fee; now i hope you'll plead for me. _phil._ your own merits speak enough. be sure only to ply her with french words, and i'll warrant you'll do your business. here are a list of her phrases for this day: use them to her upon all occasions and foil her at her own weapon; for she's like one of the old amazons, she'll never marry, except it be the man who has first conquered her. _pala._ i'll be sure to follow your advice: but you'll forget to further my design. _phil._ what, do you think i'll be ungrateful?--but however, if you distrust my memory, put some token on my finger to remember it by: that diamond there would do admirably. _pala._ there 'tis; and i ask your pardon heartily for calling your memory into question: i assure you i'll trust it another time, without putting you to the trouble of another token. _enter_ palmyra _and_ artemis. _art._ madam, this way the prisoners are to pass; here you may see leonidas. _palm._ then here i'll stay, and follow him to death. _enter_ melantha, _hastily._ _mel._ o, here's her highness! now is my time to introduce myself, and to make my court to her, in my new french phrases. stay, let me read my catalogue--_suite_, _figure_, _chagrin_, _naiveté_, and _let me die_, for the parenthesis of all. _pala._ [_aside._] do, persecute her; and i'll persecute thee as fast in thy own dialect. _mel._ madam, the princess! let me die, but this is a most horrid spectacle, to see a person, who makes so grand a figure in the court, without the _suite_ of a princess, and entertaining your _chagrin_ all alone:--_naiveté_ should have been there, but the disobedient word would not come in. [_aside._ _palm._ what is she, artemis? _art._ an impertinent lady, madam; very ambitious of being known to your highness. _pala._ [_to_ melantha.] let me die, madam, if i have not waited you here these two long hours, without so much as the _suite_ of a single servant to attend me; entertaining myself with my own _chagrin_ till i had the honour of seeing your ladyship, who are a person that makes so considerable a figure in the court. _mel._ truce with your _douceurs_, good servant; you see i am addressing to the princess; pray do not _embarrass_ me--_embarrass_ me! what a delicious french word do you make me lose upon you too! [_to the princess._] your highness, madam, will please to pardon the _beveue_ which i made, in not sooner finding you out to be a princess: but let me die if this _eclaircissement_, which is made this day of your quality, does not ravish me; and give me leave to tell you-- _pala._ but first give me leave to tell you, madam, that i have so great a _tendre_ for your person, and such a _penchant_ to do you service, that-- _mel._ what, must i still be troubled with your _sottises_? (there's another word lost, that i meant for the princess, with a mischief to you!) but your highness, madam-- _pala._ but your ladyship, madam-- _enter_ leonidas, _guarded and led over the stage._ _mel._ out upon him, how he looks, madam! now he's found no prince, he is the strangest figure of a man; how could i make that _coup d'etourdi_ to think him one? _palm._ away, impertinent!--my dear leonidas! _leon._ my dear palmyra! _palm._ death shall never part us; my destiny is yours. [_he is led off, she follows._ _mel._ impertinent! oh i am the most unfortunate person this day breathing: that the princess should thus _rompre en visiere_, without occasion. let me die, but i'll follow her to death, till i make my peace. _pala._ [_holding her._] and let me die, but i'll follow you to the infernals, till you pity me. _mel._ [_turning towards him angrily._] ay, 'tis long of you that this _malheur_ is fallen upon me; your impertinence has put me out of the good graces of the princess, and all that, which has ruined me, and all that, and, therefore, let me die, but i'll be revenged, and all that. pala. _façon, façon,_ you must and shall love me, and all that; for my old man is coming up, and all that; and i am _desesperé au dernier_, and will not be disinherited, and all that. _mel._ how durst you interrupt me so _mal apropos_, when you knew i was addressing to the princess? _pala._ but why would you address yourself so much _a contretemps_ then? _mel._ ah, _mal peste!_ _pala._ ah, _j'enrage!_ phil. _radoucissez vous, de grace, madame; vous étes bien en colere pour peu de chose. vous n'entendez pas la raillerie gallante._ mel. _ad autres, ad autres_: he mocks himself of me,[ ] he abuses me: ah me unfortunate! [_cries._ _phil._ you mistake him, madam, he does but accommodate his phrase to your refined language. _ah qu'il est un cavalier accompli!_ pursue your point, sir-- [_to him._ pala. _ah qu'il fait beau dans ces boccages;_ [singing.] _ah que le ciet donne un beau jour!_ there i was with you, with a _minuét._ _mel._ let me die now, but this singing is fine, and extremely french in him: [_laughs._] but then, that he should use my own words, as it were in contempt of me, i cannot bear it. [_crying._ pala. _ces beaux sejours, ces doux ramages_-- [singing. mel. _ces beaux sejours, ces doux ramages._ [singing after him.] _ces beaux sejours nous invitent á l'amour!_ let me die, but he sings _en cavalier_, and so humours the cadence! [_laughing._ pala. _foy, ma clymene, voy sous ce chene._ [singing again.] _s'entrebaiser ces oiseaux amoreux!_ let me die now, but that was fine. ah, now, for three or four brisk frenchmen, to be put into masking habits, and to sing it on a theatre, how witty it would be! and then to dance helter skelter to a _chanson a boire: toute la terre, toute la terre est a moi!_ what's matter though it were made and sung two or three years ago in _cabarets_, how it would attract the admiration, especially of every one that's an _eveillé!_ _mel._ well; i begin to have a _tendre_ for you; but yet, upon condition, that--when we are married, you-- [pal. _sings, while she speaks._ _phil._ you must drown her voice: if she makes her french conditions, you are a slave for ever. _mel._ first, you will engage--that-- _pala._ fa, la, la, la, &c. [_louder._ _mel._ will you hear the conditions? _pala._ no; i will hear no conditions; i am resolved to win you _en françois_: to be very airy, with abundance of noise, and no sense: fa la, la, la, &c. _mel._ hold, hold: i am vanquished with your _gayeté d'esprit._ i am yours, and will be yours, _sans nulle reserve, ni condition_: and let me die, if i do not think myself the happiest nymph in sicily--my dear french dear, stay but a _minuite_, till i _raccommode_ myself with the princess; and then i am yours, _jusqu' a la mort. allons donc._-- [exeunt mel. phil. _palu._ [_solus, fanning himself with his hat._] i never thought before that wooing was so laborious an exercise; if she were worth a million, i have deserved her; and now, methinks too, with taking all this pains for her, i begin to like her. 'tis so; i have known many, who never cared for hare nor partridge, but those they caught themselves would eat heartily: the pains, and the story a man tells of the taking them, makes the meat go down more pleasantly. besides, last night i had a sweet dream of her, and, gad, she i have once dreamed of, i am stark mad till i enjoy her, let her be never so ugly. _enter_ doralice. _dor._ who's that you are so mad to enjoy, palamede? _pala._ you may easily imagine that, sweet dorarlice. _dor._ more easily than you think i can: i met just now with a certain man, who came to you with letters from a certain old gentleman, y'cleped your father; whereby i am given to understand, that to-morrow you are to take an oath in the church to be grave henceforward, to go ill-dressed and slovenly, to get heirs for your estate, and to dandle them for your diversion; and, in short, that love and courtship are to be no more. _pala._ now have i so much shame to be thus apprehended in the manner, that i can neither speak nor look upon you; i have abundance of grace in me, that i find: but if you have any spark of true friendship in you, retire with me a little into the next room, that hath a couch or bed in it, and bestow your charity upon a dying man! a little comfort from a mistress, before a man is going to give himself in marriage, is as good as a lusty dose of strong-water to a dying malefactor: it takes away the sense of hell and hanging from him. _dor._ no, good palamede, i must not be so injurious to your bride: 'tis ill drawing from the bank to-day, when all your ready money is payable to-morrow. _pala._ a wife is only to have the ripe fruit, that falls of itself; but a wise man will always preserve a shaking for a mistress. _dor._ but a wife for the first quarter is a mistress. _pala._ but when the second comes-- _dor._ when it does come, you are so given to variety, that you would make a wife of me in another quarter. _pala._ no, never, except i were married to you: married people can never oblige one another; for all they do is duty, and consequently there can be no thanks: but love is more frank and generous than he is honest; he's a liberal giver, but a cursed pay-master. _dor._ i declare i will have no gallant; but, if i would, he should never be a married man; a married man is but a mistress's half-servant, as a clergyman is but the king's half-subject: for a man to come to me that smells of the wife! 'slife, i would as soon wear her old gown after her, as her husband. _pala._ yet 'tis a kind of fashion to wear a princess's cast shoes; you see the country ladies buy them, to be fine in them. _dor._ yes, a princess's shoes may be worn after her, because they keep their fashion, by being so very little used; but generally a married man is the creature of the world the most out of fashion: his behaviour is dumpish; his discourse, his wife and family; his habit so much neglected, it looks as if that were married too; his hat is married, his peruke is married, his breeches are married,--and, if we could look within his breeches, we should find him married there too. _pala._ am i then to be discarded for ever? pray do but mark how that word sounds: for ever! it has a very damn'd sound, doralice. _dor._ ay, for ever! it sounds as hellishly to me, as it can do to you, but there's no help for it. _pala._ yet, if we had but once enjoyed one another!--but then once only, is worse than not at all: it leaves a man with such a lingering after it. _dor._ for aught i know, 'tis better that we have not; we might upon trial have liked each other less, as many a man and woman, that have loved as desperately as we, and yet, when they came to possession, have sighed and cried to themselves, is this all? _pala._ that is only, if the servant were not found a man of this world; but if, upon trial, we had not liked each other, we had certainly left loving; and faith, that's the greater happiness of the two. _dor._ 'tis better as 'tis; we have drawn off already as much of our love as would run clear; after possessing, the rest is but jealousies, and disquiets, and quarrelling, and piecing. _pala._ nay, after one great quarrel, there's never any sound piecing; the love is apt to break in the same place again. _dor._ i declare i would never renew a love; that's like him, who trims an old coach for ten years together; he might buy a new one better cheap. _pala._ well, madam, i am convinced, that 'tis best for us not to have enjoyed; but, gad, the strongest reason is, because i can't help it. _dor._ the only way to keep us new to one another is never to enjoy, as they keep grapes, by hanging them upon a line; they must touch nothing, if you would preserve them fresh. _pala._ but then they wither, and grow dry in the very keeping; however, i shall have a warmth for you, and an eagerness, every time i see you; and, if i chance to out-live melantha-- _dor._ and if i chance to out-live rhodophil-- _pala._ well, i'll cherish my body as much as i can, upon that hope. 'tis true, i would not directly murder the wife of my bosom; but, to kill her civilly, by the way of kindness, i'll put as fair as another man: i'll begin to-morrow night, and be very wrathful with her; that's resolved on. _dor._ well, palamede, here's my hand, i'll venture to be your second wife, for all your threatenings. _pala._ in the mean time i'll watch you hourly, as i would the ripeness of a melon; and i hope you'll give me leave now and then to look on you, and to see if you are not ready to be cut yet. _dor._ no, no, that must not be, palamede, for fear the gardener should come and catch you taking up the glass. _enter_ rhodophil. _rho._ [_aside._] billing so sweetly! now i am confirmed in my suspicions; i must put an end to this ere it go farther--[_to_ doralice.] cry you mercy, spouse, i fear i have interrupted your recreations. _dor._ what recreations? _rho._ nay, no excuses, good spouse; i saw fair hand conveyed to lip, and prest, as though you had been squeezing soft wax together for an indenture. palamede, you and i must clear this reckoning: why would you have seduced my wife? _pala._ why would you have debauched my mistress? _rho._ what do you think of that civil couple, that played at a game, called hide and seek, last evening in the grotto? _pala._ what do you think of that innocent pair, who made it their pretence to seek for others, but came, indeed, to hide themselves there? _rho._ all things considered, i begin vehemently to suspect, that the young gentleman i found in your company last night, was a certain youth of my acquaintance. _pala._ and i have an odd imagination, that you could never have suspected my small gallant, if your little villainous frenchman had not been a false brother. _rho._ further arguments are needless; draw off; i shall speak to you now by the way of _bilbo_. [_claps his hand to his sword._ _pala._ and i shall answer you by the way of dangerfield[ ]. [_claps his hand on his._ _dor._ hold, hold; are not you two a couple of mad fighting fools, to cut one another's throats for nothing? _pala._ how for nothing? he courts the woman i must marry. _rho._ and he courts you, whom i have married. _dor._ but you can neither of you be jealous of what you love not. _rho._ faith, i am jealous, and this makes me partly suspect that i love you better than i thought. _dor._ pish! a mere jealousy of honour. _rho._ gad, i am afraid there's something else in't; for palamede has wit, and, if he loves you, there's something more in ye than i have found: some rich mine, for aught i know, that i have not yet discovered. _pala._ 'slife, what's this? here's an argument for me to love melantha; for he has loved her, and he has wit too, and, for aught i know, there may be a mine; but, if there be, i am resolved i'll dig for it. _dor._ [_to_ rhodophil.] then i have found my account in raising your jealousy. o! 'tis the most delicate sharp sauce to a cloyed stomach; it will give you a new edge, rhodophil. _rho._ and a new point too, doralice, if i could be sure thou art honest. _dor._ if you are wise, believe me for your own sake: love and religion have but one thing to trust to; that's a good sound faith. consider, if i have played false, you can never find it out by any experiment you can make upon me. _rho._ no? why, suppose i had a delicate screwed gun; if i left her clean, and found her foul, i should discover, to my cost, she had been shot in. _dor._ but if you left her clean, and found her only rusty, you would discover, to your shame, she was only so for want of shooting. _pala._ rhodophil, you know me too well to imagine i speak for fear; and therefore, in consideration of our past friendship, i will tell you, and bind it by all things holy, that doralice is innocent. _rho._ friend, i will believe you, and vow the same for your melantha; but the devil on't is, how shall we keep them so? _pala._ what dost think of a blessed community betwixt us four, for the solace of the women, and relief of the men? methinks it would be a pleasant kind of life: wife and husband for the standing dish, and mistress and gallant for the desert. _rho._ but suppose the wife and mistress should both long for the standing dish, how should they be satisfied together? _pala._ in such a case they must draw lots; and yet that would not do neither, for they would both be wishing for the longest cut. _rho._ then i think, palamede, we had as good make a firm league, not to invade each other's propriety. _pala._ content, say i. from henceforth let all acts of hostility cease betwixt us; and that, in the usual form of treaties, as well by sea as land, and in all fresh waters. _dor._ i will add but one _proviso_, that whoever breaks the league, either by war abroad, or neglect at home, both the women shall revenge themselves by the help of the other party. _rho._ that's but reasonable. come away, doralice; i have a great temptation to be sealing articles in private. _pala._ hast thou so? [_claps him on the shoulder._ "fall on, macduff, and cursed be he that first cries, hold, enough." _enter_ polydamas, palmyra, artemis, argaleon: _after them_ eubulus _and_ hermogenes, guarded. _palm._ sir, on my knees i beg you-- _poly._ away, i'll hear no more. _palm._ for my dead mother's sake; you say you loved her, and tell me i resemble her. thus she had begged. _poly._ and thus i had denied her. _palm._ you must be merciful. _arga._ you must be constant. _poly._ go, bear them to the torture; you have boasted you have a king to head you; i would know to whom i must resign. _eub._ this is our recompence for serving thy dead queen. _herm._ and education of thy daughter. _arga._ you are too modest, in not naming all his obligations to you: why did you omit his son, the prince leonidas? _poly._ that imposture i had forgot; their tortures shall be doubled. _herm._ you please me; i shall die the sooner. _eub._ no; could i live an age, and still be racked, i still would keep the secret. [_as they are going off,_ _enter_ leonidas, _guarded._ _leon._ oh, whither do you hurry innocence! if you have any justice, spare their lives; or, if i cannot make you just, at least i'll teach you to more purpose to be cruel. _palm._ alas, what does he seek! _leon._ make me the object of your hate and vengeance: are these decrepid bodies, worn to ruin, just ready of themselves to fall asunder. and to let drop the soul,-- are these fit subjects for a rack and tortures? where would you fasten any hold upon them? place pains on me,--united fix them here,-- i have both youth, and strength, and soul to bear them; and, if they merit death, then i much more, since 'tis for me they suffer. _herm._ heaven forbid we should redeem our pains, or worthless lives, by our exposing yours. _eub._ away with us. farewell, sir: i only suffer in my fears for you. _arga._ so much concerned for him! then my [_aside._ suspicion's true. [_whispers the king._ _palm._ hear yet my last request for poor leonidas, or take my life with his. _arga._ rest satisfied, leonidas is he. [_to the king._ _poly._ i am amazed: what must be done? _arga._ command his execution instantly: give him not leisure to discover it; he may corrupt the soldiers. _poly._ hence with that traitor, bear him to his death: haste there, and see my will performed. _leon._ nay, then, i'll die like him the gods have made me. hold, gentlemen, i am-- [argaleon _stops his mouth._ _arga._ thou art a traitor; 'tis not fit to hear thee. _leon._ i say, i am the-- [_getting loose a little._ _arga._ so; gag him, and lead him off. [_again stopping his mouth._ [leonidas, hermogenes, eubulus, _led off;_ polydamas _and_ argaleon _follow._ _palm._ duty and love, by turns, possess my soul and struggle for a fatal victory. i will discover he's the king:--ah, no! that will perhaps save him; but then i'm guilty of a father's ruin. what shall i do, or not do? either way i must destroy a parent, or a lover. break heart; for that's the least of ills to me, and death the only cure. [_swoons._ _arte._ help, help the princess. _rho._ bear her gently hence, where she may have more succour. [_she is borne off;_ arte. _follows her._ [_shouts within, and clashing of swords._ _pala._ what noise is that? _enter_ amalthea, _running._ _amal._ oh, gentlemen, if you have loyalty, or courage, show it now! leonidas, broke on the sudden from his guards, and snatching a sword from one, his back against the scaffold, bravely defends himself, and owns aloud he is our long-lost king; found for this moment, but, if your valour helps not, lost for ever. two of his guards, moved by the sense of virtue, are turned for him, and there they stand at bay against an host of foes. _rho._ madam, no more; we lose time; my command, or my example, may move the soldiers to the better cause. you'll second me? [_to_ pala. _pala._ or die with you: no subject e'er can meet a nobler fate, than at his sovereign's feet. [_exeunt._ [_clashing of swords within, and shouts._ _enter_ leonidas, rhodophil, palamede, eubulus, hermogenes, _and their party, victorious;_ polydamas _and_ argaleon, _disarmed._ _leon._ that i survive the dangers of this day, next to the gods, brave friends, be yours the honour; and, let heaven witness for me, that my joy is not more great for this my right restored, than 'tis, that i have power to recompense your loyalty and valour. let mean princes, of abject souls, fear to reward great actions; i mean to shew, that whatsoe'er subjects, like you, dare merit, a king, like me, dares give. _rho._ you make us blush, we have deserved so little. _pala._ and yet instruct us how to merit more. _leon._ and as i would be just in my rewards, so should i in my punishments; these two, this, the usurper of my crown, the other, of my palmyra's love, deserve that death, which both designed for me. _poly._ and we expect it. _arga._ i have too long been happy, to live wretched. _poly._ and i too long have governed, to desire a life without an empire. _leon._ you are palmyra's father; and as such, though not a king, shall have obedience paid from him who is one. father, in that name all injuries forgot, and duty owned. [_embraces him._ _poly._ o, had i known you could have been this king, thus god-like, great and good, i should have wished to have been dethroned before. 'tis now i live, and more than reign; now all my joys flow pure, unmixed with cares, and undisturbed by conscience. _enter_ palmyra, amalthea, artemis, doralice, _and_ melantha. _leon._ see, my palmyra comes! the frighted blood scarce yet recalled to her pale cheeks, like the first streaks of light broke loose from darkness, and dawning into blushes.--sir, you said [_to_ poly. your joys were full; oh, would you make mine so! i am but half restored without this blessing. _poly._ the gods, and my palmyra, make you happy, as you make me! [_gives her hand to_ leonidas. _palm._ now all my prayers are heard: i may be dutiful, and yet may love. virtue and patience have at length unravelled the knots, which fortune tyed. _mel._ let me die, but i'll congratulate his majesty: how admirably well his royalty becomes him! becomes! that is _lui sied_, but our damned language expresses nothing. _pala._ how? does it become him already? 'twas but just now you said, he was such a figure of a man. _mel_ true, my dear, when he was a private man he was a figure; but since he is a king, methinks he has assumed another figure: he looks so grand, and so august! [_going to the king._ _pala._ stay, stay; i'll present you when it is more convenient. i find i must get her a place at court; and when she is once there, she can be no longer ridiculous; for she is young enough, and pretty enough, and fool enough, and french enough, to bring up a fashion there to be affected. _leon._ [_to_ rhodophil.] did she then lead you to this brave attempt? [_to_ amalthea.] to you, fair amalthea, what i am, and what all these, from me, we jointly owe: first, therefore, to your great desert we give your brother's life; but keep him under guard till our new power be settled. what more grace he may receive, shall from his future carriage be given, as he deserves. _arga._ i neither now desire, nor will deserve it; my loss is such as cannot be repaired, and, to the wretched, life can be no mercy. _leon._ then be a prisoner always: thy ill fate and pride will have it so: but since in this i cannot, instruct me, generous amalthea, how a king may serve you. _amal._ i have all i hope, and all i now must wish; i see you happy. those hours i have to live, which heaven in pity will make but few, i vow to spend with vestals: the greatest part in prayers for you; the rest in mourning my unworthiness. press me not farther to explain myself; 'twill not become me, and may cause your trouble. _leon._ too well i understand her secret grief, [_aside._ but dare not seem to know it.--come, my fairest; [_to_ palmyra. beyond my crown i have one joy in store, to give that crown to her whom i adore. [_exeunt._ epilogue. thus have my spouse and i informed the nation, and led you all the way to reformation; not with dull morals, gravely writ, like those, which men of easy phlegm with care compose,-- your poets, of stiff words and limber sense, born on the confines of indifference; but by examples drawn, i dare to say, from most of you who hear and see the play. there are more rhodophils in this theatre, more palamedes, and some few wives, i fear: but yet too far our poet would not run; though 'twas well offered, there was nothing done. he would not quite the women's frailty bare, but stript them to the waist, and left them there: and the men's faults are less severely shown, for he considers that himself is one.-- some stabbing wits, to bloody satire bent, would treat both sexes with less compliment; would lay the scene at home; of husbands tell, for wenches, taking up their wives i' the mall; and a brisk bout, which each of them did want, made by mistake of mistress and gallant. our modest author thought it was enough to cut you off a sample of the stuff: he spared my shame, which you, i'm sure, would not, for you were all for driving on the plot: you sighed when i came in to break the sport, and set your teeth when each design fell short. to wives and servants all good wishes lend, but the poor cuckold seldom finds a friend. since, therefore, court and town will take no pity, i humbly cast myself upon the city. footnotes: . _he mocks himself of me_.] melantha, like some modern coxcombs, uses the idiom as well as the words of the french language. . _dangerfield._] a dramatic bully, whose sword and habit became proverbial. "this gentleman, appearing with his mustaccios, according to the turkish manner, cordubee hat, and strange out-of-the-way clothes, just as if one had been dressed up to act captain dangerfield in the play, &c." _life of sir dudley north._ * * * * * the assignation; or, love in a nunnery. a comedy. _successum dea dira negat_ virg. the assignation. this play was unfortunate in the representation. it is needless, at the distance of more than a century, to investigate the grounds of the dislike of an audience, who, perhaps, could at the very time have given no good reason for their capricious condemnation of a play, not worse than many others which they received with applause. the author, in the dedication, hints at the "lameness of the action;" but, as the poet and performers are nearly equally involved in the disgrace of a condemned piece, it is a very natural desire on either side to assign the cause of its failure to the imperfections of the other; of which there is a ludicrous representation in a dialogue betwixt the player and the poet in "joseph andrews." another cause of its unfavourable reception seems to have been, its second title of "love in a nunnery." dryden certainly could, last of any man, have been justly suspected of an intention to ridicule the duke of york and the catholic religion; yet, as he fell under the same censure for the "spanish friar," it seems probable that such suspicions were actually entertained. the play certainly contains, in the present instance, nothing to justify them. in point of merit, "the assignation" seems pretty much on a level with dryden's other comedies; and certainly the spectators, who had received the blunders of sir martin mar-all with such unbounded applause, might have taken some interest in those of poor benito. perhaps the absurd and vulgar scene, in which the prince pretends a fit of the cholic, had some share in occasioning the fall of the piece. this inelegant _jeu de theatre_ is severely ridiculed in the "rehearsal." to one person, the damnation of this play seems to have afforded exquisite pleasure. this was edward ravenscroft, once a member of the middle temple,--an ingenious gentleman, of whose taste it may be held a satisfactory instance, that he deemed the tragedy of "titus andronicus" too mild for representation, and generously added a few more murders, rapes, and parricides, to that charnel-house of horrors[ ]. his turn for comedy being at least equal to his success in the blood-stained buskin, mr ravenscroft translated and mangled several of the more farcical french comedies, which he decorated with the lustre of his own great name. amongst others which he thus appropriated, were the most extravagant and buffoon scenes in moliere's "_bourgeois gentilhomme_;" in which monsieur jourdain is, with much absurd ceremony, created a turkish paladin; and where moliere took the opportunity to introduce an _entrée de ballet_, danced and sung by the mufti, dervises, and others, in eastern habits. ravenscroft's translation, entitled "the citizen turned gentleman," was acted in , and printed in the same year; the jargon of the songs, like similar nonsense of our own day, seems to have been well received on the stage. dryden, who was not always above feeling indignation at the bad taste and unjust preferences of the age, attacked ravenscroft in the prologue to "the assignation," as he had before, though less directly, in that of "marriage a-la-mode." hence the exuberant and unrepressed joy of that miserable scribbler broke forth upon the damnation of dryden's performance, in the following passage of a prologue to another of his pilfered performances, called "the careless lovers," acted, according to langbaine, in the vacation succeeding the fall of "the assignation," in : an author did, to please you, let his wit run, of late, much on a serving man and cittern; and yet, you would not like the serenade,-- nay, and you damned his nuns in masquerade: you did his spanish sing-song too abhor; _ah! que locura con tanto rigor!_ in fine, the whole by you so much was blamed, to act their parts, the players were ashamed[ ]. ah, how severe your malice was that day! to damn, at once, the poet and his play[ ]: but why was your rage just at that time shown, when what the author writ was all his own? till then, he borrowed from romance, and did translate[ ]; and those plays found a more indulgent fate. ravenscroft, however, seems to have given the first offence; for, in the prologue to "the citizen turned gentleman," licensed th august , we find the following lines, obviously levelled at "the conquest of granada," and other heroic dramas of our author: then shall the knight, that had a knock in's cradle, such as sir martin and sir arthur addle[ ], be flocked unto, as the great heroes now in plays of rhyme and noise, with wondrous show:-- then shall the house, to see these hectors kill and slay, that bravely fight out the whole plot of the play, be for at least six months full every day. langbaine, who quotes the lines from the prologue to ravenscroft's "careless lovers," is of opinion, that he paid dryden too great a compliment in admitting the originality of "the assignation," and labours to shew, that the characters are imitated from the "romance comique" of scarron, and other novels of the time. but langbaine seems to have been unable to comprehend, that originality consists in the mode of treating a subject, more than in the subject itself. "the assignation" was acted in , and printed in . footnotes: . in the prologue to this beautified edition, ravenscroft modestly tells us: like other poets, he'll not proudly scorn to own, that he but winnowed shakespeare's corn: so far was he from robbing him of's treasure, that he did add his own, to make full measure. . this looks as if there had been some ground for dryden's censure upon the actors. . a flat parody on the lines in dryden's prologue, referring to mamamouchi: grimace and habit sent you pleased away: you damned the poet, but cried up the play. . it is somewhat remarkable, that the censure contained in what is above printed like verses, recoils upon the head of the author, who never wrote a single original performance. langbaine, the persecutor of all plagiarism, though he did not know very well in what it consisted, threatens to "pull off ravenscroft's disguise, and discover the politic plagiary that lurks under it. i know," continues the biographer, "he has endeavoured to shew himself master of the art of swift writing, and would persuade the world, that what he writes is _extempore_ wit, and written _currente calamo_. but i doubt not to shew, that though he would be thought to imitate the silk-worm, that spins its web from its own bowels, yet i shall make him appear like the leech, that lives upon the blood of other men, drawn from the gums; and, when he is rubbed with salt, spews it up again." . sir martin mar-all we are acquainted with. sir arthur addle is a similar character, in a play called "sir solomon, or, the cautious coxcomb," attributed to one john caryll. to my most honoured friend, sir charles sedley, bart[ ]. sir, the design of dedicating plays is as common and unjust, as that of desiring seconds in a duel. it is engaging our friends, it may be, in a senseless quarrel where they have much to venture, without any concernment of their own[ ]. i have declared thus much beforehand, to prevent you from suspicion, that i intend to interest either your judgment or your kindness, in defending the errors of this comedy. it succeeded ill in the representation, against the opinion of many of the best judges of our age, to whom you know i read it, ere it was presented publicly. whether the fault was in the play itself, or in the lameness of the action, or in the number of its enemies, who came resolved to damn it for the title, i will not now dispute. that would be too like the little satisfaction which an unlucky gamester finds in the relation of every cast by which he came to lose his money. i have had formerly so much success, that the miscarriage of this play was only my giving fortune her revenge; i owed it her, and she was indulgent that she exacted not the payment long before. i will therefore deal more reasonably with you, than any poet has ever done with any patron: i do not so much as oblige you for my sake, to pass two ill hours in reading of my play. think, if you please, that this dedication is only an occasion i have taken, to do myself the greatest honour imaginable with posterity; that is, to be recorded in the number of those men whom you have favoured with your friendship and esteem. for i am well assured, that, besides the present satisfaction i have, it will gain me the greatest part of my reputation with after ages, when they shall find me valuing myself on your kindness to me; i may have reason to suspect my own credit with them, but i have none to doubt of yours. and they who, perhaps, would forget me in my poems, would remember me in this epistle. this was the course which has formerly been practised by the poets of that nation, who were masters of the universe. horace and ovid, who had little reason to distrust their immortality, yet took occasion to speak with honour of virgil, varius, tibullus, and propertius, their contemporaries; as if they sought, in the testimony of their friendship, a farther evidence of their fame. for my own part, i, who am the least amongst the poets, have yet the fortune to be honoured with the best patron, and the best friend. for, (to omit some great persons of our court, to whom i am many ways obliged, and who have taken care of me even amidst the exigencies of a war[ ]) i can make my boast to have found a better mæcenas in the person of my lord treasurer clifford[ ], and a more elegant tibullus in that of sir charles sedley. i have chosen that poet to whom i would resemble you, not only because i think him at least equal, if not superior, to ovid in his elegies; nor because of his quality, for he was, you know, a roman knight, as well as ovid; but for his candour, his wealth, his way of living, and particularly because of this testimony which is given him by horace, which i have a thousand times in my mind applied to you: _non tu corpus eras sine pectore: dii tibi formam, dii tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi. quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno, quam sapere, et fari possit quæ sentiat, et cui gratia, forma, valetudo contingat abunde; et mundus victus, non deficiente crumena?_ certainly the poets of that age enjoyed much happiness in the conversation and friendship of one another. they imitated the best way of living, which was, to pursue an innocent and inoffensive pleasure, that which one of the ancients called _eruditam voluptatem_. we have, like them, our genial nights, where our discourse is neither too serious nor too light, but always pleasant, and, for the most part, instructive; the raillery, neither too sharp upon the present, nor too censorious on the absent; and the cups only such as will raise the conversation of the night, without disturbing the business of the morrow[ ]. and thus far not only the philosophers, but the fathers of the church, have gone, without lessening their reputation of good manners, or of piety. for this reason, i have often laughed at the ignorant and ridiculous descriptions which some pedants have given of the wits, as they are pleased to call them; which are a generation of men as unknown to them, as the people of tartary, or the terra australia, are to us. and therefore as we draw giants and anthropophagi in those vacancies of our maps, where we have not travelled to discover better; so those wretches paint lewdness, atheism, folly, ill-reasoning, and all manner of extravagancies amongst us, for want of understanding what we are. oftentimes it so falls out, that they have a particular pique to some one amongst us, and then they immediately interest heaven in their quarrel; as it is an usual trick in courts, when one designs the ruin of his enemy, to disguise his malice with some concernment of the kings; and to revenge his own cause, with pretence of vindicating the honour of his master. such wits as they describe, i have never been so unfortunate as to meet in your company; but have often heard much better reasoning at your table, than i have encountered in their books. the wits they describe, are the fops we banish: for blasphemy and atheism, if they were neither sin nor ill manners, are subjects so very common, and worn so threadbare, that people, who have sense, avoid them, for fear of being suspected to have none. it calls the good name of their wit in question as it does the credit of a citizen when his shop is filled with trumperies and painted titles, instead of wares: we conclude them bankrupt to all manner of understanding; and that to use blasphemy, is a kind of applying pigeons to the soles of the feet; it proclaims their fancy, as well as judgment, to be in a desperate condition. i am sure, for your own particular, if any of these judges had once the happiness to converse with you,--to hear the candour of your opinions; how freely you commend that wit in others of which you have, so large a portion yourself; how unapt you are to be censorious; with how much easiness you speak so many things, and those so pointed, that no other man is able to excel, or perhaps to reach by study;--they would, instead of your accusers, become your proselytes. they would reverence so much sense, and so much good nature in the same person; and come, like the satyr, to warm themselves at that fire, of which they were ignorantly afraid when they stood at a distance. but you have too great a reputation to be wholly free from censure: it is a fine which fortune sets upon all extraordinary persons, and from which you should not wish to be delivered until you are dead. i have been used by my critics much more severely, and have more reason to complain, because i am deeper taxed for a less estate. i am, ridiculously enough, accused to be a contemner of universities; that is, in other words, an enemy of learning; without the foundation of which, i am sure, no man can pretend to be a poet. and if this be not enough, i am made a detractor from my predecessors, whom i confess to have been my masters in the art. but this latter was the accusation of the best judge, and almost the best poet, in the latin tongue. you find horace complaining, that, for taxing some verses in lucilius, he himself was blamed by others, though his design was no other than mine now, to improve the knowledge of poetry; and it was no defence to him, amongst his enemies, any more than it is for me, that he praised lucilius where he deserved it; _paginâ laudatur eâdem_. it is for this reason i will be no more mistaken for my good meaning: i know i honour ben jonson more than my little critics, because, without vanity i may own, i understand him better[ ]. as for the errors they pretend to find in me, i could easily show them, that the greatest part of them are beauties; and for the rest, i could recriminate upon the best poets of our nation, if i could resolve to accuse another of little faults, whom, at the same time, i admire for greater excellencies. but i have neither concernment enough upon me to write any thing in my own defence, neither will i gratify the ambition of two wretched scribblers, who desire nothing more than to be answered. i have not wanted friends, even among strangers, who have defended me more strongly, than my contemptible pedant could attack me[ ]. for the other, he is only like fungoso in the play, who follows the fashion at a distance, and adores the fastidious brisk of oxford[ ]. you can bear me witness, that i have not consideration enough for either of them to be angry. let mævius and bavius admire each other; i wish to be hated by them and their fellows, by the same reason for which i desire to be loved by you. and i leave it to the world, whether their judgment of my poetry ought to be preferred to yours; though they are as much prejudiced by their malice, as i desire you should be led by your kindness, to be partial to, sir, your most humble, and most faithful servant, john dryden. footnotes: . sir charles sedley, noted among "the mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease," was so highly applauded for his taste and judgment, that charles said, "nature had given him a patent to be apollo's viceroy." some account has been given of this celebrated courtier, in the introduction to the essay on dramatic poetry. dryden was at this time particularly induced to appeal to the taste of the first among the gay world, by the repeated censures which had been launched against him from the groves of academe. mr malone gives the titles of three pamphlets which had appeared against dryden. . the censure of the rota, on mr dryden's conquest of granada, printed at oxford. . a description of the academy of the athenian virtuoso, with a discourse held there in vindication of mr dryden's conquest of granada, against the author of the censure of the rota. . a friendly vindication of mr dryden, from the author of the censure of the rota, printed at cambridge. thus assailed by the grave and the learned, censured for the irregularities of his gay patrons, which he countenanced although he did not partake, and stigmatized as a detractor of his predecessors, and a defamer of classical learning, it was natural for dryden to appeal to the most accomplished of those amongst whom he lived, and to whose taste he was but too strongly compelled to adapt his productions. sedley, therefore, as a man of wit and gallantry, is called upon to support our author against the censures of pedantic severity. whatever may be thought of the subject, the appeal is made with all dryden's spirit and elegance, and his description of the attic evenings spent with sedley and his gay associates, glosses over, and almost justifies, their occasional irregularities. we have but too often occasion to notice, with censure, the licentious manners of the giddy court of charles; let us not omit its merited commendation. if the talents of the men of parts of that period were often ill-directed, and ill-rewarded, let not us, from whom that gratitude is justly due, forget that they were called forth and stimulated to exertion, by the countenance and applause of the great. we, at least, who enjoy the fruit of these exertions, ought to rejoice, that the courtiers of charles possessed the taste to countenance and applaud the genius which was too often perverted by the profligacy of their example, and left unrewarded amid their selfish prodigality. . at this period, seconds in a duel fought, as well as principals. . the second dutch war, then raging. . to whom the tragedy of "amboyna" is dedicated. . it is impossible to avoid contrasting this beautiful account of elegant dissipation with the noted freak of sir charles sedley, to whom it is addressed. in june , being in company with lord buckhurst and sir thomas ogle, in a tavern in bowstreet, and having become furious with intoxication, they not only exposed themselves, by committing the grossest indecencies in the balcony, in the sight of the passengers; but, a mob being thus collected, sedley stripped himself naked, and proceeded to harangue them in the grossest and most impious language. the indignation of the populace being excited, they attempted to burst into the house, and a desperate riot ensued, in which the orator and his companions had nearly paid for their frolic with their lives. for this riot they were indicted in the court of common pleas, and heavily fined; sedley in the sum of l. . when the lord chief justice, sir robert hyde, to repress his insolence, asked him if he had ever read the "complete gentleman?" sedley answered, that he had read more books than his lordship; a repartee which exhibits more effrontery than wit. the culprits employed killigrew and another courtier to solicit a mitigation of the fine; but, in the true spirit of court friendship, they begged it for themselves, and extorted every farthing. . our author here shortly repeats what he has said at more length in his defence of the epilogue to the second part of the conquest of granada. . the pedant mr malone conjectures to be matthew clifford, master of the charter-house, one of the duke of buckingham's colleagues in writing "the rehearsal." but the _pedant_ is obviously the same with the fastidious brisk _of oxford_, mentioned in the following sentence, which can hardly apply to clifford, who was educated at cambridge. one leigh is said by wood to have written the censure of the rota; and as he was educated at oxford and the book printed there, he may be "the contemptible pedant," though his profession was that of a player in the duke's company. . fungoso and sir fastidious brisk are two characters in "every man out of his humour;" the former of whom is represented as copying the dress and manners of the latter. dryden seems only to mean, that one of those pamphleteers was the servile imitator of the other. prologue. prologues, like bells to churches, toll you in with chiming verse, till the dull plays begin; with this sad difference though, of pit and pew, you damn the poet, but the priest damns you: but priests can treat you at your own expence, and gravely call you fools without offence. poets, poor devils, have ne'er your folly shown, but, to their cost, you proved it was their own: for, when a fop's presented on the stage, straight all the coxcombs in the town engage; for his deliverance and revenge they join, and grunt, like hogs, about their captive swine. your poets daily split upon this shelf,-- you must have fools, yet none will have himself. or if, in kindness, you that leave would give, no man could write you at that rate you live: for some of you grow fops with so much haste, riot in nonsense, and commit such waste, 'twould ruin poets should they spend so fast. he, who made this, observed what farces hit, and durst not disoblige you now with wit. but, gentlemen, you over-do the mode; you must have fools out of the common road. th' unnatural strained buffoon is only taking; no fop can please you now of god's own making. pardon our poet, if he speaks his mind; you come to plays with your own follies lined: small fools fall on you, like small showers, in vain; your own oiled coats keep out all common rain. you must have mamamouchi[ ], such a fop as would appear a monster in a shop; he'll fill your pit and boxes to the brim, where, rain'd in crowds, you see yourselves in him. sure there's some spell, our poet never knew, in _hullibabilah de_, and _chu, chu, chu_; but _marababah sahem_[ ] most did touch you; that is, oh how we love the mamamouchi! grimace and habit sent you pleased away: you damned the poet, and cried up the play. this thought had made our author more uneasy, but that he hopes i'm fool enough to please ye. but here's my grief,--though nature, joined with art, have cut me out to act a fooling part, yet, to your praise, the few wits here will say, 'twas imitating you taught haynes to play. footnotes: . see the introductory remarks on the "citizen turned gentleman," of ravenscroft, where the jest turns on jorden's being created a _mamamouchi_, or turkish paladin, as it is interpreted. . _trickman._ i told him she was woundrous beautiful. then said he, _marababa sahem_, ah how much in love am i! _jorden._ marababa sahem, means, how much in love am i? _trick._ yes. _jorden._ i am beholden to you for telling me, for i ne'er could have thought that marababa sahem, should signify, ah how much in love am i. ah this turkish is an admirable language! _citizen turned gentleman_, act. iv. in the same piece, we are presented with a grand chorus of turks and dervises, who sing, "_hu la baba la chou ba la baba la da._" dramatis personÆ. _duke of mantua._ _prince_ frederick, _his son._ aurelian, _a roman gentleman._ camillo, _his friend._ mario, _governor of rome._ ascanio, _page of honour to the prince._ benito, _servant to_ aurelian. valerio, _confidant to the duke._ fabio, _servant to_ mario. sophronia, _abbess of the torr' di specchì._ lucretia, _a lady designed to be a nun._ hippolita, _a nun._ laura, } violetta } _sisters, nieces to_ mario. frontona, _lets lodgings._ _scene--rome._ the assignation; or, love in a nunnery. act i. scene i.--_a room, a great glass placed._ _enter_ benito, _with a guitar in his hand._ _ben._ [_bowing to the glass._] save you, sweet signior benito; by my faith i am glad to see you look so bonnily to-day. gad, sir, every thing becomes you to a miracle: your peruke, your clothes, your hat, your shoe-ties; and, gad, sir, let me tell you, you become every thing; you walk with such a grace, and you bow so pliantly! _aurelian._ [_within._] benito, where are you, sirrah? _ben._ sirrah! that my damned master should call a man of my extraordinary endowments, sirrah! a man of my endowments? gad, i ask my own pardon, i mean a person of my endowments; for a man of my parts and talents, though he be but a _valet de chambre_, is a person; and let me tell my master--gad, i frown too, as like a person as any jack-gentleman of them all; but, gad, when i do not frown, i am an absolute beauty, whatever this glass says to the contrary; and, if this glass deny it, 'tis a base lying glass; so i'll tell it to its face, and kick it down into the bargain. _aur._ [_within._] why, benito, how long shall we stay for you? _ben._ i come, sir.--what the devil would he have? but, by his favour, i'll first survey my dancing and my singing. [_he plays on his guitar, and dances and sings to the glass._] i think that was not amiss: i think so. gad, i can dance [_lays down the guitar._] and play no longer, i am in such a rapture with myself. what a villanous fate have i! with all these excellencies, and a profound wit, and yet to be a serving-man! _enter_ aurelian _and_ camillo. _aur._ why, you slave, you dog, you son of twenty fathers, am i to be served at this rate eternally? a pox of your conceited coxcomb! _cam._ nay, pr'ythee, aurelian, be not angry. _aur._ you do not know this rogue, as i do, camillo. now, by this guitar, and that great looking-glass, i am certain how he has spent his time. he courts himself every morning in that glass at least an hour; there admires his own person, and his parts, and studies postures and grimaces, to make himself yet more ridiculous than he was born to be. _cam._ you wrong him, sure. _aur._ i do; for he is yet more fool than i can speak him. i never sent him on a message, but he runs first to that glass, to practise how he may become his errand. speak, is this a lie, sirrah? _ben._ i confess, i have some kindness for the mirror. _aur._ the mirror! there's a touch of his poetry too; he could not call it a glass. then the rogue has the impudence to make sonnets, as he calls them; and, which is greater impudence, he sings them too; there's not a street in all rome which he does not nightly disquiet with his villanous serenade: with that guitar there, the younger brother of a cittern, he frights away the watch; and for his violin, it squeaks so lewdly, that sir tibert[ ] in the gutter mistakes him for his mistress. 'tis a mere cat-call. _cam._ is this true, benito? _ben._ to _cam._ [_aside._] my master, sir, may say his pleasure; i divert myself sometimes with hearing him. alas, good gentleman, 'tis not given to all persons to penetrate into men's parts and qualities; but i look on you, sir, as a man of judgment, and therefore you shall hear me play and sing. [_he takes up the guitar, and begins._ _aur._ why, you invincible sot you, will nothing mend you? lay it down, or-- _ben._ to _cam._ do ye see, sir, this enemy to the muses? he will not let me hold forth to you. [_lays down the guitar._] o envy and ignorance, whither will you!--but, gad, before i'll suffer my parts to be kept in obscurity-- _aur_, what will you do, rascal? _ben._ i'll take up the guitar, and suffer heroically. [_he plays,_ aur. _kicks._ _aur._ what? do you mutiny? _ben._ ay, do, kick till your toes ache; i'll be baffled in my music by ne'er a foot in christendom. _aur._ i'll put you out of your tune, with a vengeance to you. [_as_ aurelian _kicks harder,_ benito _sings faster, and sometimes cries out._ _cam._ holding _aur._ nay, then, 'tis time to stickle[ ]. hold, aurelian, pr'ythee spare benito, you know we have occasion for him. _aur._ i think that was well kicked. _ben._ and i think that was well sung too. _cam._ enough, aurelian. _ben._ no, sir; let him proceed to discourage virtue and see what will come on it. _cam._ now to our business. but we must first instruct benito. _aur._ be ruled by me, and do not trust him. i prophesy he'll spoil the whole affair; he has a worm in his head as long as a conger, a brain so barren of all sense, and yet so fruitful of foolish plots, that if he does not all things his own way, yet at least he'll ever be mingling his designs with yours, and go halves with you; so that, what with his ignorance, what with his plotting, he'll be sure to ruin you with an intention to serve you. for my part, i had turned him off long since, but that my wise father commanded the contrary. _cam._ still you speak, as if what we did were choice, and not necessity. you know their uncle is suspicious of me, and consequently jealous of all my servants; but if we employ yours, who is not suspected, because you are a stranger, i doubt not to get an assignation with the younger sister. _aur._ well, use your own way, camillo: but if it ever succeed with his management-- _cam._ you must understand then, benito, that this old signior mario has two nieces, with one of which i am desperately in love, and-- _ben._ [_aside to him._] i understand you already, sir, and you desire love reciprocal. leave your business in my hands; and, if it succeed not, think me no wiser than my master. _cam._ pray take me with you. these sisters are great beauties, and vast fortunes; but, by a clause in their father's will, if they marry without their uncle's consent, are to forfeit all. their uncle, who is covetous and base to the last degree, takes advantage of this clause; and, under pretence of not finding fit matches for them, denies his consent to all who love them. _ben._ denies them marriage! very good, sir. _cam._ more than this, he refuses access to any suitor, and immures them in a mean apartment on the garden side, where he barbarously debars them from all human society. _ben._ uses them most barbarously! still better and better. _cam._ the younger of these sisters, violetta, i have seen often in the garden, from the balcony in this chamber, which looks into it; have divers times shot tickets on the point of an arrow, which she has taken; and, by the signs she made me, i find they were not ill received. _ben._ i'll tell you now, just such an amour as this had i once with a young lady, that-- _aur._ quote yourself again, you rogue, and my feet shall renew their acquaintance with your buttocks. _cam._ dear benito, take care to convey this ticket to violetta; i saw her just now go by to the next chapel: be sure to stand ready to give her holy water, and slip the ticket into the hand of her woman beatrix; and take care the elder sister, laura, sees you not, for she knows nothing of our amour. _ben._ a word to the wise. have you no service to laura? [_to_ aur. _aur._ none that i shall trouble you withal; i'll see first what returns you make from this voyage, before i put in my venture with you. away; begone, mr mercury. _ben._ i fly, mr jupiter. [_exit._ _aur._ this lady, laura, i have seen from your balcony, and was seen by her. methought, too, she looked with a languishing eye upon me, as who should say, are you a man, and have no pity for a poor distressed virgin? for my part, i never found so much disposition in myself to love any woman at first sight. handsome she is; of that i am certain. _cam._ and has wit, i dare assure you; but i have not heard she has admitted of any gallantry. _aur._ her hour is not come yet; she has not met with a man to love; when that happens, (as i am resolved to push my fortune) you shall see that, as her love warms, her virtue will melt down, and dissolve in it; for there's no such bawd to a woman, as her own wit is. _cam._ i look upon the assignation as certain; will you promise me to go? you and benito shall walk in the garden, while i search the nymph within the shade. one thing i had forgot to tell you, that our general of the church, the duke of mantua, and the prince his son, are just approaching the gates of rome. will you go see the ceremony of their entrance? _aur._ with all my heart. they say he has behaved himself gallantly against the french, at their return from naples. besides, i have a particular knowledge of young prince frederick, ever since he was last at our venetian carnivals. _cam._ away, then, quickly; lest we miss the solemnity. [_exeunt._ _enter_ laura _and_ violetta, _striving about a letter, which_ laura _holds._ _vio._ let it go, i say. _lau._ i say, let you go. _vio._ nay, sweet sister laura. _lau._ nay, dear violetta, it is in vain to contend; i am resolved i'll see it. [_plucks the paper from_ violetta. _vio._ but i am resolved you shall not read it. i know not what authority this is which you assume, or what privilege a year or two can give you, to use this sovereignty over me. _lau._ do you rebel, young gentlewoman? i'll make you know i have a double right over you. one, as i have more years, and the other, as i have more wit. _vio._ though i am not all air and fire, as you are, yet that little wit i have will serve to conduct my affairs without a governess. _lau._ no, gentlewoman, but it shall not. are you fit, at fifteen, to be trusted with a maidenhead? it is as much as your betters can manage at full twenty. _for 'tis of a nature so subtile, that, if it's not luted with care, the spirit will work through the bottle, and vanish away into air. to keep it, there nothing so hard is, 'twill go betwixt waking and sleeping; the simple too weak for a guard is, and no wit would be plagued with the keeping._ _vio._ for aught i see, you are as little to be trusted with your madness, as i with my simplicity; and, therefore, pray restore my letter. _lau._ [_reading it._] what's here? an humble petition for a private meeting? are you twittering at that sport already, mistress novice? _vio._ how! i a novice at ripe fifteen? i would have you to know, that i have killed my man before i was fourteen, and now am ready for another execution. _lau._ a very forward rose-bud: you open apace, gentlewoman. i find indeed your desires are quick enough; but where will you have cunning to carry on your business with decency and secrecy? secrecy, i say, which is a main part of chastity in our sex. where wit, to be sensible of the delicacies of love? the tenderness of a farewell-sigh for an absence? the joy of a return? the zeal of a pressing hand? the sweetness of little quarrels, caused and cured by the excess of love? and, in short, the pleasing disquiets of the soul, always restless, and wandering up and down in a paradise of thought, of its own making? _vio._ if i understood not thus much before, i find you are an excellent instructor; and that argues you have had a feeling of the cause in your time too, sister. _lau._ what have i confessed before i was aware! she'll find out my inclination to that stranger, whom i have only seen, and to whom i have never spoken--[_aside._] no, good violetta, i never was in love; all my experience is from plays and romances. but, who is this man, to whom you have promised an assignation? _vio._ you'll tell my uncle. _lau._ i hate my uncle more than you do. _vio._ you know the man, 'tis signior camillo: his birth and fortunes are equal to what i can expect; and he tells me his intentions are honourable. _lau._ have i not seen him lately in his balcony, which looks into our garden, with another handsome gentleman in his company, who seems a stranger? _vio._ they are the same. do you think it a reasonable thing, dear laura, that my uncle should keep us so strictly, that we must be beholden to hearsay, to know a young gallant is in the next house to us? _lau._ 'tis hard, indeed, to be mewed like hawks, and never manned: to be locked in like nuns here. _vio._ they, that look for nun's flesh in me, shall be mistaken. _lau._ well, what answer have you returned to this letter? _vio._ that i would meet him at eight this evening, in the close walk in the garden, attended only by beatrix, my woman. _lau._ who comes with him? _vio._ only his friend's man, benito; the same who brought me the letter which you took from me. _lau._ stay, let me think a little. does camillo, or this benito, know your maid beatrix? _vio._ they have never talked with her; but only seen her. _lau._ 'tis concluded then. you shall meet your servant, but i'll be your beatrix: i'll go instead of her, and counterfeit your waiting-woman; in the dark i may easily pass for her. by this means i shall be present to instruct you, for you are yet a callow maid: i must teach you to peck a little; you may come to prey for yourself in time. _vio._ a little teaching will serve my turn: if the old one left me to myself, i could go near to get my living. _lau._ i find you are eager, and baiting to be gone already, and i'll not hinder you when your hour approaches. in the mean time, go in, and sigh, and think fondly and ignorantly of your approaching pleasures: love, in young hearts, is like the must of wine; 'tis sweetest then; but elder 'tis more fine. [_exeunt._ act ii. scene i.--_the front of a nunnery._ _prince_ frederick, aurelian, camillo, _and_ ascanio, _the prince's page._ _fred._ my father's ancient, and may repose himself, if he pleases, after the ceremony of his entrance; but we, who are younger, should think it a sin to spend any part of day-light in a chamber. what are your ways of living here? _cam._ why, sir, we pass our time, either in conversation alone, or in love alone, or in love and conversation together. _fred._ come, explain, explain, my counsel learned in the laws of living. _cam._ for conversation alone; that's either in going to court, with a face of business, and there discoursing of the affairs of europe, of which rome, you know, is the public mart; or, at best, meeting the virtuosi, and there wearying one another with rehearsing our own works in prose and poetry. _fred._ away with that dry method, i will have none on't. to the next. _cam._ love alone, is either plain wenching, where every courtezan is your mistress, and every man your rival; or else, what's worse, plain whining after one woman: that is, walking before her door by day, and haunting her street by night, with guitars, dark-lanthorns, and rondaches[ ]. _aur._ which, i take it, is, or will he our case, camillo. _fred._ neither of these will fit my humour: if your third prove not more pleasant, i shall stick to the old almain recreation; the divine bottle, and the bounteous glass, that tuned up old horace to his odes. _aur._ you shall need to have no recourse to that; for love and conversation will do your business: that is, sir, a most delicious courtezan,--i do not mean down-right punk,--but punk of more than ordinary sense in conversation; punk in ragou, punk, who plays on the lute, and sings; and, to sum up all, punk, who cooks and dresses up herself, with poignant sauce, to become a new dish every time she is served up to you. _fred._ this i believe, aurelian, is your method of living, you talk of it so savourily. _aur._ there is yet another more insipid sort of love and conversation: as, for example, look you there, sir; the courtship of our nuns. [_pointing to the nunnery._] they talk prettily; but, a pox on them, they raise our appetites, and then starve us. they are as dangerous as cold fruits without wine, and are never to be used but where there are abundance of wenches in readiness, to qualify them. _cam._ but yet they are ever at hand, and easy to come by; and if you'll believe an experienced sinner, easiness in love is more than half the pleasure of it. _fred._ this way of chatting pleases me; for debauchery, i hate it; and to love is not in my nature, except it be my friends. pray, what do you call that nunnery? _cam._ 'tis a house of benedictines, called the _torre di specchi_, where only ladies of the best quality are professed. [lucretia _and_ hippolita _appear at the grate._ _aur._ look you yonder, sir, are two of the pretty magpies in white and black. if you will lull yourself into a platonic dream, you may; but consider your sport will be dull when you play without stakes. _fred._ no matter, i'll fool away an hour of courtship; for i never was engaged in a serious love, nor i believe can be. farewell, gentlemen; at this time i shall dispense with your attendance;--nay, without ceremony, because i would be incognito. _cam._ come then, aurelian, to our own affairs. [_exeunt_ aurelian _and_ camillo. _the prince and_ ascanio _approach._ _fred._ [_to_ lucretia.] for what crime, fair creature, were you condemned to this perpetual prison? _luc._ for chastity and devotion, and two or three such melancholy virtues: they first brought me hither, and must now keep me company. _fred._ i should rather have guessed it had been murder, and that you are veiled for fear of doing more mischief with those eyes; for, indeed, they are too sharp to be trusted out of the scabbard. _luc._ cease, i beseech you, to accuse my eyes, till they have done some execution on your heart. _fred._ but i am out of reach, perhaps. _luc._ trust not to that; they may shoot at a distance, though they cannot strike you near at hand. _fred._ but if they should kill, you are ne'er the better: there's a grate betwixt us, and you cannot fetch in the dead quarry. _luc._ provided we destroy the enemy, we do not value their dead bodies: but you, perhaps, are in your first error, and think we are rather captives than warriors; that we come like prisoners to the grate, to beg the charity of passengers for their love. _fred._ [_to_ ascanio.] enquire, as dextrously as you can, what is the name and quality of this charming creature. _luc._ [_to_ hippolita.] be sure, if the page approaches you, to get out of him his master's name. [_the prince and_ lucretia _seem to talk._ _hip._ [_to_ ascanio.] by that short whisper, which i observed you took with your master, i imagine, mr page, you come to ask a certain question of me. _asca._ by this thy question, and by that whisper with thy lady, (o thou nymph of devotion!) i find i am to impart a secret, and not to ask one: therefore, either confess thou art yet a mere woman under that veil, and, by consequence, most horribly inquisitive, or thou shalt lose thy longing, and know nothing of my master. _hip._ by my virginity, you shall tell first. _asca._ you'll break your oath, on purpose to make the forfeit. _hip._ your master is called-- _asca._ your lady is ycleped-- _hip._ for decency, in all matters of love, the man should offer first, you know. _asca._ that needs not, when the damsel is so willing. _hip._ but i have sworn not to discover first, that her name is madam lucretia; fair, as you see, to a miracle, and of a most charming conversation; of royal blood, and niece to his holiness; and, if she were not espoused to heaven, a mistress for a sovereign prince. _asca._ after these encomiums, 'twere vain for me to praise my master: he is only poor prince frederick, otherwise called the prince of mantua; liberal, and valiant, discreet and handsome, and, in my simple judgment, a fitter servant for your lady, than his old father, who is a sovereign. _hip._ dare you make all this good, you have said of your master? _asca._ yes, and as much more of myself to you. _hip._ i defy you upon't, as my lady's second. _asca._ as my master's, i accept it. the time? _hip._ six this evening. _asca._ the place? _hip._ at this grate. _asca._ the weapons? _hip._ hands, and it may be lips. _asca._ 'tis enough: expect to hear from me. [_they withdraw, and whisper to their principals. after the whisper._ _fred._ [_to_ lucretia.] madam, i am glad i know my enemy; for since it is impossible to see, and not admire you, the name of lucretia is the best excuse for my defeat. _luc._ persons, like prince frederick, ought not to assault religious houses, or to pursue chastity and virtue to their last retreat. _fred._ a monastery is no retreat for chastity; 'tis only a hiding place for bad faces, where they are thrust in crowds together, like heaps of rubbish out of the way, that the world may not be peopled with deformed persons: and that such, who are out of play themselves, may pray for a blessing on their endeavours, who are getting handsome children, and carrying on the work for public benefit. _luc._ then you would put off heaven with your leavings, and use it like them, who play at cards alone; take the courts for yourselves, and give the refuse to the gentlemen. _fred._ you mistake me, madam; i would so contrive it, that heaven and we might be served at once. we have occasion for wit and beauty; now piety and ugliness will do as well for heaven: that plays at one game, and we at another; and therefore heaven may make its hand with the same cards that we put out. _luc._ i could easily convince you, if the argument concerned me; hut i am one of those, whom, for want of wit and beauty, you have condemned to religion; and therefore am your humble servant, to pray for your handsome wife and children. _fred._ heaven forbid, madam, that i should condemn you, or indeed any handsome woman, to be religious! no, madam; the occasions of the world are great and urgent for such as you; and, for my part, i am of opinion, that it is as great a sin for a beauty to enter into a nunnery, as for an ugly woman to stay out of it. _luc._ the cares of the world are not yet upon you; but as soon as ever you come to be afflicted with sickness, or visited with a wife, you'll be content i should pray for you. _fred._ any where rather than in a cloyster; for, truly, i suppose, all your prayers there will be how to get out of it; and, upon that supposition, madam, i am come to offer you my service for your redemption. come, faith, be persuaded, the church shall lose nothing by it: i'll take you out, and put in two or three crooked apostles in your place. [_bell rings within._ _luc._ hark, the bell rings; i must leave you: 'tis a summons to our devotion. _fred._ will you leave me for your prayers, madam? you may have enough of them at any time, but remember you cannot have a man so easily. _luc._ well, i'll say my beads for you, and that's but charity; for i believe i leave you in a most deplorable condition. [_exeunt women._ _fred._ not deplorable neither, but a little altered: if i could be in love, as i am sure i cannot, it should be with her, for i like her conversation strangely. _asca._ then, as young as i am, sir, i am beforehand with you; for i am in love already. i would fain make the first proof of my manhood upon a nun: i find i have a mighty grudging to holy flesh. _fred._ i'll ply lucretia again, as soon as ever her devotion's over. methinks these nuns divide their time most admirably; from love to prayers, from prayers to love; that is, just so much sin, just so much godliness. _asca._ then i can claim that sister's love by merit. half man, half boy; for her half flesh, half spirit. [_exeunt._ scene ii.--_a street._ aurelian _and_ camillo. _aur._ i'll proceed no farther, if benito goes: i know his folly will produce some mischief. _cam._ but violetta desired me, in her note, to bring him, on purpose to pass the time with her woman, beatrix. _aur._ that objection's easily removed: i'll supply benito's place; the darkness will prevent discovery; and, for my discourse, i'll imitate the half wit and patched breeding of a _valet de chambre._ _cam._ but how shall we get rid of him? _aur._ let me alone for that. _enter_ benito. _ben._ come, are we ready, gallants? the clock's upon the stroke of eight. _aur._ but we have altered our resolution; we go another way to-night. _ben._ i hope you have not broke my assignation? _aur._ why do you hope so? _ben._ because my reputation is engaged in't: i've stipulated, upon mine honour, that you shall come. _aur._ i shall beat you, if you follow me. go, sirrah, and adjourn to the great looking-glass, and let me hear no more from you till to-morrow morning. _ben._ sir, my fidelity, and, if i may be so vain, my discretion, may stand you in some stead. _aur._ well, come along then; they are brave fellows, who have challenged us; you shall have fighting enough, sir. _ben._ how, sir, fighting? _aur._ you may escape with the loss of a leg, or an arm, or some such transitory limb. _ben._ no, sir; i have that absolute obedience to your commands, that i will bridle my courage, and stay at home. [_exit._ _cam._ you took the only way to be rid of him. there's the wall; behind yon pane of it we'll set up the ladder. [_exeunt._ scene iii.--_a night-piece of a garden._ _enter_ laura _and_ violetta. _vio._ remember your waiting-woman's part, laura. _lau._ i warrant you, i'll wait on you by night, as well as i governed you by day. _vio._ hark, i hear footsteps; and now, methinks, i see something approaching us. _lau._ they are certainly the men whom we expect. _enter_ aurelian _and_ camillo. _cam._ i hear womens' voices. _aur._ we are right, i warrant you. _cam._ violetta, my love! _vio._ my dear camillo! _cam._ speak those words again; my own name never sounded so sweetly to me, as when you spoke it, and made me happy by adding _dear_ to it. _vio._ speak softly then; i have stolen these few minutes from my watchful uncle and my sister, and they are as full of danger as they are of love. something within me checks me too, and says, i was too forward in venturing thus to meet you. _cam._ you are too fearful rather; and fear's the greatest enemy to love. _vio._ but night will hide my blushes, when i tell you, i love you much, or i had never trusted my virtue and my person in your hands. _cam._ the one is sacred, and the other safe; but this auspicious minute is our first of near converse. may i not hope that favour, which strangers, in civility, may claim, even from the most reserved? [_kisses her hand._ _vio._ i fear you'll censure me. _cam._ yes, as the blest above tax heaven for making them so happy. [_they walk further off._ _aur._ [_stepping towards_ laura.] damsel of darkness, advance, and meet my flames! _lau._ [_stepping forward._] right trusty valet, heard, but yet unseen, i have advanced one step on reputation. _aur._ now, by laudable custom, i am to love thee vehemently. _lau._ we should do well to see each other first: you know 'tis ill taking money without light. _aur._ o, but the coin of love is known by the weight only, and you may feel it in the dark: besides, you know 'tis prince-like to love without seeing. _lau._ but then you may be served as princes are sometimes. _aur._ let us make haste, however, and despatch a little love out of the way: we may do it now with ease, and save ourselves a great deal of trouble, if we take it in time, before it grows too fast upon our hands. _lau._ fye, no; let us love discreetly: we must manage our passion, and not love all our love out at one meeting, but leave some for another time. _aur._ i am for applying the plaster while the wound is green; 'twill heal the better. [_takes her by the hand._ _lau._ let go my hand! what crime has the poor wretch committed, that you press it thus? i remember no mischief it has done you. _aur._ o, 'tis a heinous malefactor, and is pressed by law, because it will confess nothing. come, withdraw a little farther, we have urgent business with one another. _lau._ 'twere a shame to quit my ground upon the first charge; yet if you please to take a truce a little, i will consent to go behind the lovers, and listen with you. _aur._ i wonder you deferred the proposition so long. i were neither true valet, nor you true woman, if we could not eves-drop. [_they retire behind the other two, who come forward upon the stage._ _cam._ [_kissing_ violetta's _hand._] give me another yet, and then-- _vio._ and then will you be satisfied? _cam._ and then i'll ask a thousand more, and ne'er be satisfied. kisses are but thin nourishment; they are too soon digested, and hungry love craves more. _vio._ you feed a wolf within you. _cam._ then feast my love with a more solid diet. he makes us now a miser's feast, and we forbear to take our fill. the silent night, and all these downy hours, were made for lovers: gently they tread, and softly measure time, that no rude noise may fright the tender maid, from giving all her soul to melting joys. _vio._ you do not love me; if you did, you would not thus urge your satisfaction in my shame; at best, i see you would not love me long, for they, who plunder, do not mean to stay. _cam._ i haste to take possession of my own. _vio._ ere heaven and holy vows have made it so? _cam._ then witness, heaven, and all these twinkling stars-- _vio._ hold, hold, you are distempered with your love; time, place, and strong desires, now swear, not you. _cam._ is not love love, without a priest and altars? the temples are inanimate, and know not what vows are made in them; the priest stands ready for his hire, and cares not what hearts he couples; love alone is marriage. _vio._ i never will receive these midnight vows: but when i come hereafter to your arms, i'll bring you a sincere, full, perfect bliss; then you will thank me that i kept it so, and trust my faith hereafter. _lau._ there is your destiny, lover mine: i am to be honest by infection; my lady will none, you see. _aur._ truth is, they are a lost couple, unless they learn grace by our example. come, shall we begin first, and shame them both? [_takes her by the hand again._ _lau._ you will never be warned of this hand, benito. _aur._ oh, it is so soft, as it were made on purpose to take hearts, and handle them without hurting! these taper fingers too, and even joints so supple, that methinks i mould them as they pass through mine: nay, in my conscience, though it be nonsense to say it, your hand feels white too. _lau._ methinks yours is not very hard, for a serving-man's. but where, in the name of wonder, have you learned to talk so courtly? you are a strange _valet de chambre_. _aur._ and you are as strange a waiting-woman: you have so stabbed me with your repartees to-night, that i should be glad to change the weapon, to be revenged on you. _lau._ these, i suppose, are fragments, which you learned from your wild master, aurelian: many a poor woman has passed through his hands with these very words. you treat me just like a serving-man, with the cold meat which comes from your master's table. _aur._ you could never have suspected me for using my master's wit, if you had not been guilty of purloining from your lady. i am told, that laura, your mistress's sister, has wit enough to confound a hundred aurelians. _lau._ i shall do your commendations to laura for your compliment. _aur._ and i shall not fair to revenge myself, by informing aurelian of yours. _enter_ benito _with a guitar._ _ben._ the poor souls shall not lose by the bargain, though my foolish gadding masters have disappointed them. that ladder of ropes was doubtless left there by the young lady in hope of them. _vio._ hark, i hear a noise in the garden. _lau._ i fear we are betrayed. _cam._ fear nothing, madam, but stand close. _ben._ now, benito, is the time to hold forth thy talent, and to set up for thyself. yes, ladies, you shall be serenaded, and when i have displayed my gifts, i'll retire in triumph over the wall, and hug myself for the adventure. [_he fums on the guitar._ _vio._ let us make haste, sister, and get into covert; this music will raise the house upon us immediately. _lau._ alas, we cannot; the damn'd musician stands just in the door where we should pass. _ben._ singing. _eveillez vous, belles endormies; eveillez vous: car il est jour: mettez la tête a la fenestre, vous entendrez parler d'amour._ _aur._ [_aside to_ cam.] camillo, this is my incorrigible rogue; and i dare not call him, benito, for fear of discovering myself not to be benito. _cam._ the alarm is already given through the house. ladies, you must be quick: secure yourselves and leave us to shift. [_exeunt women._ _within._ this way, this way. _aur._ i hear them coming; and, as ill luck will have it, just by that quarter where our ladder is placed. _cam._ let us hide in the dark walk till they are past. _aur._ but then benito will be caught, and, being known to be my man, will betray us. _ben._ i hear some in the garden: sure they are the ladies, that are taken with my melody. to it again, benito; this time i will absolutely enchant them. [_fums again._ _aur_: he is at it again. why, benito, are you mad? _ben._ ah, madam! are you there? this is such a favour to your poor unworthy servant. [_sings._ _but still between kissing amyntas did say, fair phillis, look up, and you'll turn night to day._ _aur._ come away, you insufferable rascal; the house is up, and will be upon us immediately. _ben._ o gemini, is it you, sir? _within._ this way; follow, follow. _aur._ leave your scraping and croaking, and step with us into this arbour. _ben._ scraping and croaking! 'sfoot, sir, either grant i sing and play to a miracle, or i'll justify my music, though i am caught, and hanged for it. _enter_ mario, _and servants._ _mar._ where is this serenading rascal? if i find him, i'll make him an example to all midnight caterwaulers, of which this fidler is the loudest. _ben._ o that i durst but play my tune out, to convince him! soul of harmony! is this lewd? [_plays and sings softly._ _cam._ peace, dear benito: we must flatter him. _ben._ [_singing softly._] _mettez le tête:_ the notes which follow are so sweet, sir, i must sing them, though it be my ruin--_parler d'amour._ [laura _and_ violetta _in the balcony._ _lau._ yes, we are safe, sister; but they are yet in danger. _vio._ they are just upon them. _lau._ we must do something: help, help! thieves, thieves! we shall be murdered. _mar._ where? where are they? _lau._ here, sir, at our chamber-door, and we are run into the balcony for shelter: dear uncle, come and help us. _mar._ back again quickly: i durst have sworn they had been in the garden. 'tis an _ignis fatuus_, i think, that leads us from one place to another. [_exit_ mario, _and servants._ _vio._ they are gone. my dear camillo, make haste, and preserve yourself. _cam._ may our next meeting prove more propitious! _aur._ [_to_ bentio.] come, sirrah, i shall make you sing another note when you are at home. _ben._ such another word, and i'll sing again. _aur._ set the ladder, and mount first, you rogue. _ben._ mount first yourself, and fear not my delaying. if i am caught, they'll spare me for my playing. [_sings as he goes off._ _vouz entendrez parler d'amour._ [_exeunt._ act iii. scene i.--_the front of the nunnery._ ascanio, _and_ hippolita, _at the grate._ _hip._ i see you have kept touch, brother. _asca._ as a man of honour ought, sister, when he is challenged. and now, according to the laws of duel, the next thing is to strip, and, instead of seconds, to search one another. _hip._ we will strip our hands, if you please, brother; for they are the only weapons we must use. _asca._ that were to invite me to my loss, sister; i could have made a full meal in the world, and you would have me take up with hungry commons in the cloyster. pray mend my fare, or i am gone. _hip._ o, brother, a hand in a cloyster is fare like flesh in spain; 'tis delicate, because 'tis scarce. you may be satisfied with a hand, as well as i am pleased with the courtship of a boy. _asca._ you may begin with me, sister, as milo did; by carrying a calf first, you may learn to carry an ox hereafter. in the mean time produce your hand, i understand nun's flesh better than you imagine: give it me, you shall see how i will worry it. [_she gives her hand._] now could not we thrust out our lips, and contrive a kiss too? _hip._ yes, we may; but i have had the experience of it: it will be but half flesh, half iron. _asca._ let's try, however. _hip._ hold, lucretia's here. _asca._ nay, if you come with odds upon me, 'tis time to call seconds. [ascanio _hems._ _the prince and_ lucretia _appear._ _luc._ sir, though your song was pleasant, yet there was one thing amiss in it,--that was, your rallying of religion. _fred._ do you speak well of my friend love, and i'll try to speak well of your friend devotion. _luc._ i can never speak well of love: 'twas to avoid it that i entered here. _fred._ then, madam, you have met your man; for, to confess the truth to you, i have but counterfeited love, to try you; for i never yet could love any woman: and, since i have seen you, and do not, i am certain now i shall 'scape for ever. _luc._ you are the best man in the world, if you continue this resolution. pray, then, let us vow solemnly these two things: the first, to esteem each other better than we do all the world besides; the next, never to change our amity to love. _fred._ agreed, madam. shall i kiss your hand on it? _luc._ that is too like a lover; or if it were not, the narrowness of the grate will excuse the ceremony. _hip._ no, but it will not, to my knowledge: i have tried every bar many a fair time over; and at last have found out one, where a hand may get through, and be gallanted. _luc._ [_giving her hand._] there, sir, 'tis a true one. _fred._ [_kissing it._] this, then, is a seal to our perpetual friendship, and defiance to all love. _luc._ that seducer of virtue. _fred._ that disturber of quiet. _luc._ that madness of youth. _fred._ that dotage of old age. _luc._ that enemy to good humour. _fred._ and, to conclude all, that reason of all unreasonable actions. _asca._ this doctrine is abominable; do not believe it, sister. _hip._ no; if i do, brother, may i never have comfort from sweet youth at my extremity. _luc._ but remember one article of our friendship, that though we banish love, we do not mirth, nor gallantly; for i declare, i am for all extravagancies, but just loving. _fred._ just my own humour; for i hate gravity and melancholy next to love. _asca._ now it comes into my head, the duke of mantua makes an entertainment to night in masquerade: if you love extravagancy so well, madam, i'll put you into the head of one; lay by your nunship for an hour or two, and come amongst us in disguise. _fred._ my boy is in the right, madam. will you venture? i'll furnish you with masking-habits. _hip._ o my dear sister, never refuse it; i keep the keys, you know: i'll warrant you we will return before we are missed. i do so long to have one fling into the sweet world again, before i die. hang it, at worst, it is but one sin more, and then we will repent for all together. _asca._ but if i catch you in the world, sister, i'll make you have a better opinion of the flesh and the devil for ever after. _luc._ if it were known, i were lost for ever. _fred._ how should it be known? you have her on your side, there, that keeps the keys: and, put the worst, that you are taken in the world, the world is a good world to stay in; and there are certain occasions of waking in a morning, that may be more pleasant to you than your matins. _luc._ fye, friend, these extravagancies are a breach of articles in our friendship. but well, for once, i'll venture to go out: dancing and singing are but petty transgressions. _asca._ my lord, here is company approaching; we shall be discovered. _fred._ adieu, then, _jusqu' a revoir_; ascanio shall be with you immediately, to conduct you. _asca._ how will you disguise, sister? will you be a man or a woman? _hip._ a woman, brother page, for life: i should have the strangest thoughts if i once wore breeches. _asca._ a woman, say you? here is my hand, if i meet you in place convenient, i'll do my best to make you one. [_exeunt._ _enter_ aurelian _and_ camillo. _cam._ but why thus melancholy, with hat pulled down, and the hand on the region of the heart, just the reverse of my friend aurelian, of happy memory? _aur._ faith, camillo, i am ashamed of it, but cannot help it. _cam._ but to be in love with a waiting-woman! with an eater of fragments, a simperer at lower end of a table, with mighty golls, rough-grained, and red with starching, those discouragers and abaters of elevated love! _aur._ i could love deformity itself, with that good humour. she, who is armed with gaiety and wit, needs no other weapon to conquer me. _cam._ we lovers are the great creators of wit in our mistresses. for beatrix, she is a mere utterer of yes and no, and has no more sense than what will just dignify her to be an arrant waiting-woman; that is, to lie for her lady, and take your money. _aur._ it may be, then, i found her in the exaltation of her wit; for certainly women have their good and ill days of talking, as they have of looking. _cam._ but, however, she has done you the courtesy to drive out laura; and so one poison has expelled the other. _aur._ troth, not absolutely neither; for i dote on laura's beauty, and on beatrix's wit: i am wounded with a forked arrow, which will not easily be got out. _cam._ not to lose time in fruitless complaints, let us pursue our new contrivance, that you may see your two mistresses, and i my one. _aur._ that will not now be difficult: this plot's so laid, that i defy the devil to make it miss. the woman of the house, by which they are to pass to church, is bribed; the ladies are by her acquainted with the design; and we need only to be there before them, and expect the prey, which will undoubtedly fall into the net. _cam._ your man is made safe, i hope, from doing us any mischief? _aur._ he has disposed of himself, i thank him, for an hour or two: the fop would make me believe, that an unknown lady is in love with him, and has made him an assignation. _cam._ if he should succeed now, i should have the worse opinion of the sex for his sake. _aur._ never doubt but he will succeed: your brisk fool, that can make a leg, is ever a fine gentleman among the ladies, because he is just of their talent, and they understand him better than a wit. _cam._ peace, the ladies are coming this way to the chapel, and their jailor with them: let them go by without saluting, to avoid suspicion; and let us go off to prepare our engine. _enter_ mario, laura, _and_ violetta. _aur._ i must have a look before we go. ah, you little divine rogue! i'll be with you immediately. [_exeunt_ aurelian _and_ camillo. _vio._ look you, sister, there are our friends, but take no notice. _lau._ i saw them. was not that aurelian with camillo? _vio._ yes. _lau._ i like him strangely. if his person were joined with benito's wit, i know not what would become of my poor heart. _enter_ fabio, _and whispers with_ mario. _mar._ stay, nieces, i'll but speak a word with fabio, and go with you immediately. _vio._ i see, sister, you are infinitely taken with benito's wit; but i have heard he is a very conceited coxcomb. _lau._ they, who told you so, were horribly mistaken. you shall be judge yourself, violetta; for, to confess frankly to you, i have made him a kind of an appointment. _vio._ how! have you made an assignation to benito? a serving-man! a trencher-carrying rascal! _lau._ good words, violetta! i only sent to him from an unknown lady near this chapel, that i might view him in passing by, and see if his person were answerable to his conversation. _vio._ but how will you get rid of my uncle? _lau._ you see my project; his man fabio is bribed by me, to hold him in discourse. _enter_ benito, _looking about him._ _vio._ in my conscience this is he. lord, what a monster of a man is there! with such a workiday rough-hewn face too! for, faith, heaven has not bestowed the finishing upon it. _lau._ it is impossible this should be benito; yet he stalks this way. from such a piece of animated timber, sweet heaven deliver me! _ben._ [_aside._] this must of necessity be the lady who is in love with me. see, how she surveys my person! certainly one wit knows another by instinct. by that old gentleman, it should be the lady laura too. hum! benito, thou art made for ever. _lau._ he has the most unpromising face, for a wit, i ever saw; and yet he had need have a very good one, to make amends for his face. i am half cured of him already. _ben._ what means all this surveying, madam? you bristle up to me, and wheel about me, like a turkey-cock that is making love: faith, how do you like my person, ha? _lau._ i dare not praise it, for fear of the old compliment, that you should tell me, it is at my service. but, pray, is your name benito? _ben._ signior benito, at your service, madam. _lau._ and have you no brother, or any other of your name; one that is a wit, attending on signior aurelian? _ben._ no, i can assure your ladyship; i myself am the only wit, who does him the honour,--not to attend him, but--to bear him company. _lau._ but sure it was another you, that waited on camillo in the garden, last night? _ben._ it was no other me, but me signior benito. _lau._ 'tis impossible. _ben._ 'tis most certain. _lau._ then i would advise you to go thither again, and look for the wit which you have left there, for you have brought very little along with you. your voice, methinks, too, is much altered. _ben._ only a little overstrained, or so, with singing. _lau._ how slept you, after your adventure? _ben._ faith, lady, i could not sleep one wink, for dreaming of you. _lau._ not sleep for dreaming? when the place falls, you shall be bull-master-general at court. ben. _et tu, brute!_ do you mistake me for a fool too? then, i find there's one more of that opinion besides my master. _vio._ sister, look to yourself, my uncle is returning. _lau._ i am glad on't: he has done my business: he has absolutely cured me. lord, that i could be so mistaken! _vio._ i told you what he was. _lau._ he was quite another thing last night: never was man so altered in four-and-twenty hours. a pure clown, mere elementary earth, without the least spark of soul in him! _ben._ but, tell me truly, are not you in love with me? confess the truth: i love plain-dealing: you shall not find me refractory. _lau._ away, thou animal! i have found thee out for a high and mighty fool, and so i leave thee. _mar._ come, now i am ready for you; as little devotion, and as much good huswifery as you please. take example by me: i assure you, nobody debauches me to church, except it be in your company. [_exeunt._ _manet_ benito. _ben._ i am undone for ever; what shall i do with myself? i'll run into some desart, and there i'll hide my opprobrious head. no, hang it, i wont neither; all wits have their failings sometimes, and have the fortune to be thought fools once in their lives. sure this is but a copy of her countenance; for my heart is true to me, and whispers to me, she loves me still. well, i'll trust in my own merits, and be confident. [_a noise of throwing down water within._ _enter_ mario, fabio, laura, _and_ violetta. _lau._ [_shaking her clothes._] o, sir, i am wet quite through my clothes, and am not able to endure it. _vio._ was there ever such an insolence? _mar._ send in to see who lives there: i'll make an example of them. _enter_ frontona. _fab._ here is the woman of the house herself, sir. _fron._ sir, i submit, most willingly, to any punishment you shall inflict upon me: for, though i intended nothing of an affront to these sweet ladies, yet i can never forgive myself the misfortune, of which i was the innocent occasion. _vio._ o, i am ready to faint away! _fron._ alas, poor sweet lady, she's young and tender, sir. i beseech you, give me leave to repair my offence, with offering myself, and poor house, for her accommodation. _ben._ i know that woman: there's some villanous plot in this, i'll lay my life on't. now, benito, cast about for thy credit, and recover all again. _mar._ go into the coach, nieces, and bid the coachman drive apace. as for you, mistress, your smooth tongue shall not excuse you. _lau._ by your favour, sir, i'll accept of the gentlewoman's civility; i cannot stir a step farther. _fron._ come in, sweet buds of beauty, you shall have a fire in an inner chamber; and if you please to repose yourself a while, sir, in another room, they shall come out, and wait on you immediately. _mar._ well, it must be so. _fron_. [_whispering the ladies._] your friends are ready in the garden, and will be with you as soon as we have shaken off your uncle. _ben._ a cheat, a cheat! a rank one! i smell it, old sir, i smell it. _mar._ what's the matter with the fellow? is he distracted? _ben._ no, 'tis you are more likely to be distracted but that there goes some wit to the being mad; and you have not the least grain of wit, to be gulled thus grossly. _fron._ what does the fellow mean? _ben._ the fellow means to detect your villany, and to recover his lost reputation of a wit. _fron._ why, friend, what villany? i hope my house is a civil house. _ben._ yes, a very civil one; for my master lay in of his last clap there, and was treated very civilly, to my knowledge. _mar._ how's this, how's this? _fron._ come, you are a dirty fellow, and i am known to be a person that-- _ben._ yes, you are known to be a person that-- _fron._ speak your worst of me; what person am i known to be? _ben._ why, if you will have it, you are little better than a procuress: you carry messages betwixt party and party:--and, in one word, sir, she's as arrant a fruit-woman as any is about rome. _mar._ nay, if she be a fruit-woman, my nieces shall not enter her doors. _ben._ you had best let them enter, you do not know how they may fructify in her house: for i heard her, with these ears, whisper to them, that their friends were within call. _mar._ this is palpable, this is manifest; i shall remember you, lady fruiterer; i shall have your baskets searched when you bring oranges again.--come away, nieces; and thanks, honest fellow, for thy discovery. [_exeunt_ mario _and women._ ben. _hah couragio! il diavolo e morto:_ now, i think i have tickled it; this discovery has reinstated me into the empire of my wit again. now, in the pomp of this achievement, will i present myself before madam laura, with a--behold, madam, the happy restoration of benito! _enter_ aurelian, camillo, _and_ frontona, _over-hearing him,_ oh, now, that i had the mirror, to behold myself in the fulness of my glory! and, oh, that the domineering fop, my master, were in presence, that i might triumph over him! that i might even contemn the wretched wight, the mortal of a grovelling soul, and of a debased understanding. [_he looks about him, and sees his master._] how the devil came these three together? nothing vexes me, but that i must stand bare to him, after such an enterprise as this is. _aur._ nay, put on, put on again, sweet sir; why should you be uncovered before the fop your master, the wretched wight, the mortal of a grovelling soul? _ben._ ay, sir, you may make bold with yourself at your own pleasure: but, for all that, a little bidding would make me take your counsel, and be covered, as affairs go now. _aur._ if it be lawful for a man of a debased understanding to confer with such an exalted wit, pray what was that glorious achievement, which wrapt you into such an ecstasy? _ben._ 'tis a sign you know well how matters go, by your asking me so impertinent a question. _aur._ [_putting off his hat to him._] sir, i beg of you, as your most humble master, to be satisfied. _ben._ your servant, sir; at present i am not at leisure for conference. but hark you, sir, by the way of friendly advice, one word: henceforward, tell me no more of the adventure of the garden, nor of the great looking-glass. _aur._ you mean the mirror. _ben._ yes, the mirror; tell me no more of that, except you could behold in it a better, a more discreet, or a more able face for stratagem, than i can, when i look there. _aur._ but, to the business; what is this famous enterprise? _ben._ be satisfied, without troubling me farther, the business is done, the rogues are defeated, and your mistress is secured: if you would know more, demand it of that criminal [_pointing to_ fron.], and ask her, how she dares appear before you, after such a signal treachery, or before me, after such an overthrow? _fron._ i know nothing, but only that, by your master's order, i was to receive the two ladies into my house, and you prevented it. _ben._ by my master's order? i'll never believe it. this is your stratagem, to free yourself, and deprive me of my reward. _cam._ i'll witness what she says is true. _ben._ i am deaf to all asseverations, that make against my honour. _aur._ i'll swear it then. we two were the two rogues, and you the discoverer of our villany. _ben._ then, woe, woe, to poor benito! i find my abundance of wit has ruined me. _aur._ but come a little nearer: i would not receive a good office from a servant, but i would reward him for his diligence. _ben._ virtue, sir, is its own reward: i expect none from you. _aur._ since it is so, sir, you shall lose no further time in my service: henceforward, pray know me for your humble servant; for your master i am resolved to be no longer. _ben._ nay, rather than so, sir, i beseech you let a good, honest, sufficient beating atone the difference. _aur._ 'tis in vain. _ben._ i am loth to leave you without a guide. _aur._ he's at it again! do you hear, camillo? _cam._ pr'ythee, aurelian, be mollified, and beat him. _fron._ pray, sir, hear reason, and lay it on, for my sake. _aur._ i am obdurate. _cam._ but what will your father say, if you part with him? _aur._ i care not. _ben._ well, sir, since you are so peremptory, remember i have offered you satisfaction, and so long my conscience is at ease. what a devil, before i'll offer myself twice to be beaten, by any master in christendom, i'll starve, and that is my resolution; and so your servant that was, sir. [_exit._ _aur._ i am glad i am rid of him; he was my evil genius, and was always appearing to me, to blast my undertakings: let me send him never so far off, the devil would be sure to put him in my way, when i had any thing to execute. come, camillo, now we have changed the dice, it may be we shall have better fortune. [_exeunt._ scene ii. _enter the duke of mantua in masquerade,_ frederick, valerio, _and others. on the other side, enter_ lucretia, hippolita, _and_ ascanio. _luc._ [_to_ asca.] the prince i know already, by your description of his masking habit; but, which is the duke, his father? _asca._ he whom you see talking with the prince, and looking this way. i believe he has observed us. _luc._ if he has not, i am resolved we'll make ourselves as remarkable as we can: i'll exercise my talent of dancing. _hip._ and i mine of singing. _duke._ [_to_ fred.] do you know the company which came in last? _fred._ i cannot possibly imagine who they are.--at least i will not tell you. [_aside._ _duke._ there's something very uncommon in the air of one of them. _fred._ please you, sir, i'll discourse with her, and see if i can satisfy your highness. _duke._ stay, there's a dance beginning, and she seems as if she would make one. song and dance. _long betwixt love and fear phyllis, tormented, shunned her own wish, yet at last she consented: but loth that day should her blushes discover, come, gentle night, she said, come quickly to my aid, and a poor shamefaced maid hide from her lover._ _now cold as ice i am, now hot as fire, i dare not tell myself my own desire; but let day fly away, and let night haste her: grant, ye kind powers above, slow hours to parting love; but when to bless we move, bid them fly faster._ _how sweet it is to love, when i discover that fire, which burns my heart, warming my lover! 'tis pity love so true should be mistaken: but if this night he be false or unkind to me, let me die, ere i see that i'm forsaken._ _duke_ [_after the dance._] my curiosity redoubles; i must needs hail that unknown vessel, and enquire whither she's bound, and what freight she carries. _fred._ she's not worth your trouble, sir: she'll either prove some common courtezan in disguise, or, at best, some homely person of honour, that only dances well enough to invite a sight of herself, and would look ill enough to fright you. _duke._ that's maliciously said; all i see of her is charming, and i have reason to think her face is of the same piece; at least i'll try my fortune. _fred._ what an unlucky accident is this! if my father should discover her, she's ruined: if he does not, yet i have lost her conversation to-night. _duke approaches_ lucretia. _asca._ 'tis the duke himself, who comes to court you. _luc._ peace, i'll fit him; for i have been informed, to the least tittle, of his actions since he came to town. _duke._ [_to_ luc.] madam, the duke of mantua, whom you must needs imagine to be in this company, has sent me to you, to know what kind of face there is belonging to that excellent shape, and to those charming motions, which he observed so lately in your dancing. _luc._ tell his highness, if you please, that there is a face within the mask, so very deformed, that, if it were discovered, it would prove the worst visor of the two; and that, of all men, he ought not to desire it should be exposed, because then something would be found amiss in an entertainment, which he has made so splendid and magnificent. _duke._ the duke, i am sure, would be very proud of your compliment, but it would leave him more unsatisfied than before; for, he will find in it so much of gallantry, as, being added to your other graces, will move him to a strange temptation of knowing you. _luc._ i should still have the same reason to refuse him; for 'twere a madness, when i had charmed him by my motion and converse, to hazard the loss of that conquest by my eyes. _duke._ i am on fire 'till i discover her. [_aside._]--at least, madam, tell me of what family you are. _luc._ will you be satisfied, if i tell you i am of the colonne? you have seen julia of that house? _duke._ then you are she. _luc._ have i not her stature most exactly? _duke._ as near as i remember. _luc._ but, by your favour, i have nothing of her shape; for, if i may be so vain to praise myself, she's a little thicker in the shoulders, and, besides, she moves ungracefully. _duke._ then you are not she again. _luc._ no, not she: but you have forgotten emilia of the ursini, whom the duke saluted yesterday at her balcony, when he entered. her air and motion-- _duke._ are the very same with yours. now i am sure i know you. _luc._ but there's too little of her to make a beauty: my stature is more advantageous. _duke._ you have cozened me again. _luc._ well, i find at last i must confess myself: what think you of eugenia beata? the duke seemed to be infinitely pleased last night, when my brother presented me to him at the belvidere. _duke._ now i am certain you are she, for you have both her stature and her motion. _luc._ but, if you remember yourself a little better, there's some small difference in our wit; for she has indeed the air and beauty of a roman lady, but all the dulness of a dutch woman. _duke._ i see, madam, you are resolved to conceal yourself, and i am as fully resolved to know you. _luc._ see which of our resolutions will take place. _duke._ i come from the duke, and can assure you, he is of an humour to be obeyed. _luc._ and i am of an humour not to obey him. but why should he be so curious? _duke._ if you would have my opinion, i believe he is in love with you. _luc._ without seeing me? _duke._ without seeing all of you: love is love, let it wound us from what part it please; and if he have enough from your shape and conversation, his business is done, the more compendiously, without the face. _luc._ but the duke cannot be taken with my conversation, for he never heard me speak. _duke._ [_aside._] 'slife, i shall discover myself.--yes madam, he stood by _incognito_, and heard me speak with you: but-- _luc._ i wish he had trusted to his own courtship, and spoke himself; for it gives us a bad impression of a prince's wit, when we see fools in favour about his person. _duke._ whatever i am, i have it in commission from him to tell you, he's in love with you. _luc._ the good old gentleman may dote, if he so pleases; but love, and fifty years old, are stark nonsense. _duke._ but some men, you know, are green at fifty. _luc._ yes, in their understandings. _duke._ you speak with great contempt of a prince, who has some reputation in the world. _luc._ no; 'tis you that speak with contempt of him, by saying he is in love at such an age. _duke._ then, madam, 'tis necessary you should know him better for his reputation; and that shall be, though he violate the laws of masquerade, and force you. _fred._ i suspected this from his violent temper. [_aside._] sir, the emperor's ambassador is here in masquerade, and i believe this to be his lady: it were well if you inquired of him, before you forced her to discover. _duke._ which is the ambassador? _fred._ that farthermost. [_duke retires farther._ _fred._ to _luc._ take your opportunity to escape, while his back is turned, or you are ruined. ascanio, wait on her. _luc._ i am so frighted, i cannot stay to thank you. [_exeunt_ luc. asca. _and_ hip. _duke_ to _fred._ 'tis a mistake, the ambassador knows nothing of her: i'm resolved i'll know it of herself, ere she shall depart.--ha! where is she? i left her here. _fred._ [_aside._] out of your reach, father mine, i hope. _duke._ she has either shifted places, or else slipped out of the assembly. _fred._ i have looked round: she must be gone, sir. _duke._ she must not be gone, sir. search for her every where: i will have her. _fred._ has she offended your highness? _duke._ peace, with your impertinent questions. come hither, valerio. _val._ sir? _duke._ o, valerio, i am desperately in love: that lady, with whom you saw me talking, has--but i lose time; she's gone; haste after her,-- find her,--bring her back to me. _val._ if it be possible. _duke._ it must be possible; the quiet of my life depends upon it. _val._ which way took she? _duke._ go any way,--every way; ask no questions: i know no more, but that she must,--must be had. [_exit_ valerio. _fred._ sir, the assembly will observe, that-- _duke._ damn the assembly; 'tis a dull insignificant crowd, now she is not here: break it up, i'll stay no longer. _fred._ [_aside._] i hope she's safe, and then this fantastic love of my father's will make us sport to-momorrow. [_exeunt._ scene iii. _enter_ lucretia, ascanio, _and_ hippolita. _luc._ now that we are safe at the gate of our convent, methinks the adventure was not unpleasant. _hip._ and now that i am out of danger, brother, i may tell you what a novice you are in love, to tempt a young sister into the wide world, and not to show her the difference betwixt that and her cloister. i find i may venture safely with you another time. _asca._ o, sister, you play the brazen-head with me,--you give me warning when time's past. but that was no fit opportunity: i hate to snatch a morsel of love, and so away. i am for a set-meal, where i may enjoy my full gust; but, when i once fall on, you shall find me a brave man upon occasion. _luc._ 'tis time we were in our cells. quick, hippolita; where's the key? _hip._ here, in my pocket--no, 'tis in my other pocket:--ha, 'tis not there neither. i am sure i put it in one of them. _luc._ what should we do, if it should be lost now? _hip._ i have searched myself all over, and cannot find it. _asca._ a woman can never search herself all over; let me search you, sister. _luc._ is this a time for raillery? oh, sweet heaven! speak comfort quickly; have you found it? [_here_ ascanio _slips away._ _hip._ speak you comfort, madam, and tell me you have it, for i am too sure that i have none on't. _luc._ o, unfortunate that we are! day's breaking; the handicrafts' shops begin to open. [_clock strikes._ _hip._ the clock strikes two: within this half hour we shall be called up to our devotions. now, good ascanio--alas, he's gone too! we are left miserable and forlorn. _luc._ we have not so much as one place in the town for a retreat. _hip._ o, for a miracle in our time of need! that some kind good-natured saint would take us up, and heave us over the wall into our cells. _luc._ dear sister, pray, for i cannot: i have been so sinful in leaving my cloister for the world, that i am ashamed to trouble my friends above to help me. _hip._ alas, sister, with what face can i pray then! yours were but little vanities, but i have sinned swingingly against my vow; yes, indeed, sister, i have been very wicked,--for i wished the ball might be kept perpetually in our cloister, and that half the handsome nuns in it might be turned to men, for the sake of the other. _luc._ well, if i were free from this disgrace, i would never more set foot beyond the cloister, for the sake of any man. _hip._ and here i vow, if i get safe within my cell, i will not think of man again these seven years. _re-enter_ ascanio. _asca._ hold, hippolita, and make no more rash vows: if you do, as i live, you shall not have the key. _hip._ the key! why, have you it, brother? _luc._ he does but mock us. i know you have it not, ascanio. asca. _ecce signum;_ here it is for you. _hip._ o, sweet brother, let me kiss you. _asca._ hands off, sweet sister, you must not be forsworn; you vowed you would not think of a man these seven years. _hip._ aye, brother, but i was not so hasty but i had wit enough to cozen the saint to whom i vowed; for you are but a boy, brother, and will not be a man these seven years. _luc._ but where did you find the key, ascanio? _asca._ to confess the truth, madam, i stole it out of hippolita's pocket, to take the print of it in wax; for i'll suppose you'll give my master leave to wait on you in the nunnery-garden, after your abbess has walked the rounds. _luc._ well, well, good-morrow. when you have slept, come to the grate for a letter to your lord. now will i have the headach, or the megrim, or some excuse; for i'm resolved i'll not rise to prayers. _hip._ pray, brother, take care of our masking-habits, that they may be forthcoming another time. _asca._ sleep, sleep, and dream of me, sister: i'll make it good, if you dream not too unreasonably. _luc._ thus dangers in our love make joys more dear; and pleasure's sweetest when 'tis mixed with fear. [_exeunt._ act iv. scene i.--_a dressing-chamber._ _the masking-habits of_ lucretia _and_ hippolita _laid in a chair.--enter_ frederick _and_ ascanio. _fred._ i never thought i should have loved her. is't come to this, after all my boastings and declarations against it? sure i loved her before, and did not know it, till i feared to lose her: there's the reason. i had never desired her, if my father had not. this is just the longing of a woman: she never finds the appetite in herself, till she sees the meat on another's plate. i'm glad, however, you took the impression of the key; but 'twas not well to fright them. _asca._ sir, i could not help it; but here's the effect on't: the workman sat up all night to make it. [_gives a key._ _fred._ this key will admit me into the seraglio of the godly. the monastery has begun the war, in sallying out upon the world; and therefore 'tis but just that the world should make reprisals on the monastery. _asca._ alas, sir, you and lucretia do but skirmish; 'tis i and hippolita that make the war: 'tis true, opportunity has been wanting for a battle, but the forces have been stoutly drawn up on both sides. as for your concernment, i come just now from the monastery; and have orders from your platonic mistress to tell you, she expects you this evening in the garden of the nunnery; withal, she delivered me this letter for you. _fred._ give it me. _asca._ o, sir, the duke your father! [_the prince takes the letter, and, thinking to put it up hastily, drops it._ _enter duke._ _duke._ now, frederick, not abroad yet? _fred._ your last night's entertainment left me so weary, sir, that i overslept myself this morning. _duke._ i rather envy you than blame you: our sleep is certainly the most pleasant portion of our lives. for my own part, i spent the night waking and restless. _fred._ has any thing of moment happened to discompose your highness? _duke._ i'll confess my follies to you: i am in love with a lady i saw last night in masquerade. _fred._ 'tis strange she should conceal herself. _duke._ she has, from my best search; yet i took exact notice of her masking habit, and described it to those whom i employed to find her. _fred._ [_aside._] 'sdeath, it lies there unremoved, and, if he turns himself, full in his eye. now, now, 'twill be discovered. _duke._ for 'twas extremely remarkable. i remember very well, 'twas a loose long robe, streaked black and white, girt with a large silver ribband, and the vizor was a moor's face. _fred._ [_running to the chair where the habits are sits down._] sir, i beg pardon of your highness for this rudeness; i am--o, oh!-- _duke._ what's the matter? _fred._ i am taken so extremely ill o' the sudden, that i am forced to sit before you. _duke._ alas, what's your distemper? _fred._ a most violent griping, which pulls me together on a heap. _duke._ some cold, i fear, you took last night. [_runs to the door._] who waits there? call physicians to the prince. _fred._ ascanio, remove these quickly. [ascanio _takes away the habits, and exit._ _duke._ [_returning._] how do you find yourself? _fred._ [_arising._] much better, sir: that which pained me is removed. as it came unexpectedly, so it went as suddenly. _enter_ valerio. _duke._ the air, perhaps, will do you good. if you have health, you may see those troops drawn out, which i design for milan. _fred._ shall i wait your highness? _duke._ no, leave me here with valerio; i have a little business, which dispatched, i'll follow you immediately.--well, what success, valerio? [_exit_ frederick. _val._ our endeavours are in vain, sir; there has been inquiry made about all the palaces in rome, and neither of the masking habits can be discovered. _duke._ yet it must be a woman of quality. what paper's that at my foot? _val._ [_taking up the letter._] 'tis sealed, sir, and directed to the prince. _duke._ [_taking the letter._] 'tis a woman's, hand. has he got a mistress in town so soon? i am resolved to open it, though i do not approve my own curiosity. [_opens and reads it._ _now my fear is over, i can laugh at my last night's adventure. i find that at fifty all men grow incorrigible, and lovers especially; for, certainly, never any creature could be worse treated than your father;_ [how's this, valerio? i am amazed.] _and yet the good, old, out-of-fashion gentleman heard himself rallied and bore it with all the patience of a christian prince._ [now, 'tis plain, the lady in masquerade is a mistress of my son's, and the undutiful wretch was in the plot to abuse me.] _ascanio will tell you the latter part of our misfortune, how hardly we got into the cloister._ [a nun, too! oh, the devil!] _when we meet next, pray provide to laugh heartily; for there is subject sufficient for a plentiful fit, and fop enough to spare for another time._ lucretia. _val._ lucretia! now the mystery is unfolded. _duke._ do you know her? _val._ when i was last at rome i saw her often; she is near kinswoman to the present pope; and, before he placed her in this nunnery of benedictines, was the most celebrated beauty of the town. _duke._ i know i ought to hate this woman, because she has affronted me thus grossly; but yet, i cannot help it, i must love her. _val._ but, sir, you come on too much disadvantage to be your son's rival. _duke._ i am deaf to all considerations: pr'ythee do not think of giving a madman counsel. pity me, and cure me, if thou canst; but remember, there's but one infallible medicine,--that's enjoyment. _val._ i had forgot to tell you, sir, that the governor, don mario, is without, to wait on you. _duke._ desire him to come in. _enter don_ mario. _mar._ i am come, sir, to beg a favour from your highness; and 'tis on the behalf of my sister sophronia, abbess of the torr' di specchi. _val._ sir, she's abbess of that very monastery where your mistress is inclosed. [_aside to the duke._ _duke._ i should be glad to serve any relation of yours, don mario. _mar._ her request is, that you would be pleased to grace her chapel this afternoon. there will be music, and some little ceremony, in the reception of my two nieces, who are to be placed on pension there. _duke._ your nieces, i hear, are fair, and great fortunes. _mar._ great vexations, i'm sure they are; being daily haunted by a company of wild fellows, who buzz about my house like flies. _duke._ your design seems reasonable: women in hot countries are like oranges in cold; to preserve them, they must be perpetually housed. i'll bear you company to the monastery.--come, valerio; this opportunity is happy beyond our expectation. [_exeunt._ scene ii. _enter_ camillo _and_ aurelian. _cam._ he has smarted sufficiently for this offence. pr'ythee, dear aurelian, forgive him. he waits without, and appears penitent; i'll be responsible for his future carriage. _aur._ for your sake, then, i receive him into grace. _cam._ [_at the door._] benito, you may appear; your peace is made. _enter_ benito. _aur._ but it must be upon conditions. _ben._ any conditions, that are reasonable; for, as i am a wit, sir, i have not eaten-- _aur._ you are in the path of perdition already; that's the principal of our conditions, you are to be a wit no more. _ben._ pray, sir, if it be possible, let me be a little wit still. _aur._ no, sir; you can make a leg, and dance; those are no talents of a wit: you are cut out for a brisk fool, and can be no other. _ben._ pray, sir, let me think i am a wit, or my heart will break. _cam._ that you will naturally do, as you are a fool. _aur._ then no farther meddling with adventures, or contrivances of your own; they are all belonging to the territories of wit, from whence you are banished. _ben._ but what if my imagination should really furnish me with some-- _aur._ not a plot, i hope? _ben._ no, sir, no plot; but some expedient then, to mollify the word, when your invention has failed you? _aur._ think it a temptation of the devil, and believe it not. _ben._ then farewell all the happiness of my life. _cam._ you know your doom, benito; and now you may take your choice, whether you will renounce wit, or eating. _ben._ well, sir, i must continue my body, at what rate soever; and the rather, because now there's no farther need of me in your adventures; for i was assured by beatrix, this morning, that her two mistresses are to be put in pension, in the nunnery of benedictines, this afternoon. _cam._ then i am miserable. _aur._ and you have deferred the telling it, till it is past time to study for prevention. _cam._ let us run thither immediately, and either perish in't, or free them. you'll assist me with your sword? _aur._ yes, if i cannot do it to more purpose with my counsel. let us first play the fairest of our game; 'tis time enough to snatch when we have lost it. [_exeunt._ scene iii.--_a chapel._ _the_ duke, valerio, _attendants. at the other door,_ laura, violetta, beatrix, mario. _instrumental and vocal music; in the time of which, enter_ aurelian _and_ camillo. _after the music, enter_ sophronia, lucretia, hippolita, _and other nuns._ _duke._ [_to_ valerio, _who had whispered to him._] i needed not those marks to know her. she's one continued excellence; she's all over miracle. _soph._ [_to the_ duke.] we know, sir, we are not capable by our entertainment, of adding any thing to your pleasures; and therefore we must attribute this favour of your presence, to your piety and devotion. _duke._ you have treated me with harmony so excellent, that i believed myself among a choir of angels; especially when i beheld so fair a troop behind you. _soph._ their beauty, sir, is wholly dedicated to heaven, and is no way ambitious of a commendation, which, from your mouth, might raise a pride in any other of the sex. _cam._ i am impatient, and can bear no longer. let what will happen-- _aur._ do you not see your ruin inevitable? draw in a holy place! and in the presence of the duke! _mar._ i do not like camillo's being here: i must cut short the ceremony. [_whispers_ sophronia. _soph._ [_to_ laura _and_ violetta.] come, fair cousins, we hope to make the cloisteral life so pleasing, that it may be an inducement to you to quit the wicked world for ever. _vio._ [_passing by_ camillo.] take that, and read it at your leisure. [_conveys a note into his hand._ _cam._ a ticket, as i live, aurelian. _aur._ steal off, and be thankful: if that be my beatrix with laura, she's most confoundedly ugly. if ever we had come to love-work, and a candle had been brought us, i had fallen back from that face, like a buck-rabbit in coupling. [_exeunt_ camillo _and_ aurelian. _soph._ daughters, the time of our devotion calls us.--all happiness to your highness. _luc._ [_to_ hippolita.] little thinks my venerable old love there, that his mistress in masquerade is so near him. now do i even long to abuse that fop-gravity again. _hip._ methinks, he looks on us. _luc._ farewell, poor love; i am she, i am, for all my demure looks, that treated thee so inhumanly last night. [_she is going off, after_ sophronia. _duke._ [_following her._] stay, lady; i would speak with you. _luc._ ah! [_shrieking._ _soph._ how now, daughter? what's the meaning of that indecent noise you make? _luc._ [_aside._] if i speak to him, he will discover my voice, and then i am ruined. _duke._ if your name be lucretia, i have some business of concernment with you. _luc._ [_to_ sophronia.] dear madam, for heaven's sake make haste into the cloister; the duke pursues me on some ill design. _soph._ [_to the_ duke.] 'tis not permitted, sir, for maids, once entered into religion, to hold discourses here of worldly things. _duke._ but my discourses are not worldly, madam; i had a vision in the dead of night, which shewed me this fair virgin in my sleep, and told me, that from her i should be taught where to bestow large alms, and great endowments, on some near monastery. _soph._ stay, lucretia; the holy vision's will must be obeyed. [_exeunt_ sophronia _and nuns._ _luc._ [_aside._] he does not know me, sure; and yet i fear religion is the least of his business with me. _duke._ i see, madam, beauty will be beauty in any habit; though, i confess, the splendour of a court were a much fitter scene for yours, than is a cloistered privacy. _luc._ [_counterfeiting her voice._] the world has no temptations for a mind so fixed and raised above it; this humble cell contains and bounds my wishes: my charity gives you my prayers, and that's all my converse with human kind. _duke._ since when, madam, have the world and you been upon these equal terms of hostility? time was, you have been better friends. _luc._ no doubt i have been vain, and sinful; but the remembrance of those days cannot be pleasant to me now, and therefore, if you please, do not refresh their memory. _duke._ their memory! you speak as if they were ages past. _luc._ you think me still what i was once--a vain, fond, giddy creature: i see, sir, whither your discourses tend, and therefore take my leave. _duke._ yes, madam, i know you see whither my discourses tend, and therefore 'twill not be convenient that you should take your leave. disguise yourself no farther; you are known, as well as you knew me in masquerade. _luc._ i am not used enough to the world to interpret riddles; therefore, once more, heaven keep you. _duke._ this will not do; your voice, your mien, your stature, betray you for the same i saw last night: you know the time and place. _luc._ you were not in this chapel, and i am bound by vow to stir no farther. _duke._ but you had too much wit to keep that vow. _luc._ if you persist, sir, in this raving madness, i can bring witness of my innocence. [_is going._ _duke._ to save that labour, see if you know that hand, and let that justify you. [_shows her letter._ _luc._ what do i see! my ruin is inevitable. _duke._ you know you merit it: you used me ill, and now are in my power. _luc._ but you, i hope, are much too noble to destroy the fame of a poor silly woman? _duke._ then, in few words,--for i am bred a soldier, and must speak plain,--it is your love i ask; if you deny, this letter is produced; you know the consequence. _luc._ i hope i do not; for though there are appearances against me, enough to give you hope i durst not shun you, yet, could you see my heart, 'tis a white virgin-tablet, on which no characters of earthly love were ever writ: and, 'twixt the prince and me, if there were any criminal affection, may heaven this minute-- _duke._ swear not; i believe you: for, could i think my son had e'er enjoyed you, i should not be his rival. since he has not, i may have so much kindness for myself, to wish that happiness. _luc._ you ask me what i must not grant, nor, if i loved you, would: you know my vow of chastity. _duke._ yet again that senseless argument? the vows of chastity can ne'er be broken, where vows of secrecy are kept. those i'll swear with you. but 'tis enough at present, you know my resolution. i would persuade, not force, you to my love; and to that end i give you this night's respite. consider all, that you may fear or hope; and think that on your grant, or your denial, depends a double welfare, yours and mine. [_exit._ _luc._ a double ruin, rather, if i grant; for what can i expect from such a father, when such a son betrays me! could i think, of all mankind, that frederick would be base? and, with the vanity of vulgar souls, betray a virgin's fame? one, who esteemed him, and i much fear did more than barely so-- but i dare note examine myself farther, for fear of confessing to my own thoughts, a tenderness of which he is unworthy. _enter_ hippolita. _hip._ i watched till your old gallant was gone, to bring you news of your young one. a mischief on these old dry lovers! they are good for nothing but tedious talking; well, yonder's the prince at the grate; i hope i need say no more to you. _luc._ i'll come when i've recovered myself a little. i am a wretched creature, hippolita! the letter i writ to the prince-- _hip._ i know it,--is fallen into his father's hands by accident. he's as wretched as you too. well, well, it shall be my part to bring you together; and then, if two young people, that have opportunity, can be wretched and melancholy--i'll go before, and meet ascanio. [_exit._ _luc._ i am half unwilling to go, because i must be accessary to her assignation with ascanio; but, for once, i'll meet the prince in the garden-walk: i am glad, however, that he is less criminal than i thought him. [_exeunt._ scene iv.--_the nunnery-garden._ hippolita, ascanio, _meeting_ laura _and_ violetta. _hip._ i hear some walking this way.--who goes there? _lau._ we are the two new pensioners, laura and violetta. _hip._ go in, to your devotion: these undue hours of walking savour too much of worldly thoughts. _lau._ let us retire to the arbour, where, by this time, i believe, our friends are.--good-night, sister. _hip._ good angels guard you. [_exeunt_ lau. _and_ vio.] now, brother, the coast is clear, and we have the garden to ourselves. do you remember how you threatened me? but that's all one, how good soever the opportunity may be, so long as we two resolve to be virtuous. _asca._ speak for yourself, sister, for i am wickedly inclined. yet, i confess, i have some remorse when i consider you are in religion. _hip._ we should do very well to consider that, both of us; for, indeed, what should young people do, but think of goodness and religion; especially when they love one another, and are alone too, brother? _asca._ a curse on't! here comes my lord, and lucretia. we might have accomplished all, and been repenting by this time; yet who the devil would have thought they should have come so soon--ah! [_sets his teeth._ _hip._ who the devil would have put it to the venture? this is always the fault of you raw pages: you, that are too young, never use an opportunity; and we, that are elder, can seldom get one.--ah! [_sets her teeth._ _enter_ frederick _and_ lucretia. _luc._ i believe, indeed, it troubled you to lose that letter. _fred._ so much, madam, that i can never forgive myself that negligence. _luc._ call it not so, 'twas but a casuality, though, i confess, the consequence is dangerous; and therefore have not both of us reason to defy love, when we see a little gallantry is able to produce so much mischief? _fred._ [_aside._] now cannot i, for my heart, bring out one word against this love. _luc._ come, you are mute upon a subject, that is both easy and pleasant. a man in love is so ridiculous a creature-- _fred._ especially to those that are not. _luc._ true; for to those that are, he cannot be so: they are like the citizens of bethlehem, who never find out one another's madness, because they are all tainted. but for such ancient fops, as, with reverence, your father is, what reason can they have to be in love? _fred._ nay, your old fop's unpardonable, that's certain. but-- _luc._ but what? come, laugh at him. _fred._ but i consider he is my father, i can't laugh at him. _luc._ but, if it were another, we should see how you would insult over him. _fred._ ay, if it were another--and yet i don't know neither, 'tis no part of good nature to insult: a man may be overtaken with a passion, or so; i know it by myself. _luc._ how, by yourself! you are not in love, i hope?--oh that he would confess first now! [_aside._ _fred._ but, if i were, i should be loth to be laughed at. _luc._ since you are not in love, you may the better counsel me: what shall we do with this same troublesome father of yours? _fred._ any thing, but love him. _luc._ but you know he has me at a bay; my letter is in his possession, and he may produce it to my ruin: therefore, if i did allow him some little favour, to mollify him-- _fred._ how, madam? would you allow him favours? i can never consent to it: not the least look or smile; they are all too precious, though they were to save his life. _luc._ what, not your father? oh that he would confess he loved me first! [_aside._ _fred._ what have i done? i shall betray myself, and confess my love to be laughed at, by this hard-hearted woman. [_aside._] 'tis true, madam, i had forgot; he is, indeed, my father, and therefore you may use him as kindly as you please. _luc._ he's insensible: now he enrages me. [_aside._] what if he proposes to marry me? i am not yet professed, and 'twould be much to my advantage. _fred._ marry you! i had rather die a thousand deaths, than suffer it. _luc._ this begins to please me. [_aside._ but why should you be so much my enemy? _fred._ your enemy, madam! why, do you desire it? _luc._ perhaps i do. _fred._ do it, madam, since it pleases you so well. _luc._ but you had rather die, than suffer it. _fred._ no, i have changed my mind: i'll live, and not be concerned at it. _luc._ do you contradict yourself so soon? then know, sir, i did intend to do it; and i am glad you have given me advice so agreeable to my inclinations. _fred._ heaven! that you should not find it out! i delivered your letter on purpose to my father, and 'twas my business, now, to come and mediate for him. _luc._ pray, then, carry him the news of his good success. adieu, sweet prince! _fred._ adieu, dear madam. _asca._ hey day! what will this come to? they have cozened one another into a quarrel; just like friends in fencing, a chance thrust comes, and then they fall to it in earnest. _hip._ you and i, brother, shall never meet upon even terms, if this be not pieced.--face about, madam; turn quickly to your man, or, by all that's virtuous, i'll call the abbess. _asca._ i must not be so bold with you, sir; but, if you please, you may turn towards the lady: and, i suppose, you would be glad i durst speak to you with more authority, to save the credit of your willingness. _fred._ well, i'll shew her i dare stay, if it be but to confront her malice. _luc._ i am sure i have done nothing to be ashamed of, that i should need to run away. _asca._ pray give me leave, sir, to ask you but one question; why were you so unwilling that she should be married to your father? _fred._ because then her friendship must wholly cease. _asca._ but you may have her friendship, when she is married to him. _fred._ what! when another has enjoyed her? asca. _victoria, victoria_! he loves you, madam; let him deny it, if he can. _luc._ fye, fye, loves me, ascanio! i hope he would not forswear himself, when he has railed so much against it. _fred._ i hope i may love your mind, madam; i may love spiritually. _hip._ that's enough, that's enough: let him love the mind without the body, if he can. _asca._ ay, ay, when the love is once come so far, that spiritual mind will never leave pulling, and pulling, till it has drawn the beastly body after it. _fred._ well, madam, since i must confess it,--though i expect to be laughed at, after my railing against love,--i do love you all over, both soul and body. _asca._ lord, sir, what a tigress have you provoked! you may see she takes it to the death, that you have made this declaration. _hip._ i thought where all her anger was: why do you not rail, madam? why do you not banish him? the prince expects it; he has dealt honestly, he has told you his mind, and you may make your worst on't. _luc._ because he does expect it, i am resolved, i'll neither satisfy him nor you: i will neither rail nor laugh: let him make his worst of that, now. _fred._ if i understand you right, madam, i am happy beyond either my deserts or expectation. _luc._ you may give my words what interpretation you please, sir; i shall not envy you their meaning in the kindest sense. but we are near the jessamine walk, there we may talk with greater freedom, because 'tis farther from the house. _fred._ i wait you, madam. [_exeunt._ scene v. aurelian, _with a dark lanthorn._ camillo _and_ benito. _cam._ so, we are safe got over into the nunnery-garden; for what's to come, trust love and fortune. _aur._ this must needs be the walk she mentioned; yet, to be sure, i'll hold the lanthorn while you read the ticket. _cam._ [reads.] _i prepared this ticket, hoping to see you in the chapel: come this evening over the garden wall, on the right hand, next the tiber._ _aur._ we are right, i see. cam. _bring only your discreet benito with you, and i will meet you attended by my faithful beatrix._ violetta. _ben._ discreet benito! did you hear, sir? _aur._ mortify thyself for that vain thought; and, without enquiring into the mystery of these words, which i assure thee were not meant to thee, plant thyself by that ladder without motion, to secure our retreat; and be sure to make no noise. _ben._ but, sir, in case that-- _aur._ honest benito, no more questions: _basta_ is the word. remember, thou art only taken with us, because thou hast a certain evil dæmon, who conducts thy actions, and would have been sure, by some damned accident or other, to have brought thee hither to disturb us. _cam._ i hear whispering not far from us, and i think 'tis violetta's voice. _aur._ [_to_ ben.] retire to your post; avoid, good satan. [_exit_ ben. _enter_ laura, _with a dark lanthorn hid, and_ violetta. _cam._ ours is the honour of the field, madam; we are here before you. _vio._ softly, dear friend; i think i hear some walking in the garden. _cam._ rather, let us take this opportunity for your escape from hence; all things are here in readiness. _vio._ this is the second time we ever have met; let us discourse, and know each other better first; that's the way to make sure of some love beforehand; for, as the world goes, we know not how little we may have when we are married. _cam._ losses of opportunity are fatal in war, you know, and love's a kind of warfare. _vio._ i shall keep you yet a while from close fighting. _cam._ but, do you know what an hour in love is worth? 'tis more precious than an age of ordinary life; 'tis the very quintessence and extract of it. _vio._ i do not like your chemical preparation of love; yours is all spirit, and will fly too soon; i must see it fixed, before i trust you. but we are near the arbour: now our out-guards are set, let us retire a little, if you please; there we may walk more freely. [_exit._ _aur._ [_to_ lau.] my lady's woman, methinks you are very reserved to-night: pray, advance into the lists; though i have seen your countenance by day, i can endure to hear you talk by night. be cunning, and set your wit to show, which is your best commodity: it will help the better to put off that drug, your face. _lau._ the coarsest ware will serve such customers as you are: let it suffice, mr serving-man, that i have seen you too. your face is the original of the ugliest vizors about town; and for wit, i would advise you to speak reverently of it, as a thing you are never like to understand. _aur._ sure, beatrix, you came lately from looking in your glass, and that has given you a bad opinion of all faces; but since when am i become so notorious a fool? _lau._ since yesterday; for t'other night you talked like a man of sense: i think your wit comes to you, as the sight of owls does, only in the dark. _aur._ why, when did you discourse by day with me? _lau._ you have a short memory. this afternoon in the great street. do you remember when you talked with laura? _aur._ but what was that to beatrix? _lau._ [_aside._] 'slife, i had forgot that i am beatrix. but pray, when did you find me out to be so ugly? _aur._ this afternoon, in the chapel. _lau._ that cannot be; for i well remember you were not there, benito: i saw none but camillo, and his friend, the handsome stranger. _aur._ [_aside_] curse on't, i have betrayed myself. _lau._ i find you are an impostor: you are not the same benito: your language has nothing of the serving-man. _aur._ and yours, methinks, has not much of the waiting-woman. _lau._ my lady is abused, and betrayed by you: but i am resolved, i'll discover who you are. [_holds out a lanthorn to him._] how! the stranger? _aur._ nay, madam, if you are good at that, i'll match you there too. [_holds out his lanthorn._] o prodigy! is beatrix turned to laura? _lau._ now the question is, which of us two is the greatest cheat? _aur._ that's hardly to be tried, at so short warning: let's marry one another, and then, twenty to one, in a twelvemonth we shall know. _lau._ marry! are you at that so soon, signior? benito and beatrix, i confess, had some acquaintance; but aurelian and laura are mere strangers. _aur._ that ground i have gotten as benito, i am resolved i'll keep as aurelian. if you will take state upon you, i have treated you with ceremony already; for i have wooed you by proxy. _lau._ but you would not be contented to bed me so; or give me leave to put the sword betwixt us. _aur._ yes, upon condition you'll remove it. _lau._ pray let our friends be judge of it; if you please, we'll find them in the arbour. _aur._ content; i am then sure of the verdict, because the jury is bribed already. [_exeunt._ scene vi. benito _meeting_ frederick, ascanio, lucretia, _and_ hippolita. _ben._ knowing my own merits, as i do, 'tis not impossible, but some of these harlotry nuns may love me. oh, here's my master! now if i could but put this into civil terms, so as to ask his leave, and not displease him-- _asca._ i hear one talking, sir, just by us. _ben._ i am stolen from my post, sir, but for one minute only, to demand permission of you, since it is not in our articles, that if any of these nuns should cast an eye, or so-- _fred._ 'slife, we are betrayed; but i'll make this rascal sure. [_draws and runs at him._ _ben._ help! murder, murder! [_runs off._ _enter_ aurelian _and_ camillo; laura _and_ violetta _after them._ _aur._ that was benito's voice: we are ruined. _cam._ o, here they are, we must make our way. [aur. _and the prince make a pass or two confusedly, and fight off the stage. the women shriek._ _asca._ never fear, ladies.--come on, sir; i am your man. _cam._ [_stepping back._] this is the prince's page, i know his voice.--ascanio? _asca._ signior camillo? _cam._ if the prince be here, 'tis aurelian is engaged with him. let us run in quickly, and prevent the mischief. [_all go off. a little clashing within. after which they all re-enter._ _fred._ [_to_ aur.] i hope you are not wounded. _aur._ no, sir; but infinitely grieved, that-- _fred._ no more; 'twas a mistake: but which way can we escape? the abbess is coming; i see the lights. _luc._ you cannot go by the gate, then. ah me, unfortunate! _cam._ but over the wall you may: we have a ladder ready.--adieu, ladies.--curse on this ill luck, when we had just persuaded them to go with us! _fred._ farewell, sweet lucretia. _lau._ good-night, aurelian. _aur._ ay, it might have proved a good one: faith, shall i stay yet, and make it one, in spite of the abbess, and all her works? _lau._ the abbess is just here; you will be caught in the spiritual trap, if you should tarry. _aur._ that will be time enough, when we two marry. [_exeunt severally._ act v. scene i. _enter_ sophronia, lucretia, laura, _and_ violetta. _soph._ by this, then, it appears you all are guilty; only your ignorance of each others crimes caused first that tumult, and this discovery. good heavens, that i should live to see this day! methinks these holy walls, the cells, the cloisters, should all have struck a secret horror on you: and when, with unchaste thoughts, you trod these lonely walks, you should have looked, the venerable ghost of our first foundress should, with spread arms, have met you in her shroud, and frighted you from sin. _luc._ alas! you need not aggravate our crimes; we know them to be great beyond excuse, and have no hope, but only from your mercy. _lau._ love is, indeed, no plea within these walls; but, since we brought it hither, and were forced, not led by our own choice, to this strict life-- _vio._ too hard for our soft youth, and bands of love, which we before had knit-- _lau._ pity your blood, which runs within our veins; and since heav'n puts it in your sole power to ruin or to save, protect us from the sordid avarice of our domestic tyrant, who deserves not that we should call him uncle, or your brother. _soph._ if, as i might, with justice i should punish, no penance could be rigorous enough; but i am willing to be more indulgent. none of you are professed: and, since i see you are not fit for higher happiness, you may have what you think the world can give you. _luc._ let us adore you, madam! _soph._ you, lucretia, i shall advise within. _vio._ but for us, madam? _soph._ for you, dear nieces, i have long considered the injuries you suffer from my brother, and i rejoice it is in me to help you: i will endeavour, from this very hour, to put you both into your lovers' hands, who, by your own confession, have deserved you; but so as (though 'tis done by my connivance) it shall not seem to be with my consent. _lau._ you do an act of noble charity, and may just heaven reward it! _enter_ hippolita, _and whispers_ lucretia. _soph._ oh, you're a faithful portress of a cloister! what is't you whisper to lucretia? on your obedience tell me. _luc._ since you must know, madam, i have received a courtship from the prince of mantua. the rest hippolita may speak. _hip._ his page, ascanio, is at the grate, to know, from him, how you had scaped this danger; and brings with him those habits-- _soph._ i find that here has been a long commerce. what habits? _luc._ i blush to tell you, madam; they were masking habits, in which we went abroad. _soph._ o strange impiety! well, i conclude you are no longer for religious clothing; you would infect our order. _luc._ [_kneeling._] madam, you promised us forgiveness. _soph._ i have done; for 'tis indeed too late to chide. _hip._ with ascanio there are two gentlemen; aurelian and camillo, i think they call themselves, who came to me, recommended from the prince, and desired to speak with laura and violetta. _soph._ i think they are your lovers, nieces. _vio._ madam, they are. _hip._ but, for fear of discovery from your uncle, mario, whose house, you know, joins to the monastery, are both in masquerade. _soph._ this opportunity must not be lost. [_to_ laura _and_ violetta. you two shall take the masking habits instantly, and, in them, scape your jealous uncle's eyes. when you are happy, make me so, by hearing your success. [_kisses them. exeunt_ lau. _and_ vio. _luc._ a sudden thought is sprung within my mind, which, by the same indulgence you have shown, may make me happy too. i have not time to tell you now, for fear i lose this opportunity. when i return from speaking with ascanio, i shall declare the secrets of my love, and crave your farther help. _soph._ in all that virtue will permit, you shall not fail to find it. [_exit_ lucretia. _hip._ madam, the foolish fellow, whom we took, grows troublesome; what shall we do with him? _soph._ send for the magistrate; he must be punished-- yet, hold; that would betray the other secret. let him be strait turned out, on this condition, that he presume not ever to disclose he was within these walls. i'll speak with him. come, and attend me to him. [_exit_ sophronia. _hip._ you fit to be an abbess! we, that live out of the world, should, at least, have the common sense of those that live far from town; if a pedlar comes by them once a year, they will not let him go, without providing themselves with what they want. [_exit after_ sophronia. scene ii.--_the street._ _enter_ aurelian, camillo, laura, violetta; _all in masking-habits._ _cam._ this generosity of the abbess is never to be forgot; and it is the more to be esteemed, because it was the less to be expected. _vio._ at length, my camillo, i see myself safe within your arms; and yet, methinks, i can never be enough secure of you; for now, i have nothing else to fear, i am afraid of you; i fear your constancy. they say possession is so dangerous to lovers, that more of them die of surfeits than of fasting. _lau._ you'll be rambling too, aurelian; i do not doubt it, if i would let you; but i'll take care to be as little a wife, and as much a mistress to you, as is possible: i'll be sure to be always pleasant, and never suffer you to be cloyed. _aur._ you are certainly in the right: pleasantness of humour makes a wife last in the sweetmeat, when it will no longer in the fruit. but, pray, let's make haste to the next honest priest that can say grace to us, and take our appetites while they are coming. _cam._ that way leads to the austin-friars; there lives a father of my acquaintance. _lau._ i have heard of him; he has a mighty stroke at matrimonies, and mumbles them over as fast, as if he were teaching us to forget them all the while. _enter_ benito, _and overhears the last speech._ _ben._ _cappari_; that is the voice of madam laura. now, benito, is the time to repair the lost honour of thy wit, and to blot out the last adventure of the nunnery. _vio._ that way i hear company; let us go about by this other street, and shun them. _ben._ that voice i know too; 'tis the younger sister's, violetta's, now have these two most treacherously conveyed themselves out of the nunnery, for my master and camillo, and given up their persons to those lewd rascals in masquerade; but i'll prevent them. help there! thieves and ravishers! villainous maskers! stop, robbers! stop, ravishers! _cam._ we are pursued that way, let's take this street. _lau._ save yourselves, and leave us. _cam._ we'll rather die, than leave you. _enter, at several doors, duke of_ mantua _and guards, and don_ mario _and servants, with torches._ _aur._ so, now the way is shut up on both sides. we'll die merrily, however:--have at the fairest. [aurelian _and_ camillo _fall upon the duke's guards, and are seized behind by_ mario's _servants. at the drawing of swords,_ benito _runs off._ _duke._ are these insolencies usually committed in rome by night? it has the fame of a well-governed city; and methinks, don mario, it does somewhat reflect on you to suffer these disorders. _mar._ they are not to be hindered in the carnival: you see, sir, they have assumed the privilege of maskers. _lau._ [_to_ aur.] if my uncle know us, we are ruined; therefore be sure you do not speak. _duke._ how then can we be satisfied this was not a device of masking, rather than a design of ravishing? _mar._ their accuser is fled, i saw him run at the beginning of the scuffle; but i'll examine the ladies. _vio._ now we are lost. [_duke coming near_ laura, _takes notice of her habit._ _duke._ [_aside._] 'tis the same, 'tis the same; i know lucretia by her habit: i'm sure i am not mistaken.--now, sir, you may cease your examination, i know the ladies. _aur._ [_to_ cam.] how the devil does he know them? _cam._ 'tis alike to us; they are lost both ways. _duke._ [_taking_ laura _aside._] madam, you may confess yourself to me. whatever your design was in leaving the nunnery, your reputation shall be safe. i'll not discover you, provided you grant me the happiness i last requested. _lau._ i know not, sir, how you could possibly come to know me, or of my design in quitting the nunnery; but this i know, that my sister and myself are both unfortunate, except your highness be pleased to protect us from our uncle; at least, not to discover us. _duke._ his holiness, your uncle, shall never be acquainted with your flight, on condition you will wholly renounce my son, and give yourself to me. _lau._ alas, sir, for whom do you mistake me? _duke._ i mistake you not, madam: i know you for lucretia. you forget that your disguise betrays you. _lau._ then, sir, i perceive i must disabuse you: if you please to withdraw a little, that i may not be seen by others, i will pull off my mask, and discover to you, that lucretia and i have no resemblance, but only in our misfortunes. _duke._ 'tis in vain, madam, this dissembling: i protest, if you pull off your mask, i will hide my face, and not look upon you, to convince you that i know you. _enter_ benito. _ben._ so, now the fray is over, a man may appear again with safety.--oh, the rogues are caught, i see, and the damsels delivered. this was the effect of my valour at the second hand. _aur._ look, look, camillo! it was my perpetual fool that caused all this; and now he stands yonder, laughing at his mischief, as the devil is pictured, grinning behind the witch upon the gallows. _ben._ [_to_ mario.] i see, sir, you have got your women, and i am glad on't: i took them just flying from the nunnery. _duke._ [_to_ lau.] you see that fellow knows you too. _mar._ were these women flying from a nunnery? _ben._ these women? heyday! then, it seems, you do not know they are your nieces. _duke._ his nieces, say you? take heed, fellow, you shall he punished severely, if you mistake. _cam._ speak to benito in time, aurelian. _aur._ the devil's in him; he's running down-hill full speed, and there's no stopping him. _mar._ my nieces? _ben._ your nieces? why, do you doubt it? i praise heaven i never met but with two half-wits in my life, and my master's one of them; i will not name the other at this time. _duke._ i say, they are not they. _ben._ i am sure they are laura and violetta; and that those two rogues were running away with them, and that, i believe, with their consent. _vio._ sister, 'tis in vain to deny ourselves; you see our ill fortune pursues us unavoidably. [_turning up her mask._] yes, sir, we are laura and violetta, whom you have made unhappy by your tyranny. _lau._ [_turning up her mask._] and these two gentlemen are no ravishers, but-- _ben._ how, no ravishers? yes, to my knowledge they are--[_as he speaks,_ aurelian _pulls off his mask._] no ravishers, as madam laura was saying; but two as honest gentlemen as e'er broke bread. my own dear master, and so forth! [_runs to_ aur. _who thrusts him back._ _enter_ valerio, _and whispers the duke, giving him a paper; which he reads, and seems pleased._ _mar._ aurelian and camillo! i'll see you in safe custody; and, for these fugitives, go, carry them to my sister, and desire her to have a better care of her kinswomen. _vio._ we shall live yet to make you refund our portions. farewell, camillo; comfort yourself; remember there's but a wall betwixt us. _lau._ and i'll cut through that wall with vinegar, but i'll come to you, aurelian. _aur._ i'll cut through the grates with aquafortis, but i'll meet you. think of these things, and despair, and die, old gentleman. [aurelian _and_ camillo _are carried off on one side, and_ laura _and_ violetta _on the other._ _ben._ all things go cross to men of sense: would i had been born with the brains of a shop-keeper, that i might have thriven without knowing why i did so. now, must i follow my master to the prison, and, like an ignorant customer that comes to buy, must offer him my backside, tell him i trust to his honesty, and desire him to please himself, and so be satisfied. [_exit._ _duke._ [_to_ val.] i am overjoyed; i'll see her immediately: now my business with don mario is at an end, i need not desire his company to introduce me to the abbess; this assignation from lucretia shows me a nearer way.--noble don mario, it was my business, when this accident happened in the street, to have made you a visit; but now i am prevented by an occasion which calls me another way. _mar._ i receive the intention of that honour as the greatest happiness that could befal me: in the meantime, if my attendance-- _duke._ by no means, sir, i must of necessity go in private; and therefore, if you please, you shall omit the ceremony. _mar._ a happy even to your highness.--now will i go to my sister, the abbess, before i sleep, and desire her to take more care of her flock, or, for all our relation, i shall make complaint, and endeavour to ease her of her charge. [_exit._ _duke._ so, now we are alone, what said lucretia? _val._ when first i pressed her to this assignation, she spoke like one in doubt what she should do; she demurred much upon the decency of it, and somewhat too she seemed to urge, of her engagement to the prince: in short, sir, i perceived her wavering, and closed with the opportunity. _duke._ o, when women are once irresolute, betwixt the former love and the new one, they are sure to come over to the latter. the wind, their nearest likeness, seldom chops about to return into the old corner. _val._ in conclusion, she consented to the interview; and for the rest, i urged it not, for i suppose she will hear reason sooner from your mouth than mine. _duke._ her letter is of the same tenor with her discourse, full of doubts and doubles; like a hunted hare when she is near tired. the garden, you say, is the place appointed? _val._ it is, sir; and the next half hour the time. but, sir, i fear the prince your son will never bear the loss of her with patience. _duke._ 'tis no matter; let the young gallant storm to-night, to-morrow he departs from rome. _val._ that, sir, will be severe. _duke._ he has already received my commands to travel into germany. i know it stung him to the quick, but he's too dangerous a rival: the soldiers love him too; when he's absent they will respect me more. but i defer my happiness too long; dismiss my guards there. [_exeunt guards._ the pleasures of old age brook no delay; seldom they come, and soon they fly away. [_exeunt._ scene iii. _enter_ frederick _and_ ascanio. _fred._ 'tis true, he is my father; but when nature is dead in him, why should it live in me? what have i done that i am banished rome, the world's delight, and my soul's joy, lucretia, and sent to reel with midnight beasts in almain! i cannot, will not, bear it. _asca._ i'm sure you need not, sir; the army is all yours; they wish a youthful monarch, and will resent your injuries. _fred._ heaven forbid it! and yet i cannot lose lucretia. there's something i would do, and yet would shun the ill, that must attend it. _asca._ you must resolve, for the time presses. she told me, this hour, she had sent for your father: what she means i know not, for she seemed doubtful, and would not tell me her intention. _fred._ if she be false--yet, why should i suspect her? yet why should i not? she's a woman; that includes ambition and inconstancy; then, she's tempted high: 'twere unreasonable to expect she should be faithful: well, something i have resolved, and will about it instantly; and if my friends prove faithful, i shall prevent the worst. _enter_ aurelian _and_ camillo, _guarded._ aurelian and camillo? how came you thus attended? _cam._ you may guess at the occasion, sir; pursuing the adventure which brought us to meet you in the garden, we were taken by don mario. _aur._ and, as the devil would have it, when both we and our mistresses were in expectation of a more pleasing lodging. _fred._ faith, that's very hard, when a man has charged and primed, and taken aim, to be hindered of his shoot.--soldiers, release these gentlemen, i'll answer it. _cap._ sir, we dare not disobey our orders. _fred._ i'll stand betwixt you and danger. in the mean time take this, as an acknowledgment of the kindness you do me. _cap._ ay, marry, there's rhetoric in gold: who can deny these arguments: sir, you may dispose of our prisoners as you please; we'll use your name, if we are called in question. _fred._ do so. goodnight, good soldiers. [_exeunt soldiers._] now, gentlemen, no thanks; you'll find occasion instantly to reimburse me of my kindness. _cam._ nothing but want of liberty could have hindered us from serving you. _fred._ meet me within this half hour, at our monastery; and if, in the mean time, you can pick up a dozen of good fellows, who dare venture their lives bravely, bring them with you. _aur._ i hope the cause is bad too, otherwise we shall not deserve your thanks. may it be for demolishing that cursed monastery! _fred._ come, ascanio, follow me. [_exeunt severally._ scene iv.--_the nunnery garden._ _enter_ duke _and_ lucretia. _luc._ in making this appointment, i go too far, for one of my profession; but i have a divining soul within me, which tells me, trust reposed in noble natures obliges them the more. _duke._ i come to be commanded, not to govern: those few soft words, you sent me, have quite altered my rugged nature; if it still be violent, 'tis only fierce and eager to obey you; like some impetuous flood, which, mastered once, with double force bends backward. the place of treaty shows you strongest here; for still the vanquished sues for peace abroad, while the proud victor makes his terms at home. _luc._ that peace, i see, will not be hard to make, when either side shows confidence of noble dealing from the other. _duke._ and this, sure, is our case, since both are met alone. _luc._ 'tis mine, sir, more than yours. to meet you single, shows i trust your virtue; but you appear distrustful of my love. _duke._ you wrong me much; i am not. _luc._ excuse me, sir, you keep a curb upon me; you awe me with a letter, which you hold as hostage of my love; and hostages are ne'er required but from suspected faith. _duke._ we are not yet in terms of perfect peace; whene'er you please to seal the articles, your pledge shall be restored. _luc._ that were the way to keep us still at distance; for what we fear, we cannot truly love. _duke._ but how can i be then secure, that, when your fear is o'er, your love will still continue? _luc._ make trial of my gratitude; you'll find i can acknowledge kindness. _duke._ but that were to forego the faster hold, to take a loose, and weaker. would you not judge him mad, who held a lion in chains of steel, and changed them for a twine? _luc._ but love is soft, not of the lion's nature, but the dove's; an iron chain would hang too heavy on a tender neck. _duke._ since on one side there must be confidence, why may not i expect, as well as you, to have it plac'd in me? repose your trust upon my royal word. _luc._ as 'tis the privilege of womankind, that men should court our love, and make the first advances; so it follows, that you should first oblige; for 'tis our weakness gives us more cause of fear, and therefore you, who are the stronger sex, should first secure it. _duke._ but, madam, as you talk of fear from me, i may as well suspect design from you. _luc._ design! of giving you my love more freely; of making you a title to my heart, where you by force would reign. _duke._ o that i could believe you! but your words are not enough disorder'd for true love; they are not plain, and hearty, as are mine; but full of art, and close insinuation: you promise all, but give me not one proof of love before; not the least earnest of it. _luc._ and what is then this midnight conversation? these silent hours divided from my sleep? nay, more, stolen from my prayers with sacrilege, and here transferred to you? this guilty hand, which should be used in dropping holy beads, but now bequeathed to yours? this heaving heart, which only should be throbbing for my sins, but which now beats uneven time for you? these are my arts! and these are my designs! _duke._ i love you more, lucretia, than my soul; nay, than yours too; for i would venture both, that i might now enjoy you; and if what you ask me, did not make me fear to lose you, though it were even my life, you should not be denied it. _luc._ then i will ask no more. keep still my letter, to upbraid me with it: to say, when i am sullied with your lust, and fit to be forsaken,--go, lucretia, to your first love; for this, for this, i leave you. _duke._ oh, madam, never think that day can come! _luc._ it must, it will; i read it in your looks; you will betray me, when i'm once engaged. _duke._ if not my faith, your beauty will secure you. _luc._ my beauty is a flower upon the stalk, goodly to see; but, gathered for the scent, and once with eagerness pressed to your nostrils, the sweets drawn out, 'tis thrown with scorn away. but i am glad i find you out so soon; i simply loved, and meant (with shame i own it) to trust my virgin honour in your hands. i asked not wealth for hire; and, but by chance, (i wonder that i thought on't) begged one trial, and, but for form, to have pretence to yield, and that you have denied me. farewell! i could have loved you, and yet, perhaps, i-- _duke._ o speak, speak out, and do not drown that word; it seemed as if it would have been a kind one; and yours are much too precious to be lost. _luc._ perhaps--i cannot yet leave loving you. there 'twas. but i recalled it in my mind, and made it false before i gave it air. once more, farewell--i wo'not,-- now i can say i wo'not, wo'not love you. [_going._ _duke._ you shall; and this shall be the seal of my affection. [_gives the letter._ there take it, my lucretia: i give it with more joy, than i with grief received it. _luc._ good night; i'll thank you for't some other time. _duke._ you'll not abuse my love? _luc._ no; but secure my honour. _duke._ i'll force it from your hands. [lucretia _runs._ _luc._ help, help, or i am ravished! help, for heaven's sake! hippolita, laura, _and_ violetta, _within, at several places._ _within._ help, help lucretia! they bear away lucretia by force. _duke._ i think there's a devil in every corner. _enter_ valerio. _val._ sir, the design was laid on purpose for you, and all the women placed to cry. make haste away; avoid the shame, for heaven's sake. _duke._ [_going._] o, i could fire this monastery! _enter_ frederick _and_ ascanio. [frederick, _entering, speaks as to some behind him._] _fred._ pain of your lives, let none of you presume to enter but myself. _duke._ my son!--o, i could burst with spite, and die with shame, to be thus apprehended! this is the baseness and cowardice of guilt: an army now were not so dreadful to me as that son, o'er whom the right of nature gives me power. _fred._ sir, i am come-- _duke._ to laugh at first, and then to blaze abroad, the weakness and the follies of your father. _val._ sir, he has men in arms attending him. _duke._ i know my doom then. you have taken a popular occasion; i am now a ravisher of chastity, fit to be made prisoner first, and then deposed. _fred._ you will not hear me, sir. _duke._ no, i confess i have deserved my fate; for, what had these grey hairs to do with love? or, if the unseemly folly would possess me, why should i chuse to make my son my rival? _fred._ sir, you may add, you banished me from rome, and, from the light of it, lucretia's eyes. _duke._ nay, if thou aggravat'st my crimes, thou giv'st me right to justify them: thou doubly art my slave, both son and subject. i can do thee no wrong, nor hast thou right to arraign or punish me: but thou inquir'st into thy father's years; thy swift ambition could not stay my death, but must ride post to empire. lead me now; thy crimes have made me guiltless to myself, and given me face to bear the public scorn. you have a guard without? _fred._ i have some friends. _duke._ speak plainly your intent. i love not a sophisticated truth, with an allay of lie in't. _fred._ [_kneeling._] this is not, sir, the posture of a rebel, but of a suppliant; if the name of son be too much honour to me. what first i purpos'd, i scarce know myself. love, anger, and revenge, then rolled within me, and yet, even then, i was not hurried farther than to preserve my own. _duke._ your own! what mean you? _fred._ my love, and my lucretia, which i thought, in my then boiling passion, you pursued with some injustice, and much violence; this led me to repel that force by force. 'twas easy to surprise you, when i knew of your intended visit. _duke._ thank my folly. _fred._ but reason now has reassumed its place, and makes me see how black a crime it is to use a force upon my prince and father. _duke._ you give me hope you will resign lucretia. _fred._ ah no; i never can resign her to you: but, sir, i can my life; which, on my knees, i tender, as the atoning sacrifice: or if your hand (because you are a father) be loth to take away that life you gave, i will redeem your crime, by making it my own: so you shall still be innocent, and i die blessed, and unindebted for my being. _duke._ o frederick, you are too much a son, [_embracing him._ and i too little am a father: you, and you alone, have merited lucretia; 'tis now my only grief, i can do nothing to requite this virtue: for to restore her to you, is not an act of generosity, but a scant, niggard justice; yet i love her so much, that even this little, which i do, is like the bounty of an usurer; high to be priz'd from me, because 'tis drawn from such a wretched mind. _fred._ you give me now a second, better life; [_kissing his hand._ but,--that the gift may be more easy to you,-- consider, sir, lucretia did not love you,-- i fear to say, ne'er would. _duke._ you do well to help me to o'ercome that difficulty: i'll weigh that, too, hereafter. for a love, so violent as mine, will ask long time, and much of reason, to effect the cure. my present care shall be to make you happy; for that will make my wish impossible, and then the remedies will be more easy. _enter_ sophronia, lucretia, violetta, laura, hippolita. _soph._ i have, with joy, o'erheard this happy change, and come with blessings to applaud your conquest over the greatest of mankind, yourself. _duke._ i hope 'twill be a full and lasting one. _luc._ thus, let me kneel, and pay my thanks and duty, [_kneeling._ both to my prince and father. _duke._ rise, rise, too charming maid, for yet i cannot call you my daughter: that first name, lucretia, hangs on my lips, and would be still pronounced. look not too kindly on me; one sweet glance, perhaps, would ruin both: therefore, i'll go and try to get new strength to bear your eyes. 'till then, farewell. be sure you love my frederick, and do not hate his father. [_exeunt duke and_ valerio. _fred._ [_at the door._] now, friends, you may appear. _enter_ aurelian, camillo, benito. your pardon, madam, that we thus intrude on holy ground: yourself best know it could not be avoided, and it shall be my care it be excused. _soph._ though sovereign princes bear a privilege of entering when they please within our walls, in others 'tis a crime past dispensation; and therefore, to avoid a public scandal, be pleased, sir, to retire, and quit this garden. _aur._ we shall obey you, madam; but that we may do it with less regret, we hope you will give these ladies leave to accompany us. _soph._ they shall. and, nieces, for myself, i only ask you to justify my conduct to the world, that none may think i have betrayed a trust, but freed you from a tyranny. _lau._ our duty binds us to acknowledge it. _cam._ and our gratitude to witness it. _vio._ with a holy and lasting remembrance of your favour. _fred._ and it shall be my care, either by reason to bend your uncle's will, or, by my father's interest, to force your dowry from his hands. _ben._ [_to_ aur.] pray, sir, let us make haste over these walls again; these gardens are unlucky to me; i have lost my reputation of music in one of them, and of wit in the other. _aur._ [_to_ lau.] now, laura, you may take your choice betwixt the two benito's, and consider whether you had rather he should serenade you in the garden, or i in bed to-night. _lau._ you may be sure i shall give sentence for benito; for the effect of your serenading would be to make me pay the music nine months hence. _hip._ [_to_ asca.] you see, brother, here's a general gaol-delivery: there has been a great deal of bustle and disturbance in the cloister to-night; enough to distract a soul which is given up, like me, to contemplation: and therefore, if you think fit, i could even be content to retire, with you, into the world; and, by way of penance, to marry you; which, as husbands and wives go now, is a greater mortification than a nunnery. _asca._ no, sister; if you love me, keep to your monastery: i'll come now and then to the grate, and beg you a recreation. but i know myself so well, that if i had you one twelvemonth in the world, i should run myself into a cloister, to be rid of you. _soph._ nieces, once more farewell. adieu, lucretia: my wishes and my prayers attend you all. _luc._ to _fred._ i am so fearful, that, though i gladly run to your embraces, yet, venturing in the world a second time, methinks i put to sea in a rough storm, with shipwrecks round about me. _fred._ my dear, be kinder to yourself and me, and let not fear fright back our coming joys; for we, at length, stand reconciled to fate: and now to fear, when to such bliss we move, were not to doubt our fortune, but our love. [_exeunt._ epilogue. some have expected, from our bills to-day, to find a satire in our poet's play. the zealous route from coleman-street did run, to see the story of the friar and nun; or tales, yet more ridiculous to hear, vouched by their vicar of ten pounds a-year,-- of nuns, who did against temptation pray, and discipline laid on the pleasant way: or that, to please the malice of the town, } our poet should in some close cell have shown } some sister, playing at content alone: } this they did hope; the other side did fear; and both, you see, alike are cozened here. some thought the title of our play to blame; they liked the thing, but yet abhorred the name: like modest punks, who all you ask afford, but, for the world, they would not name that word. yet, if you'll credit what i heard him say, our poet meant no scandal in his play; his nuns are good, which on the stage are shown, and, sure, behind our scenes you'll look for none. footnotes: . a common name for a cat, being that by which the representative of the feline race is distinguished in the history of reynard the fox. see shakespeare's _romeo and juliet._ . _stickle._ to interfere. . _rondaches._ targets or bucklers. these were a part of the equipment of a serenader. see that of quevedo's night adventurer. * * * * * end of the fourth volume. edinburgh: printed by james ballantyne. none the works of john dryden, now first collected _in eighteen volumes_. illustrated with notes, historical, critical, and explanatory, and a life of the author, by walter scott, esq. vol. ii. . contents of volume second. dedication of mr congreve's edition of dryden's dramatic works to the duke of newcastle the wild gallant, a comedy preface the rival ladies, a tragi-comedy dedication to the earl of orrery the indian queen, a tragedy the indian emperor, or the conquest of mexico by the spaniards dedication to the duchess of monmouth and buccleuch defence of an essay of dramatic poesy connection of the indian emperor to the indian queen secret love, or the maiden queen preface the works of john dryden. vol. ii. advertisement. _mr congreve's edition of dryden's dramatic works, in six volumes mo, printed for tonson in , has been chiefly resorted to for the text of the plays in the present edition, although the assistance of the older copies, in quarto and folio, has been called in, where difficulties occurred, or improvements were obvious. the preliminary dissertations, dedications, and prefaces, have been corrected from the excellent edition of mr malone. congreve appears deeply to have felt the bequest, left him by his great predecessor, when, "just abandoning the ungrateful stage" he made it his intreaty, that his successor would be kind to his remains. considerable pains have been bestowed by the present editor in correcting the text. the notes are limited to the explanation of such passages, as the fashion in language, in manners, or in literature, has, in the space of a century, rendered doubtful or obscure._ dedication to mr congreve's edition of dryden's dramatic works. to his grace the duke of newcastle[ ], lord chamberlain of his majesty's household _&c_. [footnote : thomas pelham, duke of newcastle. no satire ever can convey such bitter reproof as the high-strained eulogy of this dedication. this great and wealthy man unblushingly received congreve's tribute of praise and gratitude, for his munificence in directing a splendid monument to be raised over dryden's remains. but the incense of the dedicator was wasted on a block, more insensible than his grace's workmen could have dug from the quarry. neither pride nor shame could induce the duke to accomplish what vanity had led him voluntarily to propose; and the dedication, instead of producing a tomb in honour of dryden, will remain itself an eternal monument of the patron's disgrace.] my lord, it is the fortune of this edition of the dramatic works of the late mr dryden, to come into the world at a time, when your grace has just given order for erecting, at your own expense, a noble monument to his memory. this is an act of generosity, which has something in it so very uncommon, that the most unconcerned and indifferent persons must be moved with it. how much more must all such be affected by it, who had any due regard for the personal merits of the deceased, or are capable of any taste and distinction for the remains and elegant labours of one of the greatest men, that our nation has produced! that, which distinguisheth actions of pure and elevated generosity, from those of a mixed and inferior nature, is nothing else but the absolutely disinterested views of the agent. my lord, this being granted, in how fair a light does your munificence stand? a munificence to the memory, to the ashes, of a man whom you never saw--whom you never can see; and who, consequently, never could, by any personal obligation, induce you to do this deed of bounty; nor can he ever make you any acknowledgment for it, when it shall be done. it is evident, your grace can have acted thus from no other motive but your pure regard to merit; from your entire love for learning; and from that accurate taste and discernment, which, by your studies, you have so early attained to in the politer arts. and these are the qualities, my lord, by which you are more distinguished, than by all those other uncommon advantages, with which you are attended. your great disposition, your great ability to be beneficent to mankind, could by no means answer that end, if you were not possessed of a judgment to direct you in the right application and just distribution of your good offices. you are now in a station, by which you necessarily preside over the liberal arts, and all the practisers and professors of them. poetry is more particularly within your province; and with very good reason may we hope to see it revive and flourish under your influence and protection. what hopes of reward may not the living deserver entertain, when even the dead are sought out for, and their very urns and ashes made partakers of your liberality? as i have the honour to be known to you, my lord, and to have been distinguished by you by many expressions and instances of your goodwill towards me, i take a singular pleasure to congratulate you upon an action so entirely worthy of you. and as i had the happiness to be very conversant, and as intimately acquainted with mr dryden as the great disproportion in our years could allow me to be, i hope it will not be thought too assuming in me, if, in love to his memory, and in gratitude for the many friendly offices, and favourable instructions, which, in my early youth, i received from him, i take upon me to make this public acknowledgment to your grace, for so public a testimony, as you are pleased to give to the world, of that high esteem, in which you hold the performances of that eminent man. i can, in some degree, justify myself for so doing, by a citation of a kind of right to it, bequeathed to me by him. and it is, indeed, upon that pretension, that i presume even to make a dedication of these his works to you. in some very elegant, though very partial, verses, which he did me the honour to write to me, he recommended it to me to _be kind to his remains_[ ]. [footnote : these are the affecting lines referred to. already i am worn with cares and age, and just abandoning th' ungrateful stage; unprofitably kept at heaven's expense, i live a rent-charge on his providence. but you, whom every muse and grace adorn, whom i foresee to better fortune born, be kind to my remains; and, o! defend, against your judgment, your departed friend: let not the insulting foe my fame pursue, but shade those laurels which descend to you; and take, for tribute, what these lines express: you merit more, nor could my love do less. _epistle to_ mr congreve] i was then, and have been ever since, most sensibly touched with that expression; and the more so, because i could not find in myself the means of satisfying the passion which i felt in me, to do something answerable to an injunction laid upon me in so pathetic and so amicable a manner. you, my lord, have furnished me with ample means of acquitting myself, both of my duty and obligation to my departed friend. what kinder office lies in me to do to these, his most valuable and imperishable remains, than to commit them to the protection, and lodge them under the roof, of a patron, whose hospitality has extended itself even to his dust? if i would permit myself to run on in the way which so fairly opens itself before me, i should tire your grace with reiterated praises and acknowledgments; and i might possibly (notwithstanding my pretended right so to do) give some handle to such, who are inclinable to censure, to tax me of affectation and officiousness, in thanking you, more than comes to my share, for doing a thing, which is, in truth, of a public consideration, as it is doing an honour to your country. for so unquestionably it is, to do honour to him, who was an honour to it. i have but one thing to say, either to obviate or to answer such an objection, if it shall be made to me, which is, that i loved mr dryden. i have not touched upon any other public honour or bounty, done by you to your country. i have industriously declined entering upon a theme of so extensive a nature; and of all your numerous and continual largesses to the public, i have only singled out this, as what most particularly affected me. i confess freely to your grace, i very much admire all those other donations, but i much more love this; and i cannot help it, if i am naturally more delighted with any thing that is amiable, than with any thing that is wonderful. whoever shall censure me, i dare be confident, you, my lord, will excuse me for any thing that i shall say with due regard to a gentleman, for whose person i had as just an affection as i have an admiration of his writings. and indeed mr dryden had personal qualities to challenge both love and esteem from all who were truly acquainted with him. he was of a nature exceedingly humane and compassionate; easily forgiving injuries, and capable of a prompt and sincere reconciliation with them who had offended him. such a temperament is the only solid foundation of all moral virtues and sociable endowments. his friendship, where he professed it, went much beyond his professions; and i have been told of strong and generous instances of it by the persons themselves who received them, though his hereditary income was little more than a bare competency. as his reading had been very extensive, so was he very happy in a memory, tenacious of every thing that he had read. he was not more possessed of knowledge than he was communicative of it. but then his communication of it was by no means pedantic, or imposed upon the conversation; but just such, and went so far, as, by the natural turns of the discourse in which he was engaged, it was necessarily promoted or required. he was extreme ready and gentle in his correction of the errors of any writer, who thought fit to consult him; and full as ready and patient to admit of the reprehension of others, in respect of his own oversight or mistakes. he was of very easy, i may say, of very pleasing access; but something slow, and, as it were, diffident in his advances to others. he had something in his nature, that abhorred intrusion into any society whatsoever. indeed, it is to be regretted, that he was rather blameable in the other extreme; for, by that means, he was personally less known, and, consequently, his character might become liable both to misapprehensions and misrepresentations. to the best of my knowledge and observation, he was, of all the men that ever i knew, one of the most modest, and the most easily to be discountenanced in his approaches either to his superiors or his equals. i have given your grace this slight sketch of his personal character, as well to vindicate his memory, as to justify myself for the love which i bore to his person; and i have the rather done it, because i hope it may be acceptable to you to know, that he was worthy of the distinction you have shewn him, as a man, as well as an author. as to his writings, i shall not take upon me to speak of them: for to say little of them would not be to do them right; and to say all that i ought to say, would be to be very voluminous. but i may venture to say, in general terms, that no man hath written in our language so much, and so various matter, and in so various manners so well. another thing i may say very peculiar to him, which is, that his parts did not decline with his years, but that he was an improving writer to his last, even to near seventy years of age, improving even in fire and imagination, as well as in judgment; witness his ode on st cecilia's day, and his fables, his latest performances. he was equally excellent in verse and in prose. his prose had all the clearness imaginable, together with all the nobleness of expression; all the graces and ornaments proper and peculiar to it, without deviating into the language or diction of poetry. i make this observation, only to distinguish his style from that of many poetical writers, who, meaning to write harmoniously in prose, do, in truth, often write mere blank verse. i have heard him frequently own with pleasure, that if he had any talent for english prose, it was owing to his having often read the writings of the great archbishop tillotson. his versification and his numbers he could learn of no body; for he first possessed those talents in perfection in our tongue. and they, who have best succeeded in them since his time, have been indebted to his example; and the more they have been able to imitate him, the better have they succeeded. as his style in prose is always specifically different from his style in poetry, so, on the other hand, in his poems, his diction is, wherever his subject requires it, so sublimely and so truly poetical, that its essence, like that of pure gold, cannot be destroyed. take his verses and divest them of their rhymes, disjoint them in their numbers, transpose their expressions, make what arrangement and disposition you please of his words, yet shall there eternally be poetry, and something which will be found incapable of being resolved into absolute prose; an incontestible characteristic of a truly poetical genius. i will say but one word more in general of his writings, which is, that what he has done in any one species, or distinct kind, would have been sufficient to have acquired him a great name. if he had written nothing but his prefaces, or nothing but his songs or his prologues, each of them would have entitled him to the preference and distinction of excelling in his kind. but i have forgot myself; for nothing can be more unnecessary than an attempt to say any thing to your grace in commendation of the writings of this great poet; since it is only to your knowledge, taste, and approbation of them, that the monument, which you are now about to raise to him, is owing. i will, therefore, my lord, detain you no longer by this epistle; and only entreat you to believe, that it is addressed to your grace from no other motive than a sincere regard to the memory of mr dryden, and a very sensible pleasure which i take in applauding an action, by which you are so justly and so singularly entitled to a dedication of his labours, though many years after his death, and even though most of them were produced by him many years before you were born. i am, with the greatest respect, my lord, your grace's most obedient, and most humble servant, william congreve. the wild gallant, a comedy. the wild gallant. the editor may be pardoned in bestowing remarks upon dryden's plays, only in proportion to their intrinsic merit, and to the attention which each has excited, either at its first appearance, or when the public attention has been since directed towards them. in either point of view, little need be said on the "wild gallant." it was dryden's first theatrical production, and its reception by no means augured his future pre-eminence in literature; nor was it more than tolerated, when afterwards revived under the sanction of his increasing fame. it was brought upon the stage in february - , according to the conjecture of mr malone, who observes, that the following lines in the prologue. it should have been but one continued song; or, at the least, a dance of three hours long; must refer to d'avenant's opera, called the "siege of rhodes," acted in ; and that the expression, "in plays, he finds, you love _mistakes_," alludes to the blunders of teague, an irish footman, in sir robert howard's play of the "committee." the "wild gallant" was revived and published in , with a new prologue and epilogue, and some other alterations, not of a nature, judging from the prologue, to improve the morality of the piece. that the play had but indifferent success in the action, the poet himself has informed us, with the qualifying addition, that it more than once was the divertisement of charles ii., by his own command. this honourable distinction it probably acquired by the influence of the countess of castlemaine, then the royal favourite, to whom dryden addresses some verses on her encouraging this play.--see vol. xi p. .--the plot is borrowed avowedly from the spanish, and partakes of the unnatural incongruity, common to the dramatic pieces of that nation, as also of the bustle and intrigue, with which they are usually embroiled. few modern audiences would endure the absurd grossness of the deceit practised on lord nonsuch in the fourth act; nor is the plot of lady constance, to gain her lover, by marrying him in the disguise of a heathen divinity, more grotesque than unnatural.--yet, in the under characters, some liveliness of dialogue is maintained; and the reader may be amused with particular scenes, though, as a whole, the early fate of the play was justly merited. these passages, in which the plot stands still, while the spectators are entertained with flippant dialogue and repartee, are ridiculed in the scene betwixt prince prettyman and tom thimble in the rehearsal; the facetious mr bibber being the original of the latter personage. the character of trice, at least his whimsical humour of drinking, playing at dice by himself, and quarrelling as if engaged with a successful gamester, is imitated from the character of carlo, in jonson's "every man out of his humour," who drinks with a supposed companion, quarrels about the pledge, and tosses about the cups and flasks in the imaginary brawl. we have heard similar frolics related of a bon-vivant of the last generation, inventor of a game called _solitaire_, who used to complain of the hardship of drinking by himself, because the _toast came too often about_. the whole piece seems to have been intended as a sacrifice to popular taste; and, perhaps, our poet only met a deserved fate, when he stooped to sooth the depraved appetite, which his talents enabled him to have corrected and purified. something like this feeling may be interred from the last lines of the second epilogue: would you but change, for serious plot and verse, this motley garniture of fool and farce; nor scorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home, which dues, like vests,[a] our gravity become; our poet yields you should this play refuse, as tradesmen by the change of fashions lose, with some content, their fripperies of france, in hope it may their staple trade advance. [footnote a: this seems to allude to the polish dress, which, upon his restoration, charles wished to introduce into britain. it was not altered for the french, till his intimacy with that court was cemented by pecuniary dependence.] in the prologue, the author indulges himself in a display of the terms of astrology, of which vain science he was a believer and a student. preface. it would be a great impudence in me to say much of a comedy, which has had but indifferent success in the action. i made the town my judges, and the greater part condemned it: after which, i do not think it my concernment to defend it with the ordinary zeal of a poet for his decried poem. though corneille is more resolute in his preface before his _pertharite_[a], which was condemned more universally than this; for he avows boldly, that, in spite of censure, his play was well and regularly written; which is more than i dare say for mine. yet it was received at court; and was more than once the divertisement of his majesty, by his own command; but i have more modesty than to ascribe that to my merit, which was his particular act of grace. it was the first attempt i made in dramatic poetry; and, i find since, a very bold one, to begin with comedy, which is the most difficult part of it. the plot was not originally my own; but so altered by me, (whether for the better or worse i know not) that whoever the author was, he could not have challenged a scene of it. i doubt not but you will see in it the uncorrectness of a young writer; which is yet but a small excuse for him, who is so little amended since. the best apology i can make for it, and the truest, is only this, that you have, since that time, received with applause, as bad, and as uncorrect plays from other men. [footnote a: "le succés de cette tragédie à été si malheureux, que pour m'epargner le chagrin de m'en souvenir, je n'en dirai presque rien.--j'ajoute ici malgré sa disgrace, que les sentimens en sont assez vifs et nobles, les vers assez bien tournes, et que la façon dont le sujet s'explique dans la première scène ne manque pas d'artifice." _examen de pertharite_.] prologue, when it was first acted. is it not strange to hear a poet say, he comes to ask you, how you like the play? you have not seen it yet: alas! 'tis true; but now your love and hatred judge, not you: and cruel factions (bribed by interest) come, not to weigh merit, but to give their doom. our poet, therefore, jealous of th' event, and (though much boldness takes) not confident, has sent me, whither you, fair ladies, too, sometimes upon as small occasions, go; and, from this scheme, drawn for the hour and day, bid me enquire the fortune of his play. _the curtain drawn discovers two astrologers; the prologue is presented to them_. _ astrol. reads_, a figure of the heavenly bodies in their several apartments, feb. the th, half-an-hour after three afternoon, from whence you are to judge the success of a new play, called the wild gallant. _ astrol_. who must judge of it, we, or these gentlemen? we'll not meddle with it, so tell your poet. here are, in this house, the ablest mathematicians in europe for his purpose. they will resolve the question, ere they part. _ att_. yet let us judge it by the rules of art; first jupiter, the ascendant's lord disgraced, in the twelfth house, and near grim saturn placed, denote short life unto the play:-- _ ast_. --jove yet, in his apartment sagittary, set under his own root, cannot take much wrong. _ ast_. why then the life's not very short, nor long; _ ast_. the luck not very good, nor very ill; _prole_. that is to say, 'tis as 'tis taken still. _ ast_. but, brother, ptolemy the learned says, 'tis the fifth house from whence we judge of plays. venus, the lady of that house, i find is peregrine; your play is ill-designed; it should have been but one continued song, or, at the least, a dance of three hours long. _ast_. but yet the greatest mischief does remain, the twelfth apartment bears the lords of spain; whence i conclude, it is your author's lot, to be endangered by a spanish plot. _prolo_. our poet yet protection hopes from you, but bribes you not with any thing that's new; nature is old, which poets imitate, and, for wit, those, that boast their own estate, forget fletcher and ben before them went, their elder brothers, and that vastly spent; so much, 'twill hardly be repair'd again, not, though supplied with all the wealth of spain, this play is english, and the growth your own; as such, it yields to english plays alone. he could have wish'd it better for your sakes, but that, in plays, he finds you love mistakes: besides, he thought it was in vain to mend, what you are bound in honour to defend; that english wit, howe'er despised by some, like english valour, still may overcome. prologue, when revived. as some raw squire, by tender mother bred, 'till one-and-twenty keeps his maidenhead; (pleased with some sport, which he alone does find; and thinks a secret to all humankind;) 'till mightily in love, yet half afraid, he first attempts the gentle dairy maid: succeeding there, and, led by the renown of whetston's park, he comes at length to town; where entered, by some school-fellow or friend, he grows to break glass windows in the end: his valour too, which with the watch began, proceeds to duel, and he kills his man. by such degrees, while knowledge he did want, our unfledged author writ a wild gallant. he thought him monstrous lewd, (i lay my life) because suspected with his landlord's wife; but, since his knowledge of the town began, he thinks him now a very civil man; and, much ashamed of what he was before, has fairly play'd him at three wenches more. 'tis some amends his frailties to confess; pray pardon him his want of wickedness: he's towardly, and will come on apace; his frank confession shows he has some grace. you baulked him when he was a young beginner, and almost spoiled a very hopeful sinner; but if once more you slight his weak endeavour, for aught i know, he may turn tail forever; dramatis personae. lord nonsuch, _an old rich humorous lord_. justice trice, _his neighbour_. mr loveby, _the wild gallant_. sir timorous, _a bashful knight_. failer, } _hangers-on of_ sir timorous. burr, } bibber, _a tailor_. setstone, _a jeweller_. lady constance, lord nonsuch's _daughter_, madam isabella, _her cousin_. mrs bibber, _the tailors wife_. _serjeants, boy to loveby, servants, a bawd and whores, watch and constable_. scene.--london. the wild gallant. act i. scene i.--_failer entering to burr, who is putting on his buff-coat_. _fail_. what! not ready yet, man? _burr_. you do not consider my voyage from holland last night. _fail_. pish, a mere ferry; get up, get up: my cousin's maids will come and blanket thee anon; art thou not ashamed to lie a-bed so long? _burr_. i may be more ashamed to rise; and so you'll say, dear heart, if you look upon my clothes: the best is, my buff-coat will cover all. _fail_. egad, there goes more cunning than one would think to the putting thy clothes together. thy doublet and breeches are guelphs and ghibellins to one another; and the stitches of thy doublet are so far asunder, that it seems to hang together by the teeth. no man could ever guess to what part of the body these fragments did belong, unless he had been acquainted with 'em as long as thou hast been. if they once lose their hold, they can never get together again, except by chance the rags hit the tallies of one another. he, that gets into thy doublet, must not think to do it by storm; no, he must win it inch by inch, as the turk did rhodes. _burr_. you are very merry with my wardrobe; but, till i am provided of a better, i am resolved to receive all visits in this truckle-bed. _fail_. then will i first scotch the wheels of it, that it may not run: thou hast cattle enough in it to carry it down stairs, and break thy neck; 'tis got a yard nearer the door already. _enter boy_. _boy_. sir, mr bibber your tailor's below, and desires to speak with you. _fail_. he's an honest fellow, and a fashionable; he shall set thee forth, i warrant thee. _burr_. ay; but where's the money for this, dear heart? _fail_. well, but what think you of being put into a suit of clothes without money? [_aside_. _burr_. you speak of miracles. _fail_. do you not know will bibber's humour? _burr_. pr'ythee, what have i to do with his humour? _fail_. break but a jest, and he'll beg to trust thee for a suit; nay, he will contribute to his own destruction, and give thee occasions to make one. he has been my artificer these three years; and, all the while, i have lived upon his favourable apprehension. boy, conduct him up. [_exit boy._ _burr_. but what am i the better for this? i ne'er made jest in all my life. _fail._ a bare clinch will serve the turn; a car-wichet, a quarter-quibble, or a pun. _burr_. wit from a low country soldier! one, that has conversed with none but dull dutchmen these ten years! what an unreasonable rogue art thou? why, i tell thee, 'tis as difficult to me, as to pay him ready money. _fail_. come, you shall be ruled for your own good; i'll throw the clothes over you to help meditation. and, upon the first opportunity, start you up, and surprise him with a jest. _burr_. well, i think this impossible to be done: but, however, i'll attempt. [_lies down_, failer _covers him_. _fail_. husht! he's coming up. _enter bibber_. _bib_. 'morrow, mr failer: what, i warrant you think i come a dunning now? _fail_. no, i vow to gad, will; i have a better opinion of thy wit, than to think thou would'st come to so little purpose. _bib_. pretty well that: no, no, my business is to drink my morning's-draught in sack with you. _fail_. will not ale serve thy turn, will? _bib_. i had too much of that last night; i was a little disguised, as they say. _fail_. why disguised? hadst thou put on a clean band, or washed thy face lately? those are thy disguises, bibber. _bib_. well, in short, i was drunk; damnably drunk with ale; great hogan-mogan bloody ale: i was porterly drunk, and that i hate of all things in nature. _burr, rising_.] and of all things in nature i love it best. _bib_. art thou there, i'faith? and why, old boy? _burr_. because, when i am porterly drunk, i can carry myself. _bib_. ha, ha, boy. _fail_. this porter brings sad news to you, will; you must trust him for a suit of clothes, as bad as 'tis: come, he's an honest fellow, and loves the king. _bib_. why, it shall be my suit to him, that i may trust him. _burr_. i grant your suit, sir. _fail_. burr, make haste and dress you; sir timorous dines here to-day: you know him? _burr_. aye, aye, a good honest young fellow; but no conjurer; he and i are very kind. _fail_. egad, we two have a constant revenue out of him: he would now be admitted suitor to my lady constance nonsuch, my lord nonsuch's daughter; our neighbour here in fleetstreet. _burr_. is the match in any forwardness? _fail_. he never saw her before yesterday, and will not be brought to speak to her this month yet. _burr_. that's strange. _fail_. such a bashful knight did i never see; but we must move for him. _bib_. they say, here's a great dinner to be made to-day here, at your cousin trice's, on purpose for the interview. _burr_. what, he keeps up his old humour still? _fail_. yes, certain; he admires eating and drinking well, as much as ever, and measures every man's wit by the goodness of his palate. _burr_. who dines here besides? _fail_. jack loveby. _bib_. o, my guest. _burr_. he has ever had the repute of a brave clear-spirited fellow. _fail_. he's one of your dear hearts, a debauchee. _burr_. i love him the better for't: the best heraldry of a gentleman is a clap, derived to him from three generations. what fortune has he? _fail_. good fortune at all games; but no estate: he had one; but he has made a devil on't long ago. he's a bold fellow, i vow to gad: a person, that keeps company with his betters; and commonly has gold in's pockets. come, bibber, i see thou longest to be at thy morning's watering: i'll try what credit i have with the butler. _bib_. come away, my noble festus and new customer. _fail_. now will he drink, till his face be no bigger than a three-pence. [_exeunt_. scene ii. _enter loveby and boy; followed by frances, bibber's wife_. _lov_. nay, the devil take thee, sweet landlady, hold thy tongue: was't not enough thou hast scolded me from my lodging, which, as long as i rent it, is my castle; but to follow me here to mr trice's, where i am invited; and to discredit me before strangers, for a lousy, paltry sum of money? _fran_. i tell you truly, mr loveby, my husband and i cannot live by love, as they say; we must have wherewithal, as they say; and pay for what we take; or some shall smoke fort. _lov_. smoke! why a piece of hung beef in holland is not more smoked, than thou hast smoked me already. thou knowest i am now fasting; let me have but fair play; when i have lined my sides with a good dinner, i'll engage upon reputation to come home again, and thou shall scold at me all the afternoon. _fran_. i'll take the law on you. _lov_. the law allows none to scold in their own causes: what dost thou think the lawyers take our money for? _fran_. i hope you intend to deal by my husband like a gentleman, as they say? _lov_. then i should beat him most unmercifully, and not pay him neither. _fran_. come, you think to fobb me off with your jests, as you do my husband; but it won't be: yonder he comes, and company with him. husband, husband! why, william, i say! _enter bibber, burr, and failer, at the other end_. _lov_. speak softly, and i will satisfy thee. _fran_. you shall not satisfy me, sir; pay me for what you owe me, for chamber-rent and diet, and many a good thing besides, that shall be nameless. _lov_. what a stygian woman's this, to talk thus? hold thy tongue 'till they be gone, or i'll cuckold thy husband. _fran_. you cuckold him--would you durst cuckold him! i will not hold my tongue, sir. _bib_. yonder's my guest; what say you, gentlemen? shall i call him to go down with us? _lov_. i must make a loose from her, there's no other way. save ye, mr failer; is your cousin trice stirring yet? answer me quickly, sir, is your cousin trice yet stirring? _fail_. i'll go and see, sir. sure the man has a mind to beat me; but i vow to gad i have no mind to be beaten by him. come away, burr. will, you follow us. _bib_. i'll be with you immediately. [_exeunt burr and failer_. _lov_. who was that with failer, will? _bib_. a man at arms, that's come from holland. _lov_. a man out at arms thou mean'st, will. _bib_. good, i'faith. _fran_. aye, aye; you run questing up and down after your gambols, and your jests, william; and never mind the main chance, as they say: pray get in your debts, and think upon your wife and children. _lov_. think upon the sack at carey-house, with the abricot flavour, will. hang a wife; what is she, but a lawful kind of manslayer? every little hug in bed is a degree of murdering thee: and for thy children, fear 'em not: thy part of 'em shall be taylors, and they shall trust; and those, thy customers get for thee, shall be gentlemen, and they shall be trusted by their brethren; and so thy children shall live by one another. _bib_. did you mark that, frances? there was wit now; he call'd me cuckold to my face, and yet for my heart i cannot be angry with him. i perceive you love frances, sir; and i love her the better for your sake; speak truly, do you not like such a pretty brown kind of woman? _lov_. i do i'faith, will; your fair women have no substance in 'em, they shrink in the wetting. _fran_. well, you may be undone if you will, husband: i hear there are two or three actions already out against him: you may be the last, if you think good. _bib_. tis true she tells me; i love your wit well, sir; but i must cut my coat according to my cloth. _fran_. sir, we'll come by our own as we can; if you put us oft' from week to week thus. _lov_. nay, but good landlady-- _fran_. will good landlady set on the pot, as they say; or make the jack go? then i'll hear you. _bib_. now she's too much on t'other hand; hold your prating, frances; or i'll put you out of your pater nosters, with a sorrow to you. _fran_. i did but lay the law open to him, as they say, whereby to get our money in: but if you knew how he had used me, husband! _bib_. has he used you, frances? put so much more into his bill for lodging. _lov_. honest will, and so he died[a]; i thank thee, little bibber, being sober, and, when i am drunk, i will kiss thee for't. [footnote a: this expression seems proverbial.] _bib_. thank me, and pay me my money, sir; though i could not forbear my jest, i do not intend to lose by you; if you pay me not the sooner, i must provide you another lodging; say i give you warning. _lov_. against next quarter, landlord? _bib_. of an hour, sir. _lov_. that's short warning, will. _bib_. by this hand you shall up into the garret, where the little bed is; i'll let my best room to a better pay-master: you know the garret, sir? _franc_. aye, he knows it, by a good token, husband. _lov_. i sweat to think of that garret, will; thou art not so unconscionable to put me there? why, 'tis a kind of little ease[b], to cramp thy rebellious prentices in; i have seen an usurer's iron chest would hold two on't: a penny looking-glass cannot stand upright in the window, that and the brush tills it: the hat-case must be disposed under the bed, and the comb-case will hang down, from the ceiling to the floor. if i chance to dine in my chamber, i must stay till i am empty before i can get out: and if i chance to spill the chamber-pot, it will overflow it from top to bottom. [footnote b: a kind of dungeon, so called from its construction.] _bib_. well, for the description of the garret, i'll bate you something of the bill. _lov_. all, all, good will; or, to stay thy fury till my rents come up, i will describe thy little face. _bib_. no, rather describe your own little money; i am sure that's so little it is not visible. _lov_. you are in the right, i have not a cross at present, as i am a sinner; an you will not believe me, i'll turn my pockets inside outward--ha! what's the meaning of this? my pockets heavy! has my small officer put in counters to abuse me?--how now! yellow boys, by this good light? sirrah, varlet, how came i by this gold? ha! _boy_. what gold do you mean, sir? the devil a piece you had this morning. in these last three weeks, i have almost forgot what my teeth were made for; last night good mrs bibber here took pity on me, and crumm'd me a mess of gruel with the children, and i popt and popt my spoon three or four times to my mouth, before i could find the way to't. _lov_. 'tis strange, how i should come by so much money! [_aside_.] has there been nobody about my chamber this morning, landlady? _boy_. o yes, sir; i forgot to tell you that: this morning a strange fellow, as ever eyes beheld, would needs come up to you, when you were asleep; but when he came down again, he said, he had not waked you. _lov_. sure this fellow, whoe'er he was, was sent by fortune to mistake me into so much money.--well, this is not the first time my necessities have been strangely supplied: some cadua or other has a kindness for me, that's certain: [_aside_.]--well, mons. bibber, from henceforward i'll keep my wit for more refined spirits; you shall be paid with dirt;--there's money for you. _bib_. nay, good sir. _lov_. what's your sum? tell it out: will the money burn your fingers? sirrah, boy, fetch my suit with the gold-lace at sleeves, from tribulation. [_gives him gold. exit boy_.] mr taylor, i shall turn the better bill-man[a], and knock that little coxcomb of yours, if you do not answer me what i owe you. [footnote a: alluding to the ancient weapon called the bill; a never-failing source of puns in old plays.] _bib_. pray, sir, trouble not yourself; 'tis nothing; i'feck now 'tis not. _lov_. how nothing, sir? _fran_. an't, please your worship, it was seventeen pounds and a noble yesterday at noon, your worship knows: and then your worship came home ill last night, and complained of your worship's head; and i sent for three dishes of tea for your good worship, and that was six pence more, and please your worship's honour. _lov_. well; there's eighteen pieces, tell 'em. _bib_. i say, frances, do not take 'em. _lov_, what, is all your pleading of necessity come to this? _bib_. now i see he will pay, he shall not pay. frances, go home, and fetch him the whole bag of forty pounds; i'll lend it him, and the lease of the house too; he shall want for nothing. _lov_. take the money, or i'll leave your house. _bib_. nay, rather than displease his worship, take it. [_she takes it_. _lov_. so, so; go home quietly and suckle my godson, frances. [_exit frances_. _bib_. if you are for the cellar, sir, you know the way. [_exit bibber_. _lov_. no, my first visit shall be to my mistress, the lady constance nonsuch. she's discreet, and how the devil she comes to love me, i know not; yet i am pretty confident she loves me. well, no woman can be wiser, than you-know-what will give her leave to be. _enter lady constance, and madam isabella_. _isa_. look, look; is not that your servant loveby? _lov_. tis she; there's no being seen, 'till i am better habited. [_exit_ loveby. _const_. let him go, and take no notice of him: poor rogue! he little thinks i know his poverty. _isa_. and less, that you supply it by an unknown hand. _const_. aye, and falsified my father's key to do it. _isa_. how can you answer this to your discretion? _const_. who could see him want, she loves? _enter setstone_. _isa_. o here's mr setstone come, your jeweller, madam. _const_. welcome, setstone; hast thou performed thy visit happily, and without discovery? _set_. as you would wish it, madam: i went up to his chamber without interruption; and there found him drowning his cares, and pacifying his hunger, with sleep; which advantage i took, and; undiscovered by him, left the gold divided in his pockets. _const_. well, this money will furnish him, i hope, that we may have his company again. _set_. two hundred and fifty good pounds, madam. has your father missed it yet? _const_. no; if he had, we should have all heard on't before now: but, pray god monsieur loveby has no other haunts to divert him, now he's ransomed! what a kind of woman is his landlady? _set_. well enough to serve a tailor; or to kiss when he comes home drunk, or wants money; but far unlikely to create jealousy in your ladyship. _enter servant_. _serv_. madam, justice trice desires your ladyship's excuse, that he has not yet performed the civilities of his hour to you; he is dispatching a little business, about which he is earnestly employed. _const_. he's master of his own occasions. [_exit servant_. _isa_. we shall see him anon, with his face as red as if it had been boiled in pump-water: but, when comes this mirror of knighthood, that is to be presented you for your servant? _const_. oh, 'tis well thought on; 'faith thou know'st my affections are otherwise disposed; he's rich, and thou want'st a fortune; atchieve him, if thou can'st; 'tis but trying, and thou hast as much wit as any wench in england. _isa_. on condition you'll take it for a courtesy to be rid of an ass, i care not if i marry him: the old fool, your father, would be so importunate to match you with a young fool, that, partly for quietness sake, i am content to take him. _const_. to take him! then you make sure on't. _isa_. as sure, as if the sack posset were already eaten. _const_. but, what means wilt thou use to get him? _isa_. i'll bribe failer; he's the man. _const_. why, this knight is his inheritance; he lives upon him: do'st thou think he'll ever admit thee to govern him? no, he fears thy wit too much: besides, he has already received an hundred pounds, to make the match between sir timorous and me. _isa_. 'tis all one for that; i warrant you, he sells me the fee-simple of him. _set_. your father, madam-- _enter_ nonsuch. _isa_. the tempest is risen; i see it in his face; he puffs and blows yonder, as if two of the winds were fighting upwards and downwards in his belly. _set_. will he not find your false keys, madam? _isa_. i hope he will have more humanity than to search us. _const_. you are come after us betimes, sir. _non_. oh child! i am undone; i am robbed, i am robbed; i have utterly lost all stomach to my dinner. _const_. robbed! good my lord, how, or of what? _non_. two hundred and fifty pounds, in fair gold, out of my study: an hundred of it i was to have paid a courtier this afternoon for a bribe. _set_. i protest, my lord, i had as much ado to get that parcel of gold for your lordship-- _non_. you must get me as much more against to-morrow; for then my friend at court is to pay his mercer. _isa_. nay, if that be all, there's no such haste: the courtiers are not so forward to pay their debts. _const_. has not the monkey been in the study? he may have carried it away, and dropt it under the garden-window: the grass is long enough to hide it. _non_. i'll go see immediately. _enter_ failer, burr, timorous. _fail_. this is the gentleman, my lord. _non_. he's welcome. _fail_. and this the particular of his estate. _non_. that's welcome too. _fail_. but, besides the land here mentioned, he has wealth in specie. _non_. a very fine young gentleman. _tim_. now, my lord, i hope there's no great need of wooing: i suppose my estate will speak for me; yet, if you please to put in a word-- _non_. that will i instantly. _tim_. i hope i shall have your good word, too, madam, to your cousin for me. [_to_ isabella. _isa_. any thing within my power, sir timorous. _non_. daughter, here's a person of quality, and one, that loves and honours you exceedingly-- _tim_. nay, good my lord! you discover all at first dash. _non_. let me alone, sir; have not i the dominion over my own daughter? constance, here's a knight in love with you, child. _const_. in love with me, my lord! it is not possible. _non_. here he stands, that will make it good, child. _tim_. who, i, my lord? i hope her ladyship has a better opinion of me than so. _non_. what! are not you in love with my daughter? i'll be sworn you told me so but even now: i'll eat words for no man. _tim_. if your ladyship will believe all reports, that are raised on men of quality-- _non_. he told it me with his own mouth, child: i'll eat words for no man; that's more than ever i told him yet. _fail_. you told him so but just now; fie, sir timorous. _non_. he shall have no daughter of mine, an he were a thousand knights; he told me, he hoped i would speak for him: i'll eat no man's words; that's more than ever i told him yet. _isa_. you need not keep such a pudder about eating his words; you see he has eaten 'em already for you. _non_. i'll make him stand to his words, and he shall not marry my daughter neither: by this good day, i will. [_exit_ nonsuch. _const_. 'tis an ill day to him; he has lost two hundred and fifty pounds in't. [_to_ isabella. _burr_. he swears at the rate of two thousand pounds a year, if the rump act were still in being. _fail_. he's in passion, man; and, besides, he has been a great fanatic formerly, and now has got a habit of swearing, that he may be thought a cavalier. _burr_. what noise is that? i think i hear your cousin trice's voice. _fail_. i'll go see. [_exit_ fail. _isa_. come, sir timorous, be not discouraged: 'tis but an old man's frowardness; he's always thus against rain. _enter_ failer. _fail_. o madam, follow me quickly; and if you do not see sport, melancholy be upon my head. [_exeunt_. scene iii. _the_ scene _changes, and_ trice _is discovered playing at tables by himself, with spectacles on, a bottle, and parmezan by him; they return and see him, undiscovered by him_. _trice_. cinque and quatre: my cinque i play here, sir; my quatre here, sir: now for you, sir: but first i'll drink to you, sir; upon my faith i'll do you reason, sir: mine was thus full, sir! pray mind your play, sir:--size ace i have thrown: i'll play 'em at length, sir. --will you, sir? then you have made a blot sir; i'll try if i can enter: i have hit you, sir. --i think you can cog a dye, sir. --i cog a dye, sir? i play as fair as you, or any man. --you lie, sir. --how! lie, sir? i'll teach you what 'tis to give a gentleman the lie, sir. [_throws down the tables_. [_they all laugh and discover themselves_. _isa_. is this your serious business? _trice_. o you rogue, are you there? you are welcome, huswife; and so are you, constance, _fa tol de re tol de re la_. [_claps their backs_. _isa_. pr'ythee be not so rude, trice. _trice_. huswife constance, i'll have you into my larder, and shew you my provision: i have cockles, dainty fat cockles, that came in the night; if they had seen the day, i would not have given a fart for 'em. i would the king had 'em. _const_. he has as good, i warrant you. _trice_. nay, that's a lie. i could sit and cry for him sometimes; he does not know what 'tis to eat a good meal in a whole year. his cooks are asses: i have a delicate dish of ruffs to dinner, sirrah. _const_. to dinner! _trice_. to dinner! why by supper they had been past their prime. i'll tell thee the story of 'em: i have a friend-- _enter servant_. _serv_. sir, dinner's upon the table. _trice_. well, well; i have a friend, as i told you-- _serv_. dinner stays, sir: 'tis dinner that stays: sure he will hear now. _trice_. i have a friend, as i told you-- _isa_. i believe he's your friend, you are so loth to part with him. _trice_. away, away;--i'll tell you the story between the courses. go you to the cook immediately, sirrah; and bring me word what we have to supper, before we go to dinner: i love to have the satisfaction of the day before me. [_exeunt_. act ii. scene i. _enter, as from dinner_, trice, timorous, failer, burr, constance, isabella. _trice_. speak thy conscience; was it not well dressed, sirrah? _tim_. what think you of the park, after our plenteous entertainment, madam? _isa_. i defy the park, and all its works. _const_. come, mr trice, we'll walk in your garden. [_exeunt all but_ failer _and_ burr. _fail_. o, one thing i had almost forgot to tell you; one of us two must ever be near sir timorous. _burr_. why? _fail_. to guard our interest in him from the enemy, madam isabella; who, i doubt, has designs upon him. i do not fear her wit, but her sex; she carries a prevailing argument about her. _enter_ bibber _with a bottle_. _bib_. by this hand, i have alight upon the best wine in your cousin's cellar; drink but one glass to me, to shew i am welcome, and i am gone. _fail_. here then, honest will; 'tis a cup of forbearance to thee. _bib_. thank you, sir, i'll pledge you--now here's to you again. _fail_. come away; what is't, will? _bib_. 'tis what you christened it, a cup of forbearance, sir. _fail_. why, i drank that to thee, will, that thou shouldst forbear thy money. _bib_. and i drink this to you, sir; henceforward i'll forbear working for you. _fail_. then say i: _take a little bibber, and threw him in the river; and if he will trust never, then there let him lie ever._ _bib_. then say i: _take a little failer, and throw him to the jailor; and there let him lie, till he has paid his tailor._ _burr_. you are very smart upon one another, gentlemen. _fail_. this is nothing between us; i use to tell him of his title, _fiery facias_; and his setting dog, that runs into ale-houses before him, and comes questing out again, if any of the woots, his customers, be within. _bib_. i'faith 'tis true; and i use to tell him of his two capon's tails about his hat, that are laid spread-eaglewise to make a feather; i would go into the snow at any time, and in a quarter of an hour i would come in with a better feather upon my head; and so farewel, sir; i have had the better on you hitherto, and for this time i am resolved to keep it. [_exit_ bibber. _fail_. the rogue's too hard for me; but the best on't is, i have my revenge upon his purse. _enter_ isabella. _isa_. came not sir timorous this way, gentlemen? he left us in the garden, and said he would look out my lord nonsuch, to make his peace with him. _fail_. madam, i like not your enquiring after sir timorous: i suspect you have some design upon him: you would fain undermine your cousin, and marry him yourself. _isa_. suppose i should design it, what are you the worse for my good fortune? shall i make a proposition to you? i know you two carry a great stroke with him: make the match between us, and propound to yourselves what advantages you can reasonably hope: you shall chouse him of horses, cloaths, and money, and i'll wink at it. _burr_. and if he will not be choused, shall we beat him out on't? _isa_. for that, as you can agree. _fail_. give us a handsel of the bargain; let us enjoy you, and 'tis a match. _isa_. grammercy i'faith, boys; i love a good offer, howe'er the world goes; but you would not be so base to wrong him that way? _fail_. i vow to gad but i would, madam: in a horse, or a woman, i may lawfully cheat my own father: besides, i know the knight's complexion; he would be sure to follow other women; and all that. _isa_. nay, if he fought with the sword, he should give me leave to fight with the scabbard. _burr_. what say you, madam? is't a bargain? _isa_. 'tis but a promise; and i have learnt a court trick for performing any thing [_aside_]. well, gentlemen, when i am married i'll think upon you; you'll grant there's a necessity i should cuckold him, if it were but to prove myself a wit. _fail_. nay, there's no doubt you'll cuckold him, and all that; for look you, he's a person fit for nothing else; but i fear we shall not have the graffing of the horns; we must have livery and seisin beforehand of you, or i protest to gad we believe you not. _isa_. i have past my word; is't not sufficient? what! do you think i would tell a lie to save such a paltry thing as a night's lodging?--hark you, sir. [to burr. _fail_. now will she attempt burr; egad, she has found him out for the weaker vessel. _isa_. i have no kindness for that failer; we'll strike him out, and manage sir timorous ourselves. _burr_. indeed we won't. _isa_. failer's a rook; and, besides, he's such a debauched fellow-- _burr_. i am ten times worse. _isa_. leave it, and him that taught it you: you have virtuous inclinations, and i would not have you ruin yourself. he, that serves many mistresses, surfeits on his diet, and grows dead to the whole sex: 'tis the folly in the world next long ears and braying. _burr_. now i'm sure you have a mind to me; when a woman once falls a preaching, the next thing is ever use and application. _isa_. forbear your rudeness!-- _burr_. then i am sure you mean to jilt me: you decline failer, because he has wit; and you think me such an ass, that you may pack me off so soon as you are married; no, no, i'll not venture certainties for uncertainties. _isa_. i can hold no longer;--mr failer, what do you think this fellow was saying of you? _fail_. of me, madam? _isa_. that you were one of the arrantest cowards in christendom, though you went for one of the dear hearts; that your name had been upon more posts than playbills; and that he had been acquainted with you these seven years, drunk and sober, and yet could never fasten a quarrel upon you. _burr_. do you believe this, dear heart? _isa_. if you deny it, i'll take his sword, and force you to confess it. _fail_. i vow to gad; this will not do, madam: you shall not set us at variance so easily; neither shall you have sir timorous. _isa_. no! then mark my words: i'll marry him in spite of you; and, which is worse, you shall both work my ends, and i'll discard you for your pains. _fail_. you shall not touch a bit of him: i'll preserve his humbles from you, egad; they shall be his keeper's fees[a]. [footnote a: the keeper of a royal forest had for his fees the skin, head, umbles (_i.e._ inwards), chine, and shoulders. holinshed's _chronicle_, vol. i. p. .] _burr_. she shall cut an atom sooner than divide us. [_exeunt_ burr _and_ failer. _enter_ constance. _const_. i have given 'em the slip in the garden, to come and overhear thee: no fat overgrown virgin of forty ever offered herself so dog-cheap, or was more despised; methinks now this should mortify thee exceedingly. _isa_. not a whit the more for that: cousin mine, our sex is not so easily put out of conceit with our own beauties. _const_. thou hast lost the opinion of thy honesty, and got nothing in recompence: now that's such an oversight in a lady-- _isa_. you are deceived; they think me too virtuous for their purpose; but i have yet another way to try, and you shall help me. _enter_ loveby, _new habited_. _const_. mr loveby, welcome, welcome: where have you been this fortnight? _lov_. faith, madam, out of town, to see a little thing that's fallen to me upon the death of a grandmother. _const_. you thank death for the windfall, servant: but why are you not in mourning for her? _lov_. troth, madam, it came upon me so suddenly, i had not time: 'twas a fortune utterly unexpected by me. _isa_. why, was your grandmother so young, you could not look for her decease? _lov_. not for that neither; but i had many other kindred, whom she might have left it to; only she heard i lived here in fashion, and spent my money in the eye of the world. _const_. you forge these things prettily; but i have heard you are as poor as a decimated cavalier, and had not one foot of land in all the world. _lov_. rivals' tales, rivals' tales, madam. _const_. where lies your land, sir? _lov_. i'll tell you, madam, it has upon it a very fair manor house; from one side you have in prospect an hanging garden. _isa_. who was hanged there? not your grandmother, i hope? _lov_. in the midst of it you have a fountain: you have seen that at hampton-court? it will serve to give you a slight image of it. beyond the garden you look to a river through a perspective of fruit-trees; and beyond the river you see a mead so flowery!--well, i shall never be at quiet, till we two make hay there. _const_. but where lies this paradise? _lov_. pox on't; i am thinking to sell it, it has such a villanous unpleasant name, it would have sounded so harsh in a lady's ear. but for the fountain, madam-- _const_. the fountain's a poor excuse, it will not hold water; come, the name, the name. _lov_. faith, it is come so lately into my hands, that i have forgot the name on't. _isa_. that's much, now, that you should forget the name, and yet could make such an exact description of the place. _lov_. if you would needs know, the name's bawdy.--sure this will give a stop to their curiosity. [_aside_. _isa_. at least you will tell us in what county it lies, that my cousin may send to enquire about it: come, this shall not serve your turn; tell us any town that's near it. _lov_. 'twill be somewhat too far to send; it lies in the very north of scotland. _isa_. in good time, a paradise in the highlands; is't not so, sir? _const_. it seems you went post, servant: in troth you are a rank rider, to go to the north of scotland, stay and take possession, and return again, in ten days time. _isa_. i never knew your grandmother was a scotch woman: is she not a tartar too? pray whistle for her, and let's see her dance; come--whist, grannee! _const_. fie, fie, servant; what, no invention in you? all this while a-studying for a name of your manor? come, come, where lies it? tell me. _lov_. no, faith, i am wiser than so; i'll discover my seat to no man; so i shall have some damned lawyer keep a prying into my title, to defeat me of it. _const_. how then shall i be satisfied, there is such a thing in nature? _lov_. tell me what jewel you would wear, and you shall have it: enquire into my money, there's the trial. _const_. since you are so flush, sir, you shall give me a locket of diamonds, of three hundred pounds. _isa_. that was too severe; you know he has but two hundred and fifty pounds to bestow. [_to her. lov_. well, you shall have it, madam: but i cannot higgle; i know you'll say it did not cost above two hundred pieces. _isa_. i'll be hanged if he does not present you with a parcel of melted flints set in gold, or norfolk pebbles. _lov_. little gentlewoman, you are so keen--madam, this night i have appointed business, to-morrow i'll wait upon you with it. [_exit_ loveby. _isa_. by that time he has bought his locket, and paid his landlady, all his money will be gone. but do you mean to prosecute your plot to see him this evening? _const_. yes, and that very privately; if my father know it, i am undone. _enter_ setstone. _isa_. i heard him say, this night he had appointed business. _set_. why, that was it, madam; according to your order, i put on a disguise, and found him in the temple-walks: having drawn him aside, i told him, if he expected happiness, he must meet me in a blind alley, i nam'd to him, on the back side of mr trice's house, just at the close of evening; there he should be satisfied from whom he had his supplies of money. _const_. and how did he receive the summons? _set_. like a bold hector of troy; without the least doubt or scruple: but, the jest on't was, he would needs believe that i was the devil. _const_. sure he was afraid to come then? _set_. quite contrary; he told me i need not be so shy, to acknowledge myself to him; he knew i was the devil; but he had learnt so much civility, as not to press his friend to a farther discovery than he was pleased. i should see i had to do with a gentleman; and any courtesy i should confer on him, he would not be unthankful; for he hated ingratitude of all things. _const_. 'twas well carried not to disabuse him: i laugh to think what sport i shall have anon, when i convince him of his lies, and let him know i was the devil, to whom he was beholden for his money: go, setstone; and in the same disguise be ready for him. [_exit_ setstone. _isa_. how dare you trust this fellow? _const_. i must trust some body: gain has made him mine, and now fear will keep him faithful. _to them_, burr, failer, timorous, trice, _and_ nonsuch. _fail_. pray, my lord, take no pique at it: 'tis not given to all men to be confident: egad, you shall see sir timorous will redeem all upon the next occasion. _non_. a raw miching boy. _isa_. and what are you but an old boy of five and fifty? i never knew any thing so humoursome--i warrant you, sir timorous; i'll speak for you. _non_. would'st thou have me be friends with him? for thy sake he shall only add five hundred a-year to her jointure, and i'll be satisfied: come you hither, sir. [_here_ trice _and_ nonsuch _and_ timorous _talk privately_; burr _with_ failer _apart_, constance _with_ isabella. _const_. you'll not find your account in this trick to get failer beaten; 'tis too palpable and open. _isa_. i warrant you 'twill pass upon burr for a time: so my revenge and your interest will go on together. _fail_. burr, there's mischief a-brewing, i know it by their whispering, i vow to gad: look to yourself, their design is on you; for my part, i am a person that am above 'em. _tim_. to _trice_. but then you must speak for me, mr trice: and you too, my lord. _non_. if you deny't again, i'll beat you; look to't, boy. _trice_. come on; i'll make the bargain. _isa_. you were ever good in a flesh-market. _trice_. come, you little harlotry; what satisfaction can you give me for running away before the ruffs came in? _const_. why, i left you to 'em, that ever invite your own belly to the greatest part of all your feasts. _trice_. i have brought you a knight here, huswife, with a plentiful fortune to furnish out a table; and what would you more? would you be an angel in heaven? _isa_. your mind's ever upon your belly. _trice_. no: 'tis sometimes upon yours: but, what say'st thou to sir timorous, little constance? _const_. would you have me married to that king midas's face? _trice_. midas me no midas; he's a wit; he understands eating and drinking well: _poeta coquus_, the heathen philosopher could tell you that. _const_. come on, sir: what's your will with me? [_laughs_. _tim_. why, madam, i could only wish we were a little better acquainted, that we might not laugh at one another so. _const_. if the fool puts forward, i am undone. _tim_. fool!--do you know me, madam? _const_. you may see i know you, because i call you by your name. _fail_. you must endure these rebukes with patience, sir timorous. _const_. what, are you planet struck? look you, my lord, the gentleman's tongue-tied. _non_. this is past enduring. _fail_. 'tis nothing, my lord;--courage, sir timorous. _non_. i say 'tis past enduring; that's more than ever i told you yet: do you come to make a fool of my daughter? _isa_. why lord-- _non_. why lady--[_exit_ nonsuch. _trice_. let's follow the old man, and pacify him. _isa_. now, cousin,--[_exeunt_ isa. trice, burr. _const_. well, mr failer, i did not think you, of all the rest, would have endeavoured a thing so much against my inclination, as this marriage: if you had been acquainted with my heart, i am sure you would not. _fail_. what can the meaning of this be? you would not have me believe you love me; and yet how otherwise to understand you i vow to gad i cannot comprehend. _const_. i did not say i loved you; but if i should take a fancy to your person and humour, i hope it is no crime to tell it you. women are tied to hard unequal laws: the passion is the same in us, and yet we are debarred the freedom to express it. you make poor grecian beggars of us ladies; our desires must have no language, but only be fastened to our breasts. _fail_. come, come; egad i know the whole sex of you: your love's at best but a kind: of blind-man's-buff, catching at him that's next in your way. _const_. well, sir, i can take nothing ill from you; when 'tis too late you'll see how unjust you have been to me. i have said too much already.--[_is going_. _fail_. nay stay, sweet madam! i vow to gad my fortune's better than i could imagine. _const_. no, pray let me go, sir; perhaps i was in jest. _fail_. really, madam, i look upon you as a person of such worth, and all that, that i vow to gad i honour you of all persons in the world; and though i am a person that am inconsiderable in the world, and all that, madam, for a person of your worth and excellency i would-- _const_. what would you, sir? _fail_. sacrifice my life and fortunes, i vow to gad, madam. _enter_ isabella, burr, _and_ timorous, _at a distance from them_. _isa_. there's failer close in talk with my cousin; he's soliciting your suit, i warrant you, sir timorous: do but observe with what passion he courts for you. _burr_. i do not like that kneading of her hand though. _isa_. come, you are such a jealous coxcomb: i warrant you suspect there's some amour between 'em; there can be nothing in't, it is so open: pray observe. _burr_. but how come you so officious, madam? you, that ere now had a design upon sir timorous for yourself? _isa_. i thought you had a better opinion of my wit, than to think i was in earnest. my cousin may do what she pleases, but he shall never pin himself upon me, assure him. _const_. to _fail_. sir timorous little knows how dangerous a person he has employed in making love.--[aloud. _burr_. how's this! pray, my lady constance, what's the meaning of that you say to failer? _fail_. what luck was this, that he should overhear you! pax on't! _const_. mr burr, i owe you not that satisfaction; what you have heard you may interpret as you please. _tim_. the rascal has betrayed me. _isa_. in earnest, sir, i do not like it. _fail_. dear mr burr, be pacified; you are a person i have an honour for; and this change of affairs shall not be the worse for you, egad, sir. _const_. bear up resolutely, mr failer; and maintain my favours, as becomes my servant. _burr_. he maintain 'em! go, you judas; i'll teach you what 'tis to play fast and loose with a man of war. [kicks him. _tim_. lay it on, burr. _isa_. spare him not, burr. _const_. fear him not, servant. _fail_. oh, oh! would nobody were on my side! here i am praised, i vow to gad, into all the colours of the rainbow. _const_. but remember 'tis for me. _burr_. as you like this, proceed, sir; but, come not near me to-night, while i'm in wrath. [_exeunt_ burr _and_ timorous. _const_. come, sir; how fare you after your sore trial? you bore it with a most heroic patience. _isa._ brave man at arms, but weak to balthazar[a]! [footnote a: alluding to the old play of hieronymo.] _fail_. i hope to gad, madam, you'll consider the merit of my sufferings. i would not have been beaten thus, but to obey that person in the world-- _const_. heaven reward you for't; i never shall. _fail_. how, madam! _isa_. art thou such an ass, as not to perceive thou art abused? this beating i contrived for you: you know upon what account; and have yet another or two at your service. yield up the knight in time, 'tis your best course. _fail_. then does not your ladyship love me, madam? _const_. yes, yes, i love to see you beaten. _isa_. well, methinks now you have had a hard bargain on't: you have lost your cully, sir timorous, and your friend, burr, and all to get a poor beating. but i'll see it mended against next time for you. [_exeunt_ constance _and_ isabella, _laughing_. _fail_. i am so much amazed, i vow to gad, i do not understand my own condition. [_exit_. scene ii. _enter_ loveby _solus, in the dark, his sword drawn, groping out his way_. _lov_. this is the time and place he pointed me, and 'tis certainly the devil i am to meet; for no mortal creature could have that kindness for me, to supply my necessities as he has done, nor could have done it in so strange a manner. he told me he was a scholar, and had been a parson in the fanatic's times: a shrewd suspicion it was the devil; or at least a limb of him. if the devil can send churchmen on his errands, lord have mercy on the laity! well, let every man speak as he finds, and give the devil his due; i think him a very honest and well-natured fellow; and if i hear any man speak ill of him, except it be a parson, that gets his living by it, i wear a sword at his service. yet, for all this, i do not much care to see him. he does not mean to hook me in for my soul, does he? if he does, i shall desire to be excused. but what a rogue am i, to suspect a person, that has dealt so much like a gentleman by me! he comes to bring me money, and would do it handsomely, that it might not be perceived. let it be as 'twill, i'll seem to trust him; and, then, if he have any thing of a gentleman in him, he wills corn to deceive me, as much as i would to cozen him, if i were the devil, and he jack loveby. _enter_ failer _at the other end of the stage_. _fail_. what will become of me to-night! i am just in the condition of an out-lying deer, that's beaten from his walk for offering to rut. enter i dare not, for burr. _lov_. i hear a voice, but nothing do i see. speak, what thou art? _fail_. there he is, watching for me. i must venture to run by him; and, when i am in, i hope my cousin trice will defend me. the devil would not lie abroad in such a night. _lov_. i thought it was the devil, before he named himself. [failer _goes to run off, and falls into_ loveby's _arms_. _lov_. honest satan, well encountered! i am sorry, with all my heart, it is so dark. 'faith, i should be very glad to see thee at my lodging; pr'ythee, let's not be such strangers to one another for the time to come. and what hast thou got under thy cloak there, little satan? i warrant thou hast brought me some more money. _fail_. help, help; thieves! thieves! [loveby _lets him go_. _lov_. this is failer's voice: how the devil was i mistaken! i must get off, ere company comes in. [_exit_ loveby. _fail_. thieves! thieves! _enter_ trice, burr, _and_ timorous, _undressed_. _all_. where! where! _fail_. one was here just now; and it should be loveby by his voice, but i have no witness. _trice_. it cannot be; he wants no money. _burr_. come, sirrah; i'll take pity on you to-night: you shall lie in the truckle-bed. _trice_. pox o' this noise! it has disturbed me from such a dream of eating!--[exeunt. act iii. scene i. _enter_ constance _and_ isabella. _const_. twas ill luck to have the meeting broke last night, just as setstone was coming towards him. _isa_. but, in part of recompence, you'll have the pleasure of putting him on farther straits. o, these little mischiefs are meat and drink to me. _const_. he shall tell me from whence he has his money: i am resolved now to try him to the utmost. _isa_. i would devise something for him to do, which he could not possibly perform. _const_. as i live, yonder he comes, with the jewel in his hand he promised me. pr'ythee, leave me alone with him. _isa_. speed the plough! if i can make no sport, i'll hinder none. i'll to my knight, sir timorous; shortly you shall hear news from dametas[a]. [footnote a: a foolish character in sir philip sidney's arcadia, who seems to have become proverbial.] [_exit_ isabella. _enter_ loveby. _lov_. look you, madam, here's the jewel; do me the favour to accept it, and suppose a very good compliment delivered with it. _const_. believe me, a very fair jewel. but why will you be at this needless charge? what acknowledgment do you expect? you know i will not marry you. _lov_. how the devil do i know that? i do not conceive myself, under correction, so inconsiderable a person. _const_. you'll alter your partial opinion, when i tell you, 'tis not a flash of wit fires me, nor is it a gay out-side can seduce me to matrimony. _lov_. i am neither fool, nor deformed, so much as to be despicable. what do i want? _const_. a good estate, that makes every thing handsome: nothing can look well without it. _lov_. does this jewel express poverty? _const_. i conjure you by your love to me, tell me one truth not minced by your invention, how came you by this jewel? _lov_. 'tis well i have a voucher. pray ask your own jeweller, setstone, if i did not buy it of him. _const_. how glad you are now, you can tell a truth so near a lie. but where had you the money, that purchased it? come--without circumstances and preambles-- _lov_. umph--perhaps, that may be a secret. _const_. say, it be one; yet he, that loved indeed, could not keep it from his mistress. _lov_. why should you be thus importunate? _const_. because i cannot think you love me, if you will not trust that to my knowledge, which you conceal from all the world beside. _lov_. you urge me deeply-- _const_. come, sweet servant, you shall tell me; i am resolved to take no denial. why do you sigh? _lov_. if i be blasted, it must out. _const_. either tell me, or resolve to take your leave for ever. _lov_. then know, i have my means,--i know not how. _const_. this is a fine secret. _lov_. why, then, if you will needs know, 'tis from the devil; i have money from him, what, and when i please. _const_. have you sealed a covenant, and given away your soul for money? _lov_. no such thing intended on my part. _const_. how then? _lov_. i know not yet what conditions he'll propose. i should have spoke with him last night, but that a cross chance hindered it. _const_. well, my opinion is, some great lady, that is in love with you, supplies you still; and you tell me an incredible tale of the devil, merely to shadow your infidelity. _lov_. devise some means to try me. _const_. i take you at your word. you shall swear freely to bestow on me whatever you shall gain this unknown way; and, for a proof, because you tell me you can have money, what, and when you please, bring me a hundred pounds ere night.--if i do marry him for a wit, i'll see what he can do; he shall have none from me. [_aside_. _lov_. you overjoy me, madam; you shall have it, an 'twere twice as much. _const_. how's this? _lov_. the devil a cross that i have, or know where to get; but i must promise well, to save my credit.--now, devil, if thou dost forsake me! [_aside_. _const_. i mistrust you; and, therefore, if you fail, i'll have your hand to show against you; here's ink and paper. [loveby _writes_. _enter_ burr, _and_ timorous. _burr_. what makes loveby yonder? he's writing somewhat. _tim_. i'll go see. [_looks over him_. _lov_. have you no more manners than to overlook a man when he's a writing?--oh! is't you, sir timorous? you may stand still; now i think on't, you cannot read written hand. _burr_. you are very familiar with sir timorous. _lov_. so am i with his companions, sir. _burr_. then there's hopes you and i may be better acquainted. i am one of his companions. _lov_. by what title? as you are an ass, sir? _const_. no more, loveby. _lov_. i need not, madam. alas! this fellow is only the solicitor of a quarrel, 'till he has brought it to an head; and will leave the fighting part to the courteous pledger. do not i know these fellows? you shall as soon persuade a mastiff to fasten on a lion, as one of those to engage with a courage above their own: they know well enough whom they can beat, and who can beat them. _enter _failer _at a distance_. _fail_. yonder they are: now, would i compound for a reasonable sum, that i were friends with burr. if i am not, i shall lose sir timorous. _const_. o, servant, have i spied you? let me run into your arms. _fail_. i renounce my lady constance: i vow to gad, i renounce her. _tim_. to your task, burr. _enter nonsuch and isabella_. _const_. hold, gentlemen! no sign of quarrel. _non_. o, friends! i think i shall go mad with grief: i have lost more money. _lov_. would i had it: that's all the harm i wish myself. your servant, madam; i go about the business. _exit loveby_. _non_. what! does he take no pity on me? _const_. pr'ythee, moan him, isabella. _isa_. alas, alas, poor uncle! could they find in their hearts to rob him! _non_. five hundred pounds, out of poor six thousand pounds a-year! i, and mine, are undone for ever. _fail_. your own house, you think, is clear, my lord? _const_. i dare answer for all there, as much as for myself. _burr_. oh, that he would but think that loveby had it! _fail_. if you'll be friends with me, i'll try what i can persuade him to. _burr_. here's my hand, i will, dear heart. _fail_. your own house being clear, my lord, i am apt to suspect this loveby for such a person. did you mark how abruptly he went out? _non_. he did indeed, mr failer. but why should i suspect him? his carriage is fair, and his means great; he could never live after this rate, if it were not. _fail_. this still renders him the more suspicious: he has no land, to my knowledge. _burr_. well said, mischief. [_aside_. _const_. my father's credulous, and this rogue has found the blind side of him; would loveby heard him! [_to_ isabella. _fail_. he has no means, and he loses at play; so that, for my part, i protest to gad, i am resolved he picks locks for his living. _burr_. nay, to my knowledge, he picks locks. _tim_. and to mine. _fail_. no longer ago than last night he met me in the dark, and offered to dive into my pockets. _non_. that's a main argument for suspicion. _fail_. i remember once, when the keys of the exchequer were lost in the rump-time, he was sent for upon an extremity, and, egad, he opens me all the locks with the blade-bone of a breast of mutton. _non_. who, this loveby? _fail_. this very loveby. another time, when we had sate up very late at ombre in the country, and were hungry towards morning, he plucks me out (i vow to gad i tell you no lie) four ten-penny nails from the dairy lock with his teeth, fetches me out a mess of milk, and knocks me 'em in again with his head, upon reputation. _isa_. thou boy! _non_. what shall i do in this case? my comfort is, my gold's all marked. _const_. will you suspect a gentleman of loveby's worth, upon the bare report of such a rascal as this failer? _non_. hold thy tongue, i charge thee; upon my blessing hold thy tongue. i'll have him apprehended before he sleeps; come along with me, mr failer. _fail_. burr, look well to sir timorous; i'll be with you instantly. _const_. i'll watch you by your favour. [_aside. [exeunt_ nonsuch _and_ failer, constance _following them_. _isa_. a word, sir timorous. _burr_. [gets _behind_.] she shall have a course at the knight, and come up to him, but when she is just ready to pinch, he shall give such a loose from her, shall break her heart. _isa_. burr there still, and watching us? there's certainly some plot in this, but i'll turn it to my own advantage. [_aside_. _tim. did you mark burr's retirement, madam? _isa_ ay; his guilt, it seems, makes him shun your company. _tim_. in what can he be guilty? _isa_. you must needs know it; he courts your mistress. _tim_. is he, too, in love with my lady constance? _isa_. no, no: but, which is worse, he courts me. _tim_. why, what have i to do with you? you know i care not this for you. _isa_. perhaps so; but he thought you did: and good reason for it. _tim_. what reason, madam? _isa_. the most convincing in the world: he knew my cousin constance never loved you: he has heard her say, you were as invincibly ignorant as a town-fop judging a new play: as shame-faced as a great overgrown school-boy: in fine, good for nothing but to be wormed out of your estate, and sacrificed to the god of laughter. _tim_. was your cousin so barbarous to say this? _isa_. in his hearing. _tim_. and would he let me proceed in my suit to her? _isa_. for that i must excuse him; he never thought you could love one of my cousin's humour; but took your court to her, only as a blind to your affection for me; and, being possessed with that opinion, he thought himself as worthy as you to marry me. _tim_. he is not half so worthy; and so i'll tell him, in a fair way. _burr_. [_to a boy entering_.] sirrah, boy, deliver this note to madam isabella; but be not known i am so near. _boy_. i warrant you, sir. _burr_. now, fortune, all i desire of thee is, that sir timorous may see it; if he once be brought to believe there is a kindness between her and me, it will ruin all her projects. _isa_. [_to the boy_.] from whom? _boy_. from mr burr, madam. _isa_. [reads.] _these for madam isabella. dear rogue, sir timorous knows nothing of our kindness, nor shall for me; seem still to have designs upon him; it will hide thy affection the better to thy servant,_ burr. _isa_. alas, poor woodcock, dost thou go a-birding? thou hast e'en set a springe to catch thy own neck. look you here, sir timorous; here's something to confirm what i have told you. [_gives him the letter_. _tim_. d, e, a, r, _dear_; r, o, g, u, e, _rogue_. pray, madam, read it; this written hand is such a damned pedantic thing, i could never away with it. _isa_. he would fain have robbed you of me: lord, lord! to see the malice of a man. _tim_. she has persuaded me so damnably, that i begin to think she's my mistress indeed. _isa_. your mistress? why, i hope you are not to doubt that, at this time of day. i was your mistress from the first day you ever saw me. _tim_. nay, like enough you were so; but i vow to gad now, i was wholly ignorant of my own affection. _isa_. and this rogue pretends he has an interest in me, merely to defeat you: look you, look you, where he stands in ambush, like a jesuit behind a quaker, to see how his design will take. _tim_. i see the rogue: now could i find in my heart to marry you in spite to him; what think you on't, in a fair way? _isa_. i have brought him about as i could wish; and now i'll make my own conditions. [_aside_.] sir timorous, i wish you well; but he i marry must promise me to live at london: i cannot abide to be in the country, like a wild beast in the wilderness, with no christian soul about me. _tim_. why, i'll bear you company. _isa_. i cannot endure your early hunting-matches there; to have my sleep disturbed by break of day, with heigh, jowler, jowler! there venus, ah beauty! and then a serenade of deep-mouthed curs, to answer the salutation of the huntsman, as if hell were broke loose about me: and all this to meet a pack of gentlemen savages, to ride all day, like mad-men, for the immortal fame of being first in at the hare's death: to come upon the spur, after a trial at four in the afternoon, to destruction of cold meat and cheese, with your lewd company in boots; fall a-drinking till supper time, be carried to bed, tossed out of your cellar, and be good for nothing all the night after. _tim_. well, madam, what is it you would be at? you shall find me reasonable to all your propositions. _isa_. i have but one condition more to add; for i will be as reasonable as you; and that is a very poor request--to have all the money in my disposing. _tim_. how, all the money? _isa_. ay, for i am sure i can huswife it better for your honour; not but that i shall be willing to encourage you with pocket-money, or so, sometimes. _tim_. this is somewhat hard. _isa_. nay, if a woman cannot do that, i shall think you have an ill opinion of my virtue: not trust your own flesh and blood, sir timorous? _tim_. well, is there any thing more behind? _isa_. nothing more, only the choice of my own company, my own hours, and my own actions: these trifles granted me, in all things of moment, i am your most obedient wife and servant, isabella. _tim_. is't a match, then? _isa_. for once i am content it shall; but 'tis to redeem you from those rascals, burr and failer--that way, sir timorous, for fear of spies; i'll meet you at the garden door.--[_exit_ timorous.] i have led all women the way, if they dare but follow me. _and now march off, if i can scape but spying, with my drums beating, and my colours flying_. [_exit_. _burr_. so, their wooing's at an end; thanks to my wit. _enter_ failer. _fail_. o burr! whither is it sir timorous and madam isabella are gone together? _burr_. adore my wit, boy; they are parted, never to meet again. _fail_. i saw them meet just now at the garden-door: so ho, ho, ho, who's within there! help here quickly, quickly. _enter_ nonsuch _and two servants_. _non_. what's the matter? _fail_. your niece isabella has stolen away sir timorous. _non_. which way took they? _fail_. follow me, i'll show you. _non_. break your necks after him, you idle varlets. [_exeunt_. scene ii. _enter_ loveby. loveby's _collar unbuttoned, band carelessly on, hat on the table, as new risen from sleep_. _lov_. boy! how long have i slept, boy? _enter boy_. _boy_. two hours and a half, sir. _lov_. what's a-clock, sirrah? _boy_. near four, sir. _lov_. why, there's it: i have promised my lady constance an hundred pounds ere night; i had four hours to perform it in, when i engaged to do it; and i have slept out more than two of them. all my hope to get this money lies within the compass of that hat there. before i lay down, i made bold a little to prick my finger, and write a note, in the blood of it, to this same friend of mine in t'other world, that uses to supply me: the devil has now had above two hours to perform it in; all which time i have slept, to give him the better opportunity: time enough for a gentleman of his agility to fetch it from the east indies, out of one of his temples where they worship him; or, if he were lazy, and not minded to go so far, 'twere but stepping over sea, and borrowing so much money out of his own bank at amsterdam: hang it, what's an hundred pounds between him and me? now does my heart go pit-a-pat, for fear i should not find the money there: i would fain lift it up to see, and yet i am so afraid of missing: yet a plague, why should i fear he'll fail me; the name of a friend's a sacred thing; sure he'll consider that. methinks, this hat looks as if it should have something under it: if one could see the yellow boys peeping underneath the brims now: ha! [_looks under round about_.] in my conscience i think i do. stand out o'the way, sirrah, and be ready to gather up the pieces, that will flush out of the hat as i take it up. _boy_. what, is my master mad, trow? [loveby _snatches up the hat, looks in it hastily, and sees nothing but the paper_. _low_. now, the devil take the devil! a plague! was ever man served so as i am! [_throws his hat upon the ground_.] to break the bands of amity for one hundred pieces! well, it shall be more out of thy way than thou imaginest, devil: i'll turn parson, and be at open defiance with thee: i'll lay the wickedness of all people upon thee, though thou art never so innocent; i'll convert thy bawds and whores; i'll hector thy gamesters, that they shall not dare to swear, curse, or bubble; nay, i'll set thee out so, that thy very usurers and aldermen shall fear to have to do with thee. [_a noise within of_ isabella _and_ frances. _enter_ frances, _thrusting back_ isabella _and_ timorous. _franc_. how now, what's the matter? _isa_. nay, sweet mistress, be not so hard-hearted; all i desire of you is but harbour for a minute: you cannot, in humanity, deny that small succour to a gentlewoman. _franc_. a gentlewoman! i thought so; my house, affords no harbour for gentlewomen: you are a company of proud harlotries: i'll teach you to take place of tradesmen's wives, with a wannion to you. _lov_. how's this! madam isabella! _isa_. mr loveby! how happy am i to meet with you in my distress! _lov_. what's the matter, madam? _isa_. i'll tell you, if this gentlewoman will give me leave. _franc_. no, gentlewoman, i will not give you leave; they are such as we maintain your pride, as they say. [isabella _and_ loveby _whisper_.] our husbands trust you, and you must go before their wives. i am sure my good-man never goes to any of your lodgings, but he comes home the worse for it, as they say. _lov_. is that all? pr'ythee, good landlady, for my sake entertain my friends. _franc_. if the gentleman's worship had come alone, it may be i might have entertained him; but for your minion! _enter_ nonsuch, failer, burr, _and officers. cry within, here, here_. _fail_. my lord, arrest sir timorous upon a promise of marriage to your daughter, and we'll witness it. _tim_. why, what a strange thing of you's this, madam isabella, to bring a man into trouble thus! _fail_. you are not yet married to her? _tim_. not that i remember. _isa_. well, failer, i shall find a time to reward your diligence. _lov_. if the knight would have owned his action, i should have taught some of you more manners, than to come with officers into my lodging. _franc_. i'm glad with all my heart this minx is prevented of her design: the gentleman had got a great catch of her, as they say. his old father in the country would have given him but little thanks for it, to see him bring down a fine-bred woman, with a lute, and a dressing-box, and a handful of money to her portion. _isa_. good mistress whatdeelack! i know your quarrel to the ladies; do they take up the gallants from the tradesmen's wives? lord, what a grievous thing it is, for a she citizen to be forced to have children by her own husband! _franc_. come, come, you're a slanderful huswife, and i squorn your harlotry tricks, that i do, so i do. _isa_. steeple-hat your husband never gets a good look when he comes home, except he brings a gentleman to dinner; who, if he casts an amorous eye towards you, then, "trust him, good husband, sweet husband, trust him for my sake: verily the gentleman's an honest man, i read it in his countenance: and if you should not be at home to receive the money, i know he will pay the debt to me." is't not so, mistress? _enter_ bibber _in slippers, with a skein of silk about his neck_. _franc_. will you see me wronged thus, under my own roof, as they say, william? _isa_. nay, 'tis very true, mistress: you let the men, with old compliments, take up new clothes; i do not mean your wife's clothes, mr merchant-tailor. _bib_. good, i'faith! a notable smart gentlewoman! _isa_. look to your wife, sir, or, in time, she may undo your trade; for she'll get all your men-customers to herself. _bib_. an' i should be hanged, i can forbear no longer. [_he plucks out his measure, and runs to_ isabella, _to take measure of her_. _isa_. how now! what means prince pericles by this? _bib_. [_on his knees_.] i must beg your ladyship e'en to have the honour to trust you but for your gown, for the sake of that last jest, flowered sattin, wrought tabby, silver upon any grounds; i shall run mad if i may not trust your ladyship. _franc_. i think you are mad already, as they say, william: you shall not trust her-- [_plucks him back_. _bib_. let me alone, frances: i am a lion when i am angered. _isa_. pray do not pull your lion by the tail so, mistress--in these clothes, that he now takes measure of me for, will i marry sir timorous; mark that, and tremble, failer. _fail_. never threaten me, madam; you're a person i despise. _isa_. i vow to gad, i'll be even with you, sir. [_exit_. _non_. [_to the bailiff's_.]--and when you have arrested him, be sure you search him for my gold. _bailiffs_. [_to_ loveby.] we arrest you, sir, at my lord nonsuch's suit. _lov_. me, you rascals! _non_. search him for my gold; you know the marks on't. _lov_. if they can find any marked or unmarked gold about me, they'll find more than i can. you expect i should resist now; no, no; i'll hamper you for this. _bail_. there's nothing to be found about him. _fail_. 'tis no matter, to prison with him; there all his debts will come upon him. _lov_. what, hurried to durance, like a stinkard! _job_. now, as i live, a pleasant gentleman; i could find in my heart to bail him; but i'll overcome myself, and steal away. [_is going_. _bail_. come, sir, we must provide you of another lodging; but i believe you'll scarce like it. _lov_. if i do not, i ask no favour; pray turn me out of doors. _bib_. turn him out of doors! what a jest was there? now, an' i should be hanged, i cannot forbear bailing him: stay, officers, i bail him body and soul for that jest. _fail_. let us begone in time, burr. [_exeunt_ burr, failer, _and_ timorous. _franc_. you shall not bail him. _bib_. i know i am a rogue to do it; but his wit has prevailed upon me, and a man must not go against his conscience. there, officers. _lov_. to _non_. old man, if it were not for thy daughter-- _non_. well, well; take your course, sir. [_exeunt_ nonsuch _and bailiffs_. _lov_. come, will, i'll thank thee at the tavern. frances, remember this the next time you come up to make my bed. _franc_. do your worst, i fear you not, sir. this is twice to day, william; to trust a gentlewoman, and bail a ragamuffin: i am sure he called you cuckold but yesterday, and said he would make you one. _lov_. look you, frances, i am a man of honour, and, if i said it, i'll not break my word with you. _bib_. there he was with you again, frances: an excellent good jest, i'faith la. _franc_. i'll not endure it, that i won't, so i won't: i'll go to the justice's worship, and fetch a warrant for him. _lov_. but, landlady, the word cuckold will bear no action in the law, except you could prove your husband prejudiced by it. have any of his customers forsook him for't? or any mercer refused to trust him the less, for my calling him so? _franc_. nay, i know not for the mercers; perhaps the citizens may take it for no slander among one another, as they say: but for the gentlemen-- _lov_. will, have they forsaken thee upon it? _bib_. no, i assure you, sir. _lov_. no, i warrant 'em: a cuckold has the signification of an honest well-meaning citizen; one, that is not given to jealousies or suspicions; a just person to his wife, &c.; one that, to speak the worst of him, does but to her, what he would be content should be done to her by other men. _franc_. but that another man should be the father of his children, as they say; i don't think that a civil thing, husband. _lov_. not civil, landlady! why all things are civil, that are made so by custom. _bib_. why may not he get as fine children as i, or any man? _franc_. but if those children, that are none of yours, should call you father, william! _bib_. if they call me father, and are none of mine, i am the more beholden to 'em. _franc_. nay, if that be your humour, husband, i am glad i know it, that i may please you the better another time, as they say. [_exit_ frances. _bib_. nay, but frances, frances! 'tis such another woman. [_exit_ bibber. _lov_. 'tis such another man:--my coat and sword, boy, i must go to justice trice's; bring the women; and come after me. [_exit_ loveby. act iv. scene i. _a table set with cards upon it_. trice _walking: enter servant_. _serv_. sir, some company is without upon justice-business. _trice_. saucy rascal, to disturb my meditations. [_exit servant_.--ay, it shall be he: jack loveby, what think'st thou of a game at piquet, we two, hand to fist? you and i will play one single game for ten pieces: 'tis deep stake, jack, but 'tis all one between us two: you shall deal, jack:--who i, mr justice! that's a good one; you must give me use for your hand then; that's six i'the hundred.--come, lift, lift;--mine's a ten; mr justice:--mine's a king; oh ho, jack, you deal. i have the advantage of this, i'faith, if i can keep it. [_he deals twelve a piece, two by two, and looks on his own cards_.] i take seven, and look on this--now for you, jack loveby. _enter_ loveby _behind_. _lov_. how's this? am i the man he fights with? _trice_. i'll do you right, jack; as i am an honest man, you must discard this; there's no other way: if you were my own brother, i could do no better for you.--zounds, the rogue has a quint-major, and three aces younger hand.--[_looks on the other cards_.] stay; what am i for the point? but bare forty, and he fifty-one: fifteen, and five for the point, twenty, and three by aces, twenty-three; well, i am to play first: one, twenty-three; two, twenty-three; three, twenty-three; four, twenty-three;--pox on't, now i must play into his hand: five:--now you take it, jack;--five, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, and the cards forty. _lov_. hitherto it goes well on my side.-- _trice_. now i deal: how many do you take, jack? all. then i am gone: what a rise is here! fourteen by aces, and a sixieme-major; i am gone, without looking into my cards.--[_takes up an ace and bites it_.] ay, i thought so: if ever man play'd with such cursed fortune, i'll be hanged, and all for want of this damned ace--there's your ten pieces, with a pox to you, for a rooking beggarly rascal as you are. loveby _enters_. _lov_. what occasion have i given you for these words, sir? rook and rascal! i am no more rascal than yourself, sir. _trice_. how's this! how's this! _lov_. and though for this time i put up, because i am a winner-- [_snatches the gold_. _trice_. what a devil do'st thou put up? not my gold, i hope, jack? _lov_. by your favour, but i do; and 'twas won fairly: a sixieme, and fourteen by aces, by your own confession,--what a pox, we don't make childrens' play, i hope? _trice_. well, remember this, jack; from this hour i forswear playing with you when i am alone; what, will you bate me nothing on't? _lov_. not a farthing, justice; i'll be judged by you; if i had lost, you would have taken every piece on't: what i win, i win--and there's an end. _enter servant_. _serv_. sir, these people stay without, and will not be answered. _trice_. well, what's their business? _serv_. nay, no great matter; only a fellow for getting a wench with child. _trice_. no great matter, say'st thou? 'faith, but it is. is he a poor fellow, or a gentleman? _serv_. a very poor fellow, sir. _trice_. hang him, rogue; make his mittimus immediately; must such as he presume to get children? _lov_. well considered: a poor lousy rascal, to intrench upon the game of gentlemen! he might have passed his time at nine-pins, or shovel-board; that had been fit sport for such as he: justice, have no mercy on him. _trice_. no, by the sword of justice will i not. _lov_. swear'st thou, ungracious boy[a]? that's too much, on the other hand, for a gentleman. i swear not, i drink not, i curse not, i cheat not; they are unnecessary vices: i save so much out of those sins, and take it out in that one necessary vice of wenching. [footnote a: henry iv. part . act ii. scene .] _enter_ loveby's _boy_. _boy_. sir, the parties are without, according to your order. _lov_. 'tis well; bring 'em in, boy. _enter lady du_ lake, _and two or three whores_. justice, i recommend this ancient gentlewoman, with these virtuous ladies, to thy patronage; for her part, she is a person of exemplary life and behaviour; of singular conduct to break through, and patience to bear the assaults of fortune: a general benefactress of mankind, and, in fine, a promoter of that great work of nature, love. _trice_. or, as the vulgar translation hath it, a very sufficient and singular good bawd: is't not so, boy? _lov_. ay, boy: now for such a pettifogging fellow as thy clerk to persecute this lady; pr'ythee think on't: tis a grievance of the free-born subject. _l. du lake_. to see the ingratitude of this generation! that i, that have spent my youth; set at nought my fortune; and, what is more dear to me, my honour, in the service of gentlemen; should now, in my old age, be left to want and beggary, as if i were the vilest and most unworthy creature upon god's earth! [_crying_. _lov_. nay, good mother, do not take it so bitterly. _l. du lake_. i confess, the unkindness of it troubles me. _lov_. thou shalt not want, so long as i live.--look, here's five pieces of cordial gold, to comfort thy heart with: i won it, e'en now, off mr justice; and i dare say he thinks it well bestowed. _trice_. my money's gone to very pious uses. _l. du lake_. [_laying her hand on_ loveby's _head_.] son loveby, i knew thy father well; and thy grandfather before him. fathers they were both to me; and i could weep for joy to see how thou tak'st after them. [_weeping again_.] i wish it lay in my power too to gratify this worthy justice in my vocation. _trice_. 'faith, i doubt i am past that noble sin. _lov_. pr'ythee, good magistrate, drink to her, and wipe sorrow from her eyes. _trice_. right reverend, my service to you in canary. [_she drinks after him, and stays at half a glass_. _l. du lake_. 'tis a great way to the bottom; but heaven is all-sufficient to give me strength for it. [_drinks it up_.] why, god's blessing on your heart, son trice! i hope 'tis no offence to call you son? hem!--hem!--son loveby, i think my son trice and i are much of the same years: let me see, son, if nature be utterly extinct in you: are you ticklish, son trice? [_tickles him_. _trice_. are you ticklish, mother du lake? [_tickles her sides. she falls off her chair; he falls off his to her; they roll one over the other_. _lov_. i would have all london now show me such another sight of kindness in old age. [_they help each other up_.] come, a dance, a dance; call for your clerk, justice; he shall make one, in sign of amity. strike up, fidlers! [_they dance a round dance, and sing the tune_. _enter_ isabella _and_ constance. _isa_. are you at that sport, i'faith? have among you, blind harpers. [_she falls into the dance_. [_at the dance's ending_, loveby _sees_ constance. _trice_. is she come? a pox of all honest women at such a time! _lov_. if she knows who these are, by this light, i am undone. _const_. oh, servant! i come to mind you of your promise. come, produce my hundred pounds; the time's out i set you. _lov_. not till dark night, upon my reputation! i have not yet spoke with the gentleman in the black pantaloons; you know he seldom walks abroad by day-light. dear madam, let me wait on you to your coach; and, if i bring it not within this hour, discard me utterly. _const_. you must give me leave to salute the company. what are they? _lov_. persons of quality of my acquaintance; but i'll make your excuse to 'em. _const_. nay, if they are persons of quality, i shall be rude to part from 'em so abruptly. _lov_. why so?--the devil owed me a shame; and now he has paid me. i must present 'em, whate'er come on't. [_aside_.]--this, madam, is my lady du lake--the lady springwell--the lady hoyden. [_she and_ isabella _salute them_. _isa_. what a whiff was there came from my lady hoyden; and what a garlic breath my lady springwell had! _trice_. ha, ha, ha, ha! _lov_. do not betray me, justice; if you do--[_aside_. _isa_. oh, are you thereabouts, sir? then i smell a rat, i'faith; but i'll say nothing. [_aside_. _const_. ladies, i am an humble servant to you all; and account it my happiness to have met with so good company at my cousin trice's. _trice_. ha, ha, ha! _l. du lake_. are these two ladies of your acquaintance, son loveby? _lov_. son, quoth a'! a pox of our relation! [_aside_. _l. du lake_. i shall be glad to be better known to your ladyships. _const_. you too much honour your servants, madam. _isa_. how loveby fidges up and down! in what pain he is! well, if these be not they, they call whores, i'll be hanged, though i never saw one before. [_aside_. _lov_. will your ladyship please to go, madam? _const_. i must beg the favour of these ladies first, that i may know their lodgings, and wait on them. _l. du. lake_. it will be our duty to pay our respects first to your ladyship. _const_. i beg your ladyship's pardon, madam-- _l. du lake_. your ladyship shall excuse us, madam-- _isa_. trice. ha, ha, ha! _low_. ah, devil grin you! [_aside_. _trice_. i must go out, and laugh my belly-full. [_exit_ trice. _const_. but in earnest, madam, i must have no denial; i beseech your ladyship instruct me, where i may tender my devoirs. _l. du lake_. since your ladyship commands me, madam, i dare disobey no longer. my lodgings are in st lucknor's lane, at the cat and fiddle. _const_. whereabouts is that lane, servant? _lov_. faith, madam, i know not that part o'the town.--lord, how i sweat for fear! [_aside_. _const_. and yours, madam, where, i beseech your ladyship? _ whore_. in dog and bitch yard, an't please your ladyship. _ whore_. and mine in sodom, so like your ladyship. _const_. how, loveby! i did not think you would have used me thus? _lov_. i beseech your ladyship, but hear my justification as i lead you. _const_. by no means, sir; that were such a rudeness to leave persons of quality, to wait upon me: unhand me, sir. _isa_. ha, ha, ha!--[_exeunt_ const. isa. _lov_. i am ruined! for ever ruined. plague, had you no places in the town to name, but sodom, and lucknor's lane, for lodgings! _l. du lake_. if any prejudice arise from it, upon my honour, son, 'twas by mistake, and not intended you: i thought she desired to have been admitted of the quality. _lov_. i was curst, when i had first to do with you. [_kicks them_. _l. du lake_. well, i thank heaven, that has indued me with such patience. [_exeunt all but_ loveby _and his boy_. _lov_. i have made a fair hand on't to-day;--both lost my mistress, and hear no news from my friend below: the world frowns upon me, and the devil and my mistress have forsaken me: my godfathers and godmothers have promised well for me: instead of renouncing them, they have renounced me. _boy_. sir, i saw my lady constance smile as she went out: i am confident she's angry but from the teeth outwards: you might easily make fair weather with her, if you could get the money you promised her, but there's the devil-- _lov_. where is he, boy? shew me him quickly. _boy_. marry, god bless us! i mean, sir, there's the difficulty. _lov_. damned rogue, to put me in hope so-- _enter_ bibber _at the other end_. _lov_. uds so, look where bibber is: now i think on't, he offered me a bag of forty pounds, and the lease of his house yesterday: but that's his pocky humour; when i have money, and do not ask him, he will offer it; but when i ask him, he will not lend a farthing.--turn this way, sirrah, and make as though we did not see him. _bib_. our gentleman, i think, a-talking with his boy there. _lov_. you understand me?-- _boy_. i warrant you, sir. _lov_. no news yet; what an unlucky rascal 'tis! if the rogue should hereafter be reduced to the raiment of his own shreds, i should not pity him. _bib_. how's this! _lov_. now is this rascal hunting after jests, to make himself the greatest to all that know him. _bib_. this must be me. _boy_. i can hear neither tale nor tidings of him: i have searched him in all his haunts; amongst his creditors; and in all companies where they are like to break the least jest. i have visited the coffee-houses for him; but among all the news there, i heard none of him. _bib_. good, i' faith. _lov_. where's the warrant? i'll put in my own name, since i cannot find him. _boy_. sir, i gave it a scrivener at next door, because i could not write, to fill up the blank place with mr bibber's name. _lov_. what an unlucky vermin 'tis! now, for an hundred pound, could i have gratified him with a waiter's place at the custom-house, that had been worth to him an hundred pound a-year upon the nail. _bib_. could you so, could you so, sir? give me your hand, and i thank you heartily, mr loveby. _lov_. art thou honest will? faith, 'tis not worth thy thanks, till it be done: i wish i had the money for thee. _bib_. how much is't, sir? _lov_. an hundred pounds would do it. _bib_. let me see: forty, i have already by me; take that in part, sir;--and that, and the lease of my house, would over-do it. _lov_. by all means thy lease, will: ne'er scruple at that; hang a piece of parchment, and two bits of soft wax! thou shalt do't, thou shalt, boy. _bib_. why, then i will, sir:--but stay, stay: now i think on't, frances has one hundred and twenty pieces of old grandam-and-aunt gold left her, that she would never let me touch: if we could get that, mr loveby! but she'll never part with it. _lov_. tis but saying the place is for her; a waiting woman's place in the custom-house: boy, go, and tell her on't immediately. [_exit boy_ _bib_. hold a little; she has been very desirous to get a place in court, that she might take place as the queen's servant. _lov_. she shall have a dresser's place, if thou'lt keep counsel. the worst on't is, i have never a warrant ready. _bib_. 'tis all one for that, sir; she can neither write nor read; 'tis but my telling her 'tis a warrant, and all's well. i can't but laugh to think how she'll be choused. _lov_. and you too: [_aside_.] mum, she's here, will. _enter_ frances. _franc_. a waiting-woman's place in the custom-house! there's news for me! thank you, kind mr loveby; you have been instrumental, i hear, of my preferment. _lov_. no, 'tis a dresser's place at court, landlady. _franc_. o gemini! that's better news. _bib_. aye, but you must make haste and fetch an hundred pieces: i can assure you five hundred are bidden for it: and the courtiers are such slippery youths, they are ever for the fairest chapman. _franc_. i'll fetch it presently;--oh how my heart quops now, as they say: i'll fetch it presently: sweet mr loveby, if the business can be done, it shall be a good thing in your worship's way, i promise you: o the father! that it could be done: o sweet father! [loveby _plucks out a paper_. _lov_. here, mr bibber, pray put in madam bibber's name into the warrant. _bib_. madam bibber! there's joy!--i must call you wife no more, 'tis madam bibber now. _franc_. pray read it, mr bibber. _bib_. an order for the admission of the illustrious lady, madam bibber, into her majesty's service. _franc_. pray give me the paper, i'll have nobody touch it but myself; i am sure my money pays for it, as they say. these are the finest words; madam bibber! pray, chicken, shew me where madam is written, that i may kiss it all over. i shall make bold now to bear up to those flirting gentlewomen, that sweep it up and down with their long tails. i thought myself as good as they, when i was as i was; but now i am as i am. _lov_. good landlady, dispatch, and bring the money-- _franc_. truly, in the place of a dresser, i dare be bold to say, as they say, i shall give their majesties worships good content: i'll go fetch it. [_exit_ frances. _bib_. we must keep the poor soul in ignorance as long as we can, sir; for when she has once smoked it, i have no other way but to retreat into the body of my janizaries, my journey-men; and never come out into her presence more. where will you be at nine o'clock, sir, that we may rejoice over our good fortune? _lov_. call me at my lord nonsuch's house, and i'll go with you. _bib_. we'll have the fiddles, and triumph, i'faith. [_exit_ bibber. _lov_. lord, how eager this vermin was to cheat himself! well, i'll after; i long to finger these jacobus's: perhaps they may make my peace again with my mistress. [_exit _loveby. scene ii. _enter_ failer _and_ nonsuch. [constance _and_ isabella _listening_.] _fail_. i vow to gad, my lord, sir timorous is the most dejected person in the world, and full of regret for what is past. 'twas his misfortune to be drawn in by such a person as madam isabella. _non_. tis well his estate pleads for him; he should ne'er set foot more within my doors else. _fail_. i'll be security for him for time to come: leave it to me to get the licence: all i desire is, your daughter may be ready to-morrow morning. _non_. well, let me alone with her. [_exeunt_ failer _and_ nonsuch. _isa_. you heard the dreadful sound, to-morrow, cousin. _const_. i would not throw myself away upon this fool, if i could help it. _isa_. better marry a tertian ague than a fool, that's certain; there's one good day and night in that. _const_. and yet thou art mad for him thyself. _isa_. nay, the fool is a handsome fool, that's somewhat; but 'tis not that; 'tis a kind of fancy i have taken to a glass coach, and six flanders mares; rich liveries, and a good fortune. _const_. pr'ythee do not mind me of 'em; for though i want 'em not, yet i find all women are caught with gaieties: one grain more would turn the balance on his side; i am so vexed at the wild courses of this loveby. _isa_. vexed? why vexed? the worst you can say of him is, he loves women: and such make the kindest husbands, i'm told. if you had a sum of money to put out, you would not look so much whether the man were an honest man, (for the law would make him that) as if he were a good sufficient pay-master. _enter_ setstone. _const_. as i live, thou art a mad girl. _set_. she must be used as mad folks are then; had into the dark and cured. _const_. but all this is no comfort to the word, to-morrow. _isa_. well, what say you, if i put you to-night into the arms of loveby? _const_. my condition's desperate, and past thy physic. _isa_. when physic's past, what remains but to send for the divine? here's little nicodemus, your father's chaplain: i have spoke with him already; for a brace of angels he shall make all sure betwixt you without a license; aye, and prove ten at night a more canonical hour than ten i'the morning. _const_. i see not which way thou can'st perform it; but if thou do'st, i have many admirations in store for thee. [_whispers_. _isa_. step in, and get a cushion underneath your apron. _const_. o, i must be with child, it seems! _isa_. and loveby shall bring you to bed to-night, if the devil be not in the dice: away, make haste;--[_exit_ constance.] setstone, be not you far off: i shall have need of you too: i hear my uncle coming--methinks i long to be revenged of this wicked elder, for hindering of my marriage to-day: hark you, setstone-- [_whispers;_ _set_. tis impossible, madam; 'twill never take. _isa_. i warrant you; do not i know him? he has not brains enough, if they were buttered, to feed a blackbird--nay, no replies--out of what i have said, you may instruct my cousin too. [_exit_ setstone. _enter_ nonsuch. _isa_. oh, are you there, sir? faith, it was kindly done of you to hinder me of a good husband this afternoon: and but for one thing, i would resolve to leave your house. _non_. i'm glad there's any thing will stay thee. _isa_. if i stay, 'tis for love of my cousin constance, not of you: i should be loth to leave her in this sad condition. _non_. what condition? _isa_. nay, i know not; she has not worn her busk this fortnight. i think she's grown fat o'the sudden. _non_. o devil, devil! what a fright i'm in! _isa_. she has qualms too every morning: ravens mightily for green fruit; and swoons at the sight of hot meat. _non_. she's with child: i am undone! i am undone! _isa_. i understand nothing of such matters: she's but in the next room; best call her, and examine her about it. _non_. why constance, constance! _enter_ constance, _as with child_. _isa_. now for a broad-side; turn your prow to him, cousin. [_to her_. _non_. now, gentlewoman! is this possible? _const_. i do not reach your meaning, sir. _non_. where have you been of late? _const_. i seldom stir without you, sir: these walls most commonly confine me. _non_. these walls can get no children; nor these hangings; though there be men wrought in 'em. _isa_. yet, by your favour, nuncle, children may be wrought behind the hangings. _non_. o constance, constance! how have my grey hairs deserved this of thee? who got that belly there? _const_. you, i hope, sir. _non_. tell me the truth, for i will know it; come, the story. _const_. the story's quickly told, sir; i am with child. _non_. and who is the father? _const_. i do not know, sir. _non_. not know! went there so many to't? _const_. so far from that, that there were none at all, to my best knowledge, sir. _non_. was't got by miracle? who was the father? _const_. who got your money, sir, that you have lost? _non_. nay, heaven knows who got that. _const_. and, heaven knows who got this: for, on my conscience, he, that had your money, was the father on't. _non_. the devil it was as soon. _const_. that's all i fear, sir. _isa_. 'tis strange;--and yet 'twere hard, sir, to suspect my cousin's virtue, since we know the house is haunted. _non_. 'tis true, that nothing can be laid, though under lock and key, but it miscarries. _isa_. 'tis not to be believed, what these villainous spirits can do: they go invisible. _const_. first, they stole away my prayer-book; and, a little after that, a small treatise i had against temptation; and when they were gone, you know, sir-- _isa_. if there be such doings, pray heaven we are not all with child. 'tis certain, that none live within these walls, but they have power of: i have reared toby, the coachman, any time this fortnight. _non_. out, impudence! a man with child! why 'tis unnatural. _isa_. ay, so is he that got it. _non_. thou art not in earnest? _isa_. i would i were not:--hark! i hear him groan hither. come in, poor toby. _enter_ toby, _the coachman, with an urinal_. _non_. how now! what have you there, sirrah? _tob_. an't please your worship, 'tis my water. i had a spice o'the new disease here i'the house; and so carried it to master doctor. _non_. well; and what did he say to you? _tob_. he told me very sad news, an' please you: i am somewhat bashful to speak on't. _isa_. out with it, man. _tob_. why, truly, he told me, the party that owned the water was with child. _isa_. i told you so, uncle. _non_. to my best remembrance, i never heard of such a thing before. _tob_. i never stretch out myself to snap my whip, but it goes to the heart of me. _isa_. alas, poor toby! _non_. begone, and put off your livery, sirrah!--you shall not stay a minute in my service. _tob_. i beseech your good worship, be good to me; 'twas the first fault i ever committed in this kind. i have three poor children by my wife; and if you leave me to the wide world, with a new charge upon myself-- _non_. begone! i will not hear a word. _tob_. if i must go, i'll not go alone: ambrose tinis, the cook, is as bad as i am. _non_. i think you'll make me mad. call the rascal hither! i must account with him on another score, now i think on't. _enter_ ambrose tinis. _non_. sirrah, what made you send a pheasant with one wing to the table yesterday? _amb_. i beseech your worship to pardon me; i longed for't. _isa_. i feared as much. _amb_. and i beseech your worship let me have a boy, to help me in the kitchen; for i find myself unable to go through with the work. besides, the doctor has warned me of stooping to the fire, for fear of a mischance. _non_. why, are you with child, sirrah? _amb_. so he tells me; but, if i were put to my oath, i know not that ever i deserved for't. _non_. still worse and worse. and here comes setstone groaning. _enter_ setstone. _set_. o, sir! i have been so troubled with swooning fits; and have so longed for cherries! _non_. he's poopt too. _isa_. well, this is not the worst yet: i suspect something more than i will speak of. _non_. what dost thou suspect, ha! _isa_. is not your lordship with child, too? _non_. who, i with child! marry, heaven forbid! what dost thou see by me, to ground it on? _isa_. you're very round of late;--that's all, sir. _non_. round! that's only fat, i hope. i have had a very good stomach of late, i'm sure. _isa_. alas, and well you may;--you eat for two, sir. _non_. setstone, look upon me, and tell me true: do you observe any alteration in me? _set_. i would not dishearten your ladyship--your lordship, i would say--but i have observed, of late, your colour goes and comes extremely. methinks your lordship looks very sharp, and bleak i'the face, and mighty puffed i'the body. _non_. o, the devil! wretched men, that we are all! nothing grieves me, but that, in my old age, when others are past child-bearing, i should come to be a disgrace to my family. _const_. how do you, sir? your eyes look wondrous dim. is not there a mist before 'em? _isa_. do you not feel a kicking in your belly--when do you look, uncle? _non_. uh, uh!--methinks, i am very sick o'the sudden. _isa_. what store of old shirts have you against the good time? shall i give you a shift, uncle? _non_. here's like to be a fine charge towards! we shall all be brought to-bed together! well, if i be with devil, i will have such gossips: an usurer, and a scrivener, shall be godfathers. _isa_. i'll help you, uncle; and sawney's two grannies shall be godmothers. the child shall be christened by the directory; and the gossips' gifts shall be the gude scotch kivenant. _const. set. non. tob. amb_. uh! uh! uh! _isa_. what rare music's here! _non_. whene'er it comes from me, 'twill kill me; that's certain. _set_. best take a vomit. _isa_. an't come upward, the horns will choke him. _non_. mass! and so they will. _isa_. your only way, is to make sure o'the man-midwife. _non_. but my child's dishonour troubles me the most. if i could but see her well married, before i underwent the labour and peril of child-bearing!--what would you advise, niece? _isa_. that which i am very loth to do. send for honest jack loveby, and let him know the truth on't: he's a fellow without a fortune, and will be glad to leap at the occasion. _non_. but why loveby, of all the world? 'tis but staying 'till to-morrow, and then sir timorous will marry her. _const_. uh!--i swell so fast, i cannot hide it 'till to-morrow. _isa_. why, there's it now! _non_. i'll send for the old alderman, getwell, immediately: he'll father the devil's bastard, i warrant you. _isa_. fie, uncle! my cousin's somewhat too good yet for an alderman. if it were her third child, she might hearken to you. _non_. well, since it must be so, setstone, go you to loveby; make my excuse to him for the arrest, and let him know, what fortune may attend him. _isa_. mr setstone, pray acquaint him with my cousin's affection to him; and prepare him to father the cushion underneath her petticoat. [_aside to_ setstone. _exit_.] _set_. i'll bring him immediately. _isa_. when he comes, uncle, pray cover your great belly with your hat, that he may not see it. _non_. it goes against my heart to marry her to this loveby; but, what must be, must be. _enter_ loveby. _const_. o, mr loveby! the welcomest man alive! you met setstone, i hope, that you came so opportunely? _lov_. no, faith, madam; i came of my own accord. _isa_. 'tis unlucky; he's not prepared. _lov_. look you, madam, i have brought the hundred pounds; the devil was as punctual as three o' clock at a playhouse. here; 'tis right, i warrant it, without telling: i took it upon his word. [_gives it_. _const_. your kindness shall be requited, servant: but i sent for you upon another business. pray, cousin, tell it him, for i am ashamed to do't. _lov_. ha! 'tis not that great belly, i hope. is't come to that? _isa_. hark you, mr loveby; a word with you. _lov_. a word with you, madam: whither is your cousin bound? _isa_. bound, sir? _lov_. ay, bound: look you, she's under sail, with a lusty fore-wind. _non_. i sent for you, sir; but, to be plain with you, 'twas more out of necessity than love. _lov_. i wonder, my lord, at your invincible ill-nature. you forget the arrest, that i passed by: but this it is to be civil to unthankful persons; 'tis feeding an ill-natured dog, that snarls while he takes victuals from your hand. _non_. all friends! all friends! no ripping up old stories; you shall have my daughter. _lov_. faith, i see your lordship would let lodgings ready furnished; but i am for an empty tenement. _non_. i had almost forgot my own great belly. if he should discover that too! [_claps his hat before it_. _isa. [to lov_.] you will not hear me, sir. 'tis all roguery, as i live. _lov_. flat roguery, i'll swear! if i had been father on't, nay, if i had but laid my breeches upon the bed, i would have married her: but i see we are not ordained for one another. [_is going_. _non_. i beseech you, sir. _lov_. pray cover, my lord. _isa_. he does his great belly, methinks. _non_. i'll make it up in money to you. _lov_. that cannot tempt me. i have a friend, that shall be nameless, that will not see me want; and so, your servant. [_exit_ loveby. _isa_. i'll after, and bring him back. _non_. you shall not stir after him;--does he scorn my daughter? _isa_. lord, how fretful you are! this breeding makes you so peevish, uncle. _non_. 'tis no matter, she shall straight be married to sir timorous. _const_. i am ruined, cousin. [_aside_. _isa_. i warrant you.--my lord, i wish her well married to sir timorous; but loveby will certainly infect him with the news of her great belly. _non_. i'll dispatch it, ere he can speak with him. _isa_. whene'er he comes, he'll see what a _bona roba_ she is grown. _non_. therefore, it shall be done i'the evening. _isa_. it shall, my lord. _const_. shall it? [aside. _isa_. let me alone, cousin.--and to this effect she shall write to him, that, to conform to your will, and his modesty, she desires him to come hither alone this evening. _non_. excellent wench!--i'll get my chaplain ready. [_exit_ nonsuch. _const_. how can you hope to deceive my father? _isa_. if i don't, i have hard luck. _const_. you go so strange a way about, your bowl must be well bias'd to come in. _isa_. so plain a ground, there's not the least rub in't. i'll meet sir timorous in the dark; and, in your room, marry him. _const_. you'll be sure to provide for one. _isa_. you mistake me, cousin:--oh! here's setstone again. _enter_ setstone. mr jeweller, you must again into your devil's shape, and speak with loveby. but pray be careful not to be discovered. _set_. i warrant you, madam. i have cozened wiser men than he in my own shape; and, if i cannot continue it in a worse, let the devil, i make bold with, e'en make as bold with me. _isa_. you must guide him, by back ways, to my uncle's house, and so to my cousin's chamber, that he may not know where he is when he comes there. the rest i'll tell you as we go along. [_exeunt_. scene iii. _enter_ timorous; _after him_ burr _and_ failer. _tim_. here, here, read this note; there's news for us. _fail_. let me see't. [_reads_. _sir timorous, be at the garden-door at nine this evening; there i'll receive you with my daughter. to gratify your modesty i designed this way, after i had better considered on it: and pray leave your caterpillars, burr and failer, behind you. yours,_ nonsuch. there is some trick in this, whate'er it be. but this word, caterpillars--you see, burr, sir timorous is like to be lured from us. [_aside_. _burr_. is there no prevention? [_aside_. _fail_. one way there is.--sir timorous, pray walk a turn, while burr and i confer a little upon this matter.--look you, burr, there is but one remedy in nature, i vow to gad; that is, for you to have a new sir timorous, exceeding this person in bounty to you. observe, then; in sir timorous' place will i go, and, egad, i'll marry my lady constance; and then, from the bowels of friendship, bless thee with a thousand pounds, besides lodging and diet for thy life, boy. _burr_. umph, very well thought on.--no, sir! you shall trust to my bounty; i'll go in his place. murmur or repine, speak the least word, or give thy lips the least motion, and i'll beat thee till thou art not in condition to go. _fail_. i vow to gad, this is extreme injustice.--was it not my invention? _burr_. why, dost thou think thou art worthy to make use of thy own invention?--speak another word, d'ye see!--come, help me quickly to strip sir timorous; his coat may conduce to the deceit.--sir timorous, by your leave. [_fatts on him_. _tim_. o, lord! what's the matter?--murder? murder! _burr_. d'ye open? i have something in my pocket that will serve for a gag, now i think on't. [_gags, and binds him_. so, lie there, knight. come, sir, and help to make me sir timorous; and, when i am married, remember to increase your manners with my fortune.--yet we'll always drink together. [_exeunt_. act v. scene i. _enter_ constance, isabella, _and_ nonsuch. _const_. this is just the knight's hour; and lovers seldom come after their time. _non_. good night, daughter; i'll to bed, and give you joy to-morrow morning. [_exit_. _isa_. i'm glad he's gone: what, your train takes? _const_. yes, yes; loveby will come: setstone has been with him in disguise; and promised him golden mountains, if he will not be wanting to his own fortune. _isa_. is your habit provided too? _const_. all is ready. _isa_. away then; for this is the place where we must part like knights errant, that take several paths to their adventures. _const_. 'tis time, for i hear somebody come along the alley; without question 'tis timorous. farewell; the chaplain stays for me in the chamber. _isa_. and i'll post after you to matrimony; i have laid a fresh parson at the next stage, that shall carry me tantivy. [_exit_ constance. _enter_ burr _with_ timorous's _coat on_. _burr_. my lady constance! _isa_. the same: sir timorous? _burr_. the same. _isa_. sir timorous takes me for my cousin. [_aside_. _burr_. my lady constance mistakes me for the knight. [_aside_. _isa_. here, sir; through the dark walk: 'tis but a little way about--he's my own beyond redemption-- [_aside_. _burr_. the indies are mine; and a handsome lady into the bargain. [_excunt_. _enter_ failer, _dogging them, as they go off_. _fail_. he shall be hanged, ere he shall get her. thus far i have dogged them, and this way i am sure they must pass, ere they come to the house. the rogue had got the old dog-trick of a statesman; to fish things out of wiser heads than his own, and never so much as to take notice of him that gave the counsel-- _enter isabella and burr again_. now, if i can but give her the hint without his knowledge!--madam--my lady constance! _isa_. what voice is that? _fail_. a word in private, or you are undone--pray step aside. _burr._ where are you, madam? _isa_. immediately, sir timorous. _fail_. you are mistaken, madam; 'tis not sir timorous, but burr in his clothes; he has stripped the knight, gagged him, and locked him up. _isa_. failer? _fail_. the same. i could not but prevent your unhappiness, though i hazard my person in the discovery, i vow to gad, madam. _burr_. who's that talks to you, my lady constance? _isa_. a maid of my acquaintance, that's come to take her leave of me before i marry; the poor soul does so pity me. _burr_. how will that maid lie, thinking of you and me to-night! _isa_. has he the key about him? [_to failer_. _fail_. i think so, madam. _isa_. could not you possibly pick his pocket, and give me the key? then let me alone to release sir timorous; and you shall be witness of the wedding. _fail_. egad, you want your cousin isabella's wit to bring that to pass, madam. _isa_. i warrant you, my own wit will serve to fool burr--and you too, or i am much deceived. [_aside_. _fail_. i am a little apprehensive of the rascal's fingers, since i felt them last; and yet my fear has not power to resist the sweet temptation of revenge; i vow to gad i'll try, madam. _isa_. never fear; let me alone to keep him busy. _burr_. come, madam, and let me take off these tasteless kisses the maid gave you; may we not join lips before we are married? _isa_. no; fie, sir timorous. [_they struggle a little, and in that time failer picks his pocket of the key_. _fail_. i have it--here it is--now, shift for yourself, as i'll do; i'll wait you in the alley. [_exit_. _isa_. sir timorous, pray go into my chamber, and make no noise till i return; i'll but fetch the little man of god, and follow you in a twinkling. _burr_. there's no light, i hope? _isa_. not a spark. _burr_. for to light me to the mark-- [_exit_. _isa_. what a scowering have i 'scaped to-night! fortune, 'tis thou hast been ingenious for me! allons, isabella! courage! now to deliver my knight from the enchanted castle. [_exit_. _enter loveby, led by setstone, antickly habited; with a torch in one hand, and a wand in the other_. _lov_. what art thou, that hast led me this long hour through lanes and alleys, and blind passages? _set_. i am thy genius; and conduct thee to wealth, fame, and honour; what thou comest to do, do boldly; fear not; with this rod i charm thee; and neither elf nor goblin now can harm thee. _lov_. well, march on; if thou art my genius, thou art bound to be answerable for me; i'll have thee hanged, if i miscarry. _set_. fear not, my son. _lov_. fear not, quotha! then, pr'ythee, put on a more familiar shape:--one of us two stinks extremely: pr'ythee, do not come so near me; i do not love to have my face bleached like a tiffany with thy brimstone. _set_. fear not, but follow me. _lov_. 'faith, i have no great mind to't; i am somewhat godly at present; but stay a month longer, and i'll be proud, and fitter for thee. in the mean time, pr'ythee, stay thy stomach with some dutchman; an hollander, with butter, will fry rarely in hell. _set_. mortal, 'tis now too late for a retreat; go on, and live; step back, and thou art mine. _lorn_. so i am, however, first or last; but for once i'll trust thee. [_exeunt_. scene ii. _the scene opens, and discovers constance, and a parson by her; she habited like fortune. enter again_. _set_. take here the mighty queen of good and ill, fortune; first marry, then enjoy thy fill of lawful pleasures; but depart ere morn; slip from her bed, or else thou shalt be torn piecemeal by fiends; thy blood caroused in bowls, and thy four quarters blown to the top of paul's. _lov_. by your favour, i'll never venture. is marrying the business? i'll none, i thank you. [_here constance whispers setstone_. _set_. fortune will turn her back if twice denied. _lav_. why, she may turn her girdle too on t'other side[a]. this is the devil; i will not venture on her. [footnote a: a usual expression of indifference for a man's displeasure.] _set_. fear not; she swears thou shalt receive no harm. _lov_. ay, if a man durst trust her; but the devil is got into such an ill name of lying-- _set_. whene'er you are not pleased, it shall be lawful to sue out your divorce. _lov_. ay, but where shall i get a lawyer? there you are aforehand with me; you have retained most of them already. for the favours i have received, i am very much her servant; but, in the way of matrimony, mr parson there can tell you 'tis an ordinance, and must not be entered into without mature deliberation; besides, marriages, you know, are made in heaven; and that i am sure this was not. _set_. she bids you then, at least, restore that gold, which she, too lavishly, poured out on you, unthankful man. _lov_. faith, i have it not at present; 'tis all gone, as i am a sinner; but, 'tis gone wickedly; all spent in the devil her father's service. _set_. where is the grateful sense of all your favours? come, fiends, with flesh-hooks, tear the wretch in pieces, and bear his soul upon your leather wings, below the fountain of the dark abyss. _lov_. what, are you a-conjuring? if you are good at that sport, i can conjure as well as you--[_draws his sword_. _const_. hold; for heaven's sake, hold! i am no spirit; touch but my hand; ghosts have no flesh and blood. [_discovering_. _lov_. my lady constance! i began to suspect it might be a trick, but never could imagine you the author. it seems you are desirous i should father this _hans en kelder_ here? _const_. i know not how, without a blush, to tell you, it was a cheat i practised for your love. _set_. a mere tympany, sir, raised by a cushion; you see 'tis gone already. _const_. setstone was sent to have acquainted you; but, by the way, unfortunately missed you. _lev_. twas you, then, that supplied me all this while with money? pretty familiar, i hope to make thee amends ere i sleep to-night. come, parson, pr'ythee make haste and join us. i long to be out of her debt, poor rogue. [_the parson takes them to the side of the stage; they turn their backs to the audience, while he mumbles to them_. _set_. i'll be the clerk; amen--give you joy, mr bridegroom, and mrs bride. _lov. const_. thanks, honest setstone. [_bibber, frances, and music without--they play_. _music_. god give your worship a good even, mr loveby. _const_. hark! what noise is that! is this music of your providing, setstone? _set_. alas, madam, i know nothing of it. _lov_. we are betrayed to your father; but the best on't is, he comes too late to hinder us--fear not, madam, i'll bear you through them all. [_as they rush out, bibber, frances, and music are entering in; bibber and frances are beaten down.--exeunt loveby; constance, setstone, and parson_. _all cry out_. oh the devil! the devil! the devil! _bib_. lord bless us, where are you, frances! _fran_. here, william! this is a judgment, as they say, upon you, william, for trusting wits, and calling gentlemen to the tavern, william. _bib_. no; 'twas a judgment upon you, for desiring preferment at court, frances. let's call up the watch, and justice trice, to have the house searched. _fran_. ay, ay; there's more devils there, i warrant you. [_exeunt_. _enter loveby, constance, and setstone again_. _lov_. it was certainly will bibber and his wife, with music; for, now i remember myself, i 'pointed him this hour at your father's house: but we frighted them worse than they frighted us. _const_. our parson ran away too, when they cried out the devil! _lov_. he was the wiser; for if the devil had come indeed, he has preached so long against him, it would have gone hard with him. _set_. indeed, i have always observed parsons to be more fearful of the devil than other people. _lov_. oh, the devil's the spirit, and the parson's the flesh; and betwixt those two there must be a war; yet, to do them both right, i think in my conscience they quarrel only like lawyers for their fees, and meet good friends in private, to laugh at their clients. _const_. i saw him run in at my cousin isabella's chamber door, which was wide open; i believe she's returned: we'll fetch a light from the gallery, and give her joy. _lov_. why, is she married, madam? _const_. i'll tell you as we go. [_exeunt_. scene iii. _burr and the parson enter, meeting in the dark_. _burr_. my lady constance, are you come again? that's well; i have waited sufficiently for you in the dark. _par_. help, help, help, good christian people! the devil, the devil's here. _burr_. 'tis i, madam; what do you mean? _par_. avoid, satan! avoid, avoid. _burr_. what have i here, the hairy woman? _enter loveby, and constance with the light_. ha! yonder's my lady constance! who have i got? a stone priest, by this good light. how's this, loveby too! _lov_. burr a-beating my reverend clergy? what makes you here at this unseasonable hour? i'll know your business. [_draws_. _burr_. will you, sir? [_they fight_. _const. set. par_. help, murder, murder! _enter, at one door, trice drunk, with the watch; bibber and frances following; at the other, nonsuch and servants, and failer_. _non_. murder, murder! beat down their weapons. will you murder sir timorous, mr loveby?--[_they disarm both_.] sir timorous?--ha, burr! thieves, thieves!--sit down, good mr justice, and take their examinations. now i shall know how my money went. _trice_. they shall have justice, i warrant them. [_goes to sit, and misses the chair_. _bib_. the justice is almost dead drunk, my lord. _fran_. but an't please your worship, my lord, this is not the worst sight that we have seen here to-night in your worship's house; we met three or four hugeous ugly devils, with eyes like saucers, that threw down my husband, that threw down me, that made my heart so panck ever since, as they say!-- _non_. the devil again in my house? _lov_. nay, here he was, that's certain; he brought me hither, i know not how myself, and married me; mr setstone there can justify it: but the best is, i have a charm about me, that will lay him yet ere midnight. _fail_. and i vow to gad, my lord, i know as little how i came hither as any man. _burr_. nor i. _trice_. nor i. _lot_. no, i dare swear do'st thou not, mr justice. _trice_. but i wonder how the devil durst come into our ward, when he knows i have been at the duties of--my family--this evening. _enter one of the watch, with_ timorous _and_ isabella. _watch_. an please your worship, i met this couple in the street late, and so, seeing them to be a man and woman, i brought them along with me, upon suspicion of felony together. _fran_. this is the proud minx, that sought shelter in my house this afternoon, mr justice. _fail_. sir timorous and madam isabella! i vow to gad, we are undone, burr.-- _isa_. do not you know me, mr justice? _lov_. justice is blind, he knows nobody. _isa_. my name is isabella. _fran_. no, thy name is jezebella; i warrant you, there's none but rogues and papists would be abroad at this time of night. _bib_. hold, frances.-- _trice_. she's drunk, i warrant her, as any beast. i wonder, woman, you do not consider what a crying sin drunkenness is: whom do you learn it from in our parish? i am sure you never see me worse. _isa_. burr and failer, acknowledge yourselves a couple of recreant knights: sir timorous is mine: i have won him in fair field from you. _const_. give you joy, cousin, give you joy! _lov_. married! _isa_. and in diana's grove, boy. _lov_. why, 'tis fine, by heaven; 'tis wondrous fine; as the poet goes on sweetly. _tim_. i am sure they had gagged me, and bound me, and stripped me almost stark naked, and locked me up as fast as a butterfly, 'till she came and made me a man again; and therefore i have reason to love her the longest day i have to live. _isa_. ay, and the longest night too, or you are to blame. and you have one argument i love you, if the proverb be true, for i took you almost in your bare shirt. _burr_. so much for us, failer! _const_. well, my lord, it had as good out at first as at last: i must beg your lordship's blessing for this gentleman and myself. [_both kneel_. _non_. why, you are not married to him, i hope! he's married to the devil. _lov_. 'twas a white devil of your lordship's getting, then; mr setstone and the reverend here can witness it. _set. par_. we must speak truth, my lord. _non_. would i had another child for your sake! you should ne'er see a penny of my money. _lov_. thank you, my lord; but methinks 'tis much better as it is. _isa_. come, nuncle, 'tis in vain to hold out, now 'tis past remedy: 'tis like the last act of a play, when people must marry; and if fathers will not consent then, they should throw oranges at them from the galleries. why should you stand off, to keep us from a dance? _non_. but there's one thing still that troubles me; that's her great belly, and my own too. _const_. nay, for mine, my lord, 'tis vanished already; 'twas but a trick to catch the old one. _lov_. but i'll do my best; she shall not be long without another. _isa_. but as for your great belly, nuncle, i know no way to rid you on't, but by taking out your guts. _lov_. 'tis such a pretty smart rascal, 'tis well i am pleased with my own choice: but i could have got such hectors, and poets, and gamesters, out of thee!-- _const_. no, no; two wits could never have lived well together; want would have so sharpened you upon one another. _isa_. a wit should naturally be joined to a fortune; by the same reason your vintners feed their hungry wines. _const_. and if sir timorous and i had married, we two fortunes must have built hospitals with our money; we could never have spent it else. _lov_. or what think you of paying courtiers' debts with it? _isa_. well, to shew i am in charity with my enemies, i'll make a motion: while we are in town, let us hire a large house, and live together: burr and failer-- _fail_. shall be utterly discarded; i knew 'twould come to that, i vow to gad. _isa_. shall be our guests. [_burr and failer throw up their caps, and cry, vive madam isabella!_ _lov_. and bibber shall make our wedding clothes without trusting. _bib_. no, henceforward i'll trust none but landed men, and such as have houses and apple-trees in the country, now i have got a place in the custom-house. _fran_. nothing vexes me, but that this flirting gentlewoman should go before me; but i'll to the herald's office, and see whether the queen's majesty's dresser, should not take place of any knight's wife in christendom. _bib_. now all will out--no more, good frances. _fran_. i will speak, that i will, so i will: what! shall i be a dresser to the queen's majesty, and nobody must know on't? i'll send mr church-warden word on't; and, gentlemen, when you come to st bride's church (if ever you come to church, gentlemen), you shall see me in the pew that's next the pulpit; thank mr loveby's worship for it. _lov_. spare your thanks, good landlady; for the truth is, they came too late, the place is gone; and so is yours, will; but you shall have two hundred pounds for one, if that will satisfy you. _fran_. this is bitter news, as they say. _lov_. cheer up thy wife, will. where are the fiddles? a dance should do it. _bib_. i'll run and call them. _isa_. i have found out that, will comfort her: henceforward i christen her by the name of madam bibber. _all_. a madam bibber, a madam bibber! _fran_. why, i thank you, sweet gentlemen and ladies; this is a cordial to my drooping spirits: i confess i was a little eclipsed; but i'll cheer up with abundance of love, as they say. strike up, fiddles. _lov_. that's a good wench. dance. _trice_. this music and a little nod has recovered me. i'll in, and provide for the sack posset. _non_. to bed, to bed; 'tis late. son loveby, get me a boy to-night, and i'll settle three thousand a-year upon him the first day he calls me grandsire. _lov_. i'll do my best, to make the bargain sure before i sleep. where love and money strike, the blow goes deep. [_exeunt omnes_. epilogue, when it was first acted. the _wild gallant_ has quite played out his game; he's married now, and that will make him tame; or if you think marriage will not reclaim him, the critics swear they'll damn him, but they'll tame him. yet, though our poet's threatened most by these, they are the only people he can please: for he, to humour them, has shown to-day, that which they only like, a wretched play: but though his play be ill, here have been shown the greatest wits, and beauties of the town; and his occasion having brought you here, you are too grateful to become severe. there is not any person here so mean, but he may freely judge each act and scene: but if you bid him chuse his judges, then, he boldly names true english gentlemen: for he ne'er thought a handsome garb or dress so great a crime, to make their judgment less: and with these gallants he these ladies joins, to judge that language, their converse refines. but if their censures should condemn his play, far from disputing, he does only pray he may leander's destiny obtain: now spare him, drown him when he comes again. epilogue, when revived. of all dramatic writing, comic wit, as 'tis the best, so 'tis most, hard to hit. for it lies all in level to the eye, where all may judge, and each defect may spy. humour is that, which every day we meet, and therefore known as every public street; in which, if e'er the poet go astray, you all can point, 'twas there he lost his way. but, what's so common, to make pleasant too, is more than any wit can always do. for 'tis like turks, with hen and rice to treat; to make regalios out of common meat. but, in your diet, you grow savages: nothing but human flesh your taste can please; and, as their feasts with slaughtered slaves began, so you, at each new play, must have a man. hither you come, as to see prizes fought; if no blood's drawn, you cry, the prize is naught. but fools grow wary now; and, when they see a poet eyeing round the company, straight each-man for himself begins to doubt; they shrink like seamen when a press comes out. few of them will be found for public use, except you charge an oaf upon each house, like the train bands, and every man engage for a sufficient fool, to serve the stage. and when, with much ado, you get him there, where he in all his glory should appear, your poets make him such rare things to say, that he's more wit than any man i' th' play: but of so ill a mingle with the rest, as when a parrot's taught to break a jest. thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show, as tawdry squires in country churches do. things well considered, 'tis so hard to make a comedy, which should the knowing take, that our dull poet, in despair to please, does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease. 'tis a land-tax, which he's too poor to pay; you therefore must some other impost lay. would you but change, for serious plot and verse, this motely garniture of fool and farce, nor scorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home, which does, like vests, our gravity become, our poet yields you should this play refuse: as tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lose, with some content, their fripperies of france, in hope it may their staple trade advance. the rival ladies, a tragi-comedy the rival ladies. this play, like that which preceded it, is a drama of intrigue, borrowed from the spanish, and claiming merit only in proportion to the diversity and ingenuity of the incidents represented. on this point every reader can decide for himself; and it would be an invidious task to point out blemishes, where, to own the truth, there are but few beauties. the ease with which the affections of almost every female in the drama are engrossed by gonsalvo, and afterwards transferred to the lovers, upon whom the winding up of the plot made it necessary to devolve them, will, it is probable, strike every reader as unnatural. in truth, when the depraved appetite of the public requires to be gratified by trick and bustle, instead of nature and sentiment, authors must sacrifice the probable, as well as the simple, process of events. the author seems principally to have valued himself on this piece, because it contains some scenes executed in rhyme, in what was then called the heroic manner. upon this opinion, which dryden lived to retract, i have ventured to offer my sentiments in the life of the author. in other respects, though not slow in perceiving and avouching his own merit, our author seems to consider the "rival ladies" as no very successful dramatic effort. the "rival ladies" is supposed to have been first acted in , and was certainly published in the year following. of its success we know nothing particular. it is probable, the flowing verse, into which some part of the dialogue is thrown, with the strong point and antithesis, which distinguishes dryden's works, and particularly his argumentative poetry, tended to redeem the credit of the author of the "wild gallant." the right honourable roger, earl of orrery[ ]. [footnote : this distinguished person was fifth son of richard boyle, known by the title of the great earl of cork. his first title was lord broghill, under which he distinguished himself in ireland. cromwell, although his lordship was a noted royalist, and in actual correspondence with the exiled monarch, had so much confidence in his honour and talents, that he almost compelled him to act as lord lieutenant of that kingdom, under the stipulation that he was to come under no oaths, and only to act against the rebel irish, then the common enemy. he was instrumental in the restoration, and created earl of orrery by charles ii, in , he deserved dryden's panegyric in every respect, except as a poet--the very character, however, in which he is most complimented, and perhaps was best pleased to be so. he wrote, st, the art of war-- d, parthenissa, a romance-- d, some poems-- th; eight plays-- th, state tracts.] my lord, this worthless present was designed you long before it was a play; when it was only a confused mass of thoughts, tumbling over one another in the dark; when the fancy was yet in its first work, moving the sleeping images of things towards the light, there to be distinguished, and then either chosen or rejected by the judgment; it was yours, my lord, before i could call it mine. and, i confess, in that first tumult of my thoughts, there appeared a disorderly kind of beauty in some of them, which gave me hope, something, worthy my lord of orrery, might be drawn from them: but i was then in that eagerness of imagination, which, by overpleasing fanciful men, flatters them into the danger of writing; so that, when i had moulded it into that shape it now bears, i looked with such disgust upon it, that the censures of our severest critics are charitable to what i thought (and still think) of it myself: it is so far from me to believe this perfect, that i am apt to conclude our best plays are scarcely so; for the stage being the representation of the world, and the actions in it, how can it be imagined, that the picture of human life can be more exact than life itself is? he may be allowed sometimes to err, who undertakes to move so many characters and humours, as are requisite in a play, in those narrow channels which are proper to each of them; to conduct his imaginary persons through so many various intrigues and chances, as the labouring audience shall think them lost under every billow; and then, at length, to work them so naturally out of their distresses, that, when the whole plot is laid open, the spectators may rest satisfied, that every cause was powerful enough to produce the effect it had; and that the whole chain of them was with such due order linked together, that the first accident would naturally beget the second, till they all rendered the conclusion necessary. these difficulties, my lord, may reasonably excuse the errors of my undertaking; but for this confidence of my dedication, i have an argument, which is too advantageous for me not to publish it to the world. it is the kindness your lordship has continually shown to all my writings. you have been pleased, my lord, they should sometimes cross the irish seas, to kiss your hands; which passage (contrary to the experience of others) i have found the least dangerous in the world. your favour has shone upon me at a remote distance, without the least knowledge of my person; and (like the influence of the heavenly bodies) you have done good, without knowing to whom you did it. it is this virtue in your lordship, which emboldens me to this attempt; for, did i not consider you as my patron, i have little reason to desire you for my judge; and should appear with as much awe before you in the reading, as i had when the full theatre sat upon the action. for, who could so severely judge of faults as he, who has given testimony he commits none? your excellent poems have afforded that knowledge of it to the world, that your enemies are ready to upbraid you with it, as a crime for a man of business to write so well. neither durst i have justified your lordship in it, if examples of it had not been in the world before you; if xenophon had not written a romance, and a certain roman, called augustus caesar, a tragedy, and epigrams. but their writing was the entertainment of their pleasure; yours is only a diversion of your pain. the muses have seldom employed your thoughts, but when some violent fit of the gout has snatched you from affairs of state; and, like the priestess of apollo, you never come to deliver his oracles, but unwillingly, and in torment. so that we are obliged to your lordship's misery for our delight: you treat us with the cruel pleasure of a turkish triumph, where those, who cut and wound their bodies, sing songs of victory as they pass, and divert others with their own sufferings. other men endure their diseases; your lordship only can enjoy them. plotting and writing in this kind are certainly more troublesome employments than many which signify more, and are of greater moment in the world: the fancy, memory, and judgment, are then extended (like so many limbs) upon the rack; all of them reaching with their utmost stress at nature; a thing so almost infinite and boundless, as can never fully be comprehended, but where the images of all things are always present. yet i wonder not your lordship succeeds so well in this attempt; the knowledge of men is your daily practice in the world; to work and bend their stubborn minds, which go not all after the same grain, but each of them so particular a way, that the same common humours, in several persons, must be wrought upon by several means. thus, my lord, your sickness is but the imitation of your health; the poet but subordinate to the statesman in you; you still govern men with the same address, and manage business with the same prudence; allowing it here (as in the world) the due increase and growth, till it comes to the just height; and then turning it when it is fully ripe, and nature calls out, as it were, to be delivered. with this only advantage of ease to you in your poetry, that you have fortune here at your command; with which wisdom does often unsuccessfully struggle in the world. here is no chance, which you have not foreseen; all your heroes are more than your subjects, they are your creatures; and though they seem to move freely in all the sallies of their passions, yet you make destinies for them, which they cannot shun. they are moved (if i may dare to say so) like the rational creatures of the almighty poet, who walk at liberty, in their own opinion, because their fetters are invisible; when, indeed, the prison of their will is the more sure for being large; and, instead of an absolute power over their actions, they have only a wretched desire of doing that, which they cannot chuse but do[ ]. [footnote : the earl of orrery was author of several plays. if the reader is not disposed to admit, that his habit of composing them, when tormented by the gout, enhanced their value, it may be allowed to apologise for their faults.] i have dwelt, my lord, thus long upon your writing, not because you deserve not greater and more noble commendations, but because i am not equally able to express them in other subjects. like an ill swimmer, i have willingly staid long in my own depth; and though i am eager of performing more, yet am loth to venture out beyond my knowledge: for beyond your poetry, my lord, all is ocean to me. to speak of you as a soldier, or a statesman, were only to betray my own ignorance; and i could hope no better success from it, than that miserable rhetorician had, who solemnly declaimed before hannibal, of the conduct of armies, and the art of war. i can only say, in general, that the souls of other men shine out at little crannies; they understand some one thing, perhaps, to admiration, while they are darkened on all the other parts; but your lordship's soul is an entire globe of light, breaking out on every side; and, if i have only discovered one beam of it, it is not that the light falls unequally, but because the body, which receives it, is of unequal parts. the acknowledgment of which is a fair occasion offered me, to retire from the consideration of your lordship to that of myself. i here present you, my lord, with that in print, which you had the goodness not to dislike upon the stage; and account it happy to have met you here in england; it being, at best, like small wines, to be drunk out upon the place, and has not body enough to endure the sea. i know not whether i have been so careful of the plot and language as i ought; but, for the latter, i have endeavoured to write english, as near as i could distinguish it from the tongue of pedants, and that of affected travellers. only i am sorry, that (speaking so noble a language as we do) we have not a more certain measure of it, as they have in france, where they have an academy erected for that purpose, and endowed with large privileges by the present king. i wish we might at length leave to borrow words from other nations, which is now a wantonness in us, not a necessity; but so long as some affect to speak them, there will not want others, who will have the boldness to write them. but i fear, lest, defending the received words, i shall be accused for following the new way, i mean, of writing scenes in verse. though, to speak properly, it is not so much a new way amongst us, as an old way new revived; for, many years before shakspeare's plays, was the tragedy of queen gorboduc, in english verse, written by that famous lord buckhurst, afterwards earl of dorset, and progenitor to that excellent person, who (as he inherits his soul and title) i wish may inherit his good fortune[ ]. but, supposing our countrymen had not received this writing till of late; shall we oppose ourselves to the most polished and civilised nations of europe? shall we, with the same singularity, oppose the world in this, as most of us do in pronouncing latin? or do we desire that the brand, which barclay has (i hope unjustly) laid upon the english, should still continue? _angli suos ac sua omnia impense mirantur; caeteras nationes despectui habent_. all the spanish and italian tragedies, i have yet seen, are writ in rhyme. for the french, i do not name them, because it is the fate of our countrymen to admit little of theirs among us, but the basest of their men, the extravagancies of their fashions, and the frippery of their merchandise. shakspeare (who, with some errors not to be avoided in that age, had undoubtedly a larger soul of poesy than ever any of our nation) was the first who, to shun the pains of continual rhyming, invented[a] that kind of writing which we call blank verse, but the french, more properly, _prose mesuré_; into which the english tongue so naturally slides, that, in writing prose, it is hardly to be avoided. and therefore, i admire some men should perpetually stumble in a way so easy, and, inverting the order of their words, constantly close their lines with verbs, which, though commended sometimes in writing latin, yet we were whipt at westminster if we used it twice together. i knew some, who, if they were to write in blank verse, _sir, i ask your pardon_, would think it sounded more heroically to write, _sir, i your pardon ask_. i should judge him to have little command of english, whom the necessity of a rhyme should force often upon this rock; though sometimes it cannot easily be avoided; and indeed this is the only inconvenience with which rhyme can be charged. this is that which makes them say, rhyme is not natural; it being only so, when the poet either makes a vicious choice of words, or places them, for rhyme sake, so unnaturally as no man would in ordinary speaking; but when it is so judiciously ordered, that the first word in the verse seems to beget the second, and that the next, till that becomes the last word in the line, which, in the negligence of prose, would be so; it must then be granted, rhyme has all the advantages of prose, besides its own. but the excellence and dignity of it were never fully known till mr waller taught it; he first made writing easily an art; first shewed us to conclude the sense, most commonly in distichs, which, in the verse of those before him, runs on for so many lines together, that the reader is out of breath to overtake it. this sweetness of mr waller's lyric poesy was afterwards followed in the epic by sir john denham, in his cooper's-hill, a poem which, your lordship knows, for the majesty of the style, is, and ever will be, the exact standard of good writing. but if we owe the invention of it to mr waller, we are acknowledging for the noblest use of it to sir william d'avenant, who at once brought it upon the stage, and made it perfect, in the siege of rhodes. [footnote : the tragedy of ferrex and perrex (which is the proper title) was written by thomas sackville, lord buckhurst, afterwards earl of dorset, and thomas norton, a barrister at law. in sackville's part of the play, which comprehends the two last acts, there is some poetry worthy of the author of the sublime introduction to the mirror of magistrates. while both the authors were out of england, one william griffiths published a spurious copy, under the title of gorboduc, the name of one of the principal personages, who is not, however, _queen_, but _king_, of england, but, what was a wider mistake, considering dryden's purpose of mentioning the work, it is not written in rhyme, but in blank verse, excepting the choruses, which are in stanzas of six lines. the name of the queen is videna. sir philip sydney says, "gorboduc is full of stately speeches and well sounding phrases, climbing up to the height of seneca his style, and as full of notable morality, which it doth most delightfully teach, and thereby obtain the very end of poetry."] [footnote a: this is a mistake. marlow, and several other dramatic authors, used blank verse before the days of shakspeare.] the advantages which rhyme has over blank verse are so many, that it were lost time to name them. sir philip sidney, in his defence of poesy, gives us one, which, in my opinion, is not the least considerable; i mean the help it brings to memory, which rhyme so knits up, by the affinity of sounds, that, by remembering the last word in one line, we often call to mind both the verses. then, in the quickness of repartees (which in discoursive scenes fall very often), it has so particular a grace, and is so aptly suited to them, that the sudden smartness of the answer, and the sweetness of the rhyme, set off the beauty of each other. but that benefit which i consider most in it, because i have not seldom found it, is, that it bounds and circumscribes the fancy. for imagination in a poet is a faculty so wild and lawless, that, like an high-ranging spaniel, it must have clogs tied to it, lest it out-run the judgment. the great easiness of blank verse renders the poet too luxuriant; he is tempted to say many things, which might better be omitted, or at least shut up in fewer words; but when the difficulty of artful rhyming is interposed, where the poet commonly confines his sense to his couplet, and must contrive that sense into such words, that the rhyme shall naturally follow them, not they the rhyme; the fancy then gives leisure to the judgment to come in, which, seeing so heavy a tax imposed, is ready to cut off all unnecessary expences. this last consideration has already answered an objection which some have made, that rhyme is only an embroidery of sense, to make that, which is ordinary in itself, pass for excellent with less examination. but certainly, that, which most regulates the fancy, and gives the judgment its busiest employment, is like to bring forth the richest and clearest thoughts. the poet examines that most, which he produceth with the greatest leisure, and which, he knows, must pass the severest test of the audience, because they are aptest to have it ever in their memory; as the stomach makes the best concoction, when it strictly embraces the nourishment, and takes account of every little particle as it passes through. but, as the best medicines may lose their virtue, by being ill applied, so is it with verse, if a fit subject be not chosen for it. neither must the argument alone, but the characters and persons, be great and noble; otherwise, (as scaliger says of claudian) the poet will be _ignobitiore materiâ depressus_. the scenes, which, in my opinion, most commend it, are those of argumentation and discourse, on the result of which the doing or not doing some considerable action should depend. but, my lord, though i have more to say upon this subject, yet i must remember, it is your lordship to whom i speak; who have much better commended this way by your writing in it, than i can do by writing for it. where my reasons cannot prevail, i am sure your lordship's example must. your rhetoric has gained my cause; at least the greatest part of my design has already succeeded to my wish, which was to interest so noble a person in the quarrel, and withal to testify to the world how happy i esteem myself in the honour of being, my lord, your lordship's most humble, and most obedient servant, john dryden. prologue 'tis much desired, you judges of the town would pass a vote to put all prologues down; for who can show me, since they first were writ, they e'er converted one hard-hearted wit? yet the world's mended well; in former days good prologues were as scarce as now good plays. for the reforming poets of our age, in this first charge, spend their poetic rage: expect no more when once the prologue's done; the wit is ended ere the play's begun. you now have habits, dances, scenes, and rhymes; high language often; ay, and sense, sometimes. as for a clear contrivance, doubt it not; they blow out candles to give light to th' plot. and for surprise, two bloody-minded men fight till they die, then rise and dance again. such deep intrigues you're welcome to this day: but blame yourselves, not him who writ the play; though his plot's dull, as can be well desired, wit stiff as any you have e'er admired: he's bound to please, not to write well; and knows, there is a mode in plays as well as clothes; therefore, kind judges-- _second prologue enters_. .--hold; would you admit for judges all you see within the pit? . whom would he then except, or on what score? . all, who (like him) have writ ill plays before; for they, like thieves condemned, are hangmen made, to execute the members of their trade. all that are writing now he would disown, but then he must except--even all the town; all cholerick, losing gamesters, who, in spite, will damn to day, because they lost last night; all servants, whom their mistress' scorn upbraids; all maudlin lovers, and all slighted maids; all, who are out of humour, or severe; all, that want wit, or hope to find it here. dramatis personae don gonsalvo de peralta, _a young gentleman newly arrived from the indies, in love with_ julia. don rodorigo de sylva, _in love with the same lady_. don manuel de torres, _brother to_ julia. julia, _elder sister to_ don manuel, _promised to_ rodorigo. honoria, _younger sister to_ don manuel, _disguised in the habit of a man, and going by the name of_ hippolito, _in love with_ gonsalvo. angelina, _sister to_ don rodorigo, _in man's habit, likewise in love with_ gonsalvo, _and going by the name of_ amideo. _servants, robbers, seamen, and masquers_. scene--_alicant_. the rival ladies. act i. scene i--_a wood_. _enter_ gonsalvo _and a servant_. _gon_. nay, 'twas a strange as well as cruel storm, to take us almost in the port of sevile, and drive us up as far as barcelona; the whole plate fleet was scattered, some part wrecked; there one might see the sailors diligent to cast o'erboard the merchant's envied wealth, while he, all pale and dying, stood in doubt, whether to ease the burden of the ship, by drowning of his ingots, or himself. _serv_. fortune, sir, is a woman everywhere, but most upon the sea. _gons_. had that been all, i should not have complained; but, ere we could repair our ship, to drive us back again, was such a cruelty-- _serv_. yet that short time you staid at barcelona you husbanded so well, i think you left a mistress there. _gons_. i made some small essays of love; what might have been i cannot tell: but, to leave that, upon what part of spain are we now cast? _serv_. sir, i take that city to be alicant. _gons_. some days must of necessity be spent in looking to our ship; then back again for sevile. _serv_. there you're sure you shall be welcome. _gons_. aye, if my brother rodoric be returned from flanders; but 'tis now three years since i have heard from him, and, since i saw him, twelve. _serv_. your growth, and your long absence in the indies, have altered you so much, he'll scarcely know you. _gons_. i'm sure i should not him, and less my sister; who, when i with my uncle went this voyage, was then one of those little prating girls, of whom fond parents tell such tedious stories: well, go you back. _serv_. i go, sir. _gons_. and take care none of the seamen slip ashore. _serv_. i shall, sir. [_exit servant_. _gons_. i'll walk a little while among these trees, now the fresh evening air blows from the hills, and breathes the sweetness of the orange flowers upon me, from the gardens hear the city. _robbers within_. _ rob_. i say, make sure, and kill him. _hip_. for heaven's dear sake have pity on my youth. [_within_. _gons_. some violence is offered in the wood by robbers to a traveller: whoe'er thou art, humanity obliges me to give thee succour. _hip_. help! ah cruel men! [_within_. _gons_. this way, i think, the voice came; 'tis not far. [_exit_. _the_ scene _draws, and discovers_ hippolito _bound to a tree, and two robbers by him with drawn swords_. _ rob_. strip him, and let him go. _ rob_. dispatch him quite; off with his doublet quickly. _hip_. ah me, unfortunate! _enter_ gonsalvo, _seizes the sword of one of them, and runs him through; then, after a little resistance, disarms the other_. _ rob_. if you have mercy in you, spare my life; i never was consenting to a deed so black as murder, though my fellow urged me: i only meant to rob, and i am punished enough, in missing of my wicked aim. _gons_. do they rob angels here? this sweet youth has a face so like one, which i lately saw, it makes your crime of kin to sacrilege: but live; and henceforth take nobler courses to maintain your life: here's something that will rescue you from want, 'till you can find employment. [_gives him gold, and unbinds_ hippolito. _hip_. what strange adventure's this! how little hoped i, when thus disguised i stole from barcelona, to be relieved by brave gonsalvo here? [_aside_. _ rob_. that life, you have preserved, shall still be yours; and that you may perceive, how much my nature is wrought upon by this your generous act, that goodness, you have shown to me, i'll use to others for your sake, if you dare trust me a moment from your sight. _gons_. nay, take your sword; i will not so much crush a budding virtue, as to suspect. [_gives him his sword. exit robber_. --sweet youth, you shall not leave me, till i have seen you safe. _hip_. you need not doubt it: alas! i find i cannot, if i would: i am but freed to be a greater slave: [_aside_. how much am i obliged, sir, to your valour! _gons_. rather to your own sweetness, pretty youth; you must have been some way preserved, though i had not been near; my aid did but prevent some miracle more slowly setting out to save such excellence. _hip_. how much more gladly could i hear those words, if he, that spoke them, knew he spoke to me! [_aside_. _enter the robber again with don_ manuel, _and_ julia, _bound_. my brother and my sister prisoners too! they cannot sure discover me through this disguise; however, i'll not venture it. [_steps behind the trees_. _ rob_. this gentleman and lady [_to_ gons. _privately_. my fellows bound. [_exit robber_. _man_. we must prepare to die; this is the captain of the picarons. _jul_. methinks he looks like one; i have a strange aversion to that man; he's fatal to me. _gons_. i ne'er saw excellence in womankind [_stares on her_. till now, and yet discern it at the first: perfection is discovered in a moment; he, that ne'er saw the sun before, yet knows him. _jul_. how the villain stares upon me! _gons_. wonder prepares my soul, and then love enters: but wonder is so close pursued by love, that, like a fire, it warms as soon as born. _man_. if we must die, what need these circumstances? _jul_. heaven defend me from him! _gons_. why, madam, can you doubt a rudeness from me? your very fears and griefs create an awe, such majesty they bear; methinks, i see your soul retired within her inmost chamber. like a fair mourner sit in state, with all the silent pomp of sorrow round about her. _man_. your language does express a man, bred up to worthier ways than those you follow now. _gons_. what does he mean? [_aside_. _man_. if (as it seems) you love; love is a passion, which kindles honour into noble acts: restore my sister's liberty; oblige her, and see what gratitude will work. _gons_. all this is stranger yet. _man_. whate'er a brother's power to-morrow can do for you, claim it boldly. _gons_. i know not why you think yourselves my prisoners; this lady's freedom is a thing too precious to be disposed by any but herself: but value this small service as you please, which you reward too prodigally, by permitting me to pay her more. _jul_. love from an outlaw? from a villain, love? if i have that power on thee, thou pretend'st, go and pursue thy mischiefs, but presume not to follow me:--come, brother. [_ex_. jul. _and_ man. _gons_. those foul names of outlaw and of villain i never did deserve: they raise my wonder. [_walks_. dull that i was, not to find this before! she took me for the captain of the robbers; it must be so; i'll tell her her mistake. [_goes out hastily, and returns immediately_. she's gone, she's gone, and who or whence she is i cannot tell; methinks, she should have left a track so bright, i might have followed her; like setting suns, that vanish in a glory. o villain that i am! o hated villain! _enter_ hippolito _again_. _hip_. i cannot suffer you to wrong yourself so much; for, though i do not know your person, your actions are too fair, too noble, sir, to merit that foul name. _gons_. pr'ythee, do not flatter me; i am a villain; that admirable lady said i was. _hip_. i fear, you love her, sir. _gons_. no, no, not love her: love is the name of some more gentle passion; mine is a fury, grown up in a moment to an extremity, and lasting in it; an heap of powder set on fire, and burning as long as any ordinary fuel. _hip_. how could he love so soon? and yet, alas! what cause have i to ask that question, who loved him the first minute that i saw him? i cannot leave him thus, though i perceive his heart engaged another way. [_aside_. sir, can you have such pity on my youth, [to him. on my forsaken and my helpless youth, to take me to your service? _gons_. would'st thou serve a madman? how can he take care of thee, whom fortune and his reason have abandoned? a man, that saw, and loved, and disobliged, is banished, and is mad, all in a moment. _hip_. yet you alone have title to my service; you make me yours by your preserving me: and that's the title heaven has to mankind. _gons_. pr'ythee, no more. _hip_. i know your mistress too. _gons_. ha! dost thou know the person i adore? answer me quickly; speak, and i'll receive thee: hast thou no tongue? _hip_. why did i say i knew her? all i can hope for, if i have my wish to live with him, is but to be unhappy. [aside. _gons_. thou false and lying boy, to say thou knew'st her; pr'ythee, say something, though thou cozen'st me. _hip_. since you will know, her name is julia, sir, and that young gentleman you saw, her brother, don manuel de torres. _gons_. say i should take thee, boy, and should employ thee to that fair lady, would'st thou serve me faithfully? _hip_. you ask me an hard question: i can die for you; perhaps i cannot woo so well. _gons_. i knew thou would'st not do't. _hip_. i swear i would: but, sir, i grieve to be the messenger of more unhappy news; she must be married this day to one don roderick de sylva, betwixt whom and her brother there has been. a long (and it was thought a mortal) quarrel, but now it must for ever end in peace: for, happening both to love each others sisters, they have concluded it in a cross marriage; which, in the palace of don rodorick, they went to celebrate from their countryhouse, when, taken by the thieves, you rescued them. _gons_. methinks i am grown patient on a sudden, and all my rage is gone: like losing gamesters, who fret and storm, and swear at little losses; but, when they see all hope of fortune vanished, submit, and gain a temper by their ruin. _hip_. would you could cast this love, which troubles you, out of your mind! _gons_. i cannot, boy; but since her brother, with intent to cozen me, made me the promise of his best assistance, i'll take some course to be revenged of him. [_is going out_. but stay--i charge thee, boy, discover not to any, who i am. _hip_. alas, i cannot, sir; i know you not. _gons_. why, there's it; i am mad again; oh love! _hip_. oh love! [_exeunt_. scene ii. _enter two servants of don_ rodorick's, _placing chairs, and talking as they place them_. _ serv_. make ready quickly there; don manuel and his fair sister, that must be our lady, are coming in. _ serv_. they have been long expected; 'tis evening now, and the canonic hours for marriage are past. _ serv_. the nearer bedtime, the better still; my lord will not defer it: he swears, the clergy are no fit judges of our necessities. _ serv_. where is my lord? _ serv_. gone out to meet his bride. _ serv_. i wonder that my lady angelina went not with him; she's to be married too. _ serv_. i do not think she fancies much the man: only, to make the reconcilement perfect betwixt the families, she's passive in it; the choice being but her brother's, not her own. _ serv_. troth, were't my case, i cared not who chose for me. _ serv_. nor i; 'twould save the process of a tedious passion, a long law-suit of love, which quite consumes an honest lover, ere he gets possession: i would come plump, and fresh, and all my self, served up to my bride's bed like a fat fowl, before the frost of love had nipped me through. i look on wives as on good dull companions, for elder brothers to sleep out their time with; all, we can hope for in the marriage-bed, is but to take our rest; and what care i, who lays my pillow for me? _enter a poet with verses_. _ serv_. now, what's your business, friend? _poet_. an epithalamium, to the noble bridegrooms. _ serv_. let me see; what's here? as i live, [_takes it_. nothing but downright bawdry: sirrah, rascal, is this an age for ribaldry in verse; when every gentleman in town speaks it with so much better grace, than thou canst write it? i'll beat thee with a stave of thy own rhymes. _poet_. nay, good sir--[_runs off, and exit_. _ serv_. peace, they are here. [_enter_ don rodorick, _don_ manuel, julia, _and company_. _ serv_. my lord looks sullenly, and fain would hide it. _ serv_. howe'er he weds don manuel's sister, yet i fear he's hardly reconciled to him. _jul_. i tremble at it still. _rod_. i must confess your danger great; but, madam, since 'tis past, to speak of it were to renew your fears. my noble brother, welcome to my breast. some, call my sister; say, don manuel, her bridegroom, waits. _man_. tell her, in both the houses there now remains no enemy but she. _rod_. in the mean time let's dance; madam, i hope you'll grace me with your hand.-- [_enter_ leonora, _woman to_ angelina; _takes the two men aside_. _leon_. o sir, my lady angelina-- _rod_. why comes she not? _leon_. is fallen extremely sick. _both_. how? _leon_. nay, trouble not yourselves too much; these fits are usual with her, and not dangerous. _rod_. o rarely counterfeited. [_aside_. _man_. may not i see her? _leon_. she does, by me, deny herself that honour. [_as she speaks, steals a note into his hand_. i shall return, i hope, with better news; in the mean time she prays, you'll not disturb the company. [_exit _leonora. _rod_. this troubles me exceedingly. _man_. a note put privately into my hand by angelina's woman? she's my creature: there's something in't; i'll read it to myself.-- [_aside_. _rod_. brother, what paper's that? _man_. some begging verses, delivered me this morning on my wedding. _rod_. pray, let me see them. _man_. i have many copies, please you to entertain yourself with these. [_gives him another paper_. manuel _reads_. sir, _my lady feigns this sickness to delude you: her brother hates you still; and the plot is, that he shall marry first your sister, and then deny you his_.-- _yours_, leonora. postscript. _since i writ this, i have so wrought upon her, (who, of herself, is timorous enough) that she believes her brother will betray her, or else be forced to give her up to you; therefore, unknown to him, she means to fly: come to the garden door at seven this evening, and there you may surprise her; mean time, i will keep her ignorant of all things, that her fear may still increase_. _enter_ leonora _again_. _rod_. how now? how does your lady? _leon_. so ill, she cannot possibly wait on you. _man_. kind heaven, give me her sickness! _rod_. those are wishes: what's to be done? _man_. we must defer our marriages. _rod_. leonora, now! [_aside to her_ _leon_. my lady, sir, has absolutely charged, her brother's should go forward. _rod_. absolutely! _leon_. expressly, sir; because, she says, there are so many honourable persons here, whom to defraud of their intended mirth, and of each others company, were rude: so, hoping your excuse--[_exit_ leonora. _rod_. that privilege of power, which brothers have in spain, i never used, therefore submit my will to hers; but with much sorrow, sir, my happiness should go before, not wait on yours: lead on. _man_. stay, sir; though your fair sister, in respect to this assembly, seems to be content your marriage should proceed, we must not want so much good manners as to suffer it. _rod_. so much good manners, brother? _man_.--i have said it. should we, to show our sorrow for her sickness, provoke our easy souls to careless mirth, as if our drunken revels were designed for joy of what she suffers? _rod_. 'twill be over in a few days. _man_. your stay will be the less. _rod_. all things are now in readiness, and must not be put off, for a peevish humour thus. _man_. they must; or i shall think you mean not fairly. _rod_. explain yourself. _man_. that you would marry first, and afterwards refuse me angelina. _rod_.--think so. _man_. you are-- _rod_. speak softly. _man_. a foul villain. _rod_. then-- _man_. speak softly. _rod_. i'll find a time to tell you, you are one. _man_. 'tis well. ladies, you wonder at our private whispers, [_to the company_. but more will wonder when you know the cause; the beauteous angelina is fallen ill; and, since she cannot with her presence grace this day's solemnity, the noble roderick thinks fit it be deferred, 'till she recover; then, we both hope to have your companies. _lad_. wishing her health, we take our leaves. [_exeunt company_. _rod_. your sister yet will marry me. _man_. she will not: come hither, julia. _jul_. what strange afflicting news is this you tell us? _man_. 'twas all this false man's plot, that when he had possest you, he might cheat me of his sister. _jul_. is this true, roderick?--alas, his silence does but too much confess it: how i blush to own that love, i cannot yet take from thee! yet for my sake be friends. _man_. 'tis now too late: i am by honour hindered. _rod_. i by hate. _jul_. what shall i do? _man_. leave him, and come away; thy virtue bids thee. _jul_. but love bids me stay. _man_. her love's so like my own, that i should blame the brother's passion in the sister's flame. rodorick, we shall meet.--he little thinks i am as sure this night of angelina, as he of julia. [_aside. exit_ manuel. _rod_. madam, to what an ecstasy of joy your goodness raises me! this was an act of kindness, which no service e'er can pay. _jul_. yes, rodorick, 'tis in your power to quit the debt you owe me. _rod_. do but name the way. _jul_. then briefly thus; 'tis to be just to me, as i have been to you. _rod_. you cannot doubt it. _jul_. you know i have adventured, for your sake, a brother's anger, and the world's opinion: i value neither; for a settled virtue makes itself judge, and, satisfied within, smiles at that common enemy, the world. i am no more afraid of flying censures, than heaven of being fired with mounting sparkles. _rod_. but wherein must my gratitude consist? _jul_. answer yourself, by thinking what is fit for me to do. _rod_. by marriage, to confirm our mutual love. _jul_. ungrateful rodorick! canst thou name marriage, while thou entertain'st a hatred so unjust against my brother? _rod_. but, unkind julia, you know the causes of love and hate are hid deep in our stars, and none but heaven can give account of both. _jul_. too well i know it: for my love to thee is born by inclination, not by judgment; and makes my virtue shrink within my heart, as loth to leave it, and as loth to mingle. _rod_. what would you have me do? _jul_. since i must tell thee, lead me to some near monastery; there (till heaven find out some way to make us happy) i shall be kept in safety from my brother. _rod_. but more from me; what hopes can rodorick have, that she, who leaves him freely, and unforced, should ever of her own accord return? _jul_. thou hast too great assurance of my faith, that, in despite of my own self, i love thee. be friends with manuel, i am thine; 'till when my honour's. lead me. [_exeunt_. scene iii.--_the representation of a street discovered by twilight_. _enter don_ manuel, _solus_. _man_. this is the time and place, where i expect my fugitive mistress; if i meet with her, i may forget the wrongs, her brother did me; if otherwise, his blood shall expiate them. i hope her woman keeps her ignorant how all things passed, according to her promise. _a door opens,--enter_ angelina _in boy's clothes_. leonora _behind at the door_. _leon_. i had forgot to tell him of this habit she has put on; but sure he'll know her in it. [_aside_. _man_. who goes there? _ang_. 'tis don manuel's voice; i must run back: the door shut on me?--leonora! where?--does she not follow me? i am betrayed. _man_. what are you? _ang_. a poor boy. _man_. do you belong to rodorick? _ang_. yes, i do. _man_. here's money for you; tell me where's his sister? _ang_. just now i met her coming down the stairs, which lead into the garden. _man_. 'tis well; leave me in silence. _ang_. with all my heart; was ever such a 'scape? [_exit running_. _man_. she cannot now be long; sure by the moons shine i shall discover her: _enter_ rodorick _and_ julia. this must be she; i'll seize her. _jul_. help me, roderick. _rod_. unhand the lady, villain. _man_. roderick! i'm glad we meet alone; now is the time to end our difference. _rod_. i cannot stay. _man_. you must. _rod_. i will not. _man_. 'tis base to injure any man; but yet tis far more base, once done, not to defend it. _rod_. is this an hour, for valiant men to fight? they love the sun should witness what they do; cowards have courage, when they see not death; and fearful hares, that sculk in forms all day, yet fight their feeble quarrels by the moonlight. _man_. no; light and darkness are but poor distinctions of such, whose courage comes by fits and starts. _rod_. thou urgest me above my patience; this minute of my life was not my own, but hers, i love beyond it. [_they draw, and fight_. _jul_. help, help! none hear me! heaven, i think, is deaf too: o roderick! o brother! _enter_ gonsalvo, _and_ hippolito. _jul_. whoe'er you are, if you have honour, part them! [manuel _stumbles, and falls_. _gons_. hold, sir, you are too cruel; he, that kills at such advantage, fears to fight again. [_holds_ rodorick. _man_. cavalier, i may live to thank you for this favour. [_rises_. _rod_. i will not quit you so. _man_. i'll breathe, and then-- _jul_. is there no way to save their lives? _hip_. run out of sight, if 'tis concerning you they quarrel. [julia _retires to a corner_. _hip_. help, help, as you are cavaliers; the lady. for whom you thus contend, is seized by some night-robbing villains. _all_. which way took they? _hip_. 'twas so dark i could not see distinctly. _rod_. let us divide; i this way. [_exit_. _gons_. down yonder street i'll take. _man_. and i down that. [_exeunt severally_. _hip_. now, madam, may we not lay by our fear? they are all gone. _jul_. tis true; but we are here, exposed to darkness, without guide or aid, but of ourselves. _hip_. and of ourselves afraid. _jul_. these dangers, while 'twas light, i could despise; then i was bold, but watched by many eyes: ah! could not heaven for lovers find a way, that prying people still might sleep by day? _enter_ angelina. _hip_. methinks i'm certain i discover some. _jul_. this was your speaking of them, made them come. _hip_. there is but one, perhaps he may go by. _ang_. where had i courage for this bold disguise, which more my nature than my sex belies? alas! i am betrayed to darkness here; darkness, which virtue hates, and maids most fear: silence and solitude dwell every where: dogs cease to bark; the waves more faintly roar, and roll themselves asleep upon the shore: no noise but what my footsteps make, and they sound dreadfully, and louder than by day: they double too, and every step i take sounds thick, methinks, and more than one could make. ha! who are these? i wished for company, and now i fear. who are you, gentle people, that go there? _jul_. his voice is soft as is the upper air, or dying lovers' words: o pity us. ang. o pity me! take freely as your own my gold, my jewels; spare my life alone. _hip_. alas, he fears as much as we. _jul_. what say you, sir, will you join with us? _ang_. yes, madam; but if you would take my sword, you'll use it better. _hip_. ay, but you are a man. _ang_. why, so are you. _hip_. truly my fear had made me quite forget it. _enter gonsalvo_. _gons_. hippolito! how barbarous was i to leave my boy! hippolito! _hip. _here, here. now, madam, fear not, you are safe. _jul_. what is become, sir, of those gentlemen? _gons_. madam, they all went several ways; not like to meet. _jul_. what will become of me? _gons_. tis late, and i a stranger in the town; yet all your dangers shall be mine. _jul_. you're noble, sir. _gons_. i'll pawn the hopes of all my love, to see you safe. _jul_. whoe'er your mistress be, she has my curses, if she prove not kind. _ang_. and mine. _hip_. my sister will repent her, when she knows for whom she makes that wish; but i'll say nothing, till day discovers it. [_aside_.] a door opens; i hope it is some inn. [_a door opens, at which a servant appears_. _ang_. friend, can you lodge us here? _serv_. yes, friend, we can. _jul_. how shall we be disposed? _serv_. as nature would; the gentleman and you: i have a rule, that, when a man and woman ask for lodging, they are ever husband and wife. _jul_. rude and unmannered! _gons_. sir, this lady must be lodged apart. _serv_. then the two boys, that are good for nothing but one another, they shall go together. _ang_. lie with a man! sweet heaven defend me! _hip_. alas, friend, i ever lie alone. _serv_. then to save trouble, sir, because 'tis late, one of the youths shall be disposed with you. _ang_. who, i! not for the world. _hip_. neither of us; for, though i would not lodge with you myself, i never can endure he should. _ang_. why then, to end the difference, if you please. i and that lady will be bed-fellows. _hip_. no, she and i will lodge together rather. _serv_. you are sweet youths indeed; not for the world you would not lodge with men! none but the lady would serve your turn. _aug_. alas, i had forgot i am a boy; i am so lately one. [_aside_. _serv_. well, well; all shall be lodged apart. _gons_. to hip. i did not think you harboured wanton thoughts; so young, so bad? _hip_. i can make no defence, but must be shamed by my own innocence. [_exeunt_. act ii. scene i.--_a chamber_. [_enter_ gonsalvo, hippolito, _and_ angelina _as_ amideo _at a distance_. _gon_. hippolito, what is this pretty youth, that follows us? _hip_. i know not much of him: handsome you see, and of graceful fashion; of noble blood, he says, and i believe him; but in some deep distress; he'll tell no more, and i could cry for that, which he has told. so much i pity him. _gon_. my pretty youth, would i could do thee any service. _ang_. sir, the greatest you can do me, is accepting mine. _hip_. how's this? methinks already i begin to hate this boy, whom but even now i moaned, you serve my master? do you think i cannot perform all duties of a servant better, and with more care, than you? _ang_. better you may, but never with more care: heaven, which is served with angels, yet admits poor man to pay his duty, and receives it. _hip_. mark but, my lord, how ill behaved a youth, how very ugly, what a dwarf he is. _ang_. my lord, i yet am young enough to grow, and 'tis the commendation of a boy, that he is little. [_cries_. _gons_. pr'ythee, do not cry; hippolito, 'twas but just now you praised him, and are you changed so soon? _hip_. on better view. _gons_. what is your name, sweet heart? _hip_. sweet heart! since i have served you, you ne'er called me so. _ang_. o, ever, ever call me by that kind name; i'll own no other, because i would still have that. _hip_. he told me, sir, his name was amideo; pray, call him by't. _gons_. come, i'll employ you both; reach me my belt, and help to put it on. _amid_. i run, my lord. _hip_. you run? it is my office. [_they both take it up, and strive for it;_ hippolito _gets it, and puts it on_. _amid_. look you, my lord, he puts it on so aukwardly; [_crying_. the sword does not sit right. _hip_. why, where's the fault? _amid_. i know not that; but i am sure 'tis wrong. _gons_.the fault is plain, 'tis put on the wrong shoulder. _hip_. that cannot be, i looked on amideo's, and hung it on that shoulder his is on. _amid_. then i doubt mine is so. _gons_. it is indeed: you're both good boys, and both will learn in time. hippolito, go you and bring me word, whether that lady, we brought in last night, be willing to receive a visit from, me. _hip_. now, amideo, since you are so forward to do all service, you shall to the lady. _amid_. no, i'll stay with my master, he bid you. _hip_. it mads me to the heart to leave him here: but i will be revenged. [_aside_. my lord, i beg you would not trust this boy with any thing till my return; pray, know him better first. [_exit_. _gons_. 'twas my unhappiness to meet this lady last night; because it ruined my design of walking by the house of roderick: who knows but through some window i had spied fair julia's shadow passing by the glass; or if some others, i would think it hers; or if not any, i would see the place where julia lives. o heaven, how small a blessing will serve to make despairing lovers happy! _amid_. unhappy angelina, thou art lost: thy lord loves julia. [_aside_. _enter_ hippolito _and_ julia. _jul_.--where is thy master? i long to give him my acknowledgments for my own safety, and my brother's both. ha! is it he? [_looks_. _gons_. can it be julia? could night so far disguise her from my knowledge! _jul_. i would not think thee him, i see thou art: pr'ythee disown thyself in pity to me: why should i be obliged by one i hate? _gons_. i could say something in my own defence; but it were half a crime to plead my cause, when you would have me guilty. _amid_. how i fear the sweetness of those words will move her pity! i'm sure they would do mine. _gons_. you took me for a robber, but so far i am from that-- _jul_. o, pr'ythee, be one still, that i may know some cause for my aversion. _gons_. i freed you from them, and more gladly did it-- _jul_. be what thou wilt, 'tis now too late to tell me: the blackness of that image, i first fancied, has so infected me, i still must hate thee. _hip_. though (if she loves him) all my hopes are ruined, it makes me mad to see her thus unkind. [_aside_. madam, what see you in this gentleman, deserves your scorn or hatred? love him, or expect just heaven should strangely punish you. _gons_. no more: whate'er she does is best; and if you would be mine, you must, like me, submit without dispute. _hip_. how can i love you, sir, and suffer this? she has forgot that, which, last night, you did in her defence. _jul_. o call that night again; pitch her with all her darkness round: then set me in some far desert, hemmed with mountain wolves to howl about me: this i would endure, and more, to cancel my obligements to him. _gons_. you owe me nothing, madam; if you do, i make it void; and only ask your leave to love you still; for, to be loved again i never hope; _jul_. if that will clear my debt, enjoy thy wish; love me, and long, and desperately love me. i hope thou wilt, that i may plague thee more: mean time, take from me that detested object; convey thy much loathed person from my sight. _gons_. madam, you are obeyed. hippolito and amideo, wait upon fair julia; look upon her for me with dying eyes, but do not speak one word in my behalf; for, to disquiet her, even happiness itself were bought too dear. [_goes farther off, towards the end of the stage_. my passion swells too high; and, like a vessel struggling in a storm, requires more hands than one to steer her upright; i'll find her brother out. [_exit_. _jul_. that boy, i see, he trusts above the other: he has a strange resemblance with a face that i have seen, but when, or where, i know not. i'll watch till they are parted; then, perhaps, i may corrupt that little one to free me. [_aside. exit_. _amid_. sweet hippolito, let me speak with you. _hip_. what would you with me? _amid_. nay, you are so fierce; by all that's good, i love and honour you, and, would you do but one poor thing i'll ask you, in all things else you ever shall command me. look you, hippolito, here's gold and jewels; these may be yours. _hip_. to what end dost thou show these trifles to me? or how cam'st thou by them? not honestly, i fear. _amid_. i swear i did: and you shall have them; but you always press before me in my master's service so-- _hip_. and always will. _amid_. but, dear hippolito, why will you not give way, that i may be first in his favour, and be still employed? why do you frown? 'tis not for gain i ask it; whatever he shall give me shall be yours, except it be some toy you would not care for, which i should keep for his dear sake, that gave it. _hip_. if thou wouldst offer both the indies to me, the eastern quarries, and the western mines, they should not buy one look, one gentle smile of his from me; assure thy soul they should not, i hate thee so. _amid_. henceforth i'll hate you worse. but yet there is a woman whom he loves, a certain julia, who will steal his heart from both of us; we'll join at least against the common enemy. _hip_. why does he fear my lord should love a woman? the passion of this boy is so like mine, that it amazes me. [_aside_. _enter a servant_. _serv_. young gentleman, your master calls for you. _hip_. i'll think upon't-- [_exuent_ hippolito _and serv_ _enter_ julia _to_ amideo. _jul_. now is the time, he is alone. _amid_. here comes the saint, my lord adores; love, pardon me the fault, i must commit. _jul_. fair youth, i am a suitor to you. _amid_. so am i to you. _jul_. you see me here a prisoner. _amid_. my request is, i may set you free; make haste, sweet madam; which way would you go? _jul_. to the next religious house. _amid_. here through the garden, madam; how i commend your holy resolution! [_exeunt_. _enter_ don manuel _in the street, and a servant with him_. _man_. angelina fled to a monastery, say you? _serv_. so 'tis given out: i could not see her woman: but, for your sister, what you heard is true; i saw her at the inn: they told me, she was brought in late last night; by a young cavalier, they showed me there. _man_. this must be he that rescued me: what would i give to see him! _serv_. fortune is obedient to your wishes; he was coming to find out you; i waited on him to the turning of the street, and stepped before to tell you of it. _man_. you o'erjoy me. _serv_. this, sir, is he. _enter_ gonsalvo. don manuel _is running to embrace him, and stops_. _man_.--the captain of the robbers! _gons_. as such, indeed, you promised me your sister. _man_. i promised all the interest i should have; because i thought, before you came to claim it, a husband's right would take my title from me. _gons_. i come to see if any manly virtue can dwell with falsehood: draw, thou'st injured me. _man_. you say already i have done you wrong, and yet would have me right you by a greater. _gons_. poor abject thing! _man_. who doubts another's courage wants it himself; but i, who know my own, will not receive a law from you to fight, or to forbear: for then i grant your courage to master mine, when i am forced to do what of myself i would not. _gons_. your reason? _man_. you saved my life. _gons_. i'll quit that debt, to be in a capacity of forcing you to keep your promise with me; for i come to learn, your sister is not yet disposed. _man_. i've lost all privilege to defend my life; and, if you take it now, 'tis no new conquest; like fish, first taken in a river, then bestowed in ponds to catch a second time. _gons_. mark but how partially you plead your cause, pretending breach of honour if you fight, yet think it none to violate your word. _man_. i cannot give my sister to a robber. _gons_. you shall not; i am none, but born of blood as noble as yourself; my fortunes equal at least with yours, my reputation yet, i think, unstained. _man_. i wish, sir, it may prove so; i never had so strong an inclination to believe any man as you--but yet-- _gons_. all things shall be so clear, there shall be left no room for any scruple. i was born in seville, of the best house in that city; my name gonsalvo de peralta: being a younger brother, 'twas my uncle's care to take me with him in a voyage to the indies, where since dying, he has left me a fortune not contemptible; returning from thence with all my wealth in the plate fleet, a furious storm almost within the port of seville took us, scattered all the navy. my ship, by the unruly tempest borne quite through the streights, as far as barcelona, there first cast anchor; there i stept ashore: three days i staid, in which small time i made a little love, which vanished as it came. _man_. but were you not engaged to her you courted? _gons_. upon my honour, no; what might have been i cannot tell: but ere i could repair my beaten ship, or take fresh water in, one night, when there by chance i lay aboard, a wind tore up my anchor from the bottom, and with that violence it brought me thither, has thrown me in this port. _mon_. but yet our meeting in the wood was strange. _gons_. for that i'll satisfy you as we walk. _enter_ hippolito. _hip_. o sir, how glad am i to find you!-- [_whispers_. _man_. that boy i have seen somewhere, or one like him, but where, i cannot call to mind. _hip_. i found it out, and got before them-- and here they are-- _enter amideo and julia_. _man_. my sister! as i could have wished it. _amid_. o! we are caught! _jul_. i did expect as much: fortune has not forgot that i am julia. _man_. sister, i'm glad you're happily returned; 'twas kindly done of you thus to prevent the trouble of my search. _jul_. i would not have you mistake my love to roderick so much, to think i meant to fall into your hands. my purpose is for the next nunnery; there i'll pray for you: so farewell. _man_. stay, julia, you must go with me. _jul_. lead, lead; you think i am your prisoner now. _gons_. if you will needs to a religious house, leave that fair face behind; a worse will serve to spoil with watching, and with fasting there. _man_. pr'ythee, no more of this; the only way to make her happy is to force it on her. julia, prepare yourself strait to be married. _jul_. to whom? _man_. you see your bridegroom: and you know my father's will, who, with his dying breath commanded, you should pay as strict obedience to me, as formerly to him: if not, your dowry is at my dispose. _jul_. o, would the loss of that dispense with duty in me, how gladly would i suffer it! and yet, if i durst question it, methinks 'tis hard! what right have parents over children, more than birds have o'er their young? yet they impose no rich-plumed mistress on their feathered sons; but leave their love, more open yet and free than all the fields of air, their spacious birthright. [_gonsalvo seems to beg manuel not to be harsh_. _man_. nay, good gonsalvo, trouble not yourself, there is no other way; when 'tis once done, she'll thank me for't. _jul_. i ne'er expected other usage from you; a kind brother you have been to me, and to my sister: you have sent, they say, to barcelona, that my aunt should force her to marry the old don you brought her. _hip_. who could, that once had seen gonsalvo's. face? alas, she little thinks i am so near! [_aside_. _man_. mind not what she says. a word with you--[_to gonsalvo._ _amid_. don manuel eyes me strangely; the best is, he never saw me yet but at a distance: my brother's jealousy (who ne'er intended i should be his) restrained our nearer converse. [_aside_. _jul_. my pretty youth, i am enforced to trust thee [_to amideo_. with my most near concerns; friends i have none, if thou deny'st to help me. _amid_. any thing to break your marriage with my master. _jul_. go to roderick, and tell him my condition: but tell it him as from thyself, not me. _amid_. that you are forced to marry? _jul_. but do not ask him to succour me; if of himself he will not, i scorn a love that must be taught its duty. _man_. what youth is that? i mean the little one. _gons_. i took him up last night. _man_. a sweet-faced boy, i like him strangely: would you part with him? _amid_. alas, sir, i am good for nobody, but for my master. _hip_. sir, i'll do your errand another time, for letting julia go. [_to amideo_. _man_. come, sir. _gons_. i beg your pardon for a moment, i'll but dispatch some business in my ship, and wait you presently: _man_. we'll go before; i'll make sure roderick shall never have her; and 'tis at least some pleasure to destroy his happiness, who mined first my joy. [_exeunt all but gonsalvo; who, before he goes, whispers hippolito_. _gons_. against her will fair julia to possess, is not to enjoy, but ravish happiness: yet women pardon force, because they find the violence of love is still most kind: just like the plots of well built comedies, which then please most, when most they do surprise: but yet constraint love's noblest end destroys, whose highest joy is in another's joys: where passion rules, how weak does reason prove! i yield my cause, but cannot yield my love. [_exit_. act iii. scene i.--_a great room in don manuel's house_. _hippolito solus_. my master bid me speak for him to julia: hard fate, that i am made a confident against myself! yet, though unwillingly i took the office, i would perform it well: but how can i prove lucky to his love, who to my own am so unfortunate? he trusts his passion like him, that ventures all his stock at once on an unlucky hand. _enter amideo_. _amid_. where is the lady julia? _hip_. what new treason against my master's love have you contrived with her? _amid_. i shall not render you account. _enter julia_. _jul_. i sent for him; yet if he comes, there's danger; yet if he does not, i for ever lose him. what can i wish? and yet i wish him here, only to take the care of me from me. weary with sitting out a losing hand, twill be some ease to see another play it. yesterday i refused to marry him, to-day i run into his arms unasked; like a mild prince encroached upon by rebels, love yielded much, till honour asked for all. how now, where's roderick? [_sees amideo_. i mean gonsalvo. [_sees hippolito_. _hip_. you would do well to meet him-- _amid_. meet him! you shall not do't: i'll throw myself, like a young fawning spaniel, in your way so often, you shall never move a step, but you shall tread on me. _jul_. you need not beg me: i would as soon meet a syren, as see him. _hip_. his sweetness for those frowns no subject finds: seas are the field of combat for the winds: but when they sweep along some flowery coast, their wings move mildly, and their rage is lost. _jul_. 'tis that which makes me more unfortunate; because his sweetness must upbraid my hate. the wounds of fortune touch me not so near; i can my fate, but not his virtue, bear. for my disdain with my esteem is raised; he most is hated when he most is praised: such an esteem, as like a storm appears, which rises but to shipwreck what it bears. _hip_. infection dwells upon my kindness, sure, since it destroys even those whom it would cure. [_cries, and exit_. _amid_. still weep, hippolito; to me thy tears are sovereign, as those drops the balm-tree sweats.-- but, madam, are you sure you shall not love him? i still fear.-- _jul_. thy fear will never let thee be a man. _amid_. indeed i think it won't. _jul_. we are now alone; what news from roderick? _amid_. madam, he begs you not to fear; he has a way, which, when you think all desperate, will set you free. _jul_. if not, i will not live a moment after it. _amid_. why? there's some comfort. _jul_. i strongly wish, for what i faintly hope: like the day-dreams of melancholy men, i think and think on things impossible, yet love to wander in that golden maze. _enter don manuel, hippolito, and company_. _amid_. madam, your brother's here. _man_. where is the bridegroom? _hip_. not yet returned, sir, from his ship. _man_. sister, all this good company is met, to give you joy. _jul_. while i am compassed round with mirth, my soul lies hid in shades of grief, whence, like the bird of night, with half shut eyes, she peeps, and sickens at the sight of day. [_aside_. _enter servant_. _serv_. sir, some gentlemen and ladies are without, who, to do honour to this wedding, come to present a masque. _man_. tis well; desire them they would leave put the words, and fall to dancing. the poetry of the foot takes most of late. _serv_. the poet, sir, will take that very ill; he's at the door, with the argument o'the masque in verse. _man_. which of the wits is it that made it? _serv_. none of the wits, sir; 'tis one of the poets. _man_. what subject has he chose? _serv_. the rape of proserpine. _enter gonsalvo_. _man_. welcome, welcome, you have been long expected. _gons_. i staid to see the unlading of some rarities, which are within-- madam, your pardon that i was so long absent. _jul_. you need not ask it for your absence, sir. _gons_. still cruel, julia? _jul_. the danger's here, and roderick not here: i am not grieved to die; but i am grieved to think him false. [_aside_. _man_. bid him begin. [_the music plays_. a _cupid_ descends in swift motion, and speaks these verses. _cup_. _thy conquests, proserpine, have stretched too far; amidst heavens peace thy beauty makes a war: for when, last night, i to jove's palace went, (the brightest part of all the firmament) instead of all those gods, whose thick resort filled up the presence of the thunderers court; there jove and juno all forsaken sate, pensive, like kings in their declining state: yet (wanting power) they would preserve the show, by hearing prayers from some few men below: mortals to jove may their devotions pay; the gods themselves to proserpine do pray. to sicily the rival powers resort; 'tis heaven wherever ceres keeps her court. phoebus and mercury are both at strife, the courtliest of our gods who want a wife. but venus, whate'er kindness she pretends, yet (like all females envious of their friends), has, by my aid, contrived a black design, the god of hell should ravish proserpine: beauties, beware; venus will never bear another venus shining in her sphere_. after cupid's speech, venus and ceres descend in the slow machines; ceres drawn by dragons, venus by swans. after them phoebus and mercury descend in swift motion. then cupid turns to julia, and speaks. _cup_. _the rival deities are come to woo a proserpine, who must be found below: would you, fair nymph, become, this happy hour, in name a goddess, as you are in power? then to this change the king of shades will owe a fairer proserpine than heaven can show_. [_julia, first whispered by amideo, goes into the dance, performed by cupid, phoebus, mercury, ceres, venus, and julia. towards the end of the dance, rodorick, in the habit of pluto, rises from below in a black chariot, all flaming, and drawn by black horses; he ravishes julia, who personated proserpine, and as he is carrying her away, his vizard fails off: hippolito first discovers him_. _hip_. a rape, a rape! 'tis roderick, 'tis roderick! _rod_. then i must have recourse to this. [_draws_. _jul_. o heavens! [_don manuel and gonsalvo draw, and a servant; the two that acted phoebus and mercury return to assist rodorick, and are beat back by manuel and a servant, while gonsalvo attacks rodorick_. _gons_. unloose thy hold, foul villain. _rod_. no, i'll grasp her even after death. _jul_. spare him, or i'll die with him. _gons_. must ravishers and villains live, while i in vain implore her mercy? [_thrusts at him, and hurts julia in the arm_. _jul_. oh, i am murdered! _gons_. wretched that i am, what have i done? to what strange punishment will you condemn this guilty hand? and yet my eyes were guilty first--for they could look on nothing else but you; and my unlucky hand too closely followed them!-- _enter manuel again_. _man_. the powers above are just, that thou still livest, for me to kill. _rod_. you'll find no easy task on't alone; come both together, i defy you! curse on this disguise, that has betrayed me thus cheaply to my death.-- _man_. under a devil's shape, thou could'st not be disguised. _jul_. then, must he die?-- yet, i'll not bid my roderick farewell; for they take leave, who mean to be long absent. _gons_. hold, sir! i have had blood enough already; and must not murder julia again in him she loves. live, sir; and thank this lady. _rod_. take my life, and spare my thanks. _man_. though you forgive him, let me take my just revenge. _gons_. leave that distinction to our dull divines: that ill, i suffer to be done, i do. _hip_. my heart bleeds for him: to see his virtue o'ercome so fatally, against such odds of fortune, and of love!-- _man_. permit his death, and julia will be yours. _jul_. permit it not, and julia will thank you. _gons_. who e'er could think, that one kind word from julia should be preferred to julia herself? could any man think it a greater good to save a rival, than possess a mistress? yet this i do! these are thy riddles, love!-- what fortune gives me, i myself destroy; and feed my virtue, but to starve my joy. honour sits on me like some heavy armour, and with its stiff defence, encumbers me; and yet, when i would put it off, it sticks like hercules's shirt; heats me at once; and poisons me! _man_. i find myself grow calm by thy example; my panting heart heaves less and less, each pulse; and all the boiling spirits scatter from it. since thou desirest he should not die, he shall not, 'till i on nobler terms can take his life. _rod_. the next turn may be yours.--remember, i owed this danger to your wilfulness: once, you might easily have been mine, and would not. [_exit_ rodorick. _man_. lead out my sister, friend; her hurt's so small, 'twill scarce disturb the ceremony. ladies, once more your pardons. [_leads out the company. exeunt_. _manent_ julia, gonsalvo, amideo, _and_ hippolito. gonsalvo _offers his hand,_ julia _pulls back hers_. _jul_. this hand would rise in blisters, should'st thou touch it!-- my roderick's displeased with me, and thou, unlucky man, the cause. dare not so much as once to follow me. [_exit_ julia. _gons_. not follow her! alas, she need not bid me! oh, how could i presume to take that hand, to which mine proved so fatal! nay, if i might, should i not fear to touch it?-- murderer's touch would make it bleed afresh! _amid_. i think, sir, i could kill her for your sake. _gons_. repent that word, or i shall hate thee strangely: harsh words from her, like blows from angry kings, though they are meant affronts, are construed favours. _hip_. her inclinations and aversions are both alike unjust; and both, i hope, too violent to last: chear up yourself; for if i live, (i hope i shall not long) [_aside_. she shall be yours. _amid_. 'twere much more noble in him, to make a conquest of himself, than her. she ne'er can merit him; and, hadst not thou a mean low soul, thou wouldst not name her to him. _hip_. poor child, who would'st be wise above thy years! why dost thou talk, like a philosopher, of conquering love, who art not yet grown up, to try the force of any manly passion? the sweetness of thy mother's milk is yet within thy veins, not soured and turned by love. _gons_. thou hast not field enough in thy young breast, to entertain such storms to struggle in. _amid_. young as i am, i know the power of love; its less disquiets, and its greater cares, and all that's in it, but the happiness. trust a boy's word, sir, if you please, and take my innocence for wisdom; leave this lady; cease to persuade yourself you are in love, and you will soon be freed. not that i wish a thing, so noble as your passion, lost to all the sex: bestow it on some other; you'll find many as fair, though none so cruel.-- would i could be a lady for your sake! _hip_. if i could be a woman, with a wish, you should not be without a rival long. _amid_. a cedar, of your stature, would not cause much jealousy. _hip_. more than a shrub of yours. _gons_. how eagerly these boys fall out for nothing!-- tell me, hippolito, wert thou a woman, who would'st thou be? _hip_. i would be julia, sir, because you love her. _amid_. i would not be she, because she loves not you. _hip_. true, amideo; and, therefore, i would wish myself a lady, who, i am sure, does infinitely love him. _amid_. i hope that lady has a name? _hip_. she has: and she is called honoria, sister to this julia, and bred up at barcelona; who loves him with a flame so pure and noble, that, did she know his love to julia, she would beg julia to make him happy. _gons_. this startles me! _amid_. oh, sir, believe him not: they love not truly, who, on any terms, can part with what they love. _gons_. i saw a lady at barcelona, of what name i know not, who, next to julia, was the fairest creature my eyes did e'er behold: but, how camest thou to know her? _hip_. sir, some other time i'll tell you. _amid_. it could not be honoria, whom you saw; for, sir, she has a face so very ugly, that, if she were a saint for holiness, yet no man would seek virtue there. _hip_. this is the lyingest boy, sir;--i am sure he never saw honoria; for her face, 'tis not so bad to frighten any man-- none of the wits have libelled it. _amid_. don roderick's sister, angelina, does so far exceed her, in the ornaments of wit and beauty, though now hid from sight, that, like the sun, (even when eclipsed) she casts a yellowness upon all other faces. _hip_. i'll not say much of her, but only this, don manuel saw not with my eyes, if e'er he loved that flanders shape; that lump of earth, and phlegm together. _amid_. you have often seen her, it seems, by your description of her person: but i'll maintain on any spanish ground, whate'er she be, yet she is far more worthy to have my lord her servant, than honoria. _hip_. and i'll maintain honoria's right against her, in any part of all the world. _gons_. you go too far, to quarrel on so slight a ground. _hip_. o pardon me, my lord, it is not slight: i must confess, i am so much concerned, i shall not bear it long. _amid_. nor i, assure you. _gons_. i will believe what both of you have said, that honoria, and angelina, both equally are fair. _amid_. why did you name honoria first? _gons_. and, since you take their parts so eagerly henceforth i'll call you by those ladies' names: you, my hippolito, shall be honoria; and you, my amideo, angelina. _amid_. then all my services, i wish, may make you kind to angelina, for my sake. _hip_. put all my merits on honoria's score, and think no maid could ever love you more. [_exeunt_. act iv. scene i. manuel _solus_. _man_. thus i provide for others' happiness, and lose my own. 'tis true, i cannot blame thy hatred, angelina, but thy silence. thy brother's hatred made thine just; but yet 'twas cruel in thee not to tell me so. conquest is noble, when an heart stands out; but mine, which yielded, how could'st thou betray? that heart, of which thou could'st not be deprived by any force or power, beside thy own; like empires, to that fatal height arrived, they must be ruined by themselves alone. my guarded freedom cannot be a prize to any scornful face a second time; for thy idea, like a ghost, would rise, and fright my thoughts from such another crime. _enter a servant, with a letter_. _man_. from whom? _serv_. sir, the contents will soon resolve you. [_he read_. _man_. tell roderick, he has prevented me in my design of sending to him first. i'll meet him, single, at the time and place; but, for my friend, tell him, he must excuse me: i'll hazard no man in my quarrel, but myself alone.--[_exit servant_. who's within there? _enter a servant_. go, call my sister, and gonsalvo, hither. [_exit servant_. 'twas pushed so far, that, like two armies, we were drawn so closely up, we could not part without engagement.--but they must not know it. _enter julia, gonsalvo, and amideo_. i have some business calls me hence, and know not when i shall return: but, ere i go, that power i have, by my dead father's will, over my sister, i bequeath to you: [_to gons_. she, and her fortunes, both be firmly yours; and this when i revoke, let cowardice blast all my youth, and treason taint my age. _gons_. sir-- _man_. nay, good, no thanks; i cannot stay-- [_exit manuel_. _gons_. there's something more than ordinary in this; go, amideo, quickly follow him, and bring me word which way he takes. _amid_. i go, sir. [_exit amid. julia kneels_. _gons_. madam, when you implore the powers divine, you have no prayers in which i will not join, though made against myself. [_kneels with her_. _jul_. in vain i sue, unless my vows may be conveyed by you. _gons_. conveyed by me! my ill success in love shews me, too sure, i have few friends above. how can you fear your just desires to want? when the gods pray, they both request and grant. _jul_. heaven has resigned my fortune to your hand, if you, like heaven, the afflicted understand. _gons_. the language of the afflicted is not new; too well i learned it, when i first saw you. _jul_. in spite of me, you now command my fate; and yet the vanquished seeks the victor's hate; even in this low submission, i declare, that, had i power, i would renew the war. i'm forced to stoop, and 'twere too great a blow to bend my pride, and to deny me too. _gons_. you have my heart; dispose it to your will; if not, you know the way to use it ill. _jul_. cruel to me, though kind to your desert, my brother gives my person, not my heart; and i have left no other means to sue, but to you only, to be freed from you. _gons_. from such a suit how can you hope success, which, given, destroys the giver's happiness? _jul_. you think it equal you should not resign that power you have, yet will not leave me mine; yet on my will i have the power alone, and, since you cannot move it, move your own. your worth and virtue my esteem may win, but women's passions from themselves begin; merit may be, but force still is, in vain. _gons_. i would but love you, not your love constrain; and though your brother left me to command, he placed his thunder in a gentle hand. _jul_. your favour from constraint has set me free, but that secures not my felicity; slaves, who, before, did cruel masters serve, may fly to deserts, and in freedom starve. the noblest part of liberty they lose, who can but shun, and want the power to chuse. _gons_. o whither would your fatal reasons move! you court my kindness, to destroy my love. _jul_. you have the power to make my happiness, by giving that, which you can ne'er possess. _gons_. give you to roderick? there wanted yet that curse, to make my miseries complete. _jul_. departing misers bear a nobler mind; they, when they can enjoy no more, are kind; you, when your love is dying in despair, yet want the charity to make an heir. _gons_. though hope be dying, yet it is not dead; and dying people with small food are fed. _jul_. the greatest kindness dying friends can have, is to dispatch them, when we cannot save. _gons_. those dying people, could they speak' at all, that pity of their friends would murder call: for men with horror dissolution meet; the minutes even of painful life are sweet. _jul_. but i'm by powerful inclination led; and streams turn seldom to their fountain head. _gons_. no; 'tis a tide which carries you away; and tides may turn, though they can never stay. _jul_. can you pretend to love, and see my grief caused by yourself, yet give me no relief? _gons_. where's my reward? _jul_. the honour of the flame. _gons_. i lose the substance, then, to gain the name. _jul_. i do too much mistress' power betray; must slaves be won by courtship to obey? thy disobedience does to treason rise, which thou, like rebels, would'st with love disguise. i'll kill myself, and, if thou can'st deny to see me happy, thou shalt see me die. _gons_. o stay! i can with less regret bequeath my love to roderick, than you to death: and yet-- _jul_. what new objection can you find? _gons_. but are you sure you never shall be kind? _jul_. never. _gons_. what! never? _jul_. never to remove. _gons_. oh fatal never to souls damned in love! _jul_. lead me to roderick. _gons_. if it must be so-- _jul_. here, take my hand, swear on it thou wilt go. _gons_. oh balmy sweetness! but 'tis lost to me, [_he kisses her hand_. like food upon a wretch condemned to die: another, and i vow to go:--once more; if i swear often, i shall be foreswore. others against their wills may haste their fate; i only toil to be unfortunate: more my own foe than all my stars could prove; they give her person, but i give her love. i must not trust myself--hippolito! _enter_ hippolito. _hip_. my lord! _gons_. quickly go find don roderick out: tell him, the lady julia will be walking on the broad rock, that lies beside the port, and there expects to see him instantly. in the mean time i'll call for amideo. _jul_. you'll keep your promise to don roderick? _gons_. madam, since you bring death, i welcome it; but to his fortune, not his love, submit. [_exit_ gonsalvo. _hip_. i dare not ask what i too fain would hear: but, like a tender mother, hope and fear, my equal twins, my equal care i make, and keep hope quiet, lest that fear should wake. [_aside. exit_ hippolito. _jul_. so, now i'm firmly at my own dispose; and all the lets, my virtue caused, removed: now, roderick, i come-- _enter_ gonsalvo _again_. _gons_. madam, my boy's not yet returned. _jul_. no matter, we'll not stay for him. _gon_. pray make not too much haste. [_exeunt jul. and gons_. scene ii. _enter don rodorick, and a servant_. _rod_. have you bespoke a vessel, as i bid you? _serv_. i have done better; for i have employed some, whom i know, this day to seize a ship; which they have done, clapping the men within her all under hatches, with such speed and silence, that, though she rides at anchor in the port among the rest, the change is not discovered. _rod_. let my best goods and jewels be embarked with secrecy: we'll put to sea this night. have you yet found my sister, or her woman? _serv_. neither, sir; but in all probability she is with manuel. _rod_. would god the meanest man in alicant had angelina, rather than don manuel! i never can forgive, much less forget, how he (the younger soldier) was preferred to that command of horse, which was my due. _serv_. and, after that, by force disseized you of your quarters-- _rod_. should i meet him seven years hence at the altar, i would kill him there:--i had forgot to tell you, the design we had, to carry julia by force away, will now be needless: she'll come to the rock to see me; you, unseen, shall stand behind, and carry her into the vessel. _serv_. shall i not help you to dispatch don manuel? _rod_. i neither doubt my valour nor my fortune: but if i die, revenge me: presently about your business; i must to the rock, for fear i come too late. [_exeunt severally_. scene iii.--_through a rock is discovered a navy of ships riding at a distance_. _enter amideo_. _amid_. thus far, unseen by manuel, i have traced him; he can be gone no farther than the walk behind the rock: i'll back, and tell my master. _enter hippolito at the other end_. _hip_. this is the place, where roderick must expect his julia:--how! amideo here! _amid_. hippolito! _hip_. this were so fit a time for my revenge, had i the courage, now! my heart swells at him, and my breath grows short; but whether fear or anger choaks it up, i cannot tell. _amid_. he looks so ghastfully, would i were past him; yet i fear to try it, because my mind misgives me he will stop me. by your leave, hippolito. _hip_. whither so fast? _amid_. you'll not presume to hinder my lord's business? he shall know it. _hip_. i'll make you sure, before, for telling any tales: do you remember, since you defended angelina's beauty against honoria's; nay, and would maintain it. _amid_. and so i will do still; (i must feign courage, there is no other way.) [_aside_. _hip_. i'll so revenge that injury! (if my heart fails me not.) _amid_. come, confess truly, for, i know, it fails you. what would you give to avoid fighting now? _hip_. no, 'tis your heart that fails. _amid_. i scorn the danger; yet, what compassion on your youth might do, i cannot tell; and, therefore, do not work upon my pity; for i feel already my stout heart melts. _hip_. oh! are you thereabout? now i am sure you fear; and you shall fight. _amid_. i will not fight. _hip_. confess, then, angelina is not so fair as is honoria. _amid_. i do confess; now are you satisfied? _hip_. there's more behind; confess her not so worthy to be beloved, nor to possess gonsalvo, as fair honoria is. _amid_. that's somewhat hard. _hip_. but you must do't, or die. _amid_. well, life is sweet; she's not so worthy: now, let me be gone. _hip_. no, never to my master; swear to quit his service, and no more to see his face. _amid_. i fain would save my life, but that, which you propose, is but another name to die. i cannot live without my master's sight. _hip_. then you must fight with me for him. _amid_. i would do any thing with you, but fighting for him. _hip_. nothing but that will serve. _amid_. lay by our swords, and i'll scratch with you for him. _hip_. that's not manly. _amid_. well, since it must be so, i'll fight:--unbutton. [_hippolito unbuttons slowly_. how many buttons has he? i'll be one behind him still. [_aside_. [_unbuttons one by one after him. hippolito makes more haste_. you are so prodigal! if you loved my master, you would not tear his doublet so:--how's this! two swelling breasts! a woman, and my rival! the stings of jealousy have given me courage, which nature never gave me: come on, thou vile dissembler of thy sex; expect no mercy; either thou or i must die upon this spot: now for gonsalvo-- sa--sa-- _hip_. this courage is not counterfeit; ah me! what shall i do? for pity, gentle boy-- _amid_. no pity; such a cause as ours can neither give nor take it: if thou yieldest, i will not spare thee; therefore, fight it out. [_tears open his doublet_. _hip_. death to my hopes! a woman! and so rare a beauty, that my lord must needs doat on her. i should myself, if i had been a man: but, as i am, her eyes shoot death at me. _amid_. come, have you said your prayers? _hip_. for thy confusion,-- thou ravenous harpy, with an angel's face,-- thou art discovered, thou too charming rival; i'll be revenged upon those fatal eyes. _amid_. i'll tear out thine. _hip_. i'll bite out hungry morsels from those plump cheeks, but i will make them thinner. _amid_. i'd beat thee to the blackness of a moor. but that the features of thy face are such, such damnable, invincible good features, that as an ethiop thou would'st still be loved. _hip_. i'll quite unbend that black bow o'er thine eyes; i'll murder thee, and julia shall have him, rather than thou. _amid_. i'll kill both thee and her, rather than any one but i shall have him. _hip_. come on, thou witch. _amid_. have at thy heart, thou syren. [_they draw and fight awkwardly, not coming near one another_. _amid_. i think i paid you there. _hip_. o stay a little, and tell me in what corner of thy heart gonsalvo lies, that i may spare that place. _amid_. he lies in the last drop of all my blood, and never will come out, but with my soul. _hip_. come, come, we dally; would one of us were dead, no matter which! [_they fight nearer_. _enter don_ manuel. _man_. the pretty boys, that serve gonsalvo, fighting! i come in time to save the life of one. [hippolito _gets_ amideo _down in closing: manuel takes away their swords_. _hip_. for goodness' sake, hinder not my revenge. _amid_. the noble manuel has saved my life: heavens, how unjustly have i hated him. [_aside_. _man_. what is it, gentle youths, that moves you thus? i cannot tell what causes you may find; but, trust me, all the world, in so much sweetness, would be to seek where to begin a quarrel: you seem the little cupids in the song, contending for the honey-bag. _hip_. 'tis well you're come; you may prevent a greater mischief: here 'tis gonsalvo has appointed roderick-- _man_.to fight? _hip_. what's worse: to give your sister to him. won by her tears, he means to leave her free, and to redeem her misery with his: at least so i conjecture. _man_. 'tis a doubtful problem; either he loves her violently, or not at all. _amid_. you have betrayed my master:-- [_to_ hippolito. _aside_. _hip_. if i have injured you, i mean to give you the satisfaction of a gentlewoman. _enter_ gonsalvo _and_ julia. _man_. oh, they are here; now i shall be resolved. _jul_. my brother manuel! what fortune's this! _man_. i'm glad i have prevented you. _gons_. with what variety my fate torments me still! never was man so dragged along by virtue; but i must follow her. _jul_. noble gonsalvo, protect me from my brother. _gons_. tell me, sir, when you bestowed your sister on me, did not you give her freely up to my dispose? _man_. 'tis true, i did; but never with intent you should restore her to my enemy. _gons_. 'tis past; 'tis done: she undermined my soul with tears; as banks are sapped away by streams. _man_. i wonder what strange blessing she expects from the harsh nature of this rodorick; a man made up of malice and revenge. _jul_. if i possess him, i may be unhappy; but if i lose him, i am surely so. had you a friend so desperately sick, that all physicians had forsook his cure; all scorched without, and all parched up within, the moisture that maintained consuming nature licked up, and in a fever fried away; could you behold him beg, with dying eyes, a glass of water, and refuse it him, because you knew it ill for his disease? when he would die without it, how could you deny to make his death more easy to him? _man_. talk not to me of love, when honour suffers. the boys will hiss at me. _gons_. i suffer most: had there been 'choice, what would i not have chose? to save my honour i my love must lose: but promises, once made, are past debate, and truth's of more necessity than fate. _man_. i scarce can think your promise absolute; there might some way be thought on, if you would, to keep both her and it. _gons_. no, no; my promise was no trick of state: i meant to be made truly wretched first, and then to die; and i'll perform them both. _man_. then that revenge, i meant on rodorick, i'll take on you. [_draws_. _gons_.--i draw with such regret, as merchants throw their wealth into the sea, to save their sinking vessels from a wreck. _man_. i find i cannot lift my hand against thee: do what thou wilt; but let not me behold it. [_goes off a little way_. i'll cut this gordian knot i cannot loose: to keep his promise, rodorick shall have her, but i'll return and rescue her by force; then giving back what he so frankly gave, at once my honour and his love i'll save. [_exit manuel_. _enter rodorick_. _rod_. how! julia brought by him?--who sent for me? _gons_. 'twas i. _rod_. i know your business then; 'tis fighting. _gons_. you're mistaken; 'tis something that i fear. _rod_. what is't? _gons_. why,--'twill not out: here, take her; and deserve her: but no thanks; for fear i should consider what i give, and call it back.-- _jul_. o my dear rodorick! _gons_. o cruel julia! for pity shew not all your joy before me; stifle some part of it one minute longer, 'till i am dead. _jul_. my rodorick shall know, he owes his julia to you; thank him, love; in faith i take it ill you are so slow. _rod_. you know he has forbid me; and, beside, he'll take it better from your mouth than mine; all that you do must needs be pleasing to him. _jul_. still sullen and unkind! _rod_. why, then, in short, i do not understand the benefit. _gons_. not to have julia in thy free possession? _rod_. not brought by you; not of another's leaving. _jul_. speak softly, rodorick: let not these hear thee; but spare my shame for the ill choice i made, in loving thee. _rod_. i will speak loud, and tell thee, thou com'st, all cloyed and tired with his embraces, to proffer thy palled love to me; his kisses do yet bedew thy lips; the very print, his arms made round thy body, yet remains. _gons_. o barbarous jealousy! _jul_. 'tis an harsh word: i am too pure for thee; but yet i love thee. [_offers to take his hand_. _rod_. away, foul impudence. _gons_. madam, you wrong your virtue, thus to clear it by submission. _jul_. whence grows this boldness, sir? did i ask you to be my champion? _rod_. he chose to be your friend, and not your husband: left that dull part of dignity to me; as often the worst actors play the kings. _jul_. this jealousy is but excess of passion, which grows up, wild, in every lover's breast; but changes kind when planted in an husband. _rod_. well, what i am, i am; and what i will be, when you are mine, my pleasure shall determine. i will receive no law from any man. _jul_. this strange unkindness of my rodorick i owe to thee, and thy unlucky love; henceforth go lock it up within thy breast; 'tis only harmless while it is concealed, but, opened, spreads infection like a vault. go, and my curse go with thee!-- _gons_. i cannot go 'till i behold you happy:-- --here, rodorick, receive her on thy knees; use her with that respect, which thou would'st pay thy guardian angel, if he could be seen. --do not provoke my anger by refusing.-- i'll watch thy least offence to her; each word, nay, every sullen look;-- and, as the devils, who are damned to torments, yet have the guilty souls their slaves to punish; so, under me, while i am wretched, thou shalt be tormented.-- _rod_. would'st thou make me the tenant of thy lust, to toil, and for my labour take the dregs, the juicy vintage being left for thee? no: she's an infamous, lewd prostitute: i loath her at my soul. _gons_. i can forbear no longer: swallow down thy lie, foul villain. [_they fight off the stage. exeunt_. _jul_. help, help! _amid_. here is that witch, whose fatal beauty began the mischief; she shall pay for all. [_goes to kill julia_. _hip_. i hate her for it more than thou canst do; but cannot see her die, my master loves. [_goes between with her sword_. _enter_ gonsalvo, _following_ rodorick, _who falls_. _rod_. so, now i am at rest:-- i feel death rising higher still, and higher, within my bosom; every breath i fetch shuts up my life within a shorter compass, and, like the vanishing sound of bells, grows less and less each pulse, 'till it be lost in air. [_swoons away_. _gons_. down at your feet, much injured innocence, i lay that sword, which-- _jul_. take it up again; it has not done its work 'till i am killed: for ever, ever, thou hast robbed me of that man, that only man, whom i could love: dost thou thus court thy mistress? thus oblige her? all thy obligements have been fatal yet, yet the most fatal now would most oblige me. kill me:--yet i am killed before in him. i lie there on the ground; cold, cold, and pale: that death, i die in roderick, is far more pleasant than that life, i live in julia.-- --see how he stands--when he is bid dispatch me! how dull! how spiritless! that sloth possest thee not, when thou didst kill my roderick. _gons_. i'm too unlucky to converse with men: i'll pack together all my mischiefs up, gather with care each little remnant of them, that none of them be left behind: thus loaded, fly to some desert, and there let them loose, where they may never prey upon mankind. but you may make my journey shorter:--take this sword; 'twill shew you how:-- _jul_.i'll gladly set you on your way:-- [_takes his sword_. _enter three of_ rodorick's _servants_. _ serv_. make haste; he's now unarmed, we may with ease revenge my master's death. _jul_. now these shall do it. _gons_. i'll die by none but you.-- _hip_. o here, take my sword, sir. _amid_. he shall have mine. [_both give their swords_ to gonsalvo. _enter manuel_. _man_. think not of death. we'll live and conquer. [_they beat them off_. _man_. these fellows, though beat off, will strait return with more; we must make haste to save ourselves. _hip_. 'tis far to the town, and, ere you reach it, you will be discovered. _gons_. my life's a burden to me, were not julia's concerned; but, as it is, she, being present, will be found accessary to his death. _man_. see where a vessel lies, not far from shore; and near at hand a boat belonging to her; let's haste aboard, and what with prayers and gifts buy our concealment there:--come, julia. _gons_. alas, she swoons away upon the body. _man_. the night grows on apace; we'll take her in our arms, and bear her hence. [_exeunt gonsalvo, and the boys, with manuel, carrying julia_. _the servants enter again_. _ serv_. they are all gone, we may return with safety: help me to bear the body to the town. _ serv_. he stirs, and breathes a little; there may be some hope. _ serv_. the town's far off, and the evening cold. let's carry him to the ship. _ serv_. haste then away: things, once resolved, are ruined by delay. [_exeunt_. act v. scene i. _the scene lying in a carrack_. _enter a pirate and the captain_. _pir_. welcome a ship-board, captain; you staid long. _capt_. no longer than was necessary for shifting trades; to change me from a robber to a pirate. _pir_. there's a fair change wrought in you since yesterday morning; then you talked of nothing but repentance, and amendment of life. _capt_. 'faith, i have considered better on't: for, conversing a whole day together with honest men, i found them all so poor and beggarly, that a civil person would be ashamed to be seen with them:--but you come from don roderick's cabin; what hopes have you of his life? _pir_. no danger of it, only loss of blood had made him faint away; he called for you. _capt_. well, are his jewels and his plate brought in? _pir_. they are.--when hoist we sails? _capt_. at the first break of day: when we are got out clear, we'll seize on roderick and his men: they are not many, but fear may make them desperate. _pir_. we may take them, when they are laid to sleep. _capt_. 'tis well advised. _pir_. i forgot to tell you, sir, that a little before don roderick was brought in, a company of gentlemen (pursued it seems by justice) procured our boat to row them hither. two of them carried a very fair lady betwixt them, who was either dead, or swooned. _capt_. we'll sell them altogether to the turk,--at least i'll tell them so. [_aside_. _pir_. pray, sir, let us reserve the lady to our own uses; it were a shame to good catholicks to give her up to infidels. _capt_. don roderick's door opens; i'll speak to him. _the scene draws, and discovers the captains cabin; rodorick on a bed, and two servants by him_. _capt_. how is it with the brave don roderick? do you want any thing? _rod_. i have too much of that i would not, love; and what i would have, that i want, revenge. i must be set ashore. _capt_. that you may, sir; but our own safety must be thought on first. [_one enters, and whispers the captain_. _capt_. i come:--seignior, think you are lord here, and command all freely. [_exeunt captain and pirates_. _rod_. he does well to bid me think so: i am of opinion we are fallen into huckster's hands. _ serv_. indeed he talked suspiciously enough; he half denied to land us. _rod_. these, pedro, are your confiding men-- _ serv_. i think them still so. _rod_. would i were from them. _ serv_. 'tis impossible to attempt it now; you have not strength enough to walk. _rod_. that venture must be mine: we're lost, if we stay here to-morrow. _ serv_. i hope better. _ serv_. one whom i saw among 'em, to my knowledge, is a notorious robber. _ serv_. he looked so like a gentleman, i could not know him then. _rod_. what became of julia when i fell? _ serv_. we left her weeping over you, till we were beaten off; but she, and those with her, were gone when we returned. _rod_. too late i find, i wronged her in my thoughts. i'm every way a wretched man:-- something we must resolve on, ere we sleep; draw in the bed, i feel the cold. [_bed drawn in. exeunt_. scene ii. _enter gonsalvo, manuel, hippolito and amideo_. _hip_. nay, 'tis too true; for, peeping through a chink, i saw don roderick lying on a bed, not dead, as we supposed, but only hurt; so waited on as spoke him master here. _man_. was there ever so fatal an adventure! to fly into that very ship, for refuge, where the only person, we would shun, commands! this mischief is so strange, it could not happen, but was the plot and juggle of our fate, to free itself, and cast the blame on us. _gons_. this is not yet our fortune's utmost malice; the gall remains behind. this ship was that, which yesterday was mine; i can see nothing round me, but what's familiar to my eyes; only the persons new: which makes me think, twas seized upon by roderick, to revenge himself on me. _man_. tis wonderful indeed. _amid_. the only comfort is, we are not known; for when we entered it was dark. _hip_. that comfort is of as short continuance as the night; the day will soon discover us. _man_. some way must be invented to get out. _hip_. fair julia, sadly pining by herself. sits on her bed; tears falling from her eyes, as silently as dews in dead of night. all we consult of must be kept from her: that moment, that she knows of roderick's life, dooms us to certain death. _man_. 'tis well considered. _gons_. for my part, were not you and she concerned, i look upon my life, like an estate, so charged with debts, it is not worth the keeping. we cannot long be undiscovered by them; let us then rush upon them on the sudden, (all hope of safety placed in our despair) and gain quick victory, or speedy death. _man_. consider first, the impossibility of the attempt; four men, and two poor boys, (which, added to our number, make us weaker) against ten villains, more resolved for death, than any ten among our holiest priests. stay but a little longer, till they all disperse to rest within their several cabins; then more securely we may set upon them, and kill them half, before the rest can wake: by this means too, the boys are useful for us, for they can cut the throats of sleeping men. _hip_. now have i the greatest temptation in the world to reveal, thou art a woman. [_to amideo_. _amid_. if 'twere not for thy beauty, my master should know, what a man he keeps. [_to hippolito_. _hip_. why should we have recourse to desperate ways, when safer may be thought on? 'tis like giving the extreme unction. in the beginning of a sickness; can you imagine to find all asleep? the wicked joy, of having such a booty in their possession, will keep some awake; and some, no doubt, will watch with wounded roderick. _amid_. what would your wisdom now propose? _hip_. to say that some of us are sea-sick; (your complexion will make the excuse for us who are less fair:) so, by good words and promises, procure we may be set ashore, ere morning come. _amid_. o, the deep reasons of the grave hippolito!-- as if 'twere likely, in so calm a season, we should be sick so soon; or, if we were, whom should we chuse among us to go tell it? for whoe'er ventures out must needs be known: or, if none knew us, can you think that pirates will let us go upon such easy terms, as promising rewards?--let me advise you. _hip_. now, we expect an oracle. _amid_. here are bundles, of canvas and of cloth, you see lie by us; in which one of us shall sew up the rest, only some breathing place, for air, and food: then call the pirates in, and tell them, we, for fear, had drowned ourselves: and when we come to the next port, find means to bring us out. _hip_. pithily spoken!-- as if you were to bind up marble statues, which only bore the shapes of men without, and had no need of ever easing nature. _gons_. there's but one way left, that's this;-- you know the rope, by which the cock-boat's tied, goes down by the stern, and now, we are at anchor, there sits no pilot to discover us; my counsel is, to go down by the ladder, and, being once there, unloose, and row to shore. _man_. this, without doubt, were best; but there lies ever some one, or more, within the boat, to watch it. _gons_. i'll slide down first, and run the venture of it; you shall come after me, if there be need, to give me succour. _man_. 'tis the only way. _gons_. go in to julia, then, and first prepare her, with knowledge of the pirates, and the danger her honour's in, among such barbarous people. _man_. leave it to me. _amid_. hippolito and julia, my rivals, like two pointed rocks appear; and i, through both, must to gonsalvo steer. [_aside_. [_exeunt all but hippolita_. _hip_. as from some steep and dreadful precipice the frighted traveller casts down his eyes, and sees the ocean at so great a distance, it looks as if the skies were sunk below him; yet if some neighbouring shrub (how weak soe'er) peeps up, his willing eyes stop gladly there, and seem to ease themselves, and rest upon it: so, in my desperate state, each little comfort preserves me from despair. gonsalvo strove not with greater care to give away his julia, than i have done to part with my gonsalvo; yet neither brought to pass our hateful wish. then, we may meet, since different ways we move, chasing each other in the maze of love. [_exit_. scene iii. _enter don rodorick, carried by two servants_. _ serv_. it was the only way that could be thought on, to get down by the ladder to the boat. _ serv_. you may thank me for that invention. _rod_. what a noise is here, when the least breath's as dangerous as a tempest. _ serv_. if any of those rogues should hear him talk, in what a case were we? _rod_. o, patience! patience!-- this ass brays out for silence. _enter, at the other end, manuel, leading julia, gonsalvo, hippolito, and amideo_. _gons_. hark! what noise is that? go softly. [_they meet on the middle of the stage_. _rod_. who's here? i am betrayed! and nothing grieves me, but i want strength to die with honour. _jul_. roderick! is it thy voice, my love?--speak, and resolve me, whether thou livest, or i am dead with thee? _man_. kill him, and force our way. _rod_. is manuel there? hold up my arm, that i may make one thrust at him, before i die. _gons_. since we must fall, we'll sell our lives as dearly as we can. _ serv_. and we'll defend our master to the last. [_fight_. _enter pirates, without their captain_. _ pirate_. what's the meaning of this uproar?--quarrelling amongst yourselves at midnight? _ pirate_. we are come in a fit time to decide the difference. _man_. hold, gentlemen! we're equally concerned. [_to rodorick's servants_. we for our own, you for your master's safety; if we join forces, we may then resist them, if not, both sides are ruined. _ serv_. we agree. _gons_. come o'er on our side then. [_they join_. _ pirate_. a mischief on our captain's drowsiness; we're lost, for want of him! [_they fight_. _gons_. dear madam, get behind; while you are safe, we cannot be o'ercome. [_to julia_. [_they drive off the pirates, and follow them off. rodorick remains on the ground_. _rod_. i had much rather my own life were lost, than manuel's were preserved. _enter the pirates, retreating before gonsalvo, &c_. _ pirate_. all's lost! they fight like devils, and our captain yet sleeping in his bed. _ pirate_. here lies don roderick; if we must die, we'll not leave him behind. [_goes to kill him_. _jul_. o, spare my roderick's life; and, in exchange, take mine! i put myself within your power, to save or kill. _ pirate_. so, here's another pawn, for all our safeties. _man_. heaven! what has she done? _gons_. let go the lady, or expect no mercy!--the least drop of her blood is worth all yours. and mine together. _ pirate_. i am glad you think so:-- either deliver up your sword, or mine shall pierce her heart this moment. _gons_. here, here, take it. _man_. you are not mad, to give away all hopes [_manuel holds him_ of safety and defence, from us, from her, and from yourself, at once! _gons_. when she is dead, what is there worth defending? _man_. will you trust a pirate's promise, sooner than your valour? _gons_. any thing, rather than see her in danger. _ pirate_. nay, if you dispute the matter!-- [_holds his sword to her breast_. _gons_. i yield, i yield!--reason to love must bow: love, that gives courage, can make cowards too! [_gives his sword_. _jul_. o, strange effect of a most generous passion! _rod_. his enemies themselves must needs admire it. _man_. nay, if gonsalvo makes a fashion of it, 'twill be valour to die tamely. [_gives his_. _hip_. i am for dying too with my dear master. _amid_. my life will go as easily as a fly's; the least fillip does it in this fright. _ pirate_. one call our captain up: tell him, he deserves little of the booty. _jul_. it has so much prevailed upon my soul, i ever must acknowledge it. [_to gons_. _rod_. julia has reason, if she love him; yet, i find i cannot bear it. [_aside_. _gons_. say but, you love me; i am more than paid. _jul_. you ask that only thing, i cannot give;-- were i not roderick's first, i should be yours; my violent love for him, i know, is faulty; yet passion never can be placed so ill, but that to change it is the greater crime. inconstancy is such a guilt, as makes that very love suspected, which it brings; it brings a gift, but 'tis of ill-got wealth, the spoils of some forsaken lover's heart. love, altered once, like blood let out before, will lose its virtue, and can cure no more. _gons_. in those few minutes which i have to live, to be called yours, is all i can enjoy. roderick receives no prejudice by that; i would but make some small acquaintance here, for fear i never should enquire you out in that new world, which we are going to. _amid_. then, i can hold no longer;--you desire, in death, to be called hers; and all i wish, is, dying, to be yours. _hip_. you'll not discover? [_aside_. _amid_. see here the most unfortunate of women, that angelina, whom you all thought lost; and lost she was indeed, when she beheld gonsalvo first. _all_. how?--angelina! _rod_. ha! my sister! _amid_. i thought to have fled love in flying manuel, but love pursued me in gonsalvo's shape: for him, i ventured all that maids hold dear; the opinion of my modesty, and virtue, my loss of fortune, and my brother's love. for him, i have exposed myself to dangers, which, great themselves, yet greater would appear, if you could see them through a woman's fear. but why do i my right by dangers prove? the greatest argument for love is love: that passion, julia, while he lives, denies, he should refuse to give her when he dies: yet grant he did his life to her bequeath, may i not claim my share of him in death? i only beg, when all the glory's gone, the heatless beams of a departing sun. _gons_. never was passion, hid so modestly, so generously revealed. _man_. we're now a chain of lovers linked in death; julia goes first, gonsalvo hangs on her, and angelina holds upon gonsalvo, as i on angelina. _hip_. nay, here's honoria too:--you look on me with wonder in your eyes, to see me here, and in this strange disguise. _jul_. what new miracle is this? honoria! _man_. i left you with my aunt at barcelona, and thought, ere this, you had been married to the rich old man, don estevan de gama. _hip_. i ever had a strange aversion for him: but when gonsalvo landed there, and made a kind of courtship, (though, it seems, in jest,) it served to conquer me; which estevan perceiving, pressed my aunt to haste the marriage. what should i do? my aunt importuned me for the next day: gonsalvo, though i loved him, knew not my love; nor was i sure his courtship was not the effect of a bare gallantry. _gons_. alas! how grieved i am, that slight address should make so deep impression on your mind, in three days time! _hip_. that accident, in which you saved my life, when first you saw me, caused it, though now the story be too long to tell. howe'er it was, hearing that night, you lay aboard your ship, thus, as you see, disguised, in clothes belonging to my youngest nephew, i rose ere day, resolved to find you out, and, if i could, procure to wait on you without discovery of myself: but fortune crossed all my hopes. _gons_. it was that dismal night which tore my anchor up, and tossed my ship, past hope of safety, many days together, until at length it threw me on this port. _hip_. i will not tell you what my sorrows were, to find you gone; but there was now no help. go back again, i durst not; but, in fine, thought best, as fast as my weak legs would bear me, to come to alicant, and find my sister, unknown to any else: but, being near the city, i was seized upon by thieves, from whom you rescued me.--the rest you know. _gons_. i know too much indeed for my repose. _enter captain_. _capt_. do you know me? _gons_. now i look better on thee, thou seemest a greater villain than i thought thee. _jul_ 'tis he! _hip_. that bloody wretch, that robbed us in the woods. _gons_. slave! darest thou lift thy hand against me? darest thou touch any one whom he protects, who gave thee life? but i accuse myself, not thee: the death of all these guiltless persons became my crime, that minute when i spared thee. _capt_. it is not all your threats can alter me from what i have resolved. _gons_. begin, then, first with me. _capt_. i will, by laying here my sword. [_lays his sword at gonsalvo's feet_. _all_. what means this sudden change? _capt_. tis neither new, nor sudden.--from that time you gave me life, i watched how to repay it; and roderick's servant gave me speedy means to effect my wish: for, telling me, his master meant a revenge on you, and on don manuel, and then to seize on julia, and depart, i proffered him my aid to seize a vessel; and having, by enquiry, found out yours, acquainted first the captain with my purpose, to make a seeming mastery of the ship. _man_. how durst he take your word? _capt_. that i secured, by letting him give notice to the ships that lay about: this done, knowing the place you were to fight on was behind the rock, not far from thence, i, and some chosen men, lay out of sight, that, if foul play were offered, we might prevent it: but came not in; because, when there was need, don manuel, who was nearer, stepped before me. _gons_. then the boat, which seemed to lie by chance, hulling not far from shore, was placed by your direction there? _capt_. it was. _gons_. you're truly noble; and i owe much more than my own life and fortunes to your worth. _capt_. 'tis time i should restore their liberty to such of yours, as yet are seeming prisoners. i'll wait on you again. [_exit captain_. _rod_. my enemies are happy; and the storm, prepared for them, must break upon my head. _gons_. so far am i from happiness, heaven knows my griefs are doubled! i stand engaged in hopeless love to julia; in gratitude to these:-- here i have given my heart, and here i owe it. _hip_. dear master, trouble not yourself for me; i ever made your happiness my own; let julia witness with what faith i served you. when you employed me in your love to her, i gave your noble heart away, as if it had been some light gallant's, little worth: not that i loved you less than angelina, but myself less than you. _gons_. wonder of honour! of which my own was but a fainter shadow. when i gave julia, whom i could not keep, you fed a fire within, with too rich fuel, in giving it your heart to prey upon; the sweetest offering that was ever burnt since last the phoenix died. _hip_. if angelina knew, like me, the pride of noble minds, which is to give, not take, like me she would be satisfied, her heart was well bestowed, and ask for no return. _amid_. pray, let my heart alone; you'll use it as the gipsies do our money; if they once touch it, they have power upon't. _enter the servant, who appeared in the first act with gonsalvo_. _serv_. o, my dear lord, gonsalvo de peralta! _rod_. de peralta, said you? you amaze me! _gons_. why?--do you know that family in seville? _rod_. i am myself the elder brother of it. _gons_. don rodorick de peralta! _rod_. i was so, until my mother died, whose name, de sylva, i chose, (our custom not forbidding it) three years ago, when i returned from flanders: i came here to possess a fair estate, left by an aunt, her sister; for whose sake i take that name; and liked the place so well, that never since have i returned to seville. _gons_. 'twas then that change of name, which caused my letters all to miscarry. what an happy tempest was this, which would not let me rest at seville, but blew me farther on, to see you here! _amid_. brother, i come to claim a sister's share: but you're too near me, to be nearer now. _gons_. in my room, let me beg you to receive don manuel. _amid_. i take it half unkindly, you give me from yourself so soon: don manuel, i know, is worthy, and, but yesterday, preserved my life; but, it will take some time to change my heart. _man_. i'll watch it patiently, as chemists do their golden birth; and, when 'tis changed, receive it with greater care than they their rich elixir, just passing from one vial to another. _rod_. julia is still my brother's, though i lose her. _gons_. you shall not lose her; julia was born for none but you; and i for none but my honoria: julia is yours by inclination; and i, by conquest, am honoria's. _hon_. 'tis the most glorious one that e'er was made: and i no longer will dispute my happiness. _rod_. julia, you know my peevish jealousies; i cannot promise you a better husband than you have had a servant. _jul_. i receive you with all your faults. _rod_. and think, when i am froward, my sullen humour punishes itself: i'm like a day in march, sometimes o'ercast with storms, but then the after clearness is the greater. the worst is, where i love most, the tempest falls most heavy. _jul_. ah! what a little time to love is lent! yet half that time is in unkindness spent. _rod_. that you may see some hope of my amendment, i give my friendship to don manuel, ere my brother asks, or he himself desires it. _man_. i'll ever cherish it. _gons_. since, for my sake, you become friends, my care shall be to keep you so. you, captain, shall command this carrack, and, with her, my fortunes. you, my honoria, though you have an heart which julia left, yet think it not the worse; 'tis not worn out, but polished by the wearing. your merit shall her beauty's power remove; beauty but gains, obligement keeps our love. [_exeunt_. the indian queen, a tragedy, written by the hon. sir robert howard, and mr dryden. the indian queen the plays of sir robert howard were tolerated by his contemporaries, on account of the rank, gallantry, and loyalty, of the author; at least, we are now unable to discover any better reason for their success. the committee, alone, kept possession of the stage till our time; and that solely supported by the humours of teague, an honest blundering irish footman, such as we usually see in a modern farce. from a hint, given by langbaine, sir robert howard seems to have been suspected of frequent plagiarisms. at any rate it is certain, that, in the composition of the indian queen, he was so fortunate, as to have the assistance of our great poet, who was bound to him by ties of personal obligation. it is, of course, difficult even to guess at the share which dryden had in the indian queen. several of the characters have a strong resemblance to others, which he afterwards drew in bolder colours. thus, montezuma, who, like the hero of an ancient romance, bears fortune to any side which he pleases to espouse, is justly pointed out by settle, as the prototype of almanzor; though we look in vain for the glowing language, which, though sometimes bordering on burlesque, suits so well the extravagant character of the moorish hero. zempoalla strongly resembles nourmuhal in aureng-zebe; both shewing that high spirit of pride, with which dryden has often invested his female characters. the language of the indian queen possesses, in general, greater ease, and a readier flow of verse, than sir robert howard appears to have possessed, when unassisted. of this he seems, himself, to have been sensible; and alludes to dryden's acknowledged superiority, when maintaining against him the cause of dramatic blank verse, as preferable to rhyme[ ]. besides general hints towards the conception of the characters, and a superintendance of the dialogue, it is probable, that dryden wrote some entire scenes of the following piece. in the third act particularly, the passage respecting the incantation, which resembles that in the indian emperor, has strong traces of our author's manner. [footnote : "but writing the epistle in so much haste, i had almost forgot one argument, or observation, which that author (dryden) has most good fortune in. it is in his epistle dedicatory, before his essay of _dramatic poesie_; where, speaking of rhyme in plays, he desires it may be observed, that none are violent against it, but such as have not attempted it, or who have succeeded ill in the attempt: which, as to myself, and him, i easily acknowledge;--for, i confess, none has written in that way better than himself, nor few worse than i." _introduction to the great favourite, or the duke of lerma_.] the indian queen was acted in ; and received, says langbaine, with great applause. it was printed in . prologue _as the music plays a soft air, the curtain rises slowly, and discovers an indian boy and girl sleeping under two plantain-trees; and, when the curtain is almost up, the music turns into a tune expressing an alarm, at which the boy awakes, and speaks; _boy_. wake, wake, quevira! our soft rest must cease, and fly together with our country's peace! no more must we sleep under plantain shade, which neither heat could pierce, nor cold invade; where bounteous nature never feels decay, and opening buds drive falling fruits away. _que_. why should men quarrel here, where all possess as much as they can hope for by success?-- none can have most, where nature is so kind, as to exceed man's use, though not his mind. _boy_. by ancient prophecies we have been told, our world shall be subdued by one more old;-- and, see, that world already hither come. _que_. if these be they, we welcome then our doom! their looks are such, that mercy flows from thence, more gentle than our native innocence. _boy_. why should we then fear these, our enemies, that rather seem to us like deities? _que_. by their protection, let us beg to live; they came not here to conquer, but forgive.-- if so, your goodness may your power express, and we shall judge both best by our success. dramatis personae _the inca of peru_. montezuma, _his general_. acacis, _son to_ zempoalla. traxalla, _general to_ zempoalla. garucca, _a faithful subject to_ amexia. _the god of dreams_. ismeron, _one of the prophets, a conjuror_. _officers and soldiers. peruvians and mexicans. priests_. amexia, _the lawful queen of mexico_. zempoalla, _the usurping indian queen_. orazia,_daughter to the inca_. _attendants of ladies_. the indian queen. act i. scene i. _enter inca,_ orazia, montezuma, acacis, _prisoners, with peruvians_. _inca_. thrice have the mexicans before us fled, their armies broke, their prince in triumph led; both to thy valour, brave young man, we owe; ask thy reward, but such as it may show it is a king thou hast obliged, whose mind is large, and, like his fortune, unconfined. _mont_. young, and a stranger, to your court i came, there, by your favour, raised to what i am: i conquer, but in right of your great fate, and so your arms, not mine, are fortunate. _inca_. i am impatient, till this debt be paid. which still encreases on me while delayed; a bounteous monarch to himself is kind: ask such a gift as may for ever bind thy service to my empire, and to me. _mont_. what can this gift, he bids me ask him, be! perhaps he has perceived our mutual fires, and now, with ours, would crown his own desires; 'tis so, he sees my service is above all other payments but his daughter's love. [_aside_. _inca_. so quick to merit, and to take so slow? i first prevent small wishes, and bestow this prince, his sword and fortunes, to thy hand; he's thine unasked; now make thy free demand. _mont_. here, prince, receive this sword, as only due [_gives_ acacis _his sword_. to that excess of courage shown in you.-- when you, without demand, a prince bestow, less than a prince to ask of you were low. _inca_. then ask a kingdom; say, where thou wilt reign. _mont_. i beg not empires, those my sword can gain; but, for my past and future service too, what i have done, and what i mean to do; for this of mexico which i have won, and kingdoms i will conquer yet unknown; i only ask from fair orazia's eyes to reap the fruits of all my victories. _ peru_. our inca's colour mounts into his face. _ peru_. his looks speak death. _inca_. young man of unknown race, ask once again; so well thy merits plead, thou shall not die for that which thou hast said; the price of what thou ask'st, thou dost not know; that gift's too high. _mont_. and all besides too low. _inca_. once more i bid thee ask. _mont_. once more i make the same demand. _inca_. the inca bids thee take thy choice, what towns, what kingdoms thou would'st have. _mont_. thou giv'st me only what before i gave. give me thy daughter. _inca_. thou deserv'st to die. o thou great author of our progeny, thou glorious sun, dost thou not blush to shine, while such base blood attempts to mix with thine! _mont_. that sun, thou speak'st of, did not hide his face, when he beheld me conquering with his race. _inca_. my fortunes gave thee thy success in fight! convey thy boasted valour from my sight; i can o'ercome without thy feeble aid. [_exeunt inca_, orazia, _and peruvians_. _mont_. and is it thus my services are paid? not all his guards-- [_offers to go,_ acacis _holds him_. _aca_. hold, sir. _mont_. unhand me. _aca_. no, i must your rage prevent from doing what your reason would repent; like the vast seas, your mind no limits knows, like them, lies open to each wind that blows. _mont_. can a revenge, that is so just, be ill? _aca_. it is orazia's father, you would kill. _mont_. orazia! how that name has charmed my sword! _aca_. compose these wild distempers in your breast; anger, like madness, is appeased by rest. _mont_. bid children sleep, my spirits boil too high; but, since orazia's father must not die, a nobler vengeance shall my actions guide; i'll bear the conquest to the conquered side, until this inca for my friendship sues, and proffers what his pride does now refuse. _aca_. your honour is obliged to keep your trust. _mont_. he broke that bond, in ceasing to be just. _aca_. subjects to kings should more obedience pay. _mont_. subjects are bound, not strangers, to obey. _aca_. can you so little your orazia prize, to give the conquest to her enemies? can you so easily forego her sight? i, that hold liberty more dear than light, yet to my freedom should my chains prefer, and think it were well lost to stay with her. _mont_. how unsuccessfully i still o'ercome! i brought a rival, not a captive, home; yet i may be deceived; but 'tis too late to clear those doubts, my stay brings certain fate. [_aside_. come, prince, you shall to mexico return, where your sad armies do your absence mourn; and in one battle i will gain you more than i have made you lose in three before. _aca_. no, montezuma, though you change your side, i, as a prisoner, am by honour tied. _mont_. you are my prisoner, and i set you free. _aca_. 'twere baseness to accept such liberty. _mont_. from him, that conquered you, it should be sought. _aca_. no, but from him, for whom my conqueror fought. _mont_. still you are mine, his gift has made you so. _aca_. he gave me to his general, not his foe. _mont_. how poorly have you pleaded honour's laws! yet shun the greatest in your country's cause. _aca_. what succour can the captive give the free. _mont_. a needless captive is an enemy. in painted honour you would seem to shine; but 'twould be clouded, were your wrongs like mine. _aca_. when choler such unbridled power can have, thy virtue seems but thy revenge's slave: if such injustice should my honour stain, my aid would prove my nation's loss, not gain. _mont_. be cozened by thy guilty honesty, to make thyself thy country's enemy. _aca_. i do not mean in the next fight to stain my sword in blood of any mexican, but will be present in the fatal strife, to guard orazia's and the inca's life. _mont_. orazia's life, fond man! first guard thy own; her safety she must owe to me alone. _aca_. your sword, that does such wonders, cannot be, in an ill cause, secure of victory. _mont_. hark, hark! [_noise of trampling_. _aca_. what noise is this invades my ear? fly, montezuma! fly, the guards are near: to favour your retreat, i'll freely pay that life, which you so frankly gave this day. _mont_. i must retire; but those, that follow me, pursue their deaths, and not their victory. [_exit_ mont. _aca_. our quarrels kinder than our friendships prove: you for my country fight, i for your love. _enter_ inca _and guards_. _inca_. i was to blame to leave this madman free; perhaps he may revolt to the enemy, or stay, and raise some fatal mutiny. _aca_. stop your pursuits, for they must pass through me. _inca_. where is the slave? _aca_. gone. _inca_. whither? _aca_. o'er the plain; where he may soon the camp, or city, gain. _inca_. curse on my dull neglect! and yet i do less cause of wonder find, that he is gone, than that thou stayest behind. _aca_. my treatment, since you took me, was so free, it wanted but the name of liberty. i with less shame can still your captive live, than take that freedom, which you did not give. _inca_. thou brave young man, that hast thy years outdone, and, losing liberty, hast honour won, i must myself thy honour's rival make, and give that freedom, which thou would'st not take. go, and be safe.-- _aca_. but that you may be so-- your dangers must be past before i go. fierce montezuma will for fight prepare, and bend on you the fury of the war, which, by my presence, i will turn away, if fortune gives my mexicans the day. _inca_. come, then, we are alike to honour just, thou to be trusted thus, and i to trust. [_exeunt_. scene ii.--_mexico_. _enter_ zempoalla, traxalla, _and attendants_. _zemp_. o my acacis! does not my grief, traxalla, seem too rude, thus to press out before my gratitude has paid my debts to you?--yet it does move my rage and grief, to see those powers above punish such men, as, if they be divine, they know will most adore, and least repine. _trax_. those, that can only mourn when they are crost, may lose themselves with grieving for the lost. rather to your retreated troops appear, and let them see a woman void of fear: the shame of that may call their spirits home. were the prince safe, we were not overcome, though we retired: o, his too youthful heat, that thrust him where the dangers were so great! heaven wanted power his person to protect from that, which he had courage to neglect: but since he's lost, let us draw forth, and pay his funeral rites in blood; that we or they may, in our fates, perform his obsequies, and make death triumph when acacis dies. _zemp_. that courage, thou hast shown in fight, seems less than this, amidst despair to have excess: let thy great deeds force fate to change her mind: he, that courts fortune boldly, makes her kind. _trax_. if e'er traxalla so successful proves, may he then say he hopes, as well as loves; and that aspiring passion boldly own, which gave my prince his fate, and you his throne? i did not feel remorse to see his blood flow from the spring of life into a flood; nor did it look like treason, since to me you were a sovereign much more great than he. _zemp_. he was my brother, yet i scorned to pay nature's mean debts, but threw those bonds away; when his own issue did my hopes remove, not only from his empire, but his love. you, that in all my wrongs then bore a part, now need not doubt a place within my heart: i could not offer you my crown and bed, till fame and envy with long time were dead; but fortune does now happily present occasions, fit to second my intent. your valour may regain the public love, and make the people's choice their queen's approve. [_shout_. hark, hark, what noise is this, that strikes my ear! _trax_. 'tis not a sound that should beget a fear; such shouts as these have i heard often fly from conquering armies, crowned with victory. _zemp_. great god of vengeance, here i firmly vow, make but my mexicans successful now, and with a thousand feasts thy flames i'll feed; and that i take shall on the altars bleed; princes themselves shall fall, and make thy shrine, died with their blood, in glorious blushes shine. _enter a messenger_. _trax_. how now! what news is this that makes thy haste a flight? _mess_. such as brings victory without a fight. the prince acacis lives-- _zemp_. oh, i am blest!-- _mess_. reserve some joy till i have told the rest. he's safe, and only wants his liberty: but that great man, that carries victory where'er he goes; that mighty man, by whom in three set battles we were overcome; ill used (it seems) by his ungrateful king, does to our camp his fate and valour bring. the troop gaze on him, as if some bright star shot to their aids; call him the god of war: whilst he, as if all conquest did of right belong to him, bids them prepare to fight; which if they should delay one hour, he swears he'll leave them to their dangers, or their fears, and shame, which is the ignoble coward's choice. at this the army seemed to have one voice, united in a shout, and called upon the god-like stranger, "lead us, lead us on." make haste, great sir, lest you should come too late, to share with them in victory, or fate. _zemp_. my general, go; the gods be on our side; let valour act, but let discretion guide. [_exit_ trax. great god of vengeance, i see thou dost begin to hear me now: make me thy offering, if i break my vow. [_exeunt_. act ii. scene i. _enter_ inca _and_ orazia, _as pursued in a battle_. _oraz_. o fly, sir, fly; like torrents your swift foes come rolling on-- _inca_. the gods can but destroy. the noblest way to fly is that death shows; i'll court her now, since victory's grown coy. _oraz_. death's winged to your pursuit, and yet you wait to meet her-- _inca_. poor orazia, time and fate must once o'ertake me, though i now should fly. _oraz_. do not meet death; but when it comes, then die. _enter three soldiers_. _ sold_. stand, sir, and yield yourself, and that fair prey. _inca_. you speak to one, unpractised to obey. _enter_ montezuma. _mont_. hold, villains, hold, or your rude lives shall be lost in the midst of your own victory: these have i hunted for;--nay, do not stare; be gone, and in the common plunder share. [_exeunt soldiers_. how different is my fate, from theirs, whose fame from conquest grows! from conquest grows my shame. _inca_. why dost thou pause? thou canst not give me back, with fruitless grief, what i enjoyed before; no more than seas, repenting of a wreck, can with a calm our buried wealth restore. _mont_. 'twere vain to own repentance, since i know thy scorn, which did my passions once despise, once more would make my swelling anger flow, which now ebbs lower than your miseries: the gods, that in my fortunes were unkind, gave me not sceptres, nor such gilded things; but, whilst i wanted crowns, enlarged my mind to despise sceptres, and dispose of kings. _inca_. thou art but grown a rebel by success, and i, that scorned orazia should be tied to thee my slave, must now esteem thee less: rebellion is a greater guilt than pride. _mont_. princes see others' faults, but not their own; 'twas you that broke that bond, and set me free: yet i attempted not to climb your throne, and raise myself; but level you to me. _oraz_. o, montezuma, could thy love engage thy soul so little, or make banks so low about thy heart, that thy revenge and rage, like sudden floods, so soon should overflow? ye gods, how much i was mistaken here! i thought you gentle as the gall-less dove; but you as humoursome as winds appear, and subject to more passions than your love. _mont_. how have i been betrayed by guilty rage, which, like a flame, rose to so vast a height, that nothing could resist, nor yet assuage, till it wrapt all things in one cruel fate. but i'll redeem myself, and act such things, that you shall blush orazia was denied; and yet make conquest, though with wearied wings, take a new flight to your own fainting side. _inca_. vain man, what foolish thoughts fill thy swelled mind! it is too late our ruin to recall; those, that have once great buildings undermined, will prove too weak to prop them in their fall. _enter_ traxalla, _with the former soldiers_. _ sold_. see, mighty sir, where the bold stranger stands, who snatched these glorious prisoners from our hands. _trax_. 'tis the great inca; seize him as my prey, to crown the triumphs of this glorious day. _mont_. stay your bold hands from reaching at what's mine, if any title springs from victory; you safer may attempt to rob a shrine, and hope forgiveness from the deity. _enter_ acacis. _trax_. o, my dear prince, my joys to see you live are more than all that victory can give. _aca_. how are my best endeavours crost by fate! else you had ne'er been lost, or found so late. hurried by the wild fury of the fight, far from your presence, and orazia's sight, i could not all that care and duty show, which, as your captive, mighty prince, i owe. _inca_. you often have preserved our lives this day, and one small debt with many bounties pay. but human actions hang on springs, that be too small, or too remote, for us to see. my glories freely i to yours resign, and am your prisoner now, that once were mine. _mont_. these prisoners, sir, are mine by right of war; and i'll maintain that right, if any dare. _trax_. yes, i would snatch them from thy weak defence; but that due reverence, which i owe my prince, permits me not to quarrel in his sight; to him i shall refer his general's right. _mont_. i knew too well what justice i should find from an armed plaintiff, and a judge so kind. _aca_. unkindly urged, that i should use thee so; thy virtue is my rival, not my foe; the prisoners fortune gave thee shall be thine. _trax_. would you so great a prize to him resign? _aca_. should he, who boldly for his prey designed to dive the deepest under swelling tides, have the less title if he chance to find the richest jewel that the ocean hides? they are his due-- but in his virtue i repose that trust, that he will be as kind as i am just: dispute not my commands, but go with haste, rally our men, they may pursue too fast, and the disorders of the inviting prey may turn again the fortune of the day. [_exit_ trax. _mont_. how gentle all this prince's actions be! virtue is calm in him, but rough in me. _aca_. can montezuma place me in his breast? _mont_. my heart's not large enough for such a guest. _aca_. see, montezuma, see, orazia weeps. [oraz. _weeps_. _mont_. acacis! is he deaf, or, waking, sleeps? he does not hear me, sees me not, nor moves; how firm his eyes are on orazia fixt! gods, that take care of men, let not our loves become divided by their being mixt. _aca_. weep not, fair princess, nor believe you are a prisoner, subject to the chance of war; why should you waste the stock of those fair eyes, that from mankind can take their liberties? and you, great sir, think not a generous mind to virtuous princes dares appear unkind, because those princes are unfortunate, since over all men hangs a doubtful fate: one gains by what another is bereft; the frugal deities have only left a common bank of happiness below, maintained, like nature, by an ebb and flow. [_exeunt_. scene ii. zempoalla _appears seated upon a throne, frowning upon her attendants; then comes down and speaks. zemp_. no more, you, that above your prince's dare proclaim, with your rebellious breath, a stranger's name. _ peru_. dread empress-- _zemp_. slaves, perhaps you grieve to see your young prince glorious, 'cause he sprang from me; had he been one of base amexia's brood, your tongues, though silent now, had then been loud. _enter traxalla_. traxalla, welcome; welcomer to me than what thou bring'st, a crown and victory. _trax_. all i have done is nothing; fluttering fame now tells no news, but of the stranger's name, and his great deeds; 'tis he, they cry, by whom not men, but war itself is overcome; who, bold with his success, dares think to have a prince to wear his chains, and be his slave. _zemp_. what prince? _trax_. the great peruvian inca, that of late in three set battles was so fortunate, till this strange man had power to turn the tide, and carry conquest into any side. _zemp_. would you permit a private man to have the great peruvian inca for his slave? shame to all princes! was it not just now i made a sacred, and a solemn vow, to offer up (if blest with victory) the prisoners that were took? and they shall die. _trax_. i soon had snatched from this proud stranger's hand that too great object for his bold demand; had not the prince, your son, to whom i owe a kind obedience, judged it should be so. _zemp_. i'll hear no more; go quickly take my guards, and from that man force those usurped rewards; that prince, upon whose ruins i must rise, shall be the gods', but more my sacrifice: they, with my slaves, in triumph shall be tied, while my devotion justifies my pride: those deities, in whom i place my trust, shall see, when they are kind, that i am just. [_exit_. _trax_. how gladly i obey! there's something shoots from my enlivened frame, like a new soul, but yet without a name, nor can i tell what the bold guest will prove; it must be envy, or it must be love: let it be either, 'tis the greatest bliss for man to grant himself, all he dares wish; for he, that to himself himself denies, proves meanly wretched, to be counted wise. [_exit_ traxalla. scene iii. _enter_ montezuma _and_ acacis. _aca_. you wrong, me, my best friend, not to believe your kindness gives me joy; and when i grieve, unwillingly my sorrows i obey: showers sometimes fall upon a shining day. _mont._. let me, then, share your griefs, that in your fate would have took part. _aca_. why should you ask me that? those must be mine, though i have such excess; divided griefs increase, and not grow less. _mont_. it does not lessen fate, nor satisfy the grave, 'tis true, when friends together die; and yet they are unwilling to divide. _aca_. to such a friend nothing can be denied. you, when you hear my story, will forgive my grief, and rather wonder that i live; unhappy in my title to a throne, since blood made way for my succession: blood of an uncle too, a prince so free from being cruel, it taught cruelty. his queen amexia then was big with child; nor was he gentler than his queen was mild; th'impatient people longed for what should come from such a father, bred in such a womb; when false traxalla, weary to obey, took with his life their joys and hopes away. amexia, by the assistance of the night, when this dark deed was acted, took her flight; only with true garucca for her aid: since when, for all the searches that were made, the queen was never heard of more: yet still this traitor lives, and prospers by the ill: nor does my mother seem to reign alone, but with this monster shares the guilt and throne. horror choaks up my words: now you'll believe, 'tis just i should do nothing else but grieve. _mont_. excellent prince! how great a proof of virtue have you shown, to be concerned for griefs, though not your own! _aca_. pray, say no more. _enter a messenger hastily_. _mont_. how now, whither so fast? _mess_. o sir, i come too slow with all my haste! the fair orazia-- _mont_. ha, what dost thou say? _mess_. orazia with the inca's forced away out of your tent; traxalla, in the head of the rude soldiers, forced the door, and led, those glorious captives, who on thrones once shined, to grace the triumph, that is now designed. [_exit_. _mont_. orazia forced away!--what tempests roll about my thoughts, and toss my troubled soul! can there be gods to see, and suffer this? or does mankind make his own fate or bliss; while every good and bad happens by chance, not from their orders, but their ignorance?-- i will pull a ruin on them all, and turn their triumph to a funeral. _aca_. be temperate, friend. _mont_. you may as well advise that i should have less love, as grow more wise. _aca_. yet stay--i did not think to have revealed a secret, which my heart has still concealed; but, in this cause since i must share with you, 'tis fit you know--i love orazia too: delay not then, nor waste the time in words, orazia's cause calls only for our swords. _mont_. that ties my hand, and turns from thee that rage another way, thy blood should else assuage: the storm on our proud foes shall higher rise, and, changing, gather blackness as it flies: so, when winds turn, the wandering waves obey, and all the tempest rolls another way. _aca_. draw then a rival's sword, as i draw mine. and, like friends suddenly to part, let's join in this one act, to seek one destiny; rivals with honour may together die. [_exeunt_. act iii. scene i. zempoalla _appears seated upon her slaves in triumph, and the indians, as to celebrate the victory, advance in a warlike dance; in the midst of which triumph_, acacis _and_ montezuma _fall in upon them_. zempoalla _descends from her triumphant throne, and_ acacis _and_ montezuma _are brought in before her. zemp_. shame of my blood, and traitor to thy own: born to dishonour, not command a throne! hast thou, with envious eyes, my triumph seen? or couldst not see thy mother in thy queen? couldst thou a stranger above me prefer? _aca_. it was my honour made my duty err; i could not see his prisoners forced away, to whom i owed my life, and you the day. _zemp_. is that young man the warrior so renowned? _mont_. yes, he, that made thy men thrice quit their ground. do, smile at montezuma's chains; but know, his valour gave thee power to use him so. _trax_. grant that it did, what can his merits be, that sought his vengeance, not our victory? what has thy brutish fury gained us more, than only healed the wounds, it gave before? die then, for, whilst thou liv'st, wars cannot cease; thou may'st bring victory, but never peace. like a black storm thou roll'st about us all, even to thyself unquiet, till thy fall. [_draws to kill him_. _aca_. unthankful villain, hold! _trax_. you must not give him succour, sir. _aca_. why then, i must not live. posterity shall ne'er report, they had such thankless fathers, or a prince so bad. _zemp_. you're both too bold to will or to deny: on me alone depends his destiny. tell me, audacious stranger, whence could rise the confidence of this rash enterprise? _mont_. first tell me, how you dared to force from me the fairest spoils of my own victory? _zemp_. kill him--hold, must he die?--why, let him die;-- whence should proceed this strange diversity. in my resolves? does he command in chains? what would he do, proud slave, if he were free, and i were so? but is he bound, ye gods, or am i free? 'tis love, 'tis love, that thus disorders me. how pride and love tear my divided soul! for each too narrow, yet both claim it whole: love, as the younger, must be forced away.-- hence with the captives, general, and convey to several prisons that young man, and this peruvian woman. _trax_. how concerned she is! i must know more. _mont_. fair princess, why should i involve that sweetness in my destiny? i could out-brave my death, were i alone to suffer, but my fate must pull yours on. my breast is armed against all sense of fear; but where your image lies, 'tis tender there. _inca_. forbear thy saucy love, she cannot be so low, but still she is too high for thee. _zemp_. be gone, and do as i command; away! _mont_. i ne'er was truly wretched till this day. _oraz_. think half your sorrows on orazia fall, and be not so unkind to suffer all: patience, in cowards, is tame hopeless fear, but, in brave minds, a scorn of what they bear. [_exit inca_, montezuma, orazia, _and_ traxalla. _zemp_. what grief is this which in your face appears? _aca_. the badge of sorrow, which my soul still wears. _zemp_. though thy late actions did my anger move, it cannot rob thee of a mother's love. why shouldst thou grieve? grief seldom joined with blooming youth is seen; can sorrow be where knowledge scarce has been? fortune does well for heedless youth provide, but wisdom does unlucky age misguide; cares are the train of present power and state, but hope lives best that on himself does wait: o happiest fortune if well understood, the certain prospect of a future good! _aca_. what joy can empire bring me, when i know that all my greatness to your crimes i owe: _zemp_. yours be the joy, be mine the punishment. _aca_. in vain, alas, that wish to heaven is sent for me, if fair orazia must not live. _zemp_. why should you ask me what i cannot give? she must be sacrificed: can i bestow what to the gods, by former vows, i owe? _aca_. o plead not vows; i wish you had not shown you slighted all things sacred for a throne. _zemp_. i love thee so, that, though fear follows still, and horror urges, all that have been ill, i could for thee act o'er my crimes again; and not repent, even when i bore the shame and punishment. _aca_. could you so many ill acts undertake, and not perform one good one for my sake? _zemp_. prudence permits not pity should be shown to those, that raised the war to shake my throne. _aca_. as you are wise, permit me to be just; what prudence will not venture, honour must; we owe our conquest to the stranger's sword, tis just his prisoners be to him restored. i love orazia; but a nobler way, than for my love my honour to betray. _zemp_. honour is but an itch of youthful blood, of doing acts extravagantly good; we call that virtue, which is only heat that reigns in youth, till age finds out the cheat. _aca_. great actions first did her affections move, and i, by greater, would regain her love. _zemp_. urge not a suit which i must still deny; orazia and her father both shall die: begone, i'll hear no more. _aca_. you stop your ears-- but though a mother will not, heaven will hear; like you i vow, when to the powers divine you pay her guiltless blood, i'll offer mine. [_exit_. _zemp_. she dies, this happy rival, that enjoys the stranger's love, and all my hopes destroys; had she triumphed, what could she more have done, than robbed the mother, and enslaved the son? nor will i, at the name of cruel, stay: let dull successive monarchs mildly sway: their conquering fathers did the laws forsake, and broke the old, ere they the new could make, i must pursue my love; yet love, enjoyed, will, with esteem, that caused it first, grow less: but thirst and hunger fear not to be cloyed, and when they be, are cured by their excess. _enter_ traxalla. _trax_. now i shall see, what thoughts her heart conceals; for that, which wisdom covers, love reveals. [_aside_. madam, the prisoners are disposed. _zemp_. they are? and how fares our young blustering man of war? does he support his chains with patience yet? _trax_. he, and the princess, madam-- _zemp_. are they met? _trax_. no: but from whence is all this passion grown? _zemp_. 'twas a mistake. _trax_. i find this rash unknown is dangerous; and, if not timely slain, may plunge your empire in new wars again. _zemp_. thank ye; i shall consider. _trax_. is that all? the army doat on him, already call you cruel; and, for aught i know, they may by force unchain, and crown him in a day. _zemp_. you say, i have already had their curse for his bad usage; should i use him worse? _trax_. yet once you feared his reputation might obscure the prince's in the people's sight. _zemp_. time will inform us best what course to steer, but let us not our sacred vows defer: the inca and his daughter both shall die. _trax_. he suffers justly for the war; but why should she share his sad fate? a poor pretence, that birth should make a crime of innocence. _zemp_. yet we destroy the poisonous viper's young, not for themselves, but those from whom they sprung. _trax_. o no, they die not for their parents' sake, but for the poisonous seed which they partake. once more behold her, and then let her die, if in that face or person you can see but any place to fix a cruelty. the heavens have clouds, and spots are in the moon; but faultless beauty shines in her alone. _zemp_. beauty has wrought compassion in your mind! _trax_. and you to valour are become as kind. to former services there's something due, yet be advised-- _zemp_. yes, by myself, not you. _trax_. princes are sacred. _zemp_. true, whilst they are free: but power once lost, farewell their sanctity: 'tis power, to which the gods their worship owe, which, uncontrouled, makes all things just below: thou dost the plea of saucy rebels use; they will be judge of what their prince must chuse: hard fate of monarchs, not allowed to know when safe, but as their subjects tell them so. then princes but like public pageants move, and seem to sway, because they sit above. [_exit_. _trax_. she loves him; in one moment this new guest has drove me out from this false woman's breast; they, that would fetter love with constancy, make bonds to chain themselves, but leave him free with what impatience i her falsehood bear! yet do myself that, which i blame in her; but interest in my own cause makes me see that act unjust in her, but just in me. [_exit_. scene ii. ismeron _asleep.--enter_ zempoalla. _zemp_. ho, ismeron, ismeron! he stirs not; ha, in such a dismal cell can gentle sleep with his soft blessings dwell? must i feel tortures in a human breast, while beasts and monsters can enjoy their rest? what quiet they possess in sleep's calm bliss! the lions cease to roar, the snakes to hiss, while i am kept awake, only to entertain my miseries. or if a slumber steal upon my eyes, some horrid dream my labouring soul benumbs and brings fate to me sooner than it comes. fears most oppress when sleep has seized upon the outward parts, and left the soul alone. what envied blessings these cursed things enjoy! next to possess, 'tis pleasure to destroy. ismeron! ho, ismeron, ismeron! [_stamps_. _ism_. who's that, that with so loud and fierce a call disturbs my rest? _zemp_. she, that has none at all, nor ever must, unless thy powerful art can charm the passions of a troubled heart. _ism_. how can you have a discontented mind, to whom the gods have lately been so kind? _zemp_. their envious kindness how can i enjoy, when they give blessings, and the use destroy? _ism_. dread empress, tell the cause of all your grief; if art can help, be sure of quick relief. _zemp_. i dreamed, before the altar that i led a mighty lion in a twisted thread; i shook to hold him in so slight a tie, yet had not power to seek a remedy: when, in the midst of all my fears, a clove, with hovering wings, descended from above, flew to the lion, and embraces spread, with wings, like clasping arms, about his head, making that murmuring noise that cooing doves use, in the soft expression of their loves; while i, fixed by my wonder, gazed to see so mild a creature with so fierce agree: at last the gentle dove turned from his head, and, pecking, tried to break the slender thread, which instantly she severed, and released from that small bond the fierce and mighty beast, who presently turned all his rage on me, and, with his freedom, brought my destiny. _ism_. dread empress, this strange vision you relate is big with wonder, and too full of fate, without the god's assistance, to expound. in those low regions, where sad night hangs round the drowsy vaults, and where moist vapours steep the god's dull brows, that sways the realm of sleep; there all the informing elements repair, swift messengers of water, fire, and air, to give account of actions, whence they came, and how they govern every mortal frame; how, from their various mixture, or their strife, are known the calms and tempests of our life: thence souls, when sleep their bodies overcome, have some imperfect knowledge of their doom. from those dark caves those powers shall strait appear; be not afraid, whatever shapes they wear. _zemp_. there's nothing, thou canst raise, can make me start; a living form can only shake my heart. _ism_. _you twice ten hundred deities, to whom we daily sacrifice; you powers, that dwell with fate below, and see what men are doomed to do; where elements in discord dwell; thou god of sleep, arise and tell great zempoalla what strange fate must on her dismal vision wait._ _zemp_. how slow these spirits are! call, make them rise, or they shall fast from flame and sacrifice. _ism_. great empress, let not your rage offend what we adore, and vainly threaten, when we must implore. sit silently, and attend-- while my powerful charms i end. _by the croaking of the toad, in their caves that make abode; earthy dun that pants for breath, with her swelled sides full of death; by the crested adders' pride, that along the clifts do glide; by thy visage fierce and black; by the death's-head on thy back; by the twisted serpents placed for a girdle round thy waist; by the hearts of gold that deck thy breast, thy shoulders, and thy neck: from thy sleepy mansion rise, and open thy unwilling eyes, while bubbling springs their music keep, that use to lull thee in thy sleep._ _god of dreams rises_. _god_. seek not to know what must not be revealed; joys only flow where fate is most concealed: too busy man would find his sorrows more, if future fortunes he should know before; for, by that knowledge of his destiny, he would not live at all, but always die. enquire not, then, who shall from bonds be freed, who 'tis shall wear a crown, and who shall bleed: all must submit to their appointed doom; fate and misfortune will too quickly come: let me no more with powerful charms be pressed; i am forbid by fate to tell the rest. [_the god descends_. _zemp_. stay, cozener, thou, that hat'st clear truth like light, and usest words dark as thy own dull night. you tyrant gods, do you refuse to free the soul, you gave, from its perplexity? why should we in your mercies still believe, when you can never pity, though we grieve? for you have bound yourselves by harsh decrees; and those, not you, are now the deities. [_sits down sad_. _ism_. she droops under the weight of rage and care: you spirits, that inhabit in the air, with all your powerful charms of music, try to bring-her soul back to its harmony. song sung by aerial spirits. _poor mortals, that are clogged with earth below, sink under love and care, while we, that dwell in air, such heavy passions never know. why then should mortals be unwilling to be free from blood, that sullen cloud, which shining souls does shroud? then they'll shew bright, and like us light, when leaving bodies with their care, they slide to us and air_. _zemp_. death on these trifles! cannot your art find some means, to ease the passions of the mind? or, if you cannot give a lover rest, can you force love into a scornful breast? _ism_. tis reason only can make passions less; art gives not new, but may the old increase; nor can it alter love in any breast, that is with other flames before possessed. _zemp_. if this be all your slighted arts can do, i'll kindle other flames, since i must burn, and all their temples into ashes turn. _ism_. great queen-- _zemp. if you would have this sentence staid, summon their godheads quickly to your aid, and presently compose a charm, that may love's flames into the stranger's breast convey, the captive stranger, he whose sword and eyes wheree'er they strike, meet ready victories: make him but burn for me, in flames like mine, victims shall bleed, and feasted altars shine: if not-- down go your temples, and your gods shall see they have small use of their divinity. [_exeunt_. act iv. scene i.--_the scene opens, and discovers_ montezuma _sleeping in prison_. _enter_ traxalla _leading in_ orazia. _trax_. now take your choice, and bid him live or die; to both shew pity, or shew cruelty: 'tis you that must condemn, i'll only act; your sentence is more cruel than my fact. _oraz_. you are most cruel, to disturb a mind, which to approaching fate was so resigned. _trax_. reward my passion, and you'll quickly prove there's none dare sacrifice what i dare love. next to thee, stranger; wake, and now resign the bold pretences of thy love to mine, or in this fatal minute thou shalt find-- _mont_. death, fool; in that thou may'st be just and kind: 'twas i that loved orazia, yet did raise the storm, in which she sinks: why dost thou gaze, or stay thy hand from giving that just stroke, which, rather than prevent, i would provoke? when i am dead, orazia may forgive; she never must, if i dare wish to live. _oraz_. hold, hold--o montezuma, can you be so careless of yourself, but more of me? though you have brought me to this misery, i blush to say i cannot see you die. _mont_. can my approaching fate such pity move? the gods and you at once forgive and love. _trax_. fond fool, thus to mis-spend that little breath i lent thee to prevent, not hasten, death: let her thank you she was unfortunate, and you thank her for pulling on your fate; prove to each other your own destinies. [_draws_. _enter_ zempoalla _hastily, and sets a dagger to_ orazia's _breast._ _zemp_. hold, hold, traxalla, or orazia dies.-- o, is't orazia's name that makes you stay? 'tis her great power, not mine, that you obey. inhuman wretch, dar'st thou the murderer be of him, that is not yet condemned by me? _trax_. the wretch, that gave you all the power you have, may venture sure to execute a slave; and quench a flame your fondness would have burn, which may this city into ashes turn, the nation in your guilty passion lost; to me ungrateful, to your country most: but this shall be their offering, i their priest. _zemp_. the wounds, thou giv'st, i'll copy on her breast: strike, and i'll open here a spring of blood, shall add new rivers to the crimson flood. how his pale looks are fixed on her!--'tis so. oh, does amazement on your spirits grow? what, is your public love orazia's grown? could'st thou see mine, and yet not hide thy own? suppose i should strike first, would it not breed grief in your public heart to see her bleed? _trax_. she mocks my passion; in her sparkling eyes death, and a close dissembled fury lies: i dare not trust her thus. [_aside_.]--if she must die, the way to her loved life through mine shall lie. [_he puts her by, and steps before_ orazia; _and she runs before_ montezuma. _zemp_. and he, that does this stranger's fate design, must, to his heart, a passage force through mine. _trax_. can fair orazia yet no pity have? 'tis just she should her own preserver save. _zemp_. can montezuma so ungrateful prove to her, that gave him life, and offers love? _oraz_. can montezuma live, and live to be just to another, and unjust to me? you need not be ungrateful; can she give a life to you, if you refuse to live?-- forgive my passion; i had rather see you dead, than kind to any thing but me. _mont_. o, my orazia! to what new joys and knowledge am i brought! are death's hard lessons by a woman taught? how to despise my fate i always knew; but ne'er durst think, at once, of death and you: yet since you teach this generous jealousy, i dare not wish your life, if i must die. how much your love my courage does exceed! courage alone would shrink to see you bleed! _zemp_. ungrateful stranger! thou shalt please thy eyes, and gaze upon orazia while she dies!-- i'll keep my vow!--it is some joy to see, that my revenge will prove my piety. _trax_. then both shall die!--we have too long withstood, by private passions urged, the public good. _zemp_. sure he dissembles; and, perhaps, may prove my ruin, with his new ambitious love: were but this stranger kind, i'd cross his art, and give my empire, where i gave my heart. [_aside_. yet, thou ungrateful man, let thy approaching ruin make thee wise. _mont_. thee, and thy love, and mischief, i despise! _zemp_. what shall i do? some way must yet be tried;-- what reason can she use whom passions guide! [_aside. trax_. some black designs are hatching now:--false eyes are quick to see another's treacheries. [_aside. zemp_. rash stranger, thus to pull down thy own fate! _mont_. you, and that life you offer me, i hate. _enter jailor_. _zemp_. here, jailor, take--what title must he have? slave, slave!--am i then captive to a slave?-- why art thou thus unwilling to be free? _mont_. death will release me from these chains, and thee. _zemp_. here, jailor, take this monster from my sight, and keep him where it may be always night. let none come near him; if thou dost, expect to pay thy life, the price of the neglect. _mont_. i scorn thy pity, and thy cruelty; and should despise a blessing sent from thee. _zemp_. o, horror to my soul! take him away!-- my rage, like dammed-up streams, swelled by some stay, shall, from this opposition, get new force, and leave the bound of its old easy course.-- come, my traxalla, let us both forgive, and in these wretches' fates begin to live. the altars shall be crowned with funeral boughs, peace-offerings paid,--but with unquiet vows. [_exeunt_ zemp. _and_ trax. _oraz_. how are things ordered, that the wicked should appear more kind and gentle than the good? her passion seems to make her kinder prove, and i seem cruel through excess of love: she loves, and would prevent his death; but i, that love him better, fear he should not die. my jealousy, immortal as my love, would rob my grave below, and me above, of rest.--ye gods, if i repine, forgive! you neither let me die in peace, nor live. _enter_ acacis, _jailor, and indian_. _jail_. they are just gone, sir. _aca_. 'tis well: be faithful to my just design, and all thy prince's fortune shall be thine. [_exit_ acacis. _ind_. this shall to the empress. [_exit indian_. _oraz_. what can this mean!-- 'twas prince acacis, if i durst believe my sight; but sorrow may like joy deceive: each object different from itself appears, that comes not to the eyes, but through their tears. _enter_ acacis, _bringing in_ montezuma. ha!-- _aca_. here, sir, wear this again;--[_gives a sword_. now follow me. _mont_. so, very good;-- i dare not think, for i may guess amiss; none can deceive me while i trust in this. [_exeunt_. scene ii. _enter_ orazia, _conducted by two indians with their swords drawn;_ montezuma, acacis _whispering another indian_. _aca_. think what a weight upon thy faith i lay. _ind_. i ne'er did more unwillingly obey. _aca_. first, montezuma, take thy liberty; thou gavest me freedom, here i set thee free: we're equal now. madam, the danger's great of close pursuit; to favour your retreat, permit we two a little while remain behind, while you go softly o'er the plain. _oraz_. why should i go before?--what's your intent?-- where is my father?--whither am i sent? _aca_. your doubts shall soon be cleared. conduct her on. [_exit_ orazia. so, montezuma, we are now alone. that which my honour owed thee i have paid; as honour was, so love must be obeyed. i set orazia, as thy captive, free; but, as my mistress, ask her back from thee. _mont_. thou hast performed what honour bid thee do: but friendship bars what honour prompts me to.-- friends should not fight. _aca_. if friendship we profess, let us secure each others happiness: one needs must die, and he shall happy prove in her remembrance, t'other in her love. my guards wait near; and, if i fail, they must give up orazia, or betray their trust. _mont_. suppose thou conquer'st, would'st thou wander o'er the south-sea sands, or the rough northern shore, that parts thy spacious kingdom from peru, and, leaving empire, hopeless love pursue? _aca_. by which of all my actions could you guess, though more your merit, that my love was less? what prize can empire with orazia bear? or, where love fills the breast, what room for fear? _mont_. let fair orazia then the sentence give, else he may die whom she desires to live. _aca_. your greater merits bribe her to your side; my weaker title must by arms be tried. _mont_. oh, tyrant love! how cruel are thy laws! i forfeit friendship, or betray thy cause: that person, whom i would defend from all the world, that person by my hand must fall. _aca_. our lives we to each others friendship owe; but love calls back what friendship did bestow: love has its cruelties, but friendship none; and we now fight in quarrels not our own. [_fight. enter_ orazia. _oraz_. what noise is this?-- hold, hold! what cause could be so great, to move this furious hatred?-- _mont_. 'twas our furious love.-- _aca_. love, which i hid till i had set you free, and bought your pardon with my liberty; that done, i thought, i less unjustly might with montezuma, for orazia, fight; he has prevailed, and i must now confess his fortune greater, not my passion less; yet cannot yield you, till his sword remove a dying rival, that holds fast his love. _oraz_. whoever falls, 'tis my protector still, and then the crime's as great, to die as kill.-- acacis, do not hopeless love pursue; but live, and this soft malady subdue. _aca_. you bid me live, and yet command me die! i am not worth your care;--fly, madam, fly! (while i fall here unpitied) o'er this plain, free from pursuit, the faithless mountains gain; and these i charge, as they would have me think their friendship true, leave me alone, to serve, and follow you: make haste, fair princess, to avoid that fate, which does for your unhappy father wait. _oraz_. is he then left to die, and shall he see himself forsaken, ere his death, by me? _mont_. that would you do? _oraz_. to prison i'll return, and there, in fetters, with my father mourn. _mont_. that saves not his, but throws your life away. _oraz_. duty shall give what nature once must pay. _aca_. life is the gift, which heaven and parents give, and duty best preserves it, if you live. _oraz_. i should but further from my fountain fly, and, like an unfed stream, run on and die: urge me no more, and do not grieve to see your honour rivalled by my piety. [_she goes softly of, and often looks back_. _mont_. if honour would not, shame would lead the way; i'll back with her. _aca_. stay, montezuma, stay!-- thy rival cannot let thee go alone, my love will bear me, though my blood is gone. [_as they are going off,_ _enter_ zempoalla, traxalla, _the indian that went to tell her, and the rest, and seize them_. _zemp_. seize them!-- _aca_. oh, montezuma, thou art lost. _mont_. no more, proud heart, thy useless courage boast!-- courage, thou curse of the unfortunate! that canst encounter, not resist, ill fate. _zemp_. acacis bleeds!-- what barbarous hand has wounded thus my son? _mont_. 'twas i; by my unhappy sword 'twas done.-- thou bleed'st, poor prince, and i am left to grieve my rival's fall. _trax_. he bleeds, but yet may live. _aca_. friendship and love my failing strength renew; i dare not die, when i should live for you; my death were now my crime, as it would be my guilt to live when i have set you free: thus i must still remain unfortunate, your life and death are equally my fate. orazia _comes back_. _oraz_. a noise again!--alas, what do i see! love, thou didst once give place to piety: now, piety, let love triumph awhile;-- here, bind my hands: come, montezuma, smile at fortune; since thou sufferest for my sake, orazia will her captive's chains partake. _mont_. now, fate, thy worst. _zemp_. lead to the temple straight, a priest and altar for these lovers wait: they shall be joined, they shall. _trax_. and i will prove those joys in vengeance, which i want in love. _aca_. i'll quench your thirst with blood, and will destroy myself, and, with myself, your cruel joy. now, montezuma, since orazia dies, i'll fall before thee, the first sacrifice; my title in her death shall exceed thine, as much as, in her life, thy hopes did mine: and when with our mixed blood the altar's dyed, then our new title let the gods decide. [_exeunt_. act v. scene i. _the scene opens, and discovers the temple of the sun, all of gold, and four priests, in habits of white and red feathers, attending by a bloody altar, as ready for sacrifice. then enter the guards_, zempoalla, _and_ traxalla; _inca_, orazia, _and_ montezuma,_ bound. as soon as they are placed, the priest sings_. song. _you to whom victory we owe, whose glories rise by sacrifice, and from our fates below; never did your altars shine feasted with blood so near divine; princes to whom we bow, as they to you:-- thus you can ravish from a throne, and, by their loss of power, declare your own._ _zemp_. now to inflict those punishments, that are due to the authors of invasive war; who, to deceive the oppressed world, like you, invent false quarrels to conceal the true. _inca_. my quarrel was the same, that all the gods must have to thee, if there be any odds betwixt those titles that are bad or good, to crowns descended, or usurped by blood:-- swell not with this success; 'twas not to thee, but to this man, the gods gave victory. _mont_. since i must perish by my own success, think my misfortunes more, my crimes the less; and so, forgiving, make me pleased to die, thus punished for this guilty victory. _inca_. death can make virtue easy; i forgive: that word would prove too hard, were i to live; the honour of a prince would then deny, but in the grave all our distinctions die. _mont_. forgive me one thing yet; to say, i love, let it no more your scorn and anger move; since, dying in one flame, my ashes must embrace and mingle with orazia's dust. _inca_. name thy bold love no more, lest that last breath, which should forgive, i stifle with my death. _oraz_. oh, my dear father! oh, why may not i, since you gave life to me, for you now die? _mont_. 'tis i, that wrought this mischief, ought to fall a just and willing sacrifice for all. now, zempoalla, be both just and kind, and, in my fate, let me thy mercy find: be grateful, then, and grant me that esteem, that as alive, so dead, i may redeem. _oraz_. o, do not for her cruel mercy move; none should ask pity but from those they love. [_weeps_. _inca_. fond girl! to let thy disobedient eyes show a concern for him, whom i despise. _oraz_. how love and nature may divide a breast, at once by both their powers severely prest! yet, sir, since love seems less, you may forgive; i would not have you die, nor have him live; yet if he dies, alas! what shall i do? i cannot die with him, and live with you. _mont_. how vainly we pursue this generous strife, parting in death more cruel than in life!-- weep not, we both shall have one destiny; as in one flame we lived, in one we'll die. _trax_. why do we waste in vain these precious hours? each minute of his life may hazard ours: the nation does not live whilst he enjoys his life, it is his safety that destroys. he shall fall first, and teach the rest to die. _zemp_. hold!-- who is it that commands;--ha! you, or i?-- your zeal grows saucy!--sure, you may allow your empress freedom first to pay her vow. _trax_. she may allow--a justice to be done by him, that raised his empress to her throne. _zemp_. you are too bold,-- _trax_. and you too passionate. _zemp_. take heed, with his, you urge not your own fate.-- for all this pity is now due to me. _mont_. i hate thy offered mercy more than thee. _trax_. why will not then the fair orazia give life to herself, and let traxalla live? _mont_. orazia will not live, and let me die; she taught me first this cruel jealousy. _oraz_. i joy that you have learned it!-- that flame not like immortal love appears. where death can cool its warmth, or kill its fears. _zemp_. what shall i do? am i so quite forlorn, no help from my own pride, nor from his scorn! my rival's death may more effectual prove; he, that is robbed of hope, may cease to love:-- here, lead these offerings to their deaths. _trax_. let none obey but he, that will pull on his own! _zemp_. tempt me not thus; false and ungrateful too! _trax_. just as ungrateful, and as false, as you. _zemp_. 'tis thy false love that fears her destiny. _trax_. and your false love that fears to have him die. _zemp_. seize the bold traitor! _trax_. what a slighted frown troubles your brow! feared nor obeyed by none; come, prepare for sacrifice. _enter_ acacis _weakly_. _aca_. hold, hold! such sacrifices cannot be devotions, but a solemn cruelty: how can the gods delight in human blood? think them not cruel, if you think them good. in vain we ask that mercy, which they want, and hope that pity, which they hate to grant. _zemp_. retire, acacis;-- preserve thyself, for 'tis in vain to waste thy breath for them: the fatal vow is past. _aca_. to break that vow is juster than commit a greater crime, by your preserving it. _zemp_. the gods themselves their own will best express to like the vow, by giving the success. _aca_. if all things by success are understood, men, that make war, grow wicked to be good: but did you vow, those that were overcome, and he that conquered, both, should share one doom? there's no excuse; for one of these must be not your devotion, but your cruelty. _trax_. to that rash stranger, sir, we nothing owe; what he had raised, he strove to overthrow: that duty lost, which should our actions guide, courage proves guilt, when merits swell to pride. _aca_. darest thou, who didst thy prince's life betray, once name that duty, thou hast thrown away? like thy injustice to this stranger shown, to tax him with a guilt, that is thy own?-- can you, brave soldiers, suffer him to die, that gave you life, in giving victory? look but upon this stranger, see those hands, that brought you freedom, fettered up in bands. not one looks up,-- lest sudden pity should their hearts surprise, and steal into their bosoms through their eyes. _zemp_. why thus, in vain, are thy weak spirits prest? restore thyself to thy more needful rest. _aca_. and leave orazia!-- _zemp_. go, you must resign: for she must be the gods'; not yours, nor mine. _aca_. you are my mother, and my tongue is tied so much by duty, that i dare not chide.-- divine orazia! can you have so much mercy to forgive? i do not ask it with design to live, but in my death to have my torments cease: death is not death, when it can bring no peace. _oraz_. i both forgive, and pity;-- _aca_. o, say no more, lest words less kind destroy what these have raised in me of peace and joy: you said, you did both pity and forgive; you would do neither, should acacis live. by death alone the certain way appears, thus to hope mercy, and deserve your tears. [_stabs himself_. _zemp_. o, my acacis! what cruel cause could urge this fatal deed?-- [_weeps_. he faints!--help, help! some help! or he will bleed his life, and mine, away!-- some water there!--not one stirs from his place! i'll use my tears to sprinkle on his face. _aca_. orazia,-- _zemp_. fond child! why dost thou call upon her name? i am thy mother. _aca_. no, you are my shame. that blood is shed that you had title in, and with your title may it end your sin!-- unhappy prince, you may forgive me now, thus bleeding for my mother's cruel vow. _inca_. be not concerned for me; death's easier than the changes i have seen: i would not live to trust the world again. _mont_. into my eyes sorrow begins to creep; when hands are tied, it is no shame to weep. _aca_. dear montezuma, i may be still your friend, though i must die your rival in her love: eternity has room enough for both; there's no desire, where to enjoy is only to admire: there we'll meet friends, when this short storm is past. _mont_. why must i tamely wait to perish last? _aca_. orazia weeps, and my parched soul appears refreshed by that kind shower of pitying tears; forgive those faults my passion did commit, 'tis punished with the life that nourished it; i had no power in this extremity to save your life, and less to see you die. my eyes would ever on this object stay, but sinking nature takes the props away. kind death, to end with pleasures all my miseries, shuts up your image in my closing eyes. [_dies_. _enter a messenger_. _mess_. to arms, to arms! _trax_. from whence this sudden fear? _mess_. stand to your guard, my lord, the danger's near: from every quarter crowds of people meet, and, leaving houses empty, fill the street. [_exit mess_. _trax_. fond queen, thy fruitless tears a while defer; rise, we must join again--not speak, nor stir! i hear the people's voice like winds that roar, when they pursue the flying waves to shore. _enter second messenger_. _ mess_. prepare to fight, my lord; the banished queen, with old garucca, in the streets are seen. _trax_. we must go meet them or it be too late; yet, madam, rise; have you no sense of fate? _enter third messenger_. _ mess_. king montezuma their loud shouts proclaim, the city rings with their new sovereign's name; the banished queen declares he is her son, and to his succour all the people run. [zempoalla _rises_. _zemp_. can this be true? o love! o fate! have i thus doated on my mortal enemy? _trax_. to my new prince i thus my homage pay; your reign is short, young king-- _zemp_. traxalla, stay-- 'tis to my hand that he must owe his fate, i will revenge at once my love and hate. [_she sets a dagger to_ montezuma's _breast_. _trax_. strike, strike, the conquering enemy is near. my guards are passed, while you detain me here. _zemp_. die then, ungrateful, die; amexia's son shall never triumph on acacis' throne. thy death must my unhappy flames remove: now where is thy defence--against my love? [_she cuts the cords, and gives him the dagger_. _trax_. am i betrayed? [_he draws and thrusts at_ montezuma, _he puts it by and kills him_. _mont_. so may all rebels die: this end has treason joined with cruelty. _zemp_. live thou whom i must love, and yet must hate; she gave thee life, who knows it brings her fate. _mont_. life is a trifle which i would not take, but for orazia's and her father's sake: now, inca, hate me, if thou canst; for he, whom thou hast scorned, will die, or rescue thee. _as he goes to attack the guards with_ traxalla's _sword, enter_ amexia, garucca, _indians, driving some of the other party before them_. _gar_. he lives; ye gods, he lives! great queen, see here your coming joys, and your departing fear. _amex_. wonder and joy so fast together flow, their haste to pass has made their passage slow; like struggling waters in a vessel pent, whose crowding drops choak up the narrow vent. my son!-- [_she embraces him_. _mont_. i am amazed! it cannot be that fate has such a joy in store for me. _amex_. can i not gain belief that this is true? _mont_. it is my fortune i suspect, not you. _gar_. first ask him if he old garucca know. _mont_. my honoured father! let me fall thus low. _gar_. forbear, great prince; 'tis i must pay to you that adoration, as my sovereign's due: for, from my humble race you did not spring; you are the issue of our murdered king, sent by that traitor to his blest abode, whom, to be made a king, he made a god: the story is too full of fate to tell, or what strange fortune our lost queen befel. _amex_. that sad relation longer time will crave; i lived obscure, he bred you in a cave, but kept the mighty secret from your ear, lest heat of blood to some strange course should steer your youth. _mont_. i owe him all, that now i am; he taught me first the noble thirst of fame. shewed me the baseness of unmanly fear, till the unlicked whelp i plucked from the rough bear, and made the ounce and tyger give me way, while from their hungry jaws i snatched the prey: 'twas he that charged my young arms first with toils, and drest me glorious in my savage spoils. _gar_. you spent in shady forest all the day, and joyed, returning, to shew me the prey, to tell the story, to describe the place, with all the pleasures of the boasted chace; till fit for arms, i reaved you from your sport, to train your youth in the peruvian court: i left you there, and ever since have been the sad attendant of my exiled queen. _zemp_. my fatal dream comes to my memory; that lion, whom i held in bonds, was he, amexia was the dove that broke his chains; what now but zempoalla's death remains? _mont_. pardon, fair princess, if i must delay my love a while, my gratitude to pay. live, zempoalla--free from dangers live, for present merits i past crimes forgive: oh, might she hope orazia's pardon, too! _oraz_. i would have none condemned for loving you; in me her merit much her fault o'erpowers; she sought my life, but she preserved me yours. _amex_. taught by my own, i pity her estate, and wish her penitence, but not her fate. _inca_. i would not be the last to bid her live; kings best revenge their wrongs, when they forgive. _zemp_. i cannot yet forget what i have been: would you give life to her, that was a queen? must you then give, and must i take? there's yet one way, that's by refusing, to be great: you bid me live--bid me be wretched too; think, think, what pride, unthroned, must undergo: look on this youth, amexia, look, and then suppose him yours, and bid me live again; a greater sweetness on these lips there grows, than breath shut out from a new-folded rose: what lovely charms on these cold cheeks appear! could any one hate death, and see it here? but thou art gone-- _mont_. o that you would believe acacis lives in me, and cease to grieve. _zemp_. yes, i will cease to grieve, and cease to be. his soul stays watching in his wound for me; all that could render life desired is gone, orazia has my love, and you my throne, and death, acacis--yet i need not die, you leave me mistress of my destiny; in spite of dreams, how am i pleased to see, heaven's truth, or falsehood, should depend on me! but i will help the gods; the greatest proof of courage we can give, is then to die when we have power to live. [_kills herself_. _mont_. how fatally that instrument of death was hid-- _amex_. she has expired her latest breath. _mont_. but there lies one, to whom all grief is due. _oraz_. none e'er was so unhappy and so true. _mont_. your pardon, royal sir. _inca_. you have my love. [_gives him orazia_. _amex_. the gods, my son, your happy choice approve. _mont_. come, my orazia, then, and pay with me, [_leads her to acacis_. some tears to poor acacis' memory; so strange a fate for men the gods ordain, our clearest sunshine should be mixt with rain; how equally our joys and sorrows move! death's fatal triumphs, joined with those of love. love crowns the dead, and death crowns him that lives, each gains the conquest, which the other gives. [_exeunt omnes_. epilogue. spoken by montezuma. you see what shifts we are enforced to try, to help out wit with some variety; shows may be found that never yet were seen, 'tis hard to find such wit as ne'er has been: you have seen all that this old world can do, we, therefore, try the fortune of the new, and hope it is below your aim to hit at untaught nature with your practised wit: our naked indians, then, when wits appear, would as soon chuse to have the spaniards here. 'tis true, you have marks enough, the plot, the show, the poet's scenes, nay, more, the painter's too; if all this fail, considering the cost, 'tis a true voyage to the indies lost: but if you smile on all, then these designs, like the imperfect treasure of our minds, will pass for current wheresoe'er they go, when to your bounteous hands their stamps they owe. the indian emperor or, the conquest of mexico by the spaniards. being the sequel of the indian queen. dum relego, scripsisse pudet, quia plurima cerno, me quoque, qui feci, judice, digna limi. ovid. to the most excellent and most illustrious princess, anne, duchess of monmouth and buccleuch, wife to the most illustrious and high-born prince, james, duke of monmouth[a]. [footnote a: anne scott, duchess of buccleuch and monmouth, was the last scion of a race of warriors, more remarkable for their exploits in the field, than their address in courts, or protection of literature. she was the heiress of the scotts, barons and earls of buccleuch; and became countess, in her own right, upon the death of her elder sister, lady mary, who married the unfortunate walter scott, earl of tarras, and died without issue in . in , anne, countess of buccleuch, married james fitzroy, duke of monmouth, eldest natural son of charles ii. they were afterwards created duke and duchess of buccleuch. she was an accomplished and high-spirited lady, distinguished for her unblemished conduct in a profligate court. it was her patronage which first established dryden's popularity; a circumstance too honourable to her memory to be here suppressed.] may it please your grace, the favour which heroic plays have lately found upon our theatres, has been wholly derived to them from the countenance and approbation they have received at court. the most eminent persons for wit and honour in the royal circle having so far owned them, that they have judged no way so fit as verse to entertain a noble audience, or to express a noble passion; and among the rest which have been written in this kind, they have been so indulgent to this poem, as to allow it no inconsiderable place. since, therefore, to the court i owe its fortune on the stage; so, being now more publicly exposed in print, i humbly recommend it to your grace's protection, who by all knowing persons are esteemed a principal ornament of the court. but though the rank which you hold in the royal family might direct the eyes of a poet to you, yet your beauty and goodness detain and fix them. high objects, it is true, attract the sight; but it looks up with pain on craggy rocks and barren mountains, and continues not intent on any object, which is wanting in shades and greens to entertain it. beauty, in courts, is so necessary to the young, that those, who are without it, seem to be there to no other purpose than to wait on the triumphs of the fair; to attend their motions in obscurity, as the moon and stars do the sun by day; or, at best, to be the refuge of those hearts which others have despised; and, by the unworthiness of both, to give and take a miserable comfort. but as needful as beauty is, virtue and honour are yet more: the reign of it without their support is unsafe and short, like that of tyrants. every sun which looks on beauty wastes it; and, when it once is decaying, the repairs of art are of as short continuance, as the after-spring, when the sun is going further off. this, madam, is its ordinary fate; but yours, which is accompanied by virtue, is not subject to that common destiny. your grace has not only a long time of youth in which to flourish, but you have likewise found the way, by an untainted preservation of your honour, to make that perishable good more lasting: and if beauty, like wines, could be preserved, by being mixed and embodied with others of their own natures, then your grace's would be immortal, since no part of europe can afford a parallel to your noble lord in masculine beauty, and in goodliness of shape. to receive the blessings and prayers of mankind, you need only to be seen together: we are ready to conclude, that you are a pair of angels sent below to make virtue amiable in your persons, or to sit to poets when they would pleasantly instruct the age, by drawing goodness in the most perfect and alluring shape of nature. but though beauty be the theme on which poets love to dwell, i must be forced to quit it as a private praise, since you have deserved those which are more public: for goodness and humanity, which shine in you, are virtues which concern mankind; and, by a certain kind of interest, all people agree in their commendation, because the profit of them may extend to many. it is so much your inclination to do good, that you stay not to be asked; which is an approach so nigh the deity, that human nature is not capable of a nearer. it is my happiness, that i can testify this virtue of your grace's by my own experience; since i have so great an aversion from soliciting court-favours, that i am ready to look on those as very bold, who dare grow rich there without desert. but i beg your grace's pardon for assuming this virtue of modesty to myself, which the sequel of this discourse will no way justify: for in this address i have already quitted the character of a modest man, by presenting you this poem as an acknowledgment, which stands in need of your protection; and which ought no more to be esteemed a present, than it is accounted bounty in the poor, when they bestow a child on some wealthy friend, who will better breed it up. offsprings of this nature are like to be so numerous with me, that i must be forced to send some of them abroad; only this is like to be more fortunate than his brothers, because i have landed him on a hospitable shore. under your patronage montezuma hopes he is more safe than in his native indies; and therefore comes to throw himself at your grace's feet, paying that homage to your beauty, which he refused to the violence of his conquerors. he begs only, that when he shall relate his sufferings, you will consider him as an indian prince, and not expect any other eloquence from his simplicity, than what his griefs have furnished him withal. his story is, perhaps, the greatest which was ever represented in a poem of this nature; the action of it including the discovery and conquest of a new world. in it i have neither wholly followed the truth of the history, nor altogether left it; but have taken all the liberty of a poet, to add, alter, or diminish, as i thought might best conduce to the beautifying of my work: it being not the business of a poet to represent historical truth, but probability. but i am not to make the justification of this poem, which i wholly leave to your grace's mercy. it is an irregular piece, if compared with many of corneille's, and, if i may make a judgment of it, written with more flame than art; in which it represents the mind and intentions of the author, who is with much more zeal and integrity, than design and artifice, madam, your grace's most obedient, and most obliged servant, john dryden, _october_ . . betwixt , when our author assisted sir robert howard in composing the preceding play, and the printing of the indian emperor in , some disagreement had arisen betwixt them. sir robert appears to have given the first provocation, by prefixing to his tragedy of the duke of lerma, or great favourite, in , some remarks, which drew down the following severe retort. it is therefore necessary to mention the contents of the offensive preface. sir robert howard begins, as one taking leave of the drama and dramatic authors, "his too long acquaintances;" and unwilling again to venture "into the civil wars of censure, _ubi--nullos habitura triumphos_." he states his unwilling interference to be owing to the "unnecessary understanding" of some, who endeavoured to apply as strict rules to poetry as mathematics, which rendered it incumbent on him to justify his having written some scenes of his tragedy in blank verse. in the next paragraph, dryden is expressly pointed out as the author of the essay on dramatic poetry; and is ridiculed for attempting to prove, not that rhyme is more natural in a dialogue on the stage supposed to be spoken _extempore_, but grander and more expressive. in like manner, sir robert unfortunately banters our author for drawing from seneca an instance of a lofty mode of expressing so ordinary a thing as _shutting a door_[a], instead of giving an example to the same effect in english. [footnote a: reserate clusos regii postes laris. howard's mistranslation of this passage seems to have been inadvertent. in the essay it is rendered, "set wide the palace gates."] the author of the duke of lerma proceeds to attack the unities; arguing, because it is impossible that the stage can represent exactly a house, or that the time of acting can be extended to twenty-four hours; therefore it is needless there should be any limitation whatever as to time or place, since otherwise it must be inferred, that there are degrees in impossibility, and that one thing may be more impossible than another. the whole tone of the preface is that of one who wished to have it supposed, that he was writing concerning a subject rather beneath his notice, and only felt himself called forth to do so by the dogmatism of those who laid down confident rules or laws in matters so trifling. this affectation of supercilious censure appears deeply to have provoked dryden, and prompted the acrimony of the following defence, which he prefixed to a second edition of the indian emperor published in , probably shortly after the offence had been given. the angry friends were afterwards reconciled; and dryden, listening more to the feelings of former kindness than of recent passion, cancelled the _defence_, which was never afterwards reprinted, till congreve collected our author's dramatic works. it is worthy of preservation, as it would be difficult to point out deeper contempt and irony, couched under language so temperate, cold, and outwardly respectful. a defence of an essay of dramatic poesy; being an answer to the preface of the great favourite, or the duke of lerma. the former edition of "the indian emperor" being full of faults, which had escaped the printer, i have been willing to overlook this second with more care: and though i could not allow myself so much time as was necessary, yet by that little i have done, the press is freed from some errors which it had to answer for before. as for the more material faults of writing, which are properly mine, though i see many of them, i want leisure to amend them. it is enough for those who make one poem the business of their lives, to leave that correct: yet, excepting virgil, i never met with any which was so in any language. but while i was thus employed about this impression, there came to my hands a new printed play, called, "the great favourite, or, the duke of lerma;" the author of which, a noble and most ingenious person, has done me the favour to make some observations and animadversions upon my dramatic essay. i must confess he might have better consulted his reputation, than by matching himself with so weak an adversary. but if his honour be diminished in the choice of his antagonist, it is sufficiently recompensed in the election of his cause: which being the weaker, in all appearance, as combating the received opinions of the best ancient and modern authors, will add to his glory, if he overcome; and to the opinion of his generosity, if he be vanquished, since he engages at so great odds; and, so like a cavalier, undertakes the protection of the weaker party. i have only to fear, on my own behalf, that so good a cause as mine may not suffer by my ill management, or weak defence; yet i cannot in honour but take the glove when it is offered me; though i am only a champion by succession, and no more able to defend the right of aristotle and horace, than an infant dimock[a] to maintain the title of a king. [footnote a: the family of dimock, or dymock, are hereditary champions of england; and, as such, obliged to maintain the king's title in single combat against all challengers.] for my own concernment in the controversy, it is so small, that i can easily be contented to be driven from a few notions of dramatic poesy; especially by one, who has the reputation of understanding all things: and i might justly make that excuse for my yielding to him, which the philosopher made to the emperor; why should i offer to contend with him, who is master of more than twenty legions of arts and sciences? but i am forced to fight, and therefore it will be no shame to be overcome. yet i am so much his servant, as not to meddle with any thing which does not concern me in his preface: therefore i leave the good sense and other excellencies of the first twenty lines, to be considered by the critics. as for the play of "the duke of lerma," having so much altered and beautified it as he has done, it can justly belong to none but him. indeed they must be extremely ignorant, as well as envious, who would rob him of that honour; for you see him putting in his claim to it, even in the first two lines: repulse upon repulse, like waves thrown back, that slide to hung upon obdurate rocks. after this, let detraction do its worst; for if this be not his, it deserves to be. for my part, i declare for distributive justice; and from this, and what follows, he certainly deserves those advantages, which he acknowledges to have received from the opinion of sober men. in the next place, i must beg leave to observe his great address in courting the reader to his party: for, intending to assault all poets, both ancient and modern, he discovers not his whole design at once, but seems only to aim at me, and attacks me on my weakest side, my defence of verse. to begin with me, he gives me the compellation of "the author of a dramatic essay;" which is a little discourse in dialogue, for the most part borrowed from the observations of others: therefore, that i may not be wanting to him in civility, i return his compliment, by calling him, "the author of the duke of lerma." but (that i may pass over his salute) he takes notice of my great pains to prove rhyme as natural in a serious play, and more effectual than blank verse. thus indeed i did state the question; but he tells me, "i pursue that which i call natural in a wrong application; for 'tis not the question, whether rhyme, or not rhyme, be best, or most natural for a serious subject, but what is nearest the nature of that it represents." if i have formerly mistaken the question, i must confess my ignorance so far, as to say i continue still in my mistake: but he ought to have proved that i mistook it; for it is yet but _gratis dictum_; i still shall think i have gained my point, if i can prove that rhyme is best, or most natural for a serious subject. as for the question as he states it, whether rhyme be nearest the nature of what it represents, i wonder he should think me so ridiculous as to dispute, whether prose or verse be nearest to ordinary conversation. it still remains for him to prove his inference; that, since verse is granted to be more remote than prose from ordinary conversation, therefore no serious plays ought to be writ in verse: and when he clearly makes that good, i will acknowledge his victory as absolute as he can desire it. the question now is, which of us two has mistaken it; and if it appear i have not, the world will suspect, "what gentleman that was, who was allowed to speak twice in parliament, because he had not yet spoken to the question[a];" and perhaps conclude it to be the same, who, as it is reported, maintained a contradiction _in terminis_, in the face of three hundred persons. [footnote a: a sneer which sir robert aims at dryden. dryden had written twice on the question of rhyming tragedies.] but to return to verse, whether it be natural or not in plays, is a problem which is not demonstrable of either side: it is enough for me, that he acknowledges he had rather read good verse than prose: for if all the enemies of verse will confess as much, i shall not need to prove that it is natural. i am satisfied if it cause delight; for delight is the chief, if not the only, end of poesy: instruction can be admitted but in the second place, for poesy only instructs as it delights. it is true, that to imitate well is a poet's work; but to affect the soul, and excite the passions, and, above all, to move admiration (which is the delight of serious plays), a bare imitation will not serve. the converse, therefore, which a poet is to imitate, must be heightened with all the arts and ornaments of poesy; and must be such as, strictly considered, could never be supposed spoken by any without premeditation. as for what he urges, that "a play will still be supposed to be a composition of several persons speaking _extempore_, and that good verses are the hardest things which can be imagined to be so spoken;" i must crave leave to dissent from his opinion, as to the former part of it: for, if i am not deceived, a play is supposed to be the work of the poet, imitating, or representing, the conversation of several persons: and this i think to be as clear, as he thinks the contrary. but i will be bolder, and do not doubt to make it good, though a paradox, that one great reason why prose is not to be used in serious plays, is, because it is too near the nature of converse: there may be too great a likeness; as the most skilful painters affirm, that there may be too near a resemblance in a picture: to take every lineament and feature is not to make an excellent piece, but to take so much only as will make a beautiful resemblance of the whole: and, with an ingenious flattery of nature, to heighten the beauties of some parts, and hide the deformities of the rest. for so says horace, _ut pictura poesis erit. &c.-- haec amat obscurum, vult haec sub luce videri, judicis argutum quae formidat acumen. et quae desperat tractata nitescere posse, relinquit._ in "bartholomew fair," or the lowest kind of comedy, that degree of heightening is used, which is proper to set off that subject: it is true the author was not there to go out of prose, as he does in his higher arguments of comedy, "the fox" and "alchemist;" yet he does so raise his matter in that prose, as to render it delightful; which he could never have performed, had he only said or done those very things, that are daily spoken or practised in the fair: for then the fair itself would be as full of pleasure to an ingenious person as the play, which we manifestly see it is not. but he hath made an excellent lazar of it; the copy is of price, though the original be vile. you see in "catiline" and "sejanus," where the argument is great, he sometimes ascends to verse, which shews he thought it not unnatural in serious plays; and had his genius been as proper for rhyme as it was for humour, or had the age in which he lived attained to as much knowledge in verse as ours, it is probable he would have adorned those subjects with that kind of writing. thus prose, though the rightful prince, yet is by common consent deposed, as too weak for the government of serious plays: and he failing, there now start up two competitors; one, the nearer in blood, which is blank verse; the other, more fit for the ends of government, which is rhyme. blank verse is, indeed, the nearer prose, but he is blemished with the weakness of his predecessor. rhyme (for i will deal clearly) has somewhat of the usurper in him; but he is brave, and generous, and his dominion pleasing. for this reason of delight, the ancients (whom i will still believe as wise as those who so confidently correct them) wrote all their tragedies in verse, though they knew it most remote from conversation. but i perceive i am falling into the danger of another rebuke from my opponent; for when i plead that the ancients used verse, i prove not that they would have admitted rhyme, had it then been written. all i can say is only this, that it seems to have succeeded verse by the general consent of poets in all modern languages; for almost all their serious plays are written in it; which, though it be no demonstration that therefore they ought to be so, yet at least the practice first, and then the continuation of it, shews that it attained the end, which was to please; and if that cannot be compassed here, i will be the first who shall lay it down: for i confess my chief endeavours are to delight the age in which i live. if the humour of this be for low comedy, small accidents, and raillery, i will force my genius to obey it, though with more reputation i could write in verse. i know i am not so fitted by nature to write comedy: i want that gaiety of humour which is required to it. my conversation is slow and dull; my humour saturnine and reserved: in short, i am none of those who endeavour to break jests in company, or make repartees. so that those, who decry my comedies, do me no injury, except it be in point of profit: reputation in them is the last thing to which i shall pretend. i beg pardon for entertaining the reader with so ill a subject; but before i quit that argument, which was the cause of this digression, i cannot but take notice how i am corrected for my quotation of seneca, in my defence of plays in verse. my words are these: "our language is noble, full, and significant; and i know not why he, who is a master of, it, may not clothe ordinary things in it as decently as in the latin, if he use the same diligence in his choice of words." one would think, "unlock a door," was a thing as vulgar as could be spoken; yet seneca could make it sound high and lofty in his latin. "_reserate clusos regii postes laris_." but he says of me, "that being filled with the precedents of the ancients, who writ their plays in verse, i commend the thing, declaring our language to be full, noble, and significant, and charging all defects upon the _ill placing of words_, which i prove by quoting seneca loftily expressing such an ordinary thing as _shutting a door_." here he manifestly mistakes; for i spoke not of the placing, but of the choice of words; for which i quoted that aphorism of julius caesar, _delectus verborum est origo eloquentiae_; but _delectus verborum_ is no more latin for the _placing of words_, than _reserate_ is latin for _shut the door_, as he interprets it, which i ignorantly construed _unlock_ or _open_ it. he supposes i was highly affected with the sound of those words, and i suppose i may more justly imagine it of him; for if he had not been extremely satisfied with the sound, he would have minded the sense a little better. but these are now to be no faults; for ten days after his book is published, and that his mistakes are grown so famous, that they are come back to him, he sends his _errata_[a] to be printed, and annexed to his play; and desires, that, instead of _shutting_, you would read _opening_, which, it seems, was the printer's fault. i wonder at his modesty, that he did not rather say it was seneca's or mine; and that, in some authors, _reserate_ was to _shut_ as well as to _open_, as the word _barach_, say the learned, is both to _bless_ and _curse_. [footnote a: this erratum has been suffered to remain in the edition of the knight's plays now before us, published in .] well, since it was the printer, he was a naughty man to commit the same mistake twice in six lines: i warrant you _delectus verborum_, for _placing of words_, was his mistake too, though the author forgot to tell him of it: if it were my book, i assure you i should. for those rascals ought to be the proxies of every gentleman author, and to be chastised for him, when he is not pleased to own an error. yet since he has given the _errata_, i wish he would have enlarged them only a few sheets more, and then he would have spared me the labour of an answer: for this cursed printer is so given to mistakes, that there is scarce a sentence in the preface without some false grammar, or hard sense in it; which will all be charged upon the poet, because he is so good-natured as to lay but three errors to the printer's account, and to take the rest upon himself, who is better able to support them. but he needs not apprehend that i should strictly examine those little faults, except i am called upon to do it: i shall return therefore to that quotation of seneca, and answer, not to what he writes, but to what he means. i never intended it as an argument, but only as an illustration of what i had said before concerning the election of words; and all he can charge me with is only this, that if seneca could make an ordinary thing sound well in latin by the choice of words, the same, with the like care, might be performed in english: if it cannot, i have committed an error on the right hand, by commending too much the copiousness and well-sounding of our language, which i hope my countrymen will pardon me; at least the words which follow in my dramatic essay will plead somewhat in my behalf; for i say there, that this objection happens but seldom in a play; and then, too, either the meanness of the expression may be avoided, or shut out from the verse by breaking it in the midst. but i have said too much in the defence of verse; for, after all, it is a very indifferent thing to me whether it obtain or not. i am content hereafter to be ordered by his rule, that is, to write it sometimes because it pleases me, and so much the rather, because he has declared that it pleases him. but he has taken his last farewell of the muses, and he has done it civilly, by honouring them with the name of "his long acquaintances," which is a compliment they have scarce deserved from him. for my own part, i bear a share in the public loss; and how emulous soever i may be of his fame and reputation, i cannot but give this testimony of his style, that it is extremely poetical, even in oratory; his thoughts elevated sometimes above common apprehension; his notions politic and grave, and tending to the instruction of princes, and reformation of states; that they are abundantly interlaced with variety of fancies, tropes, and figures, which the critics have enviously branded with the name of obscurity and false grammar. "well, he is now fettered in business of more unpleasant nature:" the muses have lost him, but the commonwealth gains by it; the corruption of a poet is the generation of a statesman. "he will not venture again into the civil wars of censure, _ubi--nullos habitura triumphos_:" if he had not told us he had left the muses, we might have half suspected it by that word _ubi_, which does not any way belong to them in that place: the rest of the verse is indeed lucan's, but that _ubi_, i will answer for it, is his own. yet he has another reason for this disgust of poesy; for he says immediately after, that "the manner of plays which are now in most esteem is beyond his power to perform:" to perform the manner of a thing, i confess, is new english to me. "however, he condemns not the satisfaction of others, but rather their unnecessary understanding, who, like sancho panza's doctor, prescribe too strictly to our appetites; for," says he, "in the difference of tragedy and comedy, and of farce itself, there can be no determination but by the taste, nor in the manner of their composure." we shall see him now as great a critic as he was a poet; and the reason why he excelled so much in poetry will be evident, for it will appear to have proceeded from the exactness of his judgment. "in the difference of tragedy, comedy, and farce itself, there can be no determination but by the taste." i will not quarrel with the obscurity of his phrase, though i justly might; but beg his pardon if i do not rightly understand him. if he means that there is no essential difference betwixt comedy, tragedy, and farce, but what is only made by the people's taste, which distinguishes one of them from the other, that is so manifest an error, that i need not lose time to contradict it. were there neither judge, taste, nor opinion in the world, yet they would differ in their natures; for the action, character, and language of tragedy, would still be great and high; that of comedy, lower and more familiar. admiration would be the delight of one, and satire of the other. i have but briefly touched upon these things, because, whatever his words are, i can scarce imagine, that "he, who is always concerned for the true honour of reason, and would have no spurious issue fathered upon her," should mean any thing so absurd as to affirm, "that there is no difference betwixt comedy and tragedy but what is made by the taste only;" unless he would have us understand the comedies of my lord l. where the first act should be pottages, the second fricassees, &c. and the fifth a _chere entiere_ of women. i rather guess he means, that betwixt one comedy or tragedy and another, there is no other difference, but what is made by the liking or disliking of the audience. this is indeed a less error than the former, but yet it is a great one. the liking or disliking of the people gives the play the denomination of good or bad, but does not really make or constitute it such. to please the people ought to be the poet's aim, because plays are made for their delight; but it does not follow that they are always pleased with good plays, or that the plays which please them are always good. the humour of the people is now for comedy; therefore, in hope to please them, i write comedies rather than serious plays: and so far their taste prescribes to me. but it does not follow from that reason, that comedy is to be preferred before tragedy in its own nature; for that, which is so in its own nature, cannot be otherwise, as a man cannot but be a rational creature: but the opinion of the people may alter, and in another age, or perhaps in this, serious plays may be set up above comedies. this i think a sufficient answer; if it be not, he has provided me of an excuse: it seems, in his wisdom, he foresaw my weakness, and has found out this expedient for me, "that it is not necessary for poets to study strict reason, since they are so used to a greater latitude than is allowed by that severe inquisition, that they must infringe their own jurisdiction, to profess themselves obliged to argue well." i am obliged to him for discovering to me this back door; but i am not yet resolved on my retreat; for i am of opinion, that they cannot be good poets, who are not accustomed to argue well. false reasonings and colours of speech are the certain marks of one who does not understand the stage: for moral truth is the mistress of the poet as much as of the philosopher; poesy must resemble natural truth, but it must be ethical. indeed, the poet dresses truth, and adorns nature, but does not alter them: _ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris_. therefore, that is not the best poesy, which resembles notions of things, that are not, to things that are: though the fancy may be great, and the words flowing, yet the soul is but half satisfied when there is not truth in the foundation. this is that which makes virgil be preferred before the rest of poets. in variety of fancy, and sweetness of expression, you see ovid far above him; for virgil rejected many of those things which ovid wrote. "a great wit's great work is to refuse," as my worthy friend sir john berkenhead has ingeniously expressed it: you rarely meet with any thing in virgil but truth, which therefore leaves the strongest impression of pleasure in the soul. this i thought myself obliged to say in behalf of poesy; and to declare, though it be against myself, that when poets do not argue well, the defect is in the workmen, not in the art. and now i come to the boldest part of his discourse, wherein he attacks not me, but all the ancients and moderns; and undermines, as he thinks, the very foundations on which dramatic poesy is built. i could wish he would have declined that envy which must of necessity follow such an undertaking, and contented himself with triumphing over me in my opinions of verse, which i will never hereafter dispute with him; but he must pardon me if i have that veneration for aristotle, horace, ben jonson, and corneille, that i dare not serve him in such a cause, and against such heroes, but rather fight under their protection, as homer reports of little teucer, who shot the trojans from under the large buckler of ajax telamon. [greek: stae d ax up aiantos sachei telamoniadao] he stood beneath his brother's ample shield; and covered there, shot death through all the field. the words of my noble adversary are these: "but if we examine the general rules laid down for plays by strict reason, we shall find the errors equally gross; for the great foundation which is laid to build upon, is nothing as it is generally stated, as will appear upon the examination of the particulars." these particulars in due time shall be examined. in the mean while, let us consider what this great foundation is, which he says is nothing, as it is generally stated. i never heard of any other foundation of dramatic poesy than the imitation of nature; neither was there ever pretended any other by the ancients or moderns, or me, who endeavour to follow them in that rule. this i have plainly said in my definition of a play; that it is a just and lively image of human nature, &c. thus the foundation, as it is generally stated, will stand sure, if this definition of a play be true; if it be not, he ought to have made his exception against it, by proving that a play is not an imitation of nature, but somewhat else, which he is pleased to think it. but 'tis very plain, that he has mistaken the foundation for that which is built upon it, though not immediately: for the direct and immediate consequence is this; if nature be to be imitated, then there is a rule for imitating nature rightly, otherwise there may be an end, and no means conducing to it. hitherto i have proceeded by demonstration; but as our divines, when they have proved a deity, because there is order, and have inferred that this deity ought to be worshipped, differ afterwards in the manner of the worship; so, having laid down, that nature is to be imitated, and that proposition proving the next, that then there are means which conduce to the imitating of nature, i dare proceed no farther positively; but have only laid down some opinions of the ancients and moderns, and of my own, as means which they used, and which i thought probable for the attaining of that end. those means are the same which my antagonist calls the foundations, how properly the world may judge; and to prove that this is his meaning, he clears it immediately to you, by enumerating those rules or propositions against which he makes his particular exceptions; as, namely, those of time and place, in these words: "first, we are told the plot should not be so ridiculously contrived, as to crowd two several countries into one stage; secondly, to cramp the accidents of many years or days into the representation of two hours and an half; and, lastly, a conclusion drawn, that the only remaining dispute is, concerning time, whether it should be contained in twelve or twenty-four hours; and the place to be limited to that spot of ground where the play is supposed to begin: and this is called nearest nature; for that is concluded most natural, which is most probable, and nearest to that which it presents." thus he has only made a small mistake, of the means conducing to the end for the end itself, and of the superstructure for the foundation: but he proceeds: "to shew therefore upon what ill grounds they dictate laws for dramatic poesy," &c. he is here pleased to charge me with being magisterial, as he has done in many other places of his preface; therefore, in vindication of myself, i must crave leave to say, that my whole discourse was sceptical, according to that way of reasoning which was used by socrates, plato, and all the academics of old, which tully and the best of the ancients followed, and which is imitated by the modest inquisitions of the royal society. that it is so, not only the name will shew, which is, _an essay_, but the frame and composition of the work. you see it is a dialogue sustained by persons of several opinions, all of them left doubtful, to be determined by the readers in general; and more particularly deferred to the accurate judgment of my lord buckhurst, to whom i made a dedication of my book. these are my words in my epistle, speaking of the persons whom i introduced in my dialogue: "'tis true they differed in their opinions, as 'tis probable they would: neither do i take upon me to reconcile, but to relate them, leaving your lordship to decide it in favour of that part which you shall judge most reasonable." and after that, in my advertisement to the reader, i said this: "the drift of the ensuing discourse is chiefly to vindicate the honour of our english writers from the censure of those who unjustly prefer the french before them. this i intimate, lest any should think me so exceeding vain, as to teach others an art, which they understand much better than myself." but this is more than necessary to clear my modesty in that point: and i am very confident, that there is scarce any man who has lost so much time, as to read that trifle, but will be my compurgator, as to that arrogance whereof i am accused. the truth is, if i had been naturally guilty of so much vanity as to dictate my opinions; yet i do not find that the character of a positive or self-conceited person is of such advantage to any in this age, that i should labour to be publicly admitted of that order. but i am not now to defend my own cause, when that of all the ancients and moderns is in question. for this gentleman, who accuses me of arrogance, has taken a course not to be taxed with the other extreme of modesty. those propositions, which are laid down in my discourse as helps to the better imitation of nature, are not mine (as i have said), nor were ever pretended so to be, but derived from the authority of aristotle and horace, and from the rules and examples of ben jonson and corneille. these are the men with whom properly he contends, and against "whom he will endeavour to make it evident, that there is no such thing as what they all pretend." his argument against the unities of place and time is this: "that 'tis as impossible for one stage to present two rooms or houses truly, as two countries or kingdoms; and as impossible that five hours or twenty-four hours should be two hours, as that a thousand hours or years should be less than what they are, or the greatest part of time to be comprehended in the less: for all of them being impossible, they are none of them nearest the truth, or nature of what they present; for impossibilities are all equal, and admit of no degree." this argument is so scattered into parts, that it can scarce be united into a syllogism; yet, in obedience to him, _i will abbreviate_, and comprehend as much of it as i can in few words, that my answer to it may be more perspicuous. i conceive his meaning to be what follows, as to the unity of place: (if i mistake, i beg his pardon, professing it is not out of any design to play the _argumentative poet_.) if one stage cannot properly present two rooms or houses, much less two countries or kingdoms, then there can be no unity of place. but one stage cannot properly perform this: therefore there can be no unity of place. i plainly deny his minor proposition; the force of which, if i mistake not, depends on this, that the stage being one place cannot be two. this indeed is as great a secret, as that we are all mortal; but to requite it with another, i must crave leave to tell him, that though the stage cannot be two places, yet it may properly represent them successively, or at several times. his argument is indeed no more than a mere fallacy, which will evidently appear when we distinguish place, as it relates to plays, into real and imaginary. the real place is that theatre, or piece of ground, on which the play is acted. the imaginary, that house, town, or country where the action of the drama is supposed to be, or, more plainly, where the scene of the play is laid. let us now apply this to that herculean argument, "which if strictly and duly weighed, is to make it evident, that there is no such thing as what they all pretend." 'tis impossible, he says, for one stage to present two rooms or houses: i answer, 'tis neither impossible, nor improper, for one real place to represent two or more imaginary places, so it be done successively; which, in other words, is no more than this, that the imagination of the audience, aided by the words of the poet, and painted scenes, may suppose the stage to be sometimes one place, sometimes another; now a garden, or wood, and immediately a camp: which i appeal to every man's imagination, if it be not true. neither the ancients nor moderns, as much fools as he is pleased to think them, ever asserted that they could make one place two; but they might hope, by the good leave of this author, that the change of a scene might lead the imagination to suppose the place altered: so that he cannot fasten those absurdities upon this scene of a play, or imaginary place of action, that it is one place, and yet two. and this being so clearly proved, that 'tis past any shew of a reasonable denial, it will not be hard to destroy that other part of his argument, which depends upon it, namely, that 'tis as impossible for a stage to represent two rooms or houses, as two countries or kingdoms: for his reason is already overthrown, which was, because both were alike impossible. this is manifestly otherwise; for 'tis proved that a stage may properly represent two rooms or houses; for the imagination being judge of what is represented, will in reason be less choked with the appearance of two rooms in the same house, or two houses in the same city, than with two distant cities in the same country, or two remote countries in the same universe. imagination in a man, or reasonable creature, is supposed to participate of reason, and when that governs, as it does in the belief of fiction, reason is not destroyed, but misled, or blinded; that can prescribe to the reason, during the time of the representation, somewhat like a weak belief of what it sees and hears; and reason suffers itself to be so hood-winked, that it may better enjoy the pleasures of the fiction: but it is never so wholly made a captive, as to be drawn headlong into a persuasion of those things which are most remote from probability: it is in that case a free-born subject, not a slave; it will contribute willingly its assent, as far as it sees convenient, but will not be forced. now, there is a greater vicinity in nature betwixt two rooms, than betwixt two houses; betwixt two houses, than betwixt two cities; and so of the rest: reason, therefore, can sooner be led, by imagination, to step from one room into another, than to walk to two distant houses, and yet rather to go thither, than to fly like a witch through the air, and be hurried from one region to another. fancy and reason go hand in hand; the first cannot leave the last behind: and though fancy, when it sees the wide gulph, would venture over, as the nimbler, yet it is with-held by reason, which will refuse to take the leap, when the distance over it appears too large. if ben jonson himself will remove the scene from rome into tuscany in the same act, and from thence return to rome, in the scene which immediately follows, reason will consider there is no proportionable allowance of time to perform the journey, and, therefore, will choose to stay at home. so, then, the less change of place there is, the less time is taken up in transporting the persons of the drama, with analogy to reason; and in that analogy, or resemblance of fiction to truth, consists the excellency of the play. for what else concerns the unity of place, i have already given my opinion of it in my essay, that there is a latitude to be allowed to it, as several places in the same town or city, or places adjacent to each other in the same country; which may all be comprehended under the larger denomination of one place; yet with this restriction, that the nearer and fewer those imaginary places are, the greater resemblance they will have to truth; and reason, which cannot make them one, will be more easily led to suppose them so. what has been said of the unity of place, may easily be applied to that of time: i grant it to be impossible, that the greater part of time should be comprehended in the less, that twenty-four hours should be crowded into three: but there is no necessity of that supposition; for as _place_, so time relating to a play, is either imaginary or real: the real is comprehended in those three hours, more or less, in the space of which the play is represented; the imaginary is that which is supposed to be taken up in the representation, as twenty-four hours, more or less. now, no man ever could suppose, that twenty-four real hours could be included in the space of three; but where is the absurdity of affirming, that the feigned business of twenty-four imagined hours, may not more naturally be represented in the compass of three real hours, than the like feigned business of twenty-four years, in the same proportion of real time? for the proportions are always real, and much nearer, by his permission, of twenty-four to three, than of four thousand to it. i am almost fearful of illustrating any thing by similitude, lest he should confute it for an argument; yet i think the comparison of a glass will discover very aptly the fallacy of his argument, both concerning time and place. the strength of his reason depends on this, that the less cannot comprehend the greater. i have already answered, that we need not suppose it does; i say not that the less can comprehend the greater, but only, that it may represent it. as in a glass, or mirror, of half-a-yard diameter, a whole room, and many persons in it, may be seen at once; not that it can comprehend that room, or those persons, but that it represents them to the sight. but the author of the "duke of lerma" is to be excused for his declaring against the unity of time; for, if i be not much mistaken, he is an interested person;--the time of that play taking up so many years, as the favour of the duke of lerma continued; nay, the second and third act including all the time of his prosperity, which was a great part of the reign of philip the third: for in the beginning of the second act he was not yet a favourite, and, before the end of the third, was in disgrace. i say not this with the least design of limiting the stage too servilely to twenty-four hours, however he be pleased to tax me with dogmatising on that point, in my dialogue, as i before hinted, several persons maintained their several opinions: one of them, indeed, who supported the cause of the french poesy, said how strict they were in that particular; but he who answered, in behalf of our nation, was willing to give more latitude to the rule, and cites the words of corneille himself, complaining against the severity of it, and observing, what beauties it banished from the stage, p. . of my essay. in few words, my own opinion is this, (and i willingly submit it to my adversary, when he will please impartially to consider it) that the imaginary time of every play ought to be contrived into as narrow a compass, as the nature of the plot, the quality of the persons, and variety of accidents will allow. in comedy, i would not exceed twenty-four or thirty hours; for the plot, accidents, and persons, of comedy are small, and may be naturally turned in a little compass: but in tragedy, the design is weighty, and the persons great; therefore, there will naturally be required a greater space of time in which to move them. and this, though ben jonson has not told us, yet it is manifestly his opinion: for you see that to his comedies he allows generally but twenty-four hours; to his two tragedies, "sejanus," and "catiline," a much larger time, though he draws both of them into as narrow a compass as he can: for he shews you only the latter end of sejanus's favour, and the conspiracy of catiline already ripe, and just breaking out into action. but as it is an error, on the one side, to make too great a disproportion betwixt the imaginary time of the play, and the real time of its representation; so, on the other side, it is an oversight to compress the accidents of a play into a narrower compass than that in which they could naturally be produced. of this last error the french are seldom guilty, because the thinness of their plots prevents them from it; but few englishmen, except ben jonson, have ever made a plot, with variety of design in it, included in twenty-four hours, which was altogether natural. for this reason, i prefer the "silent woman" before all other plays, i think justly, as i do its author, in judgment, above all other poets. yet, of the two, i think that error the most pardonable, which in too strait a compass crowds together many accidents, since it produces more variety, and, consequently, more pleasure to the audience; and, because the nearness of proportion betwixt the imaginary and real time, does speciously cover the compression of the accidents. thus i have endeavoured to answer the meaning of his argument; for, as he drew it, i humbly conceive that it was none,--as will appear by his proposition, and the proof of it. his proposition was this: "if strictly and duly weighed, it is as impossible for one stage to present two rooms, or houses, as two countries, or kingdoms," &c. and his proof this: "for all being impossible, they are none of them nearest the truth or nature of what they present." here you see, instead of proof or reason, there is only _petitio principii_. for, in plain words, his sense is this: two things are as impossible as one another, because they are both equally impossible: but he takes those two things to be granted as impossible, which he ought to have proved such, before he had proceeded to prove them equally impossible: he should have made out first, that it was impossible for one stage to represent two houses, and then have gone forward to prove, that it was as equally impossible for a stage to present two houses, as two countries. after all this, the very absurdity, to which he would reduce me, is none at all: for he only drives at this, that, if his argument be true, i must then acknowledge that there are degrees in impossibilities, which i easily grant him without dispute; and, if i mistake not, aristotle and the school are of my opinion. for there are some things which are absolutely impossible, and others which are only so _ex parte_; as it is absolutely impossible for a thing _to be_, and _not to be_ at the same time: but for a stone to move naturally upward, is only impossible _ex parte materiae_; but it is not impossible for the first mover to alter the nature of it. his last assault, like that of a frenchman, is most feeble; for whereas i have observed, that none have been violent against verse, but such only as have not attempted it, or have succeeded ill in their attempt, he will needs, according to his usual custom, improve my observation to an argument, that he might have the glory to confute it, but i lay my observation at his feet, as i do my pen, which i have often employed willingly in his deserved commendations, and now most unwillingly against his judgment. for his person and parts, i honour them as much as any man living, and have had so many particular obligations to him, that i should be very ungrateful, if i did not acknowledge them to the world. but i gave not the first occasion of this difference in opinions. in my epistle dedicatory, before my "rival ladies," i had said somewhat in behalf of verse, which he was pleased to answer in his preface to his plays. that occasioned my reply in my essay; and that reply begot this rejoinder of his, in his preface to the "duke of lenna." but as i was the last who took up arms, i will be the first to lay them down. for what i have here written, i submit it wholly to him; and if i do not hereafter answer what may be objected against this paper, i hope the world will not impute it to any other reason, than only the due respect which i have for so noble an opponent. the indian emperor. the indian emperor is the first of dryden's plays which exhibited, in a marked degree, the peculiarity of his stile, and drew upon him the attention of the world. without equalling the extravagancies of the conquest of granada, and the royal martyr, works produced when our author was emboldened, by public applause, to give full scope to his daring genius, the following may be considered as a model of the heroic drama, a few words, therefore, will not be here misplaced, on the nature of the kind of tragedies, in which, during the earlier part of his literary career, our author delighted and excelled. the heroic, or rhyming, plays, were borrowed from the french, to whose genius they are better suited than to the british. an analogy may be observed between all the different departments of the belles lettres; and none seem more closely allied, than the pursuits of the dramatic writer, and those of the composer of romances or novels. both deal in fictitious adventure; both write for amusement; and address themselves nearly to the same class of admirers. nay, although the pride of the dramatist may be offended by the assertion, it would seem, that the nature of his walk is often prescribed by the successful impression of a novel upon the public mind. if we laugh over low adventures in a novel, we soon see low comedy upon the stage: if we are horror-struck with a tale of robbers and murder in our closet, the dagger and the green carpet will not long remain unemployed in the theatre; and if ghosts haunt our novels, they soon stalk amongst our scenes. under this persuasion, we have little doubt that the heroic tragedies were the legitimate offspring of the french romances of calprenede and scuderi. such as may deign to open these venerable and neglected tomes, will be soon convinced of their extreme resemblance to the heroic drama. a remarkable feature in both, is the ideal world which they form for themselves. every sentiment is lofty, splendid, and striking; and no apology is admitted for any departure from the dignity of character, however natural or impressive. the beauty of the heroine, and the valour of the hero, must be alike resistless; and the moving spring, through the whole action, is the overbearing passion of love. their language and manners are as peculiar to themselves, as their prowess and susceptibility. the pastoral arcadian does not differ more widely from an ordinary rustic, than these lofty persons do from the princes and kings of this world. neither is any circumstance of national character, or manners, allowed as an apology for altering the established character, which must be invariably sustained by the persons of the heroic drama. the religion, and the state of society of the country where the scene is laid, may be occasionally alluded to as authority for varying a procession, or introducing new dresses and decorations; but, in all other respects, an indian inca, attired in feathers, must hold the same dignity of deportment, and display the same powers of declamation, and ingenuity of argument, with a roman emperor in his purple, or a feudal warrior in his armour; for the rule and decorum of this species of composition is too peremptory, to give way either to the current of human passions, or to the usages of nations. gibbon has remarked, that the kings of the gepidae, and the ostrogoths in corneille's tragedy of attila, are profound politicians, and sentimental lovers;--a description which, with a varying portion of pride, courtesy, and heroism, will apply to almost all the characters in plays drawn upon this model. it is impossible to conceive any thing more different from the old english drama, than the heroic plays which were introduced by charles ii. the former, in labouring to exhibit a variety and contrast of passions, tempers, or humours, frequently altogether neglected the dignity of the scene. in the heroical tragedy, on the other hand, nothing was to be indecorous, nothing grotesque: the personages were to speak, not as men, but as heroes; to whom, as statuaries have assigned a superiority of stature, so these poets have given an uniform grandeur of feeling and of expression. it may be thought, that this monotonous splendour of diction would have palled upon an english audience, less pleased generally with refinement, however elegant, than with bursts of passion, and flights of novelty. but dryden felt his force in the line which he chose to pursue and recommend. the indescribable charms of his versification gratified the ear of the public, while their attention was engaged by the splendour of his images, and the matchless ingenuity of his arguments. it must also be admitted, that, by their total neglect of the unities, our ancient dramatic authors shocked the feelings of the more learned, and embarrassed the understanding of the less acute, among the spectators. we do not hold it treason to depart from the strict rules respecting time and place, inculcated by the ancients, and followed in the heroic plays. but it will surely be granted to us, that, where they can be observed, without the sacrifice of great beauties, or incurring such absurdities as dennis has justly charged upon cato, the play will be proportionally more intelligible on the stage, and more pleasing in the closet. and although we willingly censure the practice of driving argument, upon the stage, into metaphysical refinement, and rendering the contest of contrasted passions a mere combat in logic, yet we must equally condemn those tragedies, in which the poet sketches out the character with a few broken common-places, expressive of love, of rage, or of grief, and leaves the canvas to be filled up by the actor, according to his own taste, power, and inclination. the indian emperor is an instance, what beautiful poetry may be united to, we had almost said thrown away upon, the heroic drama. the very first scene exhibits much of those beauties, and their attendant deformities. a modern audience would hardly have sate in patience to hear more than the first extravagant and ludicrous supposition of cortez: as if our old world modestly withdrew; and here, in private, had brought forth a new. but had they condemned the piece for this uncommon case of parturition, they would have lost the beautiful and melodious verses, in which cortez, and his followers, describe the advantages of the newly discovered world; and they would have lost the still more exquisite account, which, immediately after, guyomar gives of the arrival of the spanish fleet. of the characters little need be said; they stalk on, in their own fairy land, in the same uniform livery, and with little peculiarity of discrimination. all the men, from montezuma down to pizarro, are brave warriors; and only vary, in proportion to the mitigating qualities which the poet has infused into their military ardour. the women are all beautiful, and all deeply in love; differing from each other only, as the haughty or tender predominates in their passion. but the charm of the poetry, and the ingenuity of the dialogue, render it impossible to peruse, without pleasure, a drama, the faults of which may be imputed to its structure, while its beauties are peculiar to dryden. the plot of the indian emperor is certainly of our author's own composition; since even the malignant assiduity of langbaine has been unable to point out any author from whom it is borrowed. the play was first acted in , and received with great applause. connection of the indian emperor to the indian queen [a]. [footnote a: this argument was printed, and dispersed amongst the audience upon the first night of representation. hence bayes is made to say, in the rehearsal, that he had printed many reams, to instil into the audience some conception of his plot.] the conclusion of the indian queen (part of which poem was wrote by me) left little matter for another story to be built on, there remaining but two of the considerable characters alive, viz. montezuma and orazia. thereupon the author of this thought it necessary to produce new persons from the old ones; and considering the late indian queen, before she loved montezuma, lived in clandestine marriage with her general traxalla, from those two he has raised a son and two daughters, supposed to be left young orphans at their death. on the other side, he has given to montezuma and orazia, two sons and a daughter; all now supposed to be grown up to mens' and womens' estate; and their mother, orazia, (for whom there was no further use in the story,) lately dead. so that you are to imagine about twenty years elapsed since the coronation of montezuma; who, in the truth of the history, was a great and glorious prince; and in whose time happened the discovery and invasion of mexico, by the spaniards, under the conduct of hernando cortez, who, joining with the traxallan indians, the inveterate enemies of montezuma, wholly subverted that flourishing empire;--the conquest of which is the subject of this dramatic poem. i have neither wholly followed the story, nor varied from it; and, as near as i could, have traced the native simplicity and ignorance of the indians, in relation to european customs;--the shipping, armour, horses, swords, and guns of the spaniards, being as new to them, as their habits and their language were to the christians. the difference of their religion from ours, i have taken from the story itself; and that which you find of it in the first and fifth acts, touching the sufferings and constancy of montezuma in his opinions, i have only illustrated, not altered, from those who have written of it. prologue almighty critics! whom our indians here worship, just as they do the devil--for fear; in reverence to your power, i come this day, to give you timely warning of our play. the scenes are old, the habits are the same we wore last year, before the spaniards came[a]. now, if you stay, the blood, that shall be shed from this poor play, be all upon your head. we neither promise you one dance, or show; then plot, and language, they are wanting too: but you, kind wits, will those light faults excuse, those are the common frailties of the muse; which, who observes, he buys his place too dear; for 'tis your business to be cozened here. these wretched spies of wit must then confess, they take more pains to please themselves the less. grant us such judges, phoebus, we request, as still mistake themselves into a jest; such easy judges, that our poet may himself admire the fortune of his play; and, arrogantly, as his fellows do, think he writes well, because he pleases you. this he conceives not hard to bring about, if all of you would join to help him out: would each man take but what he understands, and leave the rest upon the poet's hands. [footnote a: alluding to the indian queen, in which the scene is laid before the arrival of the spaniards in america, and which was acted in , as this was in .] dramatis personae. indian men. montezuma, _emperor of mexico_. odmar, _his eldest son_. guyomar, _his younger son_. orbellan, _son of the late indian queen by traxalla_. _high priest of the sun_. women. cydaria, _montezuma's daughter_. almeria, } _sisters; and daughters to the late_ alibech, } _indian queen_. spaniards. cortez, _the spanish general_. vasquez, } _commanders under him_. pizarro, } scene--_mexico, and two leagues about it_. the indian emperor. act i. scene i.--_a pleasant indian country_. _enter_ cortez, vasquez, pizarro, _with spaniards and indians of their party_. _cort_. on what new happy climate are we thrown, so long kept secret, and so lately known; as if our old world modestly withdrew, and here in private had brought forth a new? _vasq._ corn, oil, and wine, are wanting to this ground, in which our countries fruitfully abound; as if this infant world, yet unarrayed, naked and bare in nature's lap were laid. no useful arts have yet found footing here, but all untaught and savage does appear. _cort._ wild and untaught are terms which we alone invent, for fashions differing from our own; for all their customs are by nature wrought, but we, by art, unteach what nature taught. _piz_. in spain, our springs, like old men's children, be decayed and withered from their infancy: no kindly showers fall on our barren earth, to hatch the season in a timely birth: our summer such a russet livery wears, as in a garment often dyed appears. _cort_. here nature spreads her fruitful sweetness round, breathes on the air, and broods upon the ground: here days and nights the only seasons be; the sun no climate does so gladly see: when forced from hence, to view our parts, he mourns; takes little journies, and makes quick returns. _vasq_. methinks, we walk in dreams on fairy-land, where golden ore lies mixt with common sand; each downfal of a flood, the mountains pour from their rich bowels, rolls a silver shower. _cort_. heaven from all ages wisely did provide this wealth, and for the bravest nation hide, who, with four hundred foot and forty horse, dare boldly go a new-found world to force. _piz_. our men, though valiant, we should find too few, but indians join the indians to subdue; taxallan, shook by montezuma's powers, has, to resist his forces, called in ours. _vasq_. rashly to arm against so great a king, i hold not safe; nor is it just to bring a war, without a fair defiance made. _piz_. declare we first our quarrel; then invade. _cort_. myself, my king's ambassador, will go; speak, indian guide, how far to mexico? _ind_. your eyes can scarce so far a prospect make, as to discern the city on the lake; but that broad causeway will direct your way, and you may reach the town by noon of day. _cort_. command a party of our indians out, with a strict charge, not to engage, but scout: by noble ways we conquest will prepare; first, offer peace, and, that refused, make war. [_exeunt_. scene ii.--_a temple_. _the high priest with other priests. to them an indian_. _ind_. haste, holy priest, it is the king's command. _high pr_. when sets he forward? _ind_. he is near at hand. _high pr_. the incense is upon the altar placed, the bloody sacrifice already past; five hundred captives saw the rising sun, who lost their light, ere half his race was run. that which remains we here must celebrate; where, far from noise, without the city gate, the peaceful power that governs love repairs, to feast upon soft vows and silent prayers. we for his royal presence only stay, to end the rites of this so solemn day. [_exit ind_. _enter_ montezuma; _his eldest son_, odmar; _his daughter_, cydaria; almeria, alibech, orbellan, _and train. they place themselves_. _high pr_. on your birthday, while we sing to our gods and to our king, her, among this beauteous quire, whose perfections you admire, her, who fairest does appear, crown her queen of all the year, of the year and of the day, and at her feet your garland lay. _odm_. my father this way does his looks direct; heaven grant, he give it not where i suspect! [montezuma _rises, goes about the ladies, and at length stays at_ almeria, _and bows_. _mont_. since my orazia's death, i have not seen a beauty, so deserving to be queen as fair almeria. _alm_. sure he will not know [_to her brother and sister, aside_. my birth i to that injured princess owe, whom his hard heart not only love denied, but in her sufferings took unmanly pride. _alib_. since montezuma will his choice renew, in dead orazia's room electing you, 'twill please our mother's ghost that you succeed to all the glories of her rival's bed. _alm_. if news be carried to the shades below, the indian queen will be more pleased, to know, that i his scorns on him, who scorned her, pay. _orb_. would you could right her some more noble way! [_she turns to him, who is kneeling all this while_. _mont_. madam, this posture is for heaven designed, [_kneeling_. and what moves heaven i hope may make you kind. _alm_. heaven may be kind; the gods uninjured live. and crimes below cost little to forgive: by thee, inhuman, both my parents died; one by thy sword, the other by thy pride. _mont_. my haughty mind no fate could ever bow, yet i must stoop to one, who scorns me now: is there no pity to my sufferings due? _alm_. as much as what my mother found from you. _mont_. your mother's wrongs a recompence shall meet; i lay my sceptre at her daughter's feet. _alm_. he, who does now my least commands obey, would call me queen, and take my power away. _odm_. can he hear this, and not his fetters break? is love so powerful, or his soul so weak? i'll fright her from it.--madam, though you see the king is kind, i hope your modesty will know, what distance to the crown is due. _alm_. distance and modesty prescribed by you! _odm_. almeria dares not think such thoughts as these. _alm_. she dares both think and act what thoughts she please. tis much below me on his throne to sit; but when i do, you shall petition it. _odm_. if, sir, almeria does your bed partake, i mourn for my forgotten mother's' sake. _mont_. when parents' loves are ordered by a son, let streams prescribe their fountains where to run. _odm_. in all i urge, i keep my duty still, not rule your reason, but instruct your will. _mont_. small use of reason in that prince is shown, who follows others, and neglects his own. [almeria _to_ orbellan _and_ alibech, _who are this while whispering to her_. _alm_. no, he shall ever love, and always be the subject of my scorn and cruelty. _orb_. to prove the lasting torment of his life, you must not be his mistress, but his wife. few know what care an husband's peace destroys, his real griefs, and his dissembled joys. _alm_. what mark of pleasing vengeance could be shown, if i, to break his quiet, lose my own? _orb_. a brother's life upon your love relics, since i do homage to cydaria's eyes: how can her father to my hopes be kind, if in your heart he no example find? _alm_. to save your life i'll suffer any thing, yet i'll not flatter this tempestuous king; but work his stubborn soul a nobler way, and, if he love, i'll force him to obey. i take this garland, not as given by you, [_to mont_. but as my merit and my beauty's due. as for the crown, that you, my slave, possess, to share it with you would but make me less. _enter_ guyomar _hastily_. _odm_. my brother guyomar! methinks i spy haste in his steps, and wonder in his eye. _mont_. i sent thee to the frontiers; quickly tell the cause of thy return; are all things well? _guy_. i went, in order, sir, to your command, to view the utmost limits of the land: to that sea-shore where no more world is found, but foaming billows breaking on the ground; where, for a while, my eyes no object met, but distant skies, that in the ocean set; and low-hung clouds, that dipt themselves in rain, to shake their fleeces on the earth again. at last, as far as i could cast my eyes upon the sea, somewhat, methought, did rise, like blueish mists, which, still appearing more, took dreadful shapes, and moved towards the shore. _mont_. what forms did these new wonders represent? _guy_. more strange than what your wonder can invent. the object, i could first distinctly view, was tall straight trees, which on the waters flew; wings on their sides, instead of leaves, did grow, which gathered all the breath the winds could blow: and at their roots grew floating palaces, whose outblowed bellies cut the yielding seas. _mont_. what divine monsters, o ye gods, were these, that float in air, and fly upon the seas! came they alive, or dead, upon the shore? _guy_. alas, they lived too sure; i heard them roar. all turned their sides, and to each other spoke; i saw their words break out in fire and smoke. sure 'tis their voice, that thunders from on high, or these the younger brothers of the sky. deaf with the noise, i took my hasty flight; no mortal courage can support the fright. _high pr_. old prophecies foretel our fall at hand, when bearded men in floating castles land. i fear it is of dire portent. _mont_. go see what it foreshows, and what the gods decree. meantime proceed we to what rites remain.-- odmar, of all this presence does contain, give her your wreath, whom you esteem most fair. _odm_. above the rest i judge one beauty rare, and may that beauty prove as kind to me, [_he gives_ alibech _the wreath_. as i am sure fair alibech is she. _mont_. you, guyomar, must next perform your part. _guy_. i want a garland, but i'll give a heart: my brother's pardon i must first implore, since i with him fair alibech adore. _odm_. that all should alibech adore, 'tis true; but some respect is to my birthright due. my claim to her by eldership i prove. _guy_. age is a plea in empire, not in love. _odm_. i long have staid for this solemnity, to make my passion public. _guy_. so have i. _odm_. but from her birth my soul has been her slave; my heart received the first wounds which she save: i watched the early glories of her eyes, as men for daybreak watch the eastern skies. _guy_. it seems my soul then moved the quicker pace; yours first set out, mine reached her in the race. _mont_. odmar, your choice i cannot disapprove; nor justly, guyomar, can blame your love. to alibech alone refer your suit, and let her sentence finish your dispute. _alib_. you think me, sir, a mistress quickly won. so soon to finish what is scarce begun: in this surprise should i a judgment make, 'tis answering riddles ere i'm well awake: if you oblige me suddenly to chuse, the choice is made, for i must both refuse: for to myself i owe this due regard, not to make love my gift, but my reward. time best will show, whose services will last. _odm_. then judge my future service by my past. what i shall be, by what i was, you know: that love took deepest root, which first did grow. _guy_. that love, which first was set, will first decay; mine, of a fresher date, will longer stay. _odm_. still you forget my birth. _guy_. but you, i see, take care still to refresh my memory. _mont_. my sons, let your unseemly discord cease, if not in friendship, live at least in peace. orbellan, where you love, bestow your wreath. _orb_. my love i dare not, even in whispers, breathe. _mont_. a virtuous love may venture any thing. _orb_. not to attempt the daughter of my king. _mont_. whither is all my former fury gone? once more i have traxalla's chains put on, and by his children am in triumph led: too well the living have revenged the dead! _alm_. you think my brother born your enemy; he's of traxalla's blood, and so am i. _mont_. in vain i strive. my lion-heart is with love's toils beset; struggling i fall still deeper in the net. cydaria, your new lover's garland take, and use him kindly for your father's sake. _cyd_. so strong an hatred does my nature sway. that, spite of duty, i must disobey: besides, you warned me still of loving two; can i love him, already loving you? _enter a guard hastily_. _mont_. you look amazed, as if some sudden fear had seized your hearts; is any danger near? _ guard_. behind the covert, where this temple stands, thick as the shades, there issue swarming bands of ambushed men, whom, by their arms and dress, to be taxallan enemies i guess. _ guard_. the temple, sir, is almost compassed round. _mont_. some speedy way for passage must be found. make to the city by the postern gate, i'll either force my victory, or fate; a glorious death in arms i'll rather prove, than stay to perish tamely by my love. [_exeunt_. _an alarm within. enter_ montezuma, odmar, guyomar, alibech, orbellan, cydaria, almeria, _as pursued by taxallans_. _mont_. no succour from the town? _odm_. none, none is nigh. _guy_. we are inclosed, and must resolve to die. _mont_. fight for revenge, now hope of life is past but one stroke more, and that will be my last. _enter_ cortez, vasquez, pizarro, _to the taxallans_: cortez _stays them, just falling on_. _cort_. contemned? my orders broke even in my sight? did i not strictly charge, you should not fight? [_to his indians_. _ind_. your choler, general, does unjustly rise, to see your friends pursue your enemies. the greatest and most cruel foes we have, are these, whom you would ignorantly save. by ambushed men, behind their temple laid, we have the king of mexico betrayed. _cort_. where, banished virtue, wilt thou shew thy face, if treachery infects thy indian race? dismiss your rage, and lay your weapons by: know i protect them, and they shall not die. _ind_. o wondrous mercy, shewn to foes distrest! _cort_. call them not so, when once with odds opprest; nor are they foes my clemency defends, until they have refused the name of friends: draw up our spaniards by themselves, then fire our guns on all, who do not strait retire. [_to_ vasq. _ind_. o mercy, mercy! at thy feet we fall, [_indians kneeling_. before thy roaring gods destroy us all: see, we retreat without the least reply; keep thy gods silent! if they speak we die. [_the taxallans retire_. _mont_. the fierce taxatlans lay their weapons down, some miracle in our relief is shewn. _guy_. these bearded men in shape and colour be like those i saw come floating on the sea. [mont. _kneels to_ cort. _mont_. patron of mexico, and god of wars, son of the sun, and brother of the stars-- _cort_. great monarch, your devotion you misplace. _mont_. thy actions shew thee born of heavenly race. if then thou art that cruel god, whose eyes delight in blood, and human sacrifice, thy dreadful altars i with slaves will store, and feed thy nostrils with hot reeking gore; or if that mild and gentle god thou be, who dost mankind below with pity see, with breath of incense i will glad thy heart; but if, like us, of mortal seed thou art, presents of choicest fowls, and fruits i'll bring, and in my realms thou shalt be more than king. _cort_. monarch of empires, and deserving more than the sun sees upon your western shore; like you a man, and hither led by fame, not by constraint, but by my choice, i came; ambassador of peace, if peace you chuse, or herald of a war, if you refuse. _mont_. whence, or from whom, dost thou these offers bring? _cort_. from charles the fifth, the world's most potent king. _mont_. some petty prince, and one of little fame, for to this hour i never heard his name: the two great empires of the world i know, that of peru, and this of mexico; and since the earth none larger does afford, this charles is some poor tributary lord. _cort_. you speak of that small part of earth you know; but betwixt us and you wide oceans flow, and watry desarts of so vast extent, that passing hither four full moons we spent. _mont_. but say, what news, what offers dost thou bring from so remote, and so unknown a king? [_while_ vasquez _speaks_, cortez _spies the ladies and goes to them, entertaining_ cydaria _with courtship in dumb shew_. _vasq_. spain's mighty monarch, to whom heaven thinks fit, that all the nations of the earth submit, in gracious clemency, does condescend on these conditions to become your friend. first, that of him you shall your sceptre hold; next, you present him with your useless gold: last, that you leave those idols you implore, and one true deity with him adore. _mont_. you speak your prince a mighty emperor, but his demands have spoke him proud and poor; he proudly at my free-born sceptre flies, yet poorly begs a metal i despise. gold thou mayest take, whatever thou canst find, save what for sacred uses is designed: but, by what right pretends your king to be the sovereign lord of all the world and me? _piz_. the sovereign priest-- who represents on earth the power of heaven, has this your empire to our monarch given. _mont_. ill does he represent the powers above, who nourishes debate, not preaches love; besides, what greater folly can be shewn? he gives another what is not his own. _vasq_. his power must needs unquestioned be below, for he in heaven an empire can bestow. _mont_. empires in heaven he with more ease may give, and you, perhaps, would with less thanks receive; but heaven has need of no such viceroy here, itself bestows the crowns that monarchs wear. _piz_. you wrong his power, as you mistake our end, who came thus far religion to extend. _mont_. he, who religion truly understands, knows its extent must be in men, not lands. _odm_. but who are those that truth must propagate within the confines of my father's state? _vasq_. religious men, who hither must be sent as awful guides of heavenly government; to teach you penance, fasts, and abstinence, to punish bodies for the soul's offence. _mont_. cheaply you sin, and punish crimes with ease, not as the offended, but the offenders please; first injure heaven, and, when its wrath is due, yourselves prescribe it how to punish you. _odm_. what numbers of these holy men must come? _piz_. you shall not want, each village shall have some; who, though the royal dignity they own, are equal to it, and depend on none. _guy_. depend on none! you treat them sure in state, for 'tis their plenty does their pride create. _mont_. those ghostly kings would parcel out my power, and all the fatness of my land devour. that monarch sits not safely on his throne who bears, within, a power that shocks his own. they teach obedience to imperial sway, but think it sin if they themselves obey. _vasq_. it seems, then, our religion you accuse, and peaceful homage to our king refuse. _mont_. your gods i slight not, but will keep my own; my crown is absolute, and holds of none. i cannot in a base subjection live, nor suffer you to take, though i would give. _cort_. is this your answer, sir? _mont_.--this, as a prince, bound to my people's and my crown's defence, i must return; but, as a man, by you redeemed from death, all gratitude is due. _cort_. it was an act my honour bound me to: but what i did, were i again to do, i could not do it on my honour's score, for love would now oblige me to do more. is no way left that we may yet agree? must i have war, yet have no enemy? _vasq_. he has refused all terms of peace to take. _mont_. since we must fight, hear, heavens, what prayers i make! first, to preserve this ancient state and me, but if your doom the fall of both decree, grant only he, who has such honour shewn, when i am dust, may fill my empty throne! _cort_. to make me happier than that wish can do, lies not in all your gods to grant, but you; let this fair princess but one minute stay, a look from her will your obligements pay. [_exeunt_ montezuma, odmar, guyomar, orbellan, almeria, and alibech. _mont_. to _cyd_. your duty in your quick return be shewn.-- stay you, and wait my daughter to the town. [_to his guards_. [cydaria _is going, but turns and looks back upon_ cortez, _who is looking on her all this while_. _cyd_. my father's gone, and yet i cannot go; sure i have something lost or left behind! [_aside_. _cort_. like travellers who wander in the snow, i on her beauty gaze 'till i am blind. [_aside_. _cyd_. thick breath, quick pulse, and heaving of my heart, all signs of some unwonted change appear: i find myself unwilling to depart, and yet i know not why i would be here. stranger, you raise such torments in my breast, that when i go, (if i must go again) i'll tell my father you have robbed my rest, and to him of your injuries complain. _cort_. unknown, i swear, those wrongs were which i wrought, but my complaints will much more just appear, who from another world my freedom brought, and to your conquering eyes have lost it here. _cyd_. where is that other world, from whence you came? _cort_. beyond the ocean, far from hence it lies. _cyd_. your other world, i fear, is then the same, that souls must go to when the body dies. but what's the cause that keeps you here with me, that i may know what keeps me here with you? _cort_. mine is a love which must perpetual be, if you can be so just as i am true. _enter_ orbellan. _orb_. your father wonders much at your delay. _cyd_. so great a wonder for so small a stay! _orb_. he has commanded you with me to go. _cyd_. has he not sent to bring the stranger too? _orb_. if he to-morrow dares in fight appear, his high-placed love perhaps may cost him dear. _cort_. dares!--that word was never spoke to spaniard yet, but forfeited his life, who gave him it; haste quickly with thy pledge of safety hence, thy guilt's protected by her innocence. _cyd_. sure in some fatal hour my love was born, so soon o'ercast with absence in the morn! _cort_. turn hence those pointed glories of your eyes; for if more charms beneath those circles rise, so weak my virtue, they so strong appear, i shall turn ravisher to keep you here. [_exeunt_. act ii. scene i.--_the magician's cave_. _enter_ montezuma, _and high-priest_. _mont_. not that i fear the utmost fate can do, come i the event of doubtful war to know; for life and death are things indifferent; each to be chose as either brings content: my motive from a nobler cause does spring, love rules my heart, and is your monarch's king; i more desire to know almeria's mind, than all that heaven has for my state designed. _high pr_. by powerful charms, which nothing can withstand, i'll force the gods to tell what you demand. charm. thou moon, that aidest us with thy magic might, and ye small stars, the scattered seeds of light, dart your pale beams into this gloomy place, that the sad powers of the infernal race may read above what's hid from human eyes, and in your walks see empires fall and rise. and ye, immortal souls, who once were men, and now, resolved to elements again, who wait for mortal frames in depths below, and did before what we are doomed to do; once, twice, and thrice, i wave my sacred wand, ascend, ascend, ascend at my command. [_an earthy spirit rises_. _spir_. in vain, o mortal men, your prayers implore the aid of powers below, which want it more: a god more strong, who all the gods commands, drives us to exile from our native lands; the air swarms thick with wandering deities, which drowsily, like humming beetles, rise from our loved earth, where peacefully we slept, and, far from heaven, a long possession kept. the frighted satyrs, that in woods delight, now into plains with pricked-up ears take flight; and scudding thence, while they their horn-feet ply, about their sires the little silvans cry. a nation loving gold must rule this place, our temples ruin, and our rites deface: to them, o king, is thy lost sceptre given. now mourn thy fatal search, for since wise heaven more ill than good to mortals does dispense, it is not safe to have too quick a sense. [_descends_. _mont_. mourn they, who think repining can remove the firm decrees of those, who rule above; the brave are safe within, who still dare die: whene'er i fall, i'll scorn my destiny. doom as they please my empire not to stand, i'll grasp my sceptre with my dying hand. _high pr_. those earthy spirits black and envious are; i'll call up other gods, of form more fair: who visions dress in pleasing colour still, set all the good to shew, and hide the ill. kalib, ascend, my fair-spoke servant rise, and sooth my heart with pleasing prophesies. kalib ascends all in white, in shape of a woman, and sings. _kal_. _i looked and saw within the book of fate, where, many days did lowr, when lo one happy hour leapt up, and smiled to save thy sinking state; a day shall come when in thy power thy cruel foes shall be; then shall thy land be free, and thou in peace shalt reign. but take, o take that opportunity, which, once refused, will never come again._ [descends. _mont_. i shall deserve my fate, if i refuse that happy hour which heaven allots to use: but of my crown thou too much care dost take; that which i value more, my love's at stake. _high pr_. arise, ye subtle spirits, that can spy, when love is entered in a female's eye; you, that can read it in the midst of doubt, and in the midst of frowns can find it out; you, that can search those many cornered minds, where women's crooked fancy turns and winds; you, that can love explore, and truth impart, where both lie deepest hid in woman's heart, arise-- [_the ghosts of_ traxalla _and_ acacis _arise; they stand still, and point at_ montezuma. _high pr_. i did not for these ghastly visions send; their sudden coming does some ill portend. begone,--begone,--they will not disappear! my soul is seized with an unusual fear. _mont_. point on, point on, and see whom you can fright. shame and confusion seize these shades of night! ye thin and empty forms, am i your sport? [_they smile_. if you were flesh-- you know you durst not use me in this sort. [_the ghost of the indian queen rises betwixt the ghosts, with a dagger in her breast_. _mont_. ha! i feel my hair grow stiff, my eye-balls roll! this is the only form could shake my soul. _ghost_. the hopes of thy successful love resign; know, montezuma, thou art only mine; for those, who here on earth their passion shew by death for love, receive their right below. why dost thou then delay my longing arms? have cares, and age, and mortal life such charms? the moon grows sickly at the sight of day, and early cocks have summoned me away: yet i'll appoint a meeting place below, for there fierce winds o'er dusky vallies blow, whose every puff bears empty shades away, which guidless in those dark dominions stray. just at the entrance of the fields below, thou shalt behold a tall black poplar grow; safe in its hollow trunk i will attend, and seize thy spirit when thou dost descend. [_descends_. _mont_. i'll seize thee there, thou messenger of fate.-- would my short life had yet a shorter date! i'm weary of this flesh which holds us here, and dastards manly souls with hope and fear; these heats and colds still in our breast make war, agues and fevers all our passions are. [_exeunt_. scene ii. cydaria _and_ alibech, _betwixt the two armies_. _alib_. blessings will crown your name, if you prevent that blood, which in this battle will be spent; nor need you fear so just a suit to move, which both becomes your duty and your love. _cyd_. but think you he will come? their camp is near, and he already knows i wait him here. _alib_. you are too young your power to understand, lovers take wing upon the least command; already he is here. _enter_ cortez _and_ vasquez _to them_. _cort_. methinks, like two black storms on either hand, our spanish army and your indians stand; this only space betwixt the clouds is clear, where you, like day, broke loose from both appear. _cyd_. those closing skies might still continue bright, but who can help it, if you'll make it night? the gods have given you power of life and death, like them to save, or ruin, with a breath. _cort_. that power they to your father did dispose, 'twas in his choice to make us friends or foes. _alib_. injurious strength would rapine still excuse, by offering terms the weaker must refuse; and such as these your hard conditions are, you threaten peace, and you invite a war. _cort_. if for myself to conquer here i came, you might perhaps my actions justly blame: now i am sent, and am not to dispute my prince's orders, but to execute. _alib_. he, who his prince so blindly does obey, to keep his faith his virtue throws away. _cort_. monarchs may err; but should each private breast judge their ill acts, they would dispute their best. _cyd_. then all your care is for your prince, i see; your truth to him out-weighs your love to me: you may so cruel to deny me prove, but never after that pretend to love. _cort_. command my life, and i will soon obey; to save my honour i my blood will pay. _cyd_. what is this honour which does love controul? _cort_. a raging fit of virtue in the soul; a painful burden which great minds must bear, obtained with danger, and possest with fear. _cyd_. lay down that burden if it painful grow; you'll find, without it, love will lighter go. _cort_. honour, once lost, is never to be found. _alib_. perhaps he looks to have both passions crowned; first dye his honour in a purple flood, then court the daughter in the father's blood. _cort_. the edge of war i'll from the battle take, and spare her father's subjects for her sake. _cyd_. i cannot love you less when i'm refused. but i can die to be unkindly used; where shall a maid's distracted heart find rest. if she can miss it in her lover's breast? _cort_. i till to-morrow will the fight delay; remember you have conquered me to-day. _alib_. this grant destroys all you have urged before; honour could not give this, or can give more. our women in the foremost ranks appear; march to the fight, and meet your mistress there: into the thickest squadrons she must run, kill her, and see what honour will be won. _cyd_. i must he in the battle, but i'll go with empty quiver, and unbended bow; not draw an arrow in this fatal strife, for fear its point should reach your noble life. _enter_ pizarro. _cort_. no more: your kindness wounds me to the death: honour, be gone! what art thou but a breath? i'll live, proud of my infamy and shame, graced with no triumph but a lover's name; men can but say, love did his reason blind, and love's the noblest frailty of the mind.-- draw off my men; the war's already done. _piz_. your orders come too late, the fight's begun; the enemy gives on, with fury led, and fierce orbellan combats at their head. _cort_. he justly fears, a peace with me would prove of ill concernment to his haughty love; retire, fair excellence! i go to meet new honour, but to lay it at your feet. [_exeunt_ cortez, vasquez, _and_ pizarro.] _enter_ odmar _and_ gutomar, _to_ alibech _and_ cydaria. _odm_. now, madam, since a danger does appear worthy my courage, though below my fear; give leave to him, who may in battle die, before his death, to ask his destiny. _guy_. he cannot die, whom you command to live; before the fight, you can the conquest give; speak, where you'll place it? _alib_. briefly, then, to both, one i in secret love, the other loathe; but where i hate, my hate i will not show, and he, i love, my love shall never know; true worth shall gain me, that it may be said, desert, not fancy, once a woman led. he who, in fight, his courage shall oppose, with most success, against his country's foes, from me shall all that recompence receive, that valour merits, or that love can give. 'tis true, my hopes and fears are all for one, but hopes and fears are to myself alone. let him not shun the danger of the strife; i but his love, his country claims his life. _odm_. all obstacles my courage shall remove. _guy_. fall on, fall on. _odm_. for liberty! _guy_. for love! [_exeunt, the women following_. scene iii.--_changes to the indian country_. _enter_ montezuma, _attended by the indians_. _mont_. charge, charge! their ground the faint taxallans yield! bold in close ambush, base in open field. the envious devil did my fortune wrong:-- thus fought, thus conquered i, when i was young. [_exit_. _alarm. enter cortez bloody_. _cort_. furies pursue these false taxallans' flight; dare they be friends to us, and dare not fight? what friends can cowards be, what hopes appear of help from such, who, where they hate, show fear! _enter_ pizarro _and_ vasquez. _piz_. the field grows thin; and those, that now remain, appear but like the shadows of the slain. _vasq_. the fierce old king is vanished from the place, and, in a cloud of dust, pursues the chase. _cort_. their eager chase disordered does appear, command our horse to charge them in the rear: [_to_ pizarro. you to our old castilian foot retire, [_to_ vasq. who yet stand firm, and at their backs give fire. [_exeunt severally._ scene iv. _enter_ odmar _and_ gutomar, _meeting each other in the battle_. _odm_. where hast thou been, since first the fight began, thou less than woman in the shape of man? _guy_. where i have done what may thy envy move, things worthy of my birth, and of my love. _odm_. two bold taxallans with one dart i slew, and left it sticking ere my sword i drew. _guy_. i sought not honour on so base a train, such cowards by our women may be slain; i felled along a man of bearded face, his limbs all covered with a shining case: so wondrous hard, and so secure of wound, it made my sword, though edged with flint, re-bound. _odm_. i killed a double man; the one half lay upon the ground, the other ran away. [_guns go off within. enter_ montezuma, _out of breath, with him_ alibech, _and an indian_. _mont_. all is lost!-- our foes with lightning and with thunder fight; my men in vain shun death by shameful flight: for deaths invisible come winged with fire, they hear a dreadful noise, and strait expire. take, gods! that soul, ye did in spite create, and made it great, to be unfortunate: ill fate for me unjustly you provide, great souls are sparks of your own heavenly pride: that lust of power we from your godheads have, you're bound to please those appetites you gave. _enter_ vasquez _and_ pizarro, _with spaniards._ _vasq_. pizarro, i have hunted hard to-day, into our toils, the noblest of the prey; seize on the king, and him your prisoner make, while i, in kind revenge, my taker take. [pizarro, _with two, goes to attack the king_. vasquez, _with another, to seize_ alibech. _guy_. their danger is alike;--whom shall i free? _odm_. i'll follow love! _guy_. i'll follow piety! [odmar _retreats from_ vasquez, _with_ alibech, _off the stage_; guyomar _fights for his father_. _guy_. fly, sir! while i give back that life you gave; mine is well lost, if i your life can save. [montezuma _fights off_; guyomar, _making his retreat, stays_. _guy_. tis more than man can do to scape them all; stay, let me see where noblest i may fall. [_he runs at_ vasquez, _is seized behind and taken_. _vasq_. conduct him off, and give command, he strictly guarded be. _guy_. in vain are guards, death sets the valiant free. [_exit_ guyomar, _with guards_. _vasq_. a glorious day! and bravely was it fought; great fame our general in great dangers sought; from his strong arm i saw his rival run, and, in a crowd, the unequal combat shun. _enter_ cortez _leading_ cydaria, _who seems crying and begging of him_. _cort_. man's force is fruitless, and your gods would fail to save the city, but your tears prevail; i'll of my fortune no advantage make, those terms, they had once given, they still may take. _cyd_. heaven has of right all victory designed, where boundless power dwells in a will confined; your spanish honour does the world excel. _cort_. our greatest honour is in loving well. _cyd_. strange ways you practise there, to win a heart; here love is nature, but with you 'tis art. _cort_. love is with us as natural as here, but fettered up with customs more severe. in tedious courtship we declare our pain, and, ere we kindness find, first meet disdain. _cyd_. if women love, they needless pains endure; their pride and folly but delay their cure. _cort_. what you miscall their folly, is their care; they know how fickle common lovers are: their oaths and vows are cautiously believed, for few there are but have been once deceived. _cyd_. but if they are not trusted when they vow, what other marks of passion can they show? _cort_. with feasts, and music, all that brings delight, men treat their ears, their palates, and their sight. _cyd_. your gallants, sure, have little eloquence, failing to move the soul, they court the sense: with pomp, and trains, and in a crowd they woo, when true felicity is but in two; but can such toys your women's passions move? this is but noise and tumult, 'tis not love. _cort_. i have no reason, madam, to excuse those ways of gallantry, i did not use; my love was true, and on a nobler score. _cyd_. your love, alas! then have you loved before? _cort_. 'tis true i loved, but she is dead, she's dead; and i should think with her all beauty fled, did not her fair resemblance live in you, and, by that image, my first flames renew. _cyd_. ah! happy beauty, whosoe'er thou art! though dead, thou keep'st possession of his heart; thou makest me jealous to the last degree, and art my rival in his memory: within his memory! ah, more than so, thou livest and triumph'st o'er cydaria too. _cort_. what strange disquiet has uncalmed your breast, inhuman fair, to rob the dead of rest!-- poor heart! she slumbers in her silent tomb; let her possess in peace that narrow room. _cyd_. poor heart!--he pities and bewails her death!-- some god, much hated soul, restore thy breath, that i may kill thee; but, some ease 'twill be, i'll kill myself for but resembling thee. _cort_. i dread your anger, your disquiet fear, but blows, from hands so soft, who would not bear? so kind a passion why should i remove? since jealousy but shows how well we love. yet jealousy so strange i never knew; can she, who loves me not, disquiet you? for in the grave no passions fill the breast, 'tis all we gain by death, to be at rest. _cyd_. that she no longer loves, brings no relief; your love to her still lives, and that's my grief. _cort_. the object of desire once ta'en away, 'tis then not love, but pity, which we pay. _cyd_. 'tis such a pity i should never have, when i must lie forgotten in the grave; i meant to have obliged you, when i died, that, after me, you should love none beside.-- but you are false already. _cort_. if untrue, by heaven! my falsehood is to her, not you. _cyd_. observe, sweet heaven, how falsely he does swear!-- you said, you loved me for resembling her. _cort_. that love was in me by resemblance bred, but shows you cheared my sorrows for the dead. _cyd_. you still repeat the greatness of your grief. _cort_. if that was great, how great was the relief! _cyd_. the first love still the strongest we account. _cort_. that seems more strong which could the first surmount: but if you still continue thus unkind, whom i love best, you, by my death, shall find. _cyd_. if you should die, my death shall yours pursue; but yet i am not satisfied you're true. _cort_. hear me, ye gods! and punish him you hear, if aught within the world i hold so dear. _cyd_. you would deceive the gods and me; she's dead, and is not in the world, whose love i dread.-- name not the world; say, nothing is so dear. _cort_. then nothing is,--let that secure your fear. _cyd_. 'tis time must wear it off, but i must go. can you your constancy in absence show? _cort_. misdoubt my constancy, and do not try, but stay, and keep me ever in your eye. _cyd_. if as a prisoner i were here, you might have then insisted on a conqueror's right, and staid me here; but now my love would be the effect of force, and i would give it free. _cort_. to doubt your virtue, or your love, were sin! call for the captive prince, and bring him in. _enter_ guyomar, _bound and sad_. you look, sir, as your fate you could not bear: [_to_ guy. are spanish fetters, then, so hard to wear? fortune's unjust, she ruins oft the brave, and him, who should be victor, makes the slave. _guy_. son of the sun! my fetters cannot be but glorious for me, since put on by thee; the ills of love, not those of fate, i fear; these can i brave, but those i cannot bear: my rival brother, while i'm held in chains, in freedom reaps the fruit of all my pains. _cort_. let it be never said that he, whose breast is filled with love, should break a lover's rest.-- haste! lose no time!--your sister sets you free:-- and tell the king, my generous enemy, i offer still those terms he had before, only ask leave his daughter to adore. _guy_. brother, (that name my breast shall ever own, [_he embraces him_. the name of foe be but in battles known;) for some few days all hostile acts forbear, that, if the king consents, it seem not fear: his heart, is noble, and great souls must be most sought and courted in adversity.-- three days, i hope, the wished success will tell. _cyd_. till that long time,-- _cort_. till that long time, farewell. [_exeunt severally_. act iii. scene i.--_a chamber royal_. _enter_ odmar _and_ alibech. _odm_. the gods, fair alibech, had so decreed, nor could my valour against fate succeed; yet though our army brought not conquest home, i did not from the fight inglorious come: if, as a victor, you the brave regard, successless courage, then, may hope reward; and i, returning safe, may justly boast, to win the prize which my dear brother lost. _enter_ guyomar _behind him_. _guy_. no, no, thy brother lives! and lives to be a witness, both against himself and thee; though both in safety are returned again, i blush to ask her love for vanquished men. _odm_. brother, i'll not dispute but you are brave; yet i was free, and you, it seems, a slave. _guy_. odmar, 'tis true that i was captive led; as publicly 'tis known, as that you fled: but of two shames, if she must one partake, i think the choice will not be hard to make. _odm_. freedom and bondage in her choice remain; darest thou expect she will put on thy chain? _guy_. no, no, fair alibech, give him the crown, my brother is returned with high renown: he thinks by flight his mistress must be won, and claims the prize, because he best did run. _alib_. your chains were glorious, and your flight was wise, but neither have o'ercome your enemies: my secret wishes would my choice decide, but open justice bends to neither side. _odm_. justice already does my right approve, if him, who loves you most, you most should love. my brother poorly from your aid withdrew, but i my father left, to succour you. _guy_. her country she did to herself prefer, him who fought best, not who defended her; since she her interest, for the nation's, waved, then i, who saved the king, the nation saved. you, aiding her, your country did betray; i, aiding him, did her commands obey. _odm_. name it no more; in love there is a time when dull obedience is the greatest crime. she to her country's use resigned your sword, and you, kind lover, took her at her word; you did your duty to your love prefer, seek your reward from duty, not from her. _guy_. in acting what my duty did require, 'twas hard for me to quit my own desire; that fought for her, which, when i did subdue, 'twas much the easier task i left to you. _alib_. odmar a more than common love has shown, and guyomar's was greater, or was none; which i should chuse, some god direct my breast. the certain good, or the uncertain best.-- i cannot chuse,--you both dispute in vain,-- time and your future acts must make it plain; first raise the siege, and set your country free, i, not the judge, but the reward, will be. _to them, enter_ montezuma, _talking with_ almeria _and_ orbellan. _mont_. madam, i think, with reason, i extol the virtue of the spanish general; when all the gods our ruin have foretold, yet generously he does his arms withhold, and, offering peace, the first conditions make. _alm_. when peace is offered, 'tis too late to take; for one poor loss, to stoop to terms like those!-- were we o'ercome, what could they worse impose? go, go, with homage your proud victors meet! go, lie like dogs beneath your masters' feet! go, and beget them slaves to dig their mines, and groan for gold, which now in temples shines! your shameful story shall record of me, the men all crouched, and left a woman free! _guy_. had i not fought, or durst not fight again, i my suspected counsel should refrain; for i wish peace, and any terms prefer, before the last extremities of war. we but exasperate those we cannot harm, and fighting gains us but to die more warm: if that be cowardice, which dares not see the insolent effects of victory, the rape of matrons, and their childrens cries,-- then i am fearful, let the brave advise. _odm_. keen cutting swords, and engines killing far, have prosperously begun a doubtful war: but now our foes with less advantage fight, their strength decreases with our indians' fright. _mont_. this noble vote does with my wish comply,-- i am for war. _alm_. and so am i. _orb_. and i. _mont_. then send to break the truce, and i'll take care to chear the soldiers, and for fight prepare. [_exeunt_ mont. odm. guy. _and_ alib. _alm_. to _orb_. 'tis now the hour which all to rest allow, and sleep sits heavy upon every brow; in this dark silence softly leave the town, [guyomar _returns, and hears them_. and to the general's tent,--'tis quickly known,-- direct your steps: you may despatch him: strait, drowned in his sleep, and easy for his fate: besides, the truce will make the guards more slack. _orb_. courage, which leads me on, will bring me back.-- but i more fear the baseness of the thing: remorse, you know, bears a perpetual sting. _alm_. for mean remorse no room the valiant find, repentance is the virtue of weak minds; for want of judgment keeps them doubtful still, they may repent of good, who can of ill; but daring courage makes ill actions good, 'tis foolish pity spares a rival's blood; you shall about it strait. [_exeunt_ alm. _and_ orb. _guy_. would they betray his sleeping virtue, by so mean a way!-- and yet this spaniard is our nation's foe,-- i wish him dead,--but cannot wish it so;-- either my country never must be freed, or i consenting to so black a deed.-- would chance had never led my steps this way! now if he dies, i murder him, not they;-- something must be resolved ere 'tis too late;-- he gave me freedom, i'll prevent his fate. [_exit_. scene ii.--_a camp_. _enter cortez alone, in a night-gown_. _cort_. all things are hushed, as nature's self lay dead; the mountains seem to nod their drowsy head; the little birds, in dreams, their songs repeat, and sleeping flowers beneath the night-dew sweat. even lust and envy sleep; yet love denies rest to my soul, and slumber to my eyes.-- three days i promised to attend my doom, and two long days and nights are yet to come:-- 'tis sure the noise of some tumultuous fight, [_noise within_. they break the truce, and sally out by night. _enter_ orbellan, _flying in the dark, his sword drawn_. _orb_. betrayed! pursued! o, whither shall i fly? see, see! the just reward of treachery!-- i'm sure among the tents, but know not where; even night wants darkness to secure my fear. [_comes near_ cortez, _who hears him_. _cort_. stand! who goes there? _orb_. alas, what shall i say?-- [_aside_. a poor taxallan that mistook his way, and wanders in the terrors of the night. _cort_. soldier, thou seem'st afraid; whence comes thy fright? _orb_. the insolence of spaniards caused my fear, who in the dark pursued me entering here. _cort_. their crimes shall meet immediate punishment, but stay thou safe within the general's tent. _orb_. still worse and worse. _cort_. fear not, but follow me; upon my life i'll set thee safe and free. [cortez _leads him in, and returns. to him_ vasquez, pizarro, _and spaniards with torches_. _vasq_. o sir, thank heaven, and your brave indian friend, that you are safe; orbellan did intend this night to kill you sleeping in your tent: but guyomar his trusty slave has sent, who, following close his silent steps by night, till in our camp they both approached the light, cried-_seize the traitor, seize the murtherer_! the cruel villain fled i know not where; but far he is not, for he this way bent. _piz_. the enraged soldiers seek, from tent to tent, with lighted torches, and in love to you, with bloody vows his hated life pursue. _vasq_. this messenger does, since he came, relate, that the old king, after a long debate, by his imperious mistress blindly led, has given cydaria to orbellan's bed. _cort_. vasquez, the trusty slave with you retain; retire a while, i'll call you back again. [_exeunt_ vasq. _and_ piz. cortez _at his tent door_. indian, come forth; your enemies are gone, and i, who saved you from them, here alone. _enter orbellan, holding his face aside_. you hide your face, as you were still afraid: dare you not look on him, who gave you aid? _orb_. moon, slip behind some cloud, some tempest, rise, and blow out all the stars that light the skies, to shrowd my shame! _cort_. in vain you turn aside, and hide your face; your name you cannot hide: i know my rival and his black design. _orb_. forgive it, as my passion's fault, not mine. _cort_. in your excuse your love does little say; you might, howe'er, have took a fairer way. _orb_. 'tis true, my passion small defence can make; yet you must spare me for your honour's sake, that was engaged to set me safe and free. _cort_. 'twas to a stranger, not an enemy: nor is it prudence to prolong thy breath, when all my hopes depend upon thy death; yet none shall tax me with base perjury: something i'll do, both for myself and thee; with vowed revenge my soldiers search each tent, if thou art seen, none can thy death prevent; follow my steps with silence and with haste. scene iii. _they go out, the scene changes to the indian country, they return_. _cort_. now you are safe, you have my outguards past. _orb_. then here i take my leave. _cort_. orbellan, no; when you return, you to cydaria go: i'll send a message. _orb_. let it be exprest; i am in haste. _cort_. i'll write it in your breast. [_draws_. _orb_. what means my rival? _cort_. either fight or die, i'll not strain honour to a point too high; i saved your life, and keep it if you can, cydaria shall be for the bravest man; on equal terms you shall your fortune try, take this, and lay your flint-edged weapon by; [_gives him a sword_. i'll arm you for my glory, and pursue no palm, but what's to manly virtue due. fame, with my conquest, shall my courage tell. this you shall gain, by placing love so well. _orb_. fighting with you, ungrateful i appear. _cort_. under that shadow, thou would'st hide thy fear: thou would'st possess thy love at thy return, and in her arms my easy virtue scorn. _orb_. since we must fight, no longer let's delay; the moon shines clear, and makes a paler day. [_they fight_, orbellan_ is wounded in the hand, his sword falls out of it_. _cort_. to courage, even of foes, there's pity due; it was not i, but fortune, vanquished you: [_throws his sword again_. thank me with that, and so dispute the prize, as if you fought before cydaria's eyes. _orb_. i would not poorly such a gift requite; you gave me not this sword to yield, but fight: [_he strives to hold it, but cannot_. but see, where yours has forced its bloody way; my wounded hand my heart does ill obey. _cort_. unlucky honour, that controul'st my will? why have i vanquished, since i must not kill? fate sees thy life lodged in a brittle glass, and looks it through, but to it cannot pass. _orb_. all i can do is frankly to confess,-- i wish i could, but cannot, love her less: to swear i would resign her, were but vain, love would recal that perjured breath again; and in my wretched case, 'twill be more just, not to have promised, than deceive your trust. know, if i live once more to see the town, in bright cydaria's arms my love i'll crown. _cort_. in spite of that, i give thee liberty, and with thy person leave thy honour free; but to thy wishes move a speedy pace, or death will soon o'ertake thee in the chase.-- to arms, to arms; fate shows my love the way, i'll force the city on thy nuptial day. [_exeunt severally_. scene iv.--mexico. _enter_ montezuma, odmar, guyomar, almeria. _mont_. it moves my wonder, that in two days space, this early famine spreads so swift a pace. _odm_. 'tis, sir, the general cry; nor seems it strange, the face of plenty should so swiftly change: this city never felt a siege before, but from the lake received its daily store; which now shut up, and millions crowded here, famine will soon in multitudes appear. _mont_. the more the number, still the greater shame. _alm_. what if some one should seek immortal fame, by ending of the siege at one brave blow? _mont_. that were too happy! _alm_. yet it may be so. what if the spanish general should be slain? _guy_. just heavens i hope, does otherwise ordain. [_aside_. _mont_. if slain by treason, i lament his death. _enter_ orbellan, _and whispers his sister_. _odm_. orbellan seems in haste, and out of breath. _mont_. orbellan, welcome; you are early here, a bridegroom's haste does in your looks appear. [almeria _aside to her brother_. _alm_. betrayed! no, 'twas thy cowardice and fear; he had not 'scaped with life, had i been there: but since so ill you act a brave design, keep close your shame;--fate makes the next turn mine. _enter_ alibech _and_ cydaria. _alib_. o sir, if ever pity touched your breast, let it be now to your own blood exprest: in tears your beauteous daughter drowns her sight, silent as dews that fall in dead of night. _cyd_. to your commands i strict obedience owe, and my last act of it i come to show: i want the heart to die before your eyes, but grief will finish that which fear denies. _alm_. your will should by your father's precept move. _cyd_. when he was young, he taught me truth in love. _alm_. he found more love than he deserved, 'tis true, and that, it seems, is lucky too to you; your father's folly took a headstrong course, but i'll rule yours, and teach you love by force. _enter messenger_. _mess_. arm, arm, o king! the enemy comes on, a sharp assault already is begun; their murdering guns play fiercely on the walls. _odm_. now, rival, let us run where honour calls. _guy_. i have discharged what gratitude did owe, and the brave spaniard is again my foe. [_exeunt_ odmar _and_ guyomar. _mont_. our walls are high, and multitudes defend: their vain attempt must in their ruin end; the nuptials with my presence shall be graced. _alib_. at least but stay 'till the assault be past. _alm_. sister, in vain you urge him to delay, the king has promised, and he shall obey. _enter second messenger_. _ mess_. from several parts the enemy's repelled, one only quarter to the assault does yield. _enter third messenger_. _ mess_. some foes are entered, but they are so few, they only death, not victory, pursue. _orb_. hark, hark, they shout! from virtue's rules i do too meanly swerve, i, by my courage, will your love deserve. [_exit_. _mont_. here, in the heart of all the town, i'll stay; and timely succour, where it wants, convey. _a noise within. enter_ orbellan, _indians driven in_, cortez _after them, and one or two spaniards_. _cort_. he's found, he's found! degenerate coward, stay: night saved thee once, thou shalt not scape by day. [_kills_ orbellan. _orb_. o, i am killed-- [_dies_. _enter_ guyomar _and_ odmar. _guy_. yield, generous stranger, and preserve your life; why chuse you death in this unequal strife? [_he is beset_. [almeria _and_ alibech _fall on_ orbellan's _body_. _cort_. what nobler fate could any lover meet? i fall revenged, and at my mistress' feet. [_they fall on him, and bear him down_, guyomar _takes his sword_. _alib_. he's past recovery; my dear brother's slain, fate's hand was in it, and my care is vain. _alm_. in weak complaints you vainly waste your breath: they are not tears that can revenge his death. despatch the villain strait. _cort_. the villain's dead. _alm_. give me a sword, and let me take his head. _mont_. though, madam, for your brother's loss i grieve, yet let me beg-- _alm_. his murderer may live? _cyd_. 'twas his misfortune, and the chance of war. _cort_. it was my purpose, and i killed him fair: how could you so unjust and cruel prove, to call that chance, which was the act of love? _cyd_. i called it any thing to save your life: would he were living still, and i his wife! that wish was once my greatest misery: but 'tis a greater to behold you die. _alm_. either command his death upon the place, or never more behold almeria's face. _guy_. you by his valour once from death were freed: can you forget so generous a deed? [_to_ montezuma. _mont_. how gratitude and love divide my breast! both ways alike my soul is robbed of rest. but--let him die--can i his sentence give? ungrateful, must he die, by whom i live? but can i then almeria's tears deny? should any live whom she commands to die? _guy_. approach who dares: he yielded on my word; and, as my prisoner, i restore his sword. [_gives his sword_. his life concerns the safety of the state, and i'll preserve it for a calm debate. _mont_. dar'st thou rebel, false and degenerate boy? that being, which i gave, i thus destroy. [_offers to kill him_, odmar _steps between_. _odm_. my brother's blood i cannot see you spill, since he prevents you but from doing ill. he is my rival, but his death would be for him too glorious, and too base for me. _guy_. thou shalt not conquer in this noble strife: alas, i meant not to defend my life: strike, sir, you never pierced a breast more true; 'tis the last wound i e'er can take for you. you see i live but to dispute your will; kill me, and then you may my prisoner kill. _cort_. you shall not, generous youths, contend for me: it is enough that i your honour see: but that your duty may no blemish take, i will myself your father's captive make: [_gives his sword to_ montezuma. when he dares strike, i am prepared to fall: the spaniards will revenge their general. _cyd_. ah, you too hastily your life resign, you more would love it, if you valued mine! _cort_. despatch me quickly, i my death forgive; i shall grow tender else, and wish to live; such an infectious face her sorrow wears, i can bear death, but not cydaria's tears. _alm_. make haste, make haste, they merit death all three: they for rebellion, and for murder he. see, see, my brother's ghost hangs hovering there o'er his warm blood, that steams into the air; revenge, revenge, it cries. _mont_. and it shall have; but two days respite for his life i crave: if in that space you not more gentle prove, i'll give a fatal proof how well i love. 'till when, you, guyomar, your prisoner take; bestow him in the castle on the lake: in that small time i shall the conquest gain of these few sparks of virtue which remain; then all, who shall my headlong passion see, shall curse my crimes, and yet shall pity me. [_exeunt_. act iv. scene i.--_a prison_. _enter_ almeria _and an indian; they speak entering_. _ind_. a dangerous proof of my respect i show. _alm_. fear not, prince guyomar shall never know: while he is absent let us not delay; remember 'tis the king thou dost obey. _ind_. see where he sleeps. [cortez _appears chained and laid asleep_. _alm_.--without, my coming wait; and, on thy life, secure the prison gate. [_exit indian_. [_she plucks out a dagger, and approaches him_. spaniard, awake: thy fatal hour is come: thou shalt not at such ease receive thy doom. revenge is sure, though sometimes slowly paced: awake, awake, or, sleeping, sleep thy last. _cort_. who names revenge? _alm_.--look up, and thou shalt see. _cort_. i cannot fear so fair an enemy. _alm_. no aid is nigh, nor canst thou make defence: whence can thy courage come? _cort_.--from innocence. _alm_. from innocence? let that then take thy part. still are thy looks assured--have at thy heart! [_holds up the dagger_. i cannot kill thee; sure thou bear'st some charm, [_goes back_. or some divinity holds back my arm. why do i thus delay to make him bleed? [_aside_. can i want courage for so brave a deed? i've shook it off; my soul is free from fear. [_comes again_. and i can now strike any where--but here: his scorn of death, how strangely does it move! a mind so haughty who could chuse but love! [_goes off_. plead not a charm, or any god's command, alas, it is thy heart that holds thy hand: in spite of me i love, and see, too late, my mother's pride must find my mother's fate. --thy country's foe, thy brother's murderer,-- for shame, almeria, such mad thoughts forbear: it w'onnot be,--if i once more come on, [_coming on again_. i shall mistake the breast, and pierce my own. [_comes with her dagger down_. _cort_. does your revenge maliciously forbear to give me death, 'till 'tis prepared by fear? if you delay for that, forbear or strike, foreseen and sudden death are both alike. _alm_. to show my love would but increase his pride: they have most power, who most their passions hide. [_aside_. spaniard, i must confess, i did expect you could not meet your death with such neglect; i will defer it now, and give you time: you may repent, and i forget your crime. _cort_. those, who repent, acknowledge they do ill: i did not unprovoked your brother kill. _alm_. petition me, perhaps i may forgive. _cort_. who begs his life does not deserve to live. _alm_. but if 'tis given, you'll not refuse to take? _cort_. i can live gladly for cydaria's sake. _alm_. does she so wholly then possess your mind? what if you should another lady find, equal to her in birth, and far above in all that can attract, or keep your love, would you so doat upon your first desire, as not to entertain a nobler fire? _cort_. i think that person hardly will be found, with gracious form and equal virtue crowned: yet if another could precedence claim, my fixed desires could find no fairer aim. _alm_. dull ignorance! he cannot yet conceive: to speak more plain, shame will not give me leave. [_aside_. --suppose one loved you, whom even kings adore: [_to him_. who, with your life, your freedom would restore, and add to that the crown of mexico: would you, for her, cydaria's love forego? _cort_. though she could offer all you can invent, i could not of my faith, once vowed, repent. _alm_. a burning blush has covered all my face; why am i forced to publish my disgrace? what if i love? you know it cannot be, and yet i blush to put the case--'twere me. if i could love you with a flame so true, i could forget what hand my brother slew-- --make out the rest--i am disordered so, i know not farther what to say or do: --but answer me to what you think i meant. _cort_. reason or wit no answer can invent: of words confused who can the meaning find? _alm_. disordered words show a distempered mind. _cort_. she has obliged me so, that could i chuse, i would not answer what i must refuse. [_aside_. _alm_. his mind is shook--suppose i loved you, speak, would you for me cydaria's fetters break? _cort_. things, meant in jest, no serious answer need. _alm_. but, put the case that it were so indeed. _cort_. if it were so,--which but to think were pride,-- my constant love would dangerously be tried: for since you could a brother's death forgive, he, whom you save, for you alone should live: but i, the most unhappy of mankind, ere i knew yours, have all my love resigned: 'tis my own loss i grieve, who have no more: you go a-begging to a bankrupt's door. yet could i change, as sure i never can, how could you love so infamous a man? for love, once given from her, and placed in you, would leave no ground i ever could be true. _alm_. you construed me aright--i was in jest: and, by that offer, meant to sound your breast; which since i find so constant to your love, will much my value of your worth improve. spaniard, assure yourself you shall not be obliged to quit cydaria for me: 'tis dangerous though to treat me in this sort, and to refuse my offers, though in sport. [_exit_. _cort_. in what a strange condition am i left? more than i wish i have, of all i wish bereft! in wishing nothing, we enjoy still most; for even our wish is, in possession, lost: restless, we wander to a new desire, and burn ourselves, by blowing up the fire: we toss and turn about our feverish will, when all our ease must come by lying still: for all the happiness mankind can gain is not in pleasure, but in rest from pain. [_goes in, and the scene closes upon him_. scene ii.--_chamber-royal_. _enter_ montezuma, odmar, guyomar, _and_ alibech. _mont_. my ears are deaf with this impatient crowd. _odm_. their wants are now grown mutinous and loud: the general's taken, but the siege remains; and their last food our dying men sustains. _guy_. one means is only left. i to this hour have kept the captive from almeria's power; and though, by your command, she often sent to urge his doom, do still his death prevent. _mont_. that hope is past: him i have oft assailed; but neither threats nor kindness have prevailed; hiding our wants, i offered to release his chains, and equally conclude a peace: he fiercely answered, i had now no way but to submit, and without terms obey: i told him, he in chains demanded more than he imposed in victory before: he sullenly replied, he could not make these offers now; honour must give, not take. _odm_. twice have i sallied, and was twice beat back: what desp'rate course remains for us to take! _mont_. if either death or bondage i must chuse, i'll keep my freedom, though my life i lose. _guy_. i'll not upbraid you, that you once refused those means, you might have then with honour used; i'll lead your men, perhaps bring victory: they know to conquer best, who know to die. [_exeunt_ montezuma _and_ odmar. _alib_. ah me, what have i heard! stay, guyomar, what hope you from this sally you prepare? _guy_. a death, with honour, for my country's good: a death, to which yourself designed my blood. _alib_. you heard, and i well know the town's distress, which sword and famine both at once oppress: famine so fierce, that what's denied man's use, even deadly plants, and herbs of poisonous juice, wild hunger seeks; and, to prolong our breath, we greedily devour our certain death: the soldier in th' assault of famine falls: and ghosts, not men, are watching on the walls. as callow birds-- whose mother's killed in seeking of the prey, cry in their nest, and think her long away; and at each leaf that stirs, each blast of wind, gape for the food, which they must never find: so cry the people in their misery. _guy_. and what relief can they expect from me? _alib_. while montezuma sleeps, call in the foe: the captive general your design may know: his noble heart, to honour ever true, knows how to spare as well as to subdue. _guy_. what i have heard i blush to hear: and grieve, those words you spoke i must your words believe. i to do this! i, whom you once thought brave, to sell my country, and my king enslave? all i have done by one foul act deface, and yield my right to you, by turning base? what more could odmar wish that i should do, to lose your love, than you persuade me to? no, madam, no, i never can commit a deed so ill, nor can you suffer it: 'tis but to try what virtue you can find lodged in my soul. _alib_. i plainly speak my mind; dear as my life my virtue i'll preserve, but virtue you too scrupulously serve: i loved not more than now my country's good, when for its service i employed your blood: but things are altered, i am still the same, by different ways still moving to one fame; and by disarming you, i now do more to save the town, than arming you before. _guy_. things good or ill by circumstances be, in you 'tis virtue, what is vice in me. _alib_. that ill is pardoned, which does good procure. _guy_. the good's uncertain, but the ill is sure. _alib_. when kings grow stubborn, slothful, or unwise, each private man for public good should rise. _guy_. take heed, fair maid, how monarchs you accuse: such reasons none but impious rebels use: those, who to empire by dark paths aspire, still plead a call to what they most desire; but kings by free consent their kingdoms take, strict as those sacred ties which nuptials make; and whate'er faults in princes time reveal, none can be judge where can be no appeal. _alib_. in all debates you plainly let me see you love your virtue best, but odmar me: go, your mistaken piety pursue: i'll have from him what is denied by you; with my commands you shall no more be graced. remember, sir, this trial was your last. _guy_. the gods inspire you with a better mind; make you more just, and make you then more kind! but though from virtue's rules i cannot part, think i deny you with a bleeding heart: 'tis hard with me whatever choice i make; i must not merit you, or must forsake: but, in this strait, to honour i'll be true, and leave my fortune to the gods and you. _enter messenger privately_. _mess_. now is the time; be aiding to your fate; from the watch-tower, above the western-gate, i have discerned the foe securely lie, too proud to fear a beaten enemy: their careless chiefs to the cool grottoes run, the bowers of kings, to shade them from the sun. _guy_. upon thy life disclose thy news to none; i'll make the conquest or the shame my own. [_exeunt_ guyomar _and messenger_. _enter_ odmar. _alib_. i read some welcome message in his eye: prince odmar comes: i'll see if he'll deny.-- odmar, i come to tell you pleasing news; i begged a thing, your brother did refuse. _odm_. the news both pleases me, and grieves me too; for nothing, sure, should be denied to you: but he was blessed who might commanded be; you never meant that happiness to me. _alib_. what he refused, your kindness might bestow, but my commands, perhaps, your burden grow. _odm_. could i but live till burdensome they prove, my life would be immortal as my love. your wish, ere it receive a name, i grant. _alib_. 'tis to relieve your dying country's want; all hopes of succour from your arms is past, to save us now you must our ruin haste; give up the town, and, to oblige him more. the captive general's liberty restore. _odm_. you speak to try my love; can you forgive so soon, to let your brother's murderer live? _alib_. orbellan, though my brother, did disgrace, with treacherous deeds, our mighty mother's race; and to revenge his blood, so justly spilt, what is it less than to partake his guilt? though my proud sister to revenge incline, i to my country's good my own resign. _odm_. to save our lives, our freedom i betray-- yet, since i promised it, i will obey; i'll not my shame nor your commands dispute; you shall behold your empire's absolute. [_exit_. _alib_. i should have thanked him for his speedy grant, and yet, i know not how, fit words i want: sure i am grown distracted in my mind;-- that joy, this grant should bring, i cannot find: the one, denying, vexed my soul before; and this, obeying, has disturbed me more: the one, with grief, and slowly, did refuse, the other, in his grant, much haste did use: --he used too much--and, granting me so soon, he has the merit of the gift undone: methought with wondrous ease he swallowed down his forfeit honour, to betray the town: my inward choice was guyomar before, but now his virtue has confirmed me more-- i rave, i rave, for odmar will obey, and then my promise must my choice betray. fantastic honour, thou hast framed a toil thyself, to make thy love thy virtue's spoil. [_exit_. scene iii. _a pleasant grotto discovered; in it a fountain spouting; round about it vasquez, pizarro, and other spaniards, lying carelessly unarmed, and by them many indian women, one of which sings the following song. song. ah fading joy! how quickly art thou past! yet we thy ruin haste. as if the cares of human life were few, we seek out new: and follow fate, which would too fast pursue. see, how on every bough the birds express, in their sweet notes, their happiness. they all enjoy, and nothing spare; but on their mother nature lay their care: why then should man, the lord of all below, such troubles chuse to know, as none of all his subjects undergo? hark, hark, the waters, fall, fall, fall, and with a murmuring sound dash, dash, upon the ground, to gentle slumbers call. _after the song two spaniards arise, and dance a saraband with castanietas: at the end of which guyomar and his indians enter, and, ere the spaniards can recover their swords, seize them_. _guy_. those, whom you took without, in triumph bring; but see these strait conducted to the king. _piz_. vasquez, what now remains in these extremes? _vasq_. only to wake us from our golden dreams. _piz_. since by our shameful conduct we have lost freedom, wealth, honour, which we value most, i wish they would our lives a period give: they live too long, who happiness out-live. [_spaniards are led out_. _ ind_. see, sir, how quickly your success is spread; the king comes marching in the army's head. _enter montezuma, alibech, odmar discontented_. _mont_. now all the gods reward and bless my son. [_embracing_. thou hast this day thy father's youth outdone. _alib_. just heaven all happiness upon him shower, till it confess its will beyond its power. _guy_. the heavens are kind, the gods propitious be, i only doubt a mortal deity: i neither fought for conquest, nor for fame, your love alone can recompence my flame. _alib_. i gave my love to the most brave in war; but that the king must judge. _mont_.--'tis guyomar. [_soldiers shout_, a guyomar, &c. _mont_. this day your nuptials we will celebrate; but guard these haughty captives 'till their fate: odmar, this night to keep them be your care, to-morrow for their sacrifice prepare. _alib_. blot not your conquest with your cruelty. _mont_. fate says, we are not safe unless they die: the spirit, that foretold this happy day, bid me use caution and avoid delay: posterity be juster to my fame; nor call it murder, when each private man in his defence may justly do the same: but private persons more than monarchs can: all weigh our acts, and whate'er seems unjust, impute not to necessity, but lust. [_exeunt_ montezuma, guyomar _and_ alibech. _odm_. lost and undone! he had my father's voice, and alibech seemed pleased with her new choice: alas, it was not new! too late i see, since one she hated, that it must be me. --i feel a strange temptation in my will to do an action, great at once and ill: virtue, ill treated, from my soul is fled; i by revenge and love am wholly led: yet conscience would against my rage rebel-- conscience, the foolish pride of doing well! sink empire, father perish, brother fall, revenge does more than recompence you all. conduct the prisoners in. _enter_ vasquez, _and_ pizarro. spaniards, you see your own deplored estate: what dare you do to reconcile your fate? _vasq_. all that despair, with courage joined, can do. _odm_. an easy way to victory i'll shew; when all are buried in their sleep or joy, i'll give you arms, burn, ravish, and destroy; for my own share one beauty i design; engage your honour that she shall be mine. _piz_. i gladly swear. _vasq_.--and i; but i request that, in return, one, who has touched my breast, whose name i know not, may be given to me. _odm_. spaniard, 'tis just; she's yours, whoe'er she be. _vasq_. the night comes on: if fortune bless the bold, i shall possess the beauty. _piz_. i the gold. [_exeunt_. scene iv.--_a prison_. cortez _discovered bound:_ almeria _talking with him_. _alm_. i come not now your constancy to prove; you may believe me when i say i love. _cort_. you have too well instructed me before in your intentions, to believe you more. _alm_. i'm justly plagued by this your unbelief, and am myself the cause of my own grief: but to beg love, i cannot stoop so low; it is enough that you my passion know: 'tis in your choice; love me, or love me not; i have not yet my brother's death forgot. [_lays hold on the dagger_. _cort_. you menace me and court me in a breath: your cupid looks as dreadfully as death. _alm_. your hopes, without, are vanished into smoke: your captains taken, and your armies broke. _cort_. in vain you urge me with my miseries: when fortune falls, high courages can rise; now should i change my love, it would appear not the effect of gratitude, but fear. _alm_. i'll to the king, and make it my request, or my command, that you may be releast; and make you judge, when i have set you free, who best deserves your passion, i, or she. _cort_. you tempt my faith so generous a way, as without guilt might constancy betray: but i'm so far from meriting esteem, that, if i judge, i must myself condemn; yet having given my worthless heart before, what i must ne'er possess, i will adore: take my devotion then this humbler way; devotion is the love which heaven we pay. [_kisses her hand_. _enter_ cydaria. _cyd_. may i believe my eyes! what do i see! is this her hate to him, his love to me! 'tis in my breast she sheaths her dagger now. false man, is this thy faith? is this thy vow? [_to him_. _cort_. what words, dear saint, are these i hear you use? what faith, what vows, are those which you accuse? _cyd_. more cruel than the tyger o'er his spoil; and falser than the weeping crododile: can you add vanity to guilt, and take a pride to hear the conquests, which you make? go, publish your renown; let it be said, you have a woman, and that loved, betrayed. _cort_. with what injustice is my faith accused! life, freedom, empire, i at once refused; and would again ten thousand times for you. _alm_. she'll have too great content to find him true; and therefore, since his love is not for me, i'll help to make my rival's misery. [_aside_. spaniard, i never thought you false before: [_to him_. can you at once two mistresses adore? keep the poor soul no longer in suspence, your change is such as does not need defence. _cort_. riddles like these i cannot understand. _alm_. why should you blush? she saw you kiss my hand. _cyd_. fear not; i will, while your first love's denied, favour your shame, and turn my eyes aside; my feeble hopes in her deserts are lost: i neither can such power nor beauty boast: i have no tie upon you to be true, but that, which loosened yours, my love to you. _cort_. could you have heard my words! _cyd_.--alas, what needs to hear your words, when i beheld your deeds? _cort_. what shall i say? the fate of love is such, that still it sees too little or too much. that act of mine, which does your passion move, was but a mark of my respect, not love. _alm_. vex not yourself excuses to prepare: for one, you love not, is not worth your care. _cort_. cruel almeria, take that life you gave; since you but worse destroy me, while you save. _cyd_. no, let me die, and i'll my claim resign; for while i live, methinks, you should be mine. _cort_. the bloodiest vengeance, which she could pursue, would be a trifle to my loss of you. _cyd_. your change was wise: for, had she been denied, a swift revenge had followed from her pride: you from my gentle nature had no fears, all my revenge is only in my tears. _cort_. can you imagine i so mean could prove, to save my life by changing of my love? _cyd_. since death is that which naturally we shun, you did no more than i, perhaps, had done. _cort_. make me not doubt, fair soul, your constancy; you would have died for love, and so would i. _alm_. you may believe him; you have seen it proved. _cort_. can i not gain belief how i have loved? what can thy ends, malicious beauty, be: can he, who kill'd thy brother, live for thee? [_a noise of clashing of swords_. [vasquez _within, indians against him_. _vasq_. yield, slaves, or die; our swords shall force our way. [_within_. _ind_. we cannot, though o'er-powered, our trust betray. [_within_. _cort_. 'tis vasquez's voice, he brings me liberty. _vasq_. in spite of fate i'll set my general free; [_within_. now victory for us, the town's our own. _alm_. all hopes of safety and of love are gone: as when some dreadful thunder-clap is nigh, the winged fire shoots swiftly through the sky, strikes and consumes, ere scarce it does appear, and by the sudden ill prevents the fear: such is my state in this amazing woe, it leaves no power to think, much less to do. --but shall my rival live, shall she enjoy that love in peace, i laboured to destroy? [_aside_. _cort_. her looks grow black as a tempestuous wind; some raging thoughts are rolling in her mind. _alm_. rival, i must your jealousy remove, you shall, hereafter, be at rest for love. _cyd_. now you are kind. _alm_.--he whom you love is true: but he shall never be possest by you. [_draws her dagger, and runs towards her_. _cort_. hold, hold, ah barbarous woman! fly, oh fly! _cyd_. ah pity, pity, is no succour nigh! _cort_. run, run behind me, there you may be sure, while i have life, i will your life secure. [cydaria _gets behind him_. _alm_. on him, or thee,--light vengeance any where [_she stabs and hurts him_. --what have i done? i see his blood appear! _cyd_. it streams, it streams from every vital part: was there no way but this to find his heart? _alm_. ah! cursed woman, what was my design! this weapon's point shall mix that blood with mine! [_goes to stab herself, and being within his reach he snatches the dagger_. _cort_. now neither life nor death are in your power. _alm_. then sullenly i'll wait my fatal hour. _enter_ vasquez _and_ pizarro, _with drawn swords_. _vasq_. he lives, he lives. _cort_.--unfetter me with speed; vasquez, i see you troubled that i bleed: but 'tis not deep, our army i can head. _vasq_. you to a certain victory are led; your men, all armed, stand silently within: i with your freedom did the work begin. _piz_. what friends we have, and how we came so strong, we'll softly tell you as we march along. _cort_. in this safe place let me secure your fear: [_to_ cydaria. no clashing swords, no noise can enter here. amidst our arms as quiet you shall be, as halcyons brooding on a winter sea. _cyd_. leave me not here alone, and full of fright, amidst the terrors of a dreadful night: you judge, alas, my courage by your own; i never durst in darkness be alone: i beg, i throw me humbly at your feet. _cort_. you must not go where you may dangers meet. the unruly sword will no destinction make; and beauty will not there give wounds, but take. _alm_. then stay and take me with you; tho' to be a slave to wait upon your victory. my heart unmoved can noise and horror bear: parting from you is all the death i fear. _cort_. almeria, 'tis enough i leave you free: you neither must stay here, nor go with me. _aim_. then take my life, that will my rest restore: 'tis all i ask, for saving yours before. _cort_. that were a barbarous return of love. _alm_. yet, leaving it, you more inhuman prove. in both extremes i some relief should find; oh! either hate me more, or be more kind. _cort_. life of my soul, do not my absence mourn: but chear your heart in hopes of my return. [_to_ cyd. your noble father's life shall be my care; and both your brothers i'm obliged to spare. _cyd_. fate makes you deaf, while i in vain implore;-- my heart forebodes, i ne'er shall see you more: i have but one request,--when i am dead, let not my rival to your love succeed. _cort_. fate will be kinder than your fears foretell; farewell, my dear. _cyd_.--a long and last farewell: --so eager to employ the cruel sword? can you not one, not one last look afford! _cort_. i melt to womanish tears, and if i stay, i find my love, my courage will betray; yon tower will keep you safe, but be so kind to your own life, that none may entrance find. _cyd_. then lead me there.--[_he leads her_. for this one minute of your company, i go, methinks, with some content to die. [_exeunt_ cortez, vasquez, pizarro, _and_ cydaria. _alm_. farewell, o too much lov'd, since lov'd in vain! what dismal fortune does for me remain! night and despair my fatal footsteps guide; that chance may give the death which he denied. [_exit_. cortez, vasquez, pizarro, _and_ spaniards _return again_. _cort_. all i hold dear i trust to your defence; [_to_ piz. guard her, and on your life, remove not hence. [_exeunt_ cortez _and_ vasquez. _piz_. i'll venture that.-- the gods are good; i'll leave her to their care, steal from my post, and in the plunder share. [_exit_. act v. scene i.--_a chamber royal, an indian hammock discovered in it_. _enter_ odmar _with soldiers_, guyomar, _and_ alibech _bound_. _odm_. fate is more just than you to my desert, and in this act you blame, heaven takes my part. _guy_. can there be gods, and no revenge provide? _odm_. the gods are ever of the conquering side: she's now my queen; the spaniards have agreed, i to my father's empire shall succeed. _alib_. how much i crowns contemn, i let thee see, chusing the younger, and refusing thee. _guy_. were she ambitious, she'd disdain to own the pageant pomp of such a servile throne; a throne, which thou by parricide dost gain, and by a base submission must retain. _alib_. i loved thee not before; but, odmar, know, that now i hate thee, and despise thee too. _odm_. with too much violence you crimes pursue, which if i acted, 'twas for love of you. this, if it teach not love, may teach you fear: i brought not sin so far, to stop it here. death in a lover's mouth would sound but ill: but know, i either must enjoy, or kill. _alib_. bestow, base man, thy idle threats elsewhere, my mother's daughter knows not how to fear. since, guyomar, i must not be thy bride, death shall enjoy what is to thee denied. _odm_. then take thy wish-- _guy_. hold, odmar, hold: my right in alibech i will resign; rather than see her die, i'll see her thine. _alib_. in vain thou wouldst resign, for i will be, even when thou leav'st me, constant still to thee: that shall not save my life: wilt thou appear fearful for her, who for herself wants fear? _odm_. her love to him shows me a surer way: i by her love her virtue must betray.--[_aside_. since, alibech, you are so true a wife, [_to her_. 'tis in your power to save your husband's life: the gods, by me, your love and virtue try; for both will suffer, if you let him die. _alib_. i never can believe you will proceed to such a black, and execrable deed. _odm_. i only threatened you; but could not prove so much a fool, to murder what i love: but in his death i some advantage see: worse than it is i'm sure it cannot be. if you consent, you with that gentle breath preserve his life: if not, behold his death. [_holds his sword to his breast_. _alib_. what shall i do! _guy_. what, are your thoughts at strife about a ransom to preserve my life? though to save yours i did my interest give, think not, when you were his, i meant to live. _alib_. o let him be preserved by any way: but name not the foul price which i must pay. [_to_ odm. _odm_. you would, and would not,--i'll no longer stay. [_offers again to kill him_. _alib_. i yield, i yield; but yet, ere i am ill, an innocent desire i would fulfil: with guyomar i one chaste kiss would leave, the first and last he ever can receive. _odm_. have what you ask: that minute you agree to my desires, your husband shall be free. [_they unbind her, she goes to her husband_. _guy_. no, alibech, we never must embrace. [_he turns from her_. your guilty kindness why do you misplace? 'tis meant to him, he is your private choice; i was made yours but by the public voice. and now you leave me with a poor pretence, that your ill act is for my life's defence. _alib_. since there remains no other means to try, think i am false; i cannot see you die. _guy_. to give for me both life and honour too, is more, perhaps, than i could give for you. you have done much to cure my jealousy, but cannot perfect it unless both die! for since both cannot live, who stays behind must be thought fearful, or, what's worse, unkind. _alib_. i never could propose that death you chuse; but am, like you, too jealous to refuse. [_embracing him_. together dying, we together show that both did pay that faith, which both did owe. _odm_. it then remains i act my own design: have you your wills, but i will first have mine. assist me, soldiers-- [_they go to bind her: she cries out_. _enter_ vasquez, _and two spaniards_. _vasq_. hold, odmar, hold! i come in happy time to hinder my misfortune, and your crime. _odm_. you ill return the kindness i have shown. _vasq_. indian, i say, desist. _odm_. spaniard, be gone. _vasq_. this lady i did for myself design: dare you attempt her honour, who is mine? _odm_. you're much mistaken; this is she, whom i did with my father's loss, and country's buy: she, whom your promise did to me convey, when all things else were made your common prey. _vasq_. that promise made, excepted one for me; one whom i still reserved, and this is she. _odm_. this is not she; you cannot be so base. _vasq_. i love too deeply to mistake the face: the vanquished must receive the victor's laws. _odm_. if i am vanquished, i myself am cause. _vasq_. then thank yourself for what you undergo. _odm_. thus lawless might does justice overthrow. _vasq_. traitors, like you, should never justice name. _odm_. you owe your triumphs to that traitor's shame. but to your general i'll my right refer. _vasq_. he never will protect a ravisher: his generous heart will soon decide our strife; he to your brother will restore his wife. it rests we two our claim in combat try, and that with this fair prize the victor fly. _odm_. make haste, i cannot suffer to be long perplext; conquest is my first wish, and death my next. [_they fight, the spaniards and indians fight_. _alib_. the gods the wicked by themselves o'erthrow: all fight against us now, and for us too! [_unbinds her husband_. [_the two spaniards and three indians kill each other,_ vasquez _kills_ odmar, guyomar _runs to his brothers sword_. _vasq_. now you are mine; my greatest foe is slain. [_to_ al. _guy_. a greater still to vanquish does remain. _vasq_. another yet! the wounds, i make, but sow new enemies, which from their blood, like earth-born brethren, rise. _guy_. spaniard, take breath: some respite i'll afford, my cause is more advantage than your sword. _vasq_. thou art so brave--could it with honour be, i'd seek thy friendship more than victory. _guy_. friendship with him, whose hand did odmar kill! base as he was, he was my brother still: and since his blood has washed away his guilt. nature asks thine for that which thou hast spilt. [_they fight a little and breathe_, alibech _takes up a sword and comes on_. _alib_. my weakness may help something in the strife. _guy_. kill not my honour to preserve my life: [_staying her_. rather than by thy aid i'll conquest gain, without defence i poorly will be slain. [_she goes back, they fight again_, vasquez _falls_. _guy_. now, spaniard, beg thy life, and thou shalt live. _vasq_. 'twere vain to ask thee what thou canst not give; my breath goes out, and i am now no more; yet her, i loved, in death i will adore. [_dies_. _guy_. come, alibech, let us from hence remove. this is a night of horror, not of love. from every part i hear a dreadful noise, the vanquished crying, and the victor's joys. i'll to my father's aid and country's fly, and succour both, or in their ruin die. [_exeunt_. scene ii.--_a prison_. montezuma, _indian high priest, bound_; pizarro, _spaniards with swords drawn, a christian priest_. _piz_. thou hast not yet discovered all thy store. _mont_. i neither can nor will discover more; the gods will punish you, if they be just; the gods will plague your sacrilegious lust. _chr. priest_. mark how this impious heathen justifies his own false gods, and our true god denies: how wickedly he has refused his wealth, and hid his gold, from christian hands, by stealth: down with him, kill him, merit heaven thereby. _ind. high pr_. can heaven be author of such cruelty? _piz_. since neither threats nor kindness will prevail, we must by other means your minds assail; fasten the engines; stretch 'em at their length, and pull the straitened cords with all your strength. [_they fasten them to the rack, and then pull them_. _mont_. the gods, who made me once a king, shall know, i still am worthy to continue so: though now the subject of your tyranny, i'll plague you worse than you can punish me. know, i have gold, which you shall never find; no pains, no tortures, shall unlock my mind. _chr. pr_. pull harder yet; he does not feel the rack. _mont_. pull 'till my veins break, and my sinews crack. _ind. high pr_. when will you end your barbarous cruelty? i beg not to escape, i beg to die. _mont_. shame on thy priesthood, that such prayers can bring! is it not brave, to suffer with thy king? when monarchs suffer, gods themselves bear part; then well mayest thou, who but my vassal art: i charge thee, dare not groan, nor shew one sign; thou at thy torments dost the least repine. _ind. high pr_. you took an oath, when you received the crown, the heavens should pour their usual blessings down; the sun should shine, the earth its fruits produce, and nought be wanting to your subjects' use: yet we with famine were opprest, and now must to the yoke of cruel masters bow. _mont_. if those above, who made the world, could be forgetful of it, why then blamest thou me? _chr. pr_, those pains, o prince, thou sufferest now, are light compared to those, which, when thy soul takes flight, immortal, endless, thou must then endure, which death begins, and time can never cure. _mont_. thou art deceived; for whensoe'er i die, the sun, my father, bears my soul on high: he lets me down a beam, and mounted there, he draws it back, and pulls me through the air: i in the eastern parts, and rising sky, you in heaven's downfal, and the west must lie. _chr. pr_. fond man, by heathen ignorance misled, thy soul destroying when thy body's dead: change yet thy faith, and buy eternal rest. _ind. high pr_. die in your own, for our belief is best. _mont_. in seeking happiness you both agree, but in the search, the paths so different be, that all religions with each other fight, while only one can lead us in the right. but till that one hath some more certain mark, poor human kind must wander in the dark; and suffer pain eternally below, for that, which here we cannot come to know. _chr. pr_. that, which we worship, and which you believe, from nature's common hand we both receive: all, under various names, adore and love one power immense, which ever rules above. vice to abhor, and virtue to pursue, is both believed and taught by us and you: but here our worship takes another way-- _mont_. where both agree, 'tis there most safe to stay: for what's more vain than public light to shun, and set up tapers, while we see the sun? _chr. pr_. though nature teaches whom we should adore, by heavenly beams we still discover more. _mont_. or this must be enough, or to mankind one equal way to bliss is not designed; for though some more may know, and some know less, yet all must know enough for happiness. _chr. pr_. if in this middle way you still pretend to stay, your journey never will have end. _mont_. howe'er, 'tis better in the midst to stay, than wander farther in uncertain way. _chr. pr_. but we by martyrdom our faith avow. _mont_. you do no more than i for ours do now. to prove religion true-- if either wit or sufferings would suffice, all faiths afford the constant and the wise: and yet even they, by education swayed, in age defend what infancy obeyed. _chr. pr_. since age by erring childhood is misled, refer yourself to our unerring head. _mont_. man, and not err! what reason can you give? _chr. pr_. renounce that carnal reason, and believe. _mont_. the light of nature should i thus betray, 'twere to wink hard, that i might see the day. _chr. pr_. condemn not yet the way you do not know; i'll make your reason judge what way to go. _mont_. 'tis much too late for me new ways to take, who have but one short step of life to make. _piz_. increase their pains, the cords are yet too slack. _chr. pr_. i must by force convert him on the rack. _ind. high pr_. i faint away, and find i can no more: give leave, o king, i may reveal thy store, and free myself from pains, i cannot bear. _mont_. think'st thou i lie on beds of roses here, or in a wanton bath stretched at my ease? die, slave, and with thee die such thoughts as these. [_high priest turns aside, and dies_. _enter_ cortez _attended by spaniards, he speaks entering_. _cort_. on pain of death, kill none but those who fight; i much repent me of this bloody night: slaughter grows murder when it goes too far, and makes a massacre what was a war: sheath all your weapons, and in silence move, 'tis sacred here to beauty, and to love. ha--[_sees_ mont. what dismal sight is this, which takes from me all the delight, that waits on victory! [_runs to take him off the rack_. make haste: how now, religion, do you frown? haste, holy avarice, and help him down. ah, father, father, what do i endure [_embracing_ mont. to see these wounds my pity cannot cure! _mont_. am i so low that you should pity bring, and give an infant's comfort to a king? ask these, if i have once unmanly groaned; or aught have done deserving to be moaned. _cort_. did i not charge, thou shouldst not stir from hence? [_to_ piz. but martial law shall punish thy offence. and you, [_to the christian priest_. who saucily teach monarchs to obey, and the wide world in narrow cloisters sway; set up by kings as humble aids of power, you that which bred you, viper-like, devour, you enemies of crowns-- _chr. pr_. come, let's away, we but provoke his fury by our stay. _cort_. if this go free, farewell that discipline, which did in spanish camps severely shine: accursed gold, 'tis thou hast caused these crimes; thou turn'st our steel against thy parent climes! and into spain wilt fatally be brought, since with the price of blood thou here art bought. [_exeunt priest and_ pizarro. [cortez _kneels by_ montezuma, _and weeps_. _cort_. can you forget those crimes they did commit? _mont_. i'll do what for my dignity is fit: rise, sir, i'm satisfied the fault was theirs: trust me, you make me weep to see your tears: must i chear you? _cort_. ah heavens! _mont_. you're much to blame; your grief is cruel, for it shows my shame, does my lost crown to my remembrance bring: but weep not you, and i'll be still a king. you have forgot, that i your death designed, to satisfy the proud almeria's mind: you, who preserved my life, i doomed to die. _cort_. your love did that, and not your cruelty. _enter a spaniard_. _span_. prince guyomar the combat still maintains, our men retreat, and he their ground regains: but once encouraged by our general's sight, we boldly should renew the doubtful fight. _cort_. remove not hence, you shall not long attend; [_to_ montezuma. i'll aid my soldiers, yet preserve my friend. _mont_. excellent man! [_exeunt_ cortez, &c. but i, by living, poorly take the way to injure goodness, which i cannot pay. _enter_ almeria. _alm_. ruin and death run armed through every street; and yet that fate, i seek, i cannot meet: what guards misfortunes are and misery! death, that strikes all, yet seems afraid of me. _mont_. almeria here! oh turn away your face! must you be witness too of my disgrace? _alm_. i am not that almeria whom you knew, but want that pity i denied to you: your conqueror, alas, has vanquished me; but he refuses his own victory: while all are captives in your conquered state, i find a wretched freedom in his hate. _mont_. couldst thou thy love on one who scorned thee lose? he saw not with my eyes, who could refuse: him, who could prove so much unkind to thee, i ne'er will suffer to be kind to me. _alm_. i am content in death to share your fate; and die for him i love, with him i hate. _mont_. what shall i do in this perplexing strait! my tortured limbs refuse to bear my weight: [_endeavouring to walk, not being able_. i cannot go to death to set me free; death must be kind, and come himself to me. _alm_. i've thought upon't: i have affairs below, [alm. _musing_. which i must needs despatch before i go: sir, i have found a place where you may be, [_to him_. (though not preserved) yet, like a king, die free; the general left your daughter in the tower, we may a while resist the spaniards' power, if guyomar prevail. _mont_. make haste and call; she'll hear your voice, and answer from the wall. _alm_. my voice she knows and fears, but use your own; and, to gain entrance, feign you are alone. [alm. _steps behind_. _mont_. cydaria! _alm_. louder. _mont_. daughter! _alm_. louder yet. _mont_. thou canst not, sure, thy father's voice forget. [_he knocks at the door, at last_ cydaria _looks over the balcony_. _cyd_. since my love went, i have been frighted so, with dismal groans, and noises from below; i durst not send my eyes abroad, for fear of seeing dangers, which i yet but hear. _mont_. cydaria! _cyd_. sure, 'tis my father calls. _mont_. dear child, make haste; all hope of succour, but from thee, is past: as when, upon the sands, the traveller sees the high sea come rolling from afar, the land grow short, he mends his weary pace, while death behind him covers all the place: so i, by swift misfortunes, am pursued, which on each other are, like waves, renewed. _cyd_. are you alone? _mont_. i am. _cyd_. i'll strait descend; heaven did you here for both our safeties send. [cydaria _descends and opens the door_, almeria _rushes betwixt with_ montezuma. _cyd_. almeria here! then i am lost again. [_both thrust_. _alm_. yield to my strength, you struggle but in vain. make haste and shut, our enemies appear. [cortez _and spaniards appear at the other end_. _cyd_. then do you enter, and let me stay here. [_as she speaks,_ almeria _overpowers her, thrusts her in, and shuts_. _cort_. sure i both heard her voice and saw her face: she's like a vision vanished from the place. too late i find my absence was too long; my hopes grow sickly, and my fears grow strong. [_he knocks a little, then_ montezuma, cydaria, _and_ almeria, _appear above_. _alm_. look up, look up, and see if you can know those, whom in vain you think to find below. _cyd_. look up, and see cydaria's lost estate. _mont_. and cast one look on montezuma's fate. _cort_. speak not such dismal words as wound my ear; nor name death to me, when cydaria's there. despair not, sir; who knows but conquering spain may part of what you lost restore again? _mont_. no, spaniard; know, he who, to empire born, lives to be less, deserves the victor's scorn: kings and their crowns have but one destiny: power is their life; when that expires, they die. _cyd_. what dreadful words are these! _mont_. name life no more; 'tis now a torture worse than all i bore; i'll not be bribed to suffer life, but die, in spite of your mistaken clemency. i was your slave, and i was used like one; the shame continues when the pain is gone: but i'm a king while this is in my hand--[_his sword_. he wants no subjects, who can death command: you should have tied him up, t'have conquered me; but he's still mine, and thus he sets me free. [_stabs himself_. _cyd_. oh, my dear father! _alm_. when that is forced, there yet remain two more. [_the soldiers break open the first door, and go in_. we shall have time enough to take our way, ere any can our fatal journey stay. _mont_. already mine is past: o powers divine, take my last thanks: no longer i repine; i might have lived my own mishap to mourn, while some would pity me, but more would scorn! for pity only on fresh objects stays, but with the tedious sight of woes decays. still less and less my boiling spirits flow; and i grow stiff, as cooling metals do. farewell, almeria. [_dies_. _cyd_. he's gone, he's gone, and leaves poor me defenceless here alone. _alm_. you shall not long be so: prepare to die, that you may bear your father company. _cyd_. o name not death to me! you fright me so, that with the fear i shall prevent the blow: i know, your mercy's more than to destroy a thing so young, so innocent as i. _cort_. whence can proceed thy cruel thirst of blood, ah, barbarous woman? woman! that's too good, too mild for thee: there's pity in that name, but thou hast lost thy pity with thy shame. _alm_. your cruel words have pierced me to the heart; but on my rival i'll revenge my smart. _cort_. oh stay your hand; and, to redeem my fault, i'll speak the kindest words-- that tongue e'er uttered, or that heart e'er thought. dear--lovely--sweet-- _alm_. this but offends me more; you act your kindness on cydaria's score. _cyd_. for his dear sake let me my life receive. _alm_. fool, for his sake alone you must not live: revenge is now my joy; he's not for me, and i'll make sure he ne'er shall be for thee. _cyd_. but what's my crime? _alm_. 'tis loving where i love. _cyd_. your own example does my act approve. _alm_. 'tis such a fault i never can forgive. _cyd_. how can i mend, unless you let me live? i yet am tender, young, and full of fear, and dare not die, but fain would tarry here. _cort_. if blood you seek, i will my own resign: o spare her life, and in exchange take mine! _alm_. the love you shew but hastes her death the more. _cort_. i'll run, and help to force the inner door. [_is going in haste_. _alm_. stay, spaniard, stay; depart not from my eyes: that moment that i lose your sight, she dies. to look on you, i'll grant a short reprieve. _cort_. o make your gift more full, and let her live! i dare not go; and yet how dare i stay!-- her i would save, i murder either way. _cyd_. can you be so hard-hearted to destroy my ripening hopes, that are so near to joy? i just approach to all i would possess: death only stands 'twixt me and happiness. _alm_. your father, with his life, has lost his throne: your country's freedom and renown is gone. honour requires your death; you must obey. _cyd_. do you die first, and shew me then the way. _alm_. should you not follow, my revenge were lost. _cyd_. then rise again, and fright me with your ghost. _alm_. i will not trust to that; since death i chuse, i'll not leave you that life which i refuse: if death's a pain, it is not less to me; and if 'tis nothing, 'tis no more to thee. but hark! the noise increases from behind; they're near, and may prevent what i designed; take there a rival's gift. [_stabs her_. _cort_. perdition seize thee for so black a deed. _alm_. blame not an act, which did from love proceed: i'll thus revenge thee with this fatal blow; [_stabs herself_. stand fair, and let my heart-blood on thee flow. _cyd_. stay, life, and keep me in the cheerful light! death is too black, and dwells in too much night. thou leav'st me, life, but love supplies thy part, and keeps me warm, by lingering in my heart: yet dying for him, i thy claim remove; how dear it costs to conquer in my love! now strike: that thought, i hope, will arm my breast. _alm_. ah, with what differing passions am i prest! _cyd_. death, when far off, did terrible appear; but looks less dreadful as he comes more near. _alm_. o rival, i have lost the power to kill; strength hath forsook my arm, and rage my will: i must surmount that love which thou hast shown; dying for him is due to me alone. thy weakness shall not boast the victory, now thou shalt live, and dead i'll conquer thee: soldiers, assist me down. [_exeunt from above, led by soldiers, and enter both, led by_ cortez. _cort_. is there no danger then? [_to_ cydaria. _cyd_. you need not fear my wound; i cannot die when you are near. _cort_. you, for my sake, life to cydaria give; [_to_ alm. and i could die for you, if you might live. _alm_. enough, i die content, now you are kind; killed in my limbs, reviving in my mind: come near, cydaria, and forgive my crime. [cydaria _starts back_. you need not fear my rage a second time: i'll bathe your wounds in tears for my offence. that hand, which made it, makes this recompence. [_ready to join their hands_. i would have joined you, but my heart's too high: you will, too soon, possess him when i die. _cort_. she faints; o softly set her down. _alm_. 'tis past! in thy loved bosom let me breathe my last. here, in this one short moment that i live, i have whate'er the longest life could give. [_dies_. _cort_. farewell, thou generous maid: even victory, glad as it is, must lend some tears to thee; many i dare not shed, lest you believe [_to_ cyd. i joy in you less than for her i grieve. _cyd_. but are you sure she's dead? i must embrace you fast, before i know, whether my life be yet secure, or no: some other hour i will to tears allow, but, having you, can shew no sorrow now. _enter_ guyomar _and_ alibech _bound, with soldiers_. _cort_. prince guyomar in bonds! o friendship's shame! it makes me blush to own a victor's name. [_unbinds him,_ cydaria, alibech. _cyd_. see, alibech, almeria lies there; but do not think 'twas i that murdered her. [alibech _kneels, and kisses her dead sister_. _cort_. live, and enjoy more than your conqueror: [_to_ guyomar. take all my love, and share in all my power. _guy_. think me not proudly rude, if i forsake those gifts i cannot with my honour take: i for my country fought, and would again, had i yet left a country to maintain: but since the gods decreed it otherwise, i never will on its dear ruins rise. _alib_. of all your goodness leaves to our dispose, our liberty's the only gift we chuse: absence alone can make our sorrows less; and not to see what we can ne'er redress. _guy_. northward, beyond the mountains, we will go, where rocks lie covered with eternal snow, thin herbage in the plains and fruitless fields, the sand no gold, the mine no silver yields: there love and freedom we'll in peace enjoy; no spaniards will that colony destroy. we to ourselves will all our wishes grant; and, nothing coveting, can nothing want. _cort_. first your great father's funeral pomp provide: that done, in peace your generous exiles guide; while i loud thanks pay to the powers above, thus doubly blest, with conquest, and with love. [_exeunt_. epilogue by a mercury. to all and singular in this full meeting, ladies and gallants, phoebus sends ye greeting. to all his sons, by whate'er title known, whether of court, or coffee-house, or town; from his most mighty sons, whose confidence is placed in lofty sound, and humble sense, even to his little infants of the time, who write new songs, and trust in tune and rhyme: be't known, that phoebus (being daily grieved to see good plays condemned, and bad received) ordains, your judgment upon every cause, henceforth, be limited by wholesome laws. he first thinks fit no sonnetteer advance his censure, farther than the song or dance. your wit burlesque may one step higher climb, and in his sphere may judge all doggrel rhyme: all proves, and moves, and loves, and honours too; all that appears high sense, and scarce is low. as for the coffee-wits, he says not much; their proper business is to damn the dutch: for the great dons of wit-- phoebus gives them full privilege alone, to damn all others, and cry up their own. last, for the ladies, 'tis apollo's will, they should have power to save, but not to kill: for love and he long since have thought it fit, wit live by beauty, beauty reign by wit. secret love; or, the maiden queen. _vitiis nemo sine nascitur; optimus ille qui minimis urgetur_. horat. the maiden queen the maiden queen is said, by langbaine, to be founded upon certain passages in "the grand cyrus," and in "ibrahim, the illustrious bassa." few readers will probably take the trouble of consulting these huge volumes, for the purpose of ascertaining the truth of this charge. even our duty, as editors, cannot impel us to the task; satisfied, as we are, that, since these ponderous folios at that time loaded every toilette, dryden can hardly have taken more from such well-known sources, than the mere outline of the story. indeed, to a certain degree, the foundation of the plot, upon a story in the "cyrus," is admitted by the author. the character of the queen is admirably drawn, and the catastrophe is brought very artfully forward; the uncertainty, as to her final decision, continuing till the last moment. in this, as in all our author's plays, some passages of beautiful poetry occur in the dialogue; as, for example, the scene in act d betwixt philocles and candiope. the characters, excepting that of the maiden queen herself, are lame and uninteresting. philocles, in particular, has neither enough of love to make him despise ambition, nor enough of ambition to make him break the fetters of love. we might have admired him, had he been constant; or sympathised with him, had he sinned against his affections, and repented; but there is nothing interesting in the vacillations of his indecision. the comic part of the play contains much of what was thought wit in the reign of charles ii.; for marriage is railed against, and a male and female rake join in extolling the pleasures of a single life, even while the usage of the theatre compels them, at length, to put on the matrimonial chains. it is surprising, that no venturous author, in that gay age, concluded, by making such a couple happy in their own way. the novelty of such a catastrophe would have insured its success; and, unlike to the termination of the loves of celadon and florimel, it would have been strictly in character. the maiden queen was first acted in ; and printed, as the poet has informed us, by the command of charles himself, who graced it with the title of his play. dryden mentions the excellence of the acting, so it was probably received very favourably. preface it has been the ordinary practice of the french poets, to dedicate their works of this nature to their king; especially when they have had the least encouragement to it, by his approbation of them on the stage. but, i confess, i want the confidence to follow their example, though, perhaps, i have as specious pretences to it, for this piece, as any they can boast of; it having been owned in so particular a manner by his majesty, that he has graced it with the title of his play, and thereby rescued it from the severity (that i may not say malice) of its enemies. but though a character so high and undeserved has not raised in me the presumption to offer such a trifle to his most serious view, yet i will own the vanity to say, that after this glory which it has received from a sovereign prince, i could not send it to seek protection from any subject. be this poem, then, sacred to him, without the tedious form of a dedication, and without presuming to interrupt those hours which he is daily giving to the peace and settlement of his people. for what else concerns this play, i would tell the reader, that it is regular, according to the strictest of dramatic laws; but that it is a commendation which many of our poets now despise, and a beauty which our common audiences do not easily discern. neither indeed do i value myself upon it; because, with all that symmetry of parts, it may want an air and spirit (which consists in the writing) to set it off. 'tis a question variously disputed, whether an author may be allowed as a competent judge of his own works. as to the fabric and contrivance of them, certainly he may; for that is properly the employment of the judgment; which, as a master-builder, he may determine, and that without deception, whether the work be according to the exactness of the model; still granting him to have a perfect idea of that pattern by which he works, and that he keeps himself always constant to the discourse of his judgment, without admitting self-love, which is the false surveyor of his fancy, to intermeddle in it. these qualifications granted (being such as all sound poets are presupposed to have within them), i think all writers, of what kind soever, may infallibly judge of the frame and contexture of their works. but for the ornament of writing, which is greater, more various, and _bizarre_ in poesy than in any other kind, as it is properly the child of fancy; so it can receive no measure, or at least but a very imperfect one, of its own excellences or failures from the judgment. self-love (which enters but rarely into the offices of the judgment) here predominates; and fancy (if i may so speak), judging of itself, can be no more certain, or demonstrative of its own effects, than two crooked lines can be the adequate measure of each other. what i have said on this subject may, perhaps, give me some credit with my readers, in my opinion of this play, which i have ever valued above the rest of my follies of this kind; yet not thereby in the least dissenting from their judgment, who have concluded the writing of this to be much inferior to my "indian emperor." but the argument of that was much more noble, not having the allay of comedy to depress it; yet if this be more perfect, either in its kind, or in the general notion of a play, it is as much as i desire to have granted for the vindication of my opinion, and what as nearly touches me, the sentence of a royal judge. many have imagined the character of philocles to be faulty; some for not discovering the queen's love, others for his joining in her restraint: but though i am not of their number, who obstinately defend what they have once said, i may, with modesty, take up those answers which have been made for me by my friends; namely, that philocles, who was but a gentleman of ordinary birth, had no reason to guess so soon at the queen's passion; she being a person so much above him, and, by the suffrages of all her people, already destined to lysimantes: besides, that he was prepossessed (as the queen somewhere hints it to him) with another inclination, which rendered him less clear-sighted in it, since no man, at the same time, can distinctly view two different objects; and if this, with any shew of reason, may be defended, i leave my masters, the critics, to determine, whether it be not much more conducing to the beauty of my plot, that philocles should be long kept ignorant of the queen's love, than that with one leap he should have entered into the knowledge of it, and thereby freed himself, to the disgust of the audience, from that pleasing labyrinth of errors which was prepared for him. as for that other objection, of his joining in the queen's imprisonment, it is indisputably that which every man, if he examines himself, would have done on the like occasion. if they answer, that it takes from the height of his character to do it; i would enquire of my overwise censors, who told them i intended him a perfect character, or, indeed, what necessity was there he should be so, the variety of images being one great beauty of a play? it was as much as i designed, to shew one great and absolute pattern of honour in my poem, which i did in the person of the queen: all the defects of the other parts being set to shew, the more to recommend that one character of virtue to the audience. but neither was the fault of philocles so great, if the circumstances be considered, which, as moral philosophy assures us, make the essential differences of good and bad; he himself best explaining his own intentions in his last act, which was the restoration of his queen; and even before that, in the honesty of his expressions, when he was unavoidably led by the impulsions of his love to do it. that which with more reason was objected as an indecorum, is the management of the last scene of the play, where celadon and florimel are treating too lightly of their marriage in the presence of the queen, who likewise seems to stand idle, while the great action of the drama is still depending. this i cannot otherwise defend, than by telling you, i so designed it on purpose, to make my play go off more smartly; that scene being, in the opinion of the best judges, the most divertising of the whole comedy. but though the artifice succeeded, i am willing to acknowledge it as a fault, since it pleased his majesty, the best judge, to think it so. i have only to add, that the play is founded on a story in the "cyrus," which he calls the queen of corinth; in whose character, as it has been affirmed to me, he represents that of the famous christina, queen of sweden. this is what i thought convenient to write by way of preface to "the maiden queen;" in the reading of which i fear you will not meet with that satisfaction, which you have had in seeing it on the stage; the chief parts of it, both serious and comic, being performed to that height of excellence, that nothing but a command, which i could not handsomely disobey, could have given me the courage to have made it public. prologue. i. he who writ this, not without pains and thought, from french and english theatres has brought the exactest rules, by which a play is wrought. ii. the unities of action, place, and time; the scenes unbroken; and a mingled chime of jonson's humour, with corneille's rhyme. iii. but while dead colours he with care did lay, he fears his wit, or plot, he did not weigh, which are the living beauties of a play. iv. plays are like towns, which, howe'er fortified by engineers, have still some weaker side, by the o'er-seen defendant unespied. v. and with that art you make approaches now; such skilful fury in assaults you show, that every poet without shame may bow. vi. ours, therefore, humbly would attend your doom, if, soldier-like, he may have terms to come, with flying colours, and with beat of drum. _the prologue goes out, and stays while a tune is played, after which he returns again_. second prologue. i had forgot one half, i do protest, and now am sent again to speak the rest. he bows to every great and noble wit; but to the little hectors of the pit our poet's sturdy, and will not submit. he'll be beforehand with 'em, and not stay to see each peevish critic stab his play; each puny censor, who, his skill to boast, is cheaply witty on the poet's cost. no critic's verdict should, of right, stand good, they are excepted all, as men of blood; and the same law shall shield him from their fury, which has excluded butchers from a jury. you'd all be wits-- but writing's tedious, and that way may fail; the most compendious method is to rail: which you so like, you think yourselves ill used, when in smart prologues you are not abused. a civil prologue is approved by no man; you hate it, as you do a civil woman: your fancy's palled, and liberally you pay to have it quickened ere you see a play; just as old sinners, worn from their delight, give money to be whipped to appetite. but what a pox keep i so much ado to save our poet? he is one of you; a brother judgment, and, as i hear say, a cursed critic as e'er damned a play. good savage gentlemen, your own kind spare; he is, like you, a very wolf or bear; yet think not he'll your ancient rights invade, or stop the course of your free damning trade; for he (he vows) at no friend's play can sit, but he must needs find fault, to shew his wit: then, for his sake, ne'er stint your own delight; throw boldly, for he sits to all that write; with such he ventures on an even lay, for they bring ready money into play. those who write not, and yet all writers nick, are bankrupt gamesters, for they damn on tick. dramatis personae lysimantes, _first prince of the blood_. philocles, _the queen's favourite_. celadon, _a courtier_. _queen of sicily_. candiope, _princess of the blood_. asteria, _the queen's confident_. florimel, _a maid of honour_. flavia, _another maid of honour_. olinda, sabina, _sisters_. melissa, _mother to_ olinda _and_ sabina. _guards, pages of honour, soldiers_. scene--_sicily_. secret love or the maiden queen. act i. scene i.--_walks near the court_. _enter_ celadon _and_ asteria, _meeting each other, he in a riding habit; they embrace_. _cel_. dear asteria!-- _ast_. my dear brother, welcome! a thousand welcomes! methinks, this year, you have been absent, has been so tedious:--i hope, as you have made a pleasant voyage, so you have brought your good humour back again to court? _cel_. i never yet knew any company i could not be merry in, except it were an old woman's. _ast_. or at a funeral. _cel_. nay, for that you shall excuse me; for i was never merrier than i was at a creditor's of mine, whose book perished with him. but what new beauties have you at court? how do melissa's two fair daughters? _ast_. when you tell me which of them you are in love with, i'll answer you. _cel_. which of them, naughty sister! what a question's there? with both of them; with each and singular of them. _ast_. bless me!--you are not serious? _cel_. you look, as if it were a wonder to see a man in love. are they not handsome? _ast_. ay; but both together-- _cel_. ay, and both asunder; why, i hope there are but two of them; the tall singing and dancing one, and the little innocent one? _ast_. but you cannot marry both? _cel_. no, nor either of them, i trust in heaven: but i can keep them company; i can sing and dance with them, and treat them; and that, i take it, is somewhat better than musty marrying them. marriage is poor folks' pleasure, that cannot go to the cost of variety; but i am out of danger of that with these two, for i love them so equally, i can never make choice between them. had i but one mistress, i might go to her to be merry, and she, perhaps, be out of humour; there were a visit lost: but here, if one of them frown upon me, the other will be the more obliging, on purpose to recommend her own gaiety; besides a thousand things that i could name. _ast_. and none of them to any purpose. _cel_. well, if you will not be cruel to a poor lover, you might oblige me, by carrying me to their lodgings. _ast_. you know i am always busy about the queen. _cel_. but once or twice only; 'till i am a little flushed in my acquaintance with other ladies, and have learned to prey for myself. i promise you i'll make all the haste i can to end the trouble, by being in love somewhere else. _ast_. you would think it hard to be denied now? _cel_. and reason good. many a man hangs himself for the loss of one mistress: how do you think, then, i should bear the loss of two; especially in a court, where, i think, beauty is but thin sown? _ast_. there's one florimel, the queen's ward, a new beauty, as wild as you, and a vast fortune. _cel_. i am for her before the world. bring me to her, and i'll release you of your promise for the other two. _enter a page_. _page_. madam, the queen expects you. _cel_. i see you hold her favour; adieu, sister:--you have a little emissary there, otherwise i would offer you my service. _ast_. farewell, brother; think upon florimel. _cel_. you may trust my memory for a handsome woman: i'll think upon her, and the rest too; i'll forget none of them. [_exit_ asteria. scene ii. _enter a gentleman walking over the stage hastily; after him_ florimel _and_ flavia _masked_. _fla_. phormio! phormio! you will not leave us? _gent_. in faith, i have a little business. [_exit gent_. _cel_. cannot i serve you in the gentleman's room, ladies? _fla_. which of us would you serve? _cel_. either of you, or both of you. _fla_. why, could you not be constant to one? _cel_. constant to one!--i have been a courtier, a soldier, and a traveller, to good purpose, if i must be constant to one: give me some twenty, some forty, some a hundred mistresses! i have more love than any woman can turn her to. _flo_. bless us! let us be gone, cousin: we two are nothing in his hands. _cel_. yet, for my part, i can live with as few mistresses as any man. i desire no superfluities; only for necessary change or so, as i shift my linen. _flo_. a pretty odd kind of fellow this; he fits my humour rarely. [_aside_. _fla_. you are as inconstant as the moon. _flo_. you wrong him, he's as constant as the sun; he would see all the world in twenty-four hours. _cel_. 'tis very true, madam; but, like him, i would visit, and away. _flo_. for what an unreasonable thing it were, to stay long, be troublesome, and hinder a lady of a fresh lover. _cel_. a rare creature this! [_aside_]--besides, madam, how like a fool a man looks, when, after all his eagerness of two minutes before, he shrinks into a faint kiss, and a cold compliment.--ladies both, into your hands i commit myself; share me betwixt you. _fla_. i'll have nothing to do with you, since you cannot be constant to one. _cel_. nay, rather than lose either of you, i'll do more; i'll be constant to an hundred of you. or, if you will needs fetter me to one, agree the matter between yourselves; and the most handsome take me. _flo_. though i am not she, yet since my mask is down, and you cannot convince me, have a good faith of my beauty, and for once i take you for my servant. _cel_. and for once i'll make a blind bargain with you. strike hands; is't a match, mistress? _flo_. done, servant. _cel_. now i am sure i have the worst on't: for you see the worst of me, and that i do not of you, 'till you shew your face.--yet, now i think on't, you must be handsome. _flo_. what kind of beauty do you like? _cel_. just such a one as yours. _flo_. what's that? _cel_. such an oval face, clear skin, hazel eyes, thick brown eye-brows, and hair as you have, for all the world. _fla_. but i can assure you, she has nothing of all this. _cel_. hold thy peace, envy; nay, i can be constant an i set on't. _flo_. 'tis true she tells you. _cel_. ay, ay, you may slander yourself as you please: then you have,--let me see. _flo_. ill swear, you shall not see. _cel_. a turned up nose, that gives an air to your face:--oh, i find i am more and more in love with you!--a full nether lip, an out-mouth, that makes mine water at it; the bottom of your cheeks a little blub, and two dimples when you smile: for your stature, 'tis well; and for your wit, 'twas given you by one that knew it had been thrown away upon an ill face.--come, you're handsome, there's no denying it. _flo_. can you settle your spirits to see an ugly face, and not be frighted? i could find in my heart to lift up my mask, and disabuse you. _cel_. i defy your mask:--would you would try the experiment! _flo_. no, i won't; for your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me. _cel_. since you will not take the pains to convert me, i'll make bold to keep my faith. a miserable man, i am sure, you have made me. _fla_. this is pleasant. _cel_. it may be so to you, but it is not to me; for aught i see, i am going to be the most constant maudlin,-- _flo_. 'tis very well, celadon; you can be constant to one you have never seen, and have forsaken all you have seen? _cel_. it seems, you know me then:--well, if thou should'st prove one of my cast mistresses, i would use thee most damnably, for offering to make me love thee twice. _flo_. you are i'the right: an old mistress, or servant, is an old tune; the pleasure on't is past, when we have once learned it. _fla_. but what woman in the world would you wish her like? _cel_. i have heard of one florimel, the queen's ward; would she were as like her for beauty, as she is for humour! _fla_. do you hear that, cousin? [_to_ flor. _aside_. _flo_. florimel's not handsome: besides she's inconstant; and only loves for some few days. _cel_. if she loves for shorter time than i, she must love by winter days and summer nights, i'faith. _flo_. when you see us together, you shall judge. in the mean time, adieu, sweet servant. _cel_. why, you won't be so inhuman to carry away my heart, and not so much as tell me where i may hear news on't? _flo_. i mean to keep it safe for you; for, if you had it, you would bestow it worse: farewell, i must see a lady. _cel_. so must i too, if i can pull off your mask. _flo_. you will not be so rude, i hope. _cel_. by this light, but i will! _flo_. by this leg, but you shan't. [_exeunt_ flo. _and_ fla. _running_. scene iii. _enter_ philocles, _and meets him going out_. _cel_. how! my cousin, the new favourite!--[_aside_. _phil_. dear celadon! most happily arrived.-- i hear you've been an honour to your country in the calabrian wars; and i am glad i have some interest in it. _cel_. but in you i have a larger subject for my joys: to see so rare a thing as rising virtue, and merit, understood at court. _phil_. perhaps it is the only act, that can accuse our queen of weakness. _enter_ lysimantes, _attended_. _lys_. o, my lord philocles, well overtaken! i came to look you. _phil_. had i known it sooner, my swift attendance, sir, had spared your trouble.-- cousin, you see prince lysimantes [_to_ cel. is pleased to favour me with his commands: i beg you'll be no stranger now at court. _cel_. so long as there be ladies there, you need not doubt me. [_exit_ celadon. _phil_. some of them will, i hope, make you a convert. _lys_. my lord philocles, i'm glad we are alone; there is a business, that concerns me nearly, in which i beg your love. _phil_. command my service. _lys_. i know your interest with the queen is great; (i speak not this as envying your fortune, for, frankly, i confess you have deserved it; besides, my birth, my courage, and my honour, are all above so base a vice,)-- _phil._ i know, my lord, you are first prince o'the blood; your country's second hope: and that the public vote, when the queen weds, designs you for her choice. _lys_. i am not worthy, except love makes desert; for doubtless she's the glory of her time: of faultless beauty, blooming as the spring in our sicilian groves; matchless in virtue, and largely souled where'er her bounty gives, as, with each breath, she could create new indies. _phil_. but jealous of her glory,-- _lys_. you are a courtier; and, in other terms, would you say, she is averse from marriage, lest it might lessen her authority. but whensoe'er she does, i know the people will scarcely suffer her to match with any neighbouring prince, whose power might bend our free sicilians to a foreign yoke. _phil_. i love too well my country to desire it. _lys_. then, to proceed, (as you well know, my lord,) the provinces have sent their deputies, humbly to move her, she would chuse at home; and, (for she seems averse from speaking with them,) by my appointment, have designed these walks, where well she cannot shun them.--now, if you assist their suit, by joining yours to it, and by your mediation i prove happy, i freely promise you-- _phil_. without a bribe, command my utmost in it:-- and yet, there is a thing, which time may give me the confidence to name,-- _lys_. 'tis yours whatever:-- but, tell me true, does she not entertain some deep and settled thoughts against my person? _phil_. i hope, not so; but she, of late, is froward; reserved, and sad, and vexed at little things; which her great soul, ashamed of, strait shakes off, and is composed again. _lys_. you are still near the queen; and all our actions come to princes' eyes, as they are represented by them, that hold the mirror. _phil_. here she comes, and with her the deputies: i fear all is not right. _enter queen, deputies after her;_ asteria, _guard,_ flavia, olinda, _and_ sabina. _queen turns back to the deputies, and speaks entering_. _queen_. and i must tell you, it is a saucy boldness, thus to press on my retirements. _ dep_. our business being of no less concern, than is the peace and quiet of your subjects;-- and that delayed,-- _ dep_. we humbly took this time to represent your people's fears to you. _queen_. my people's fears! who made them statesmen? they much mistake their business, if they think, it is to govern. the rights of subjects, and of sovereigns, are things distinct in nature:--theirs is to enjoy propriety, not empire. _lys_. if they have erred, 'twas but an over-care; an ill-timed duty. _queen_. cousin, i expect from your near blood, not to excuse, but check them. they would impose a ruler upon their lawful queen: for what's an husband else? _lys_. far, madam, be it from the thoughts of any, who pretends to that high honour, to wish for more than to be reckoned as the most graced, and first of all your servants. _queen_. these are the insinuating promises of those, who aim at power. but tell me, cousin, (for you are unconcerned, and may be judge,) should that aspiring man compass his ends, what pawn of his obedience could he give me, when kingly power were once invested in him? _lys_. what greater pledge than love! when those fair eyes cast their commanding beams, he, that could be a rebel to your birth, must pay them homage. _queen_. all eyes are fair, that sparkle with the jewels of a crown: but now i see my government is odious; my people find i am not fit to reign, else they would never-- _lys_. so far from that, we all acknowledge you the bounty of the gods to sicily: more than they are you cannot make our joys; make them but lasting in a successor. _phil_. your people seek not to impose a prince; but humbly offer one to your free choice: and such a one he is--may i have leave to speak some little of his great deserts?-- _queen_. i'll hear no more.-- for you, attend to-morrow at the council: [_to the deputies_. there you shall have my firm resolves:--meantime, my cousin, i am sure, will welcome you. _lys_. still more and more mysterious: but i have gained one of her women that shall unriddle it.-- [_aside_. come, gentlemen. _all dep_. heaven preserve your majesty! [_exeunt_ lys. _and dep_. _queen_. philocles, you may stay. _phil_. i humbly wait your majesty's commands. _queen_. yet, now i better think on't, you may go. _phil_. madam! _queen_. i have no commands;--or, what's all one, you, no obedience. _phil_. how! no obedience, madam? i plead no other merit; 'tis the charter by which i hold your favour, and my fortunes. _queen_. my favours are cheap blessings, like rain and sunshine, for which we scarcely thank the gods, because we daily have them. _phil_. madam, your breath, which raised me from the dust, may lay me there again: but fate nor time can ever make me lose the sense of your indulgent bounties to me. _queen_. you are above them now, grown popular:-- ah, philocles! could i expect from you that usage!--no tongue but yours to move me to a marriage?--[_weeps_. the factious deputies might have some end in't, and my ambitious cousin gain a crown: but what advantage could there come to you? what could you hope from lysimantes' reign, that you can want in mine? _phil_. you yourself clear me, madam. had i sought more power, this marriage sure was not the way. but, when your safety was in question, when all your people were unsatisfied, desired a king,--nay more, designed the man,-- it was my duty then,-- _queen_. let me be judge of my own safety. i am a woman; but danger from my subjects cannot fright me. _phil_. but lysimantes, madam, is a person,-- _queen_. i cannot love. shall i,--i, who was born a sovereign queen, be barred of that, which god and nature gives the meanest slave, a freedom in my love?-- leave me, good philocles, to my own thoughts; when next i need your counsel, i'll send for you. _phil_. i'm most unhappy in your high displeasure; but, since i must not speak, madam, be pleased to peruse this, and therein read my care. [_he plucks out a paper, and presents it to her; but drops, unknown to him, a picture. exit_ phi. _queen_. [_reads_.] a catalogue of such persons,-- what's this he has let fall, asteria? [_spies the box_. _ast_. your majesty?-- _queen_. take that up; it fell from philocles. [_she takes it up, looks on it, and smiles_. _queen_. how now, what makes you merry? _ast_. a small discovery i have made, madam. _queen_. of what? _ast_. since first your majesty graced philocles, i have not heard him named for any mistress, but now this picture has convinced me. _queen_. ha! let me see it.-- [_snatches it from her_. candiope, prince lysimantes' sister! _ast_. your favour, madam, may encourage him,-- and yet he loves in a high place for him: a princess of the blood; and, what is more, beyond comparison the fairest lady our isle can boast. _queen_. how!--she the fairest beyond comparison!--'tis false! you flatter her; she is not fair. _ast_. i humbly beg forgiveness on my knees, if i offended you:--but next yours, madam, which all must yield to. _queen_. i pretend to none. _ast_. she passes for a beauty. _queen_. ay, she may pass:--but why do i speak of her?-- dear asteria, lead me, i am not well o' the sudden. [_she faints_. _ast_. who's near there?--help the queen! [_the guards are coming_. _queen_. bid them away: 'twas but a qualm, and 'tis already going. _ast_. dear madam, what's the matter? you are of late so altered, i scarce know you. you were gay humoured, and you now are pensive; once calm, and now unquiet:-- pardon my boldness, that i press thus far into your secret thoughts: i have, at least, a subject's share in you. _queen_. thou hast a greater. that of a friend:--but i am froward, say'st thou? _ast_. it ill becomes me, madam, to say that. _queen_. i know i am:--pr'ythee, forgive me for it,-- i cannot help it;--but thou hast not long to suffer it. _ast_. alas! _queen_. i feel my strength each day and hour consume, like lilies wasting in a lymbeck's heat. yet a few days, and thou shalt see me lie, all damp and cold, shrouded within some hollow vault, among my silent ancestors. _ast_. o dearest madam! speak not of death; or think not, if you die, that i will stay behind. _queen_. thy love has moved me;--i, for once, will have the pleasure to be pitied. i'll unfold a thing so strange, so horrid of myself-- _ast_. bless me, sweet heaven!-- so horrid, said you, madam? _queen_. that sun, who with one look surveys the globe, sees not a wretch like me!--and could the world take a right measure of my state within, mankind must either pity me, or scorn me. _ast_. sure none could do the last. _queen_. thou longest to know it, and i to tell thee, but shame stops my mouth. first, promise me thou wilt excuse my folly; and, next, be secret. _ast_. can you doubt it, madam? _queen_. yet you might spare my labour:-- can you not guess? _ast_. madam, please you, i'll try. _queen_. hold, asteria!-- i would not have you guess; for should you find it, i should imagine that some other might, and then i were most wretched:-- therefore, though you should know it, flatter me, and say you could not guess it. _ast_. madam, i need not flatter you, i cannot--and yet, might not ambition trouble your repose? _queen_. my sicily, i thank the gods, contents me. but, since i must reveal it, know,--'tis love: i, who pretended so to glory, am become the slave of love. _ast_. i thought your majesty had framed designs to subvert all your laws; become a tyrant, or vex your neighbours, with injurious wars; is this all, madam? _queen_. is not this enough? then, know, i love below myself; a subject; love one, who loves another, and who knows not that i love him. _ast_. he must be told it, madam. _queen_. not for the world, asteria: whene'er he knows it, i shall die for shame. _ast_. what is it, then, that would content you? _queen_. nothing, but that i had not lov'd. _ast_. may i not ask, without offence, who 'tis? _queen_. ev'n that confirms me, i have loved amiss; since thou canst know i love, and not imagine it must be philocles. _ast_. my cousin is, indeed, a most deserving person; valiant, and wise; handsome, and well-born. _queen_. but not of royal blood: i know his fate, unfit to be a king. to be his wife, i could forsake my crown; but not my glory: yet--would he did not love candiope; would he loved me--but knew not of my love, or e'er durst tell me his. _ast_. in all this labyrinth, i find one path, conducting to our quiet. _queen_. o tell me quickly then! _ast_. candiope, as princess of the blood, without your approbation cannot marry: first, break his match with her, by virtue of your sovereign authority. _queen_. i fear, that were to make him hate me, or, what's as bad, to let him know, i love him: could you not do it of yourself? _ast_. i'll not be wanting to my pow'r: but if your majesty appears not in it, the love of philocles will soon surmount all other difficulties. _queen_. then, as we walk, we'll think what means are best; effect but this, and thou shar'st half my breast. [_exeunt_. act ii. scene i--_the queens apartment_. asteria _alone_. nothing thrives that i have plotted; for i have sounded philocles, and find he is too constant to candiope: her too i have assaulted, but in vain, objecting want of quality in philocles. i'll to the queen, and plainly tell her, she must make use of her authority to break the match. _enter_ celadon _looking about him_. brother! what make you here about the queen's apartments? which of the ladies are you watching for? _cel_. any of 'em, that will do me the good turn, to make me soundly in love. _ast_. then i'll bespeak you one, you will be desperately in love with; florimel: so soon as the queen heard you were returned, she gave you her for mistress. _cel_. thank her majesty; but, to confess the truth, my fancy lies partly another way. _ast_. that's strange: florimel vows you are already in love with her. _cel_. she wrongs me horribly; if ever i saw or spoke with this florimel-- _ast_. well, take your fortune, i must leave you. [_exit_ asteria. _enter_ florimel, _sees him, and is running back_. _cel_. nay, i'faith i am got betwixt you and home; you are my prisoner, lady bright, till you resolve me one question. [_she makes signs she is dumb_.] pox, i think, she's dumb: what a vengeance dost thou at court, with such a rare face, without a tongue to answer to a kind question? art thou dumb indeed? then thou canst tell no tales-- [_goes to kiss her_. _flo_. hold, hold, you are not mad! _cel_. oh, my miss in a mask! have you found your tongue? _flo_. 'twas time, i think; what had become of me if i had not? _cel_. me thinks your lips had done as well. _flo_. ay, if my mask had been over 'em, as it was when you met me in the walks. _cel_. well; will you believe me another time? did not i say, you were infinitely handsome? they may talk of florimel, if they will, but, i'faith, she must come short of you. _flo_. have you seen her, then? _cel_. i look'd a little that way, but i had soon enough of her; she is not to be seen twice without a surfeit. _flo_. however, you are beholden to her; they say she loves you. _cel_. by fate she shan't love me: i have told her a piece of my mind already? pox o' these coming women: they set a man to dinner, before he has an appetite. [flavia _at the door_. _fla_. florimel, you are call'd within--[_exit_. _cel_. i hope in the lord, you are not florimel! _flo_. ev'n she, at your service; the same kind and coming florimel, you have described. _cel_. why then we are agreed already: i am as kind and coming as you, for the heart of you: i knew, at first, we two were good for nothing but one another. _flo_. but, without raillery, are you in love? _cel_. so horribly much, that, contrary to my own maxims, i think, in my conscience, i could marry you. _flo_. no, no, 'tis not come to that yet; but if you are really in love, you have done me the greatest pleasure in the world. _cel_. that pleasure, and a better too, i have in store for you. _flo_. this animal, call'd a lover, i have long'd to see these two years. _cel_. sure you walk'd with your mask on all the while; for if you had been seen, you could not have been without your wish. _flo_. i warrant, you mean an ordinary whining lover; but i must have other proofs of love, ere i believe it. _cel_. you shall have the best that i can give you. _flo_. i would have a lover, that, if need be, should hang himself, drown himself, break his neck, poison himself, for very despair: he, that will scruple this, is an impudent fellow if he says he is in love. _cel_. pray, madam, which of these four things would you have your lover to do? for a man's but a man; he cannot hang, and drown, and break his neck, and poison himself, all together. _flo_. well, then, because you are but a beginner, and i would not discourage you, any of these shall serve your turn, in a fair way. _cel_. i am much deceiv'd in those eyes of yours, if a treat, a song, and the fiddles, be not a more acceptable proof of love to you, than any of those tragical ones you have mentioned. _flo_. however, you will grant it is but decent you should be pale, and lean, and melancholick, to shew you are in love: and that i shall require of you when i see you next. _cel_. when you see me next? why you do not make a rabbit of me, to be lean at twenty-four hours warning? in the mean while, we burn day-light, lose time and love. _flo_. would you marry me without consideration? _cel_. to chuse, by heaven; for they that think on't, twenty to one would never do it. hang forecast! to make sure of one good night is as much in reason, as a man should expect from this ill world. _flo_. methinks, a few more years and discretion would do well: i do not like this going to bed so early; it makes one so weary before morning. _cel_. that's much as your pillow is laid, before you go to sleep. _flo_. shall i make a proposition to you? i will give you a whole year of probation to love me in; to grow reserved, discreet, sober, and faithful, and to pay me all the services of a lover-- _cel_. and at the end of it, you'll marry me? _flo_. if neither of us alter our minds before. _cel_. by this light a necessary clause. but if i pay in all the foresaid services before the day, you shall be obliged to take me sooner into mercy. _flo_. provided, if you prove unfaithful, then your time of a twelve-month to be prolonged; so many services, i will bate you so many days or weeks; so many faults, i will add to your 'prenticeship so much more: and of all this, i only to be judge. _enter_ philocles _and_ lysimantes. _lys_. is the queen this way, madam? _flo_. i'll see, so please your highness: follow me, captive. _cel_. march on, conqueror--[_she pulls him_. [_exeunt_ cel. flo. _lys_. you're sure her majesty will not oppose it? _phil_. leave that to me, my lord. _lys_. then, tho' perhaps my sister's birth might challenge an higher match, i'll weigh your merits, on the other side, to make the balance even. _phil_. i go, my lord, this minute. _lys_. my best wishes wait on you. [_exit_ lysimantes. _enter the queen and_ asteria. _queen_. yonder he is; have i no other way? _ast_. o madam, you must stand this brunt: deny him now, and leave the rest to me: i'll to candiope's mother, and, under the pretence of friendship, work on her ambition to put off a match so mean as philocles. _queen_. you may approach, sir; [_to_ phil. we two discourse no secrets. _phil_. i come, madam, to weary out your royal bounty. _queen_. some suit, i warrant, for your cousin celadon. leave his advancement to my care. _phil_. your goodness still prevents my wishes.-- yet i have one request, might it not pass almost for madness, and extreme ambition in me-- _queen_. you know you have a favourable judge; it lies in you not to ask any thing i cannot grant. _phil_. madam, perhaps, you think me too faulty: but love alone inspires me with ambition, tho' but to look on fair candiope were an excuse for both. _queen_. keep your ambition, and let love alone: that i can cloy, but this i cannot cure. i have some reasons (invincible to me) which must forbid your marriage with candiope. _phil_. i knew i was not worthy. _queen_. not for that, philocles; you deserve all things, and, to shew i think it, my admiral, i hear, is dead; his vacant place (the best in all my kingdom,) i here confer on you. _phil_. rather take back all you had giv'n before, than not give this; for believe, madam, nothing is so near my soul, as the possession of candiope. _queen_. since that belief would be to your disadvantage, i will not entertain it. _phil_. why, madam, can you be thus cruel to me? to give me all things, which i did not ask, and yet deny that only thing, i beg: and so beg, that i find i cannot live without the hope of it. _queen_. hope greater things; but hope not this. haste to o'ercome your love; it is but putting a short-liv'd passion to a violent death. _phil_. i cannot live without candiope; but i can die, without a murmur, having my doom pronounced from your fair mouth. _queen_. if i am to pronounce it, live, my philocles, but live without, (i was about to say) [_aside_. without his love, but that i cannot do; live philocles without candiope. _phil_. madam, could you give my doom so quickly, and knew it was irrevocable! 'tis too apparent, you, who alone love glory, and whose soul is loosened from your senses, cannot judge what torments mine, of grosser mould, endures. _queen_. i cannot suffer you to give me praises, which are not my own: i love like you, and am yet much more wretched, than you can think yourself. _phil_. weak bars they needs must be, that fortune puts 'twixt sovereign power, and all it can desire. when princes love, they call themselves unhappy; only, because the word sounds handsome in a lover's mouth; but you can cease to be so when you please, by making lysimantes fortunate. _queen_. were he indeed the man, you had some reason; but 'tis another, more without my power, and yet a subject too. _phil_. o, madam, say not so: it cannot be a subject, if not he; it were to be injurious to yourself to make another choice. _queen_. yet, lysimantes, set by him i love, is more obscured, than stars too near the sun: he has a brightness of his own, not borrowed of his father's, but born with him. _phil_. pardon me if i say, whoe'er he be, he has practis'd some ill arts upon you, madam; for he, whom you describe, i see, is born but from the lees o' the people. _queen_. you offend me, philocles. whence had you leave to use those insolent terms, of him i please to love? one, i must tell you, (since foolishly i have gone thus far) whom i esteem your equal, and far superior to prince lysimantes; one, who deserves to wear a crown-- _phil_. whirlwinds bear me hence, before i live to that detested day!--that frown assures me i have offended, by my over-freedom; but yet, methinks, a heart so plain and honest, and zealous of your glory, might hope your pardon for it. _queen_. i give it you; but, when you know him better, you'll alter your opinion; he's no ill friend of yours. _phil_. i well perceive, he has supplanted me in your esteem; but that's the least of ills this fatal wretch has practised--think, for heaven's sake, madam, think, if you have drunk no philtre. _queen_. yes, he has given me a philtre; but i have drunk it only from his eyes. _phil_. hot irons thank 'em for't! [_softly, or turning from her_. _queen_. what's that you mutter? hence from my sight! i know not whether i ever shall endure to see you more. _phil_. but hear me, madam. _queen_. i say, begone.--see me no more this day.-- i will not hear one word in your excuse: now, sir, be rude again; and give laws to your queen. [_exit_ philocles _bowing_. asteria, come hither. was ever boldness like to this of philocles? help me to reproach him, for i resolve henceforth no more to love him. _ast_. truth is, i wondered at your patience, madam: did you not mark his words, his mein, his action, how full of haughtiness, how small respect? _queen_. and he to use me thus, he whom i favoured, nay more, he whom i loved? _ast_. a man, methinks, of vulgar parts and presence! _queen_. or, allow him something handsome, valiant, or so--yet this to me!-- _ast_. the workmanship of inconsiderate favour, the creature of rash love; one of those meteors which monarchs raise from earth, and people, wondering how they came so high, fear, from their influence, plagues, and wars, and famine. _queen_. ha! _ast_. one, whom, instead of banishing a day, you should have plumed of all his borrowed honours, and let him see what abject things they are, whom princes often love without desert. _queen_. what has my philocles deserved from thee, that thou shouldst use him thus? were he the basest of mankind, thou couldst not have given him ruder language. _ast_. did not your majesty command me? did not yourself begin? _queen_. i grant i did, but i have right to do it: i love him, and may rail; in you 'tis malice; malice in the most high degree; for never man was more deserving than my philocles. or, do you love him, ha! and plead that title? confess, and i'll forgive you-- for none can look on him, but needs must love. _ast_. i love him, madam! i beseech your majesty, have better thoughts of me. _queen_. dost thou not love him then? good heaven, how stupid, and how dull is she? how most invincibly insensible! no woman does deserve to live, that loves not philocles. _ast_. dear madam, recollect yourself; alas! how much distracted are your thoughts; and how disjointed all your words! the sibyl's leaves more orderly were laid. where is that harmony of mind, that prudence, which guided all you did? that sense of glory, which raised you high above the rest of kings, as kings are o'er the level of mankind? _queen_. gone, gone, asteria; all is gone, or lost within me, far from any use. sometimes i struggle, like the sun in clouds, but straight i am o'ercast. _ast_. i grieve to see it. _queen_. then thou hast yet the goodness to pardon what i said? alas! i use myself much worse than thee. love rages in great souls, for there his power most opposition finds; high trees are shook, because they dare the winds. [_exeunt_. act iii. scene i.--_the court gallery_. philocles _solus_. 'tis true, she banished me but for a day; but favourites, once declining, sink apace. yet fortune, stop--this is the likeliest place to meet asteria, and by her convey my humble vows to my offended queen. ha! she comes herself; unhappy man, where shall i hide?--[_is going out_. _enter queen and_ asteria. _queen_. is not that philocles, who makes such haste away? philocles, philocles!-- _phil_. i feared she saw me. [_coming back_. _queen_. how now, sir, am i such a bugbear, that i scare people from me? _phil_. 'tis true, i should more carefully have shunned the place where you might be; as, when it thunders, men reverently quit the open air, because the angry gods are then abroad. _queen_. what does he mean, asteria? i do not understand him. _ast_. your majesty forgets, you banished him your presence for this day. [_to her softly_. _queen_. ha! banished him! 'tis true indeed; but, as thou sayest, i had forgot it quite. _ast_. that's very strange, scarce half an hour ago. _queen_. but love had drawn his pardon up so soon, that i forgot he e'er offended me. _phil_. pardon me, that i could not thank you sooner; your sudden grace, like some swift flood poured in on narrow banks, o'erflowed my spirits. _queen_. no: 'tis for me to ask your pardon, philocles, for the great injury i did you, in not remembering i was angry with you: but i'll repair my fault, and rouse my anger up against you yet. _phil_. no, madam, my forgiveness was your act of grace, and i lay hold of it. _queen_. princes sometimes may pass acts of oblivion, in their own wrong. _phil_. 'tis true, but not recal them. _queen_. but, philocles, since i have told you there is one i love, i will go on, and let you know what passed this day betwixt us; be our judge, whether my servant have dealt well with me. _phil_. i beseech your majesty, excuse me: any thing more of him may make me relapse too soon, and forfeit my late pardon. _queen_. but you'll be glad to know it. _phil_. may i not hope, then, you have some quarrel to him? _queen_. yes, a great one. but first to justify myself: know, philocles, i have concealed my passion with such care from him, that he knows not yet i love, but only that i much esteem him. _phil_. o stupid wretch, that, by a thousand tokens, could not guess it! _queen_. he loves elsewhere, and that has blinded him. _phil_. he's blind indeed! so the dull beasts in the first paradise, with levelled eyes, gazed each upon their kind; there fixed their love, and ne'er looked up to view that glorious creature man, their sovereign lord. _queen_. y'are too severe on little faults; but he has crimes, untold, which will, i fear, move you much more against him. he fell this day into a passion with me, and boldly contradicted all i said. _phil_. and stands his head upon his shoulders yet? how long shall this most insolent-- _queen_. take heed you rail not; you know you are but on your good behaviour. _phil_. why then i will not call him traitor, but only rude, audacious, and impertinent, to use his sovereign so--i beg your leave to wish, you have at least imprisoned him. _queen_. some people may speak ill, and yet mean well: remember you were not confined; and yet your fault was great. in short, i love him, and that excuses all; but be not jealous; his rising shall not be your overthrow, nor will i ever marry him. _phil_. that's some comfort yet; he shall not be a king. _queen_. he never shall. but you are discomposed; stay here a little; i have somewhat for you, shall shew, you still are in my favour. [_exeunt queen and_ asteria. _enter to him_ candiope, _weeping_. _phil_. how now, in tears, my fair candiope? so, through a watry cloud, the sun, at once, seems both to weep and shine. for what forefather's sin do you afflict those precious eyes? for sure you have none of your own to weep. _cand_. my crimes both great and many needs must shew, since heaven will punish them with losing you. _phil_. afflictions, sent from heaven without a cause, make bold mankind enquire into its laws. but heaven, which moulding beauty takes such care, makes gentle fates on purpose for the fair: and destiny, that sees them so divine, spins all their fortunes in a silken twine: no mortal hand so ignorant is found, to weave coarse work upon a precious ground. _cand_. go preach this doctrine in my mother's ears. _phil_. has her severity produced these tears? _cand_. she has recalled those hopes she gave before, and strictly bids me ne'er to see you more. _phil_. changes in froward age are natural; who hopes for constant weather in the fall? 'tis in your power your duty to transfer, and place that right in me, which was in her. _cand_. reason, like foreign foes, would ne'er o'ercome, but that i find i am betrayed at home; you have a friend, that fights for you within. _phil_. let reason ever lose, so love may win. _enter queen with a picture in her hand, and_ asteria _queen_. see there, asteria, all we have done succeeds still to the worse; we hindered him from seeing her at home, where i but only heard they loved; and now she comes to court, and mads me with the sight on't. _ast_. dear madam, overcome yourself a little, or they'll perceive how much you are concerned. _queen_. i struggle with my heart-- but it will have some vent. cousin, you are a stranger at the court. [_to_ cand. _cand_. it was my duty, i confess, to attend oftner on your majesty. _queen_. asteria, mend my cousin's handkerchief; it sits too narrow there, and shows too much the broadness of her shoulders--nay, fie, asteria, now you put it too much backward, and discover the bigness of her breasts. _cand_. i beseech your majesty, give not yourself this trouble. _queen_. sweet cousin, you shall pardon me; a beauty such as yours deserves a more than ordinary care, to set it out. come hither, philocles, do but observe, she has but one gross fault in all her shape, that is, she bears up here too much, and the malicious workman has left it open to your eye. _phil_. where, and please your majesty? methinks 'tis very well. _queen_. do not you see it? oh how blind is love! _cand_. and how quick-sighted malice! [_aside_. _queen_. but yet, methinks, those knots of sky do not so well with the dead colour of her face. _ast_. your majesty mistakes, she wants no red. [_the queen here plucks out her glass, and looks sometimes on herself, sometimes on her rival_. _queen_. how do i look to-day, asteria? methinks, not well. _ast_. pardon me, madam, most victoriously. _queen_. what think you, philocles? come, do not flatter. _phil_. paris was a bold man, who presumed, to judge the beauty of a goddess. _cand_. your majesty has given the reason why he cannot judge; his love has blinded him. _queen_. methinks, a long patch here, beneath her eye, might hide that dismal hollowness. what think you, philocles? _cand_. beseech you, madam, ask not his opinion: what my faults are it is no matter; he loves me with them all. _queen_. ay, he may love; but when he marries you, your bridal shall be kept in some dark dungeon. farewell, and think of that, too easy maid! i blush, thou sharest my blood. [_exeunt queen and_ asteria. _cand_. inhuman queen! thou canst not be more willing to resign thy part in me, than i to give up mine. _phil_. love, how few subjects do thy laws fulfil, and yet those few, like us, thou usest ill! _cand_. the greatest slaves, in monarchies, are they, whom birth sets nearest to imperial sway; while jealous power does sullenly o'erspy, we play, like deer, within the lion's eye. 'would i for you some shepherdess had been, and, but each may, ne'er heard the name of queen! _phil_. if you were so, might i some monarch be, then, you should gain what now you lose by me; then, you in all my glories should have part, and rule my empire, as you rule my heart. _cand_. how much our golden wishes are in vain! when they are past, we are ourselves again. _enter queen and_ asteria _above_. _queen_. look, look, asteria, yet they are not gone. hence we may hear what they discourse alone. _phil_. my love inspires me with a generous thought, which you, unknowing in those wishes, taught. since happiness may out of courts be found, why stay we here on this enchanted ground; and chuse not rather with content to dwell (if love and joy can find it) in a cell? _cand_. those who, like you, have once in courts been great, may think they wish, but wish not, to retreat. they seldom go, but when they cannot stay; as losing gamesters throw the dice away. even in that cell, where you repose would find, visions of court will haunt your restless mind; and glorious dreams stand ready to restore the pleasing shapes of all you had before. _phil_. he, who with your possession once is blest, on easy terms will part with all the rest. all my ambition will in you be crowned; and those white arms shall all my wishes bound. our life shall be but one long nuptial day, and, like chafed odours, melt in sweets away; soft as the night our minutes shall be worn, and chearful as the birds, that wake the morn. _cand_. thus hope misleads itself in pleasant way, and takes more joys on trust, than love can pay: but, love with long possession once decayed, that face, which now you court, you will upbraid. _phil_. false lovers broach these tenets, to remove the fault from them, by placing it on love. _cand_. yet grant, in youth you keep alive your fire, old age will come, and then it must expire: youth but a while does at love's temple stay, as some fair inn, to lodge it on the way. _phil_. your doubts are kind; but, to be satisfied i can be true, i beg i may be tried. _cand_. trials of love too dear the making cost; for if successless, the whole venture's lost. what you propose, brings wants and care along. _phil_. love can bear both. _cand_. but is your love so strong? _phil_. they do not want, who wish not to have more; who ever said an anchoret was poor? _cand_. to answer generously, as you have done, i should not by your arguments be won: i know, i urge your ruin by consent; yet love too well, that ruin to prevent. _phil_. like water given to those whom fevers fry, you kill but him, who must without it die. _cand_. secure me, i may love without a crime; then, for our flight, appoint both place and time. _phil_. the ensuing hour my plighted vows shall be; the time's not long; or only long to me. _cand_. then, let us go where we shall ne'er be seen by my hard mother. _phil_. or my cruel queen. [_exeunt_ phil. _and_ cand. _queen above_. o, philocles, unkind to call me cruel! so false aeneas did from dido fly; but never branded her with cruelty. how i despise myself for loving so! _ast_. at once you hate yourself, and love him too. _queen_. no, his ingratitude has cured my wound: a painful cure indeed! _ast_. and yet not sound. his ignorance of your true thoughts excuses this; you did seem cruel, madam. _queen_. but much of kindness still mixed with it. who could mistake so grossly, not to know a cupid frowning, when he draws his bow? _ast_. he's going now to smart for his offence. _queen_. should he, without my leave, depart from hence? _ast_. no matter; since you hate him, let him go. _queen_. but i my hate by my revenge will show: besides, his head's a forfeit to the state. _ast_. when you take that, i will believe you hate. let him possess, and then he'll soon repent; and so his crime will prove his punishment. _queen_. he may repent; but he will first possess. _ast_. o, madam, now your hatred you confess: if his possessing her your rage does move, 'tis jealousy, the avarice of love. _queen_. no more, asteria. seek lysimantes out, bid him set his guards through all the court and city. prevent their marriage first; then stop their flight. some fitting punishments i will ordain, but speak not you of philocles again: 'tis bold to search, and dangerous to find, too much of heaven's, or of a prince's mind. [_queen descends, and exit_. _as the queen has done speaking,_ flavia _is going hastily over the stage;_ asteria _sees her_. _ast_. flavia, flavia, whither so fast? _fla_. did you call, asteria? _ast_. the queen has business with prince lysimantes; speak to any gentleman in the court, to fetch him. [_exit_ asteria _from above_. _fla_. i suspect somewhat, but i'll watch you close; prince lysimantes has not chose in me the worst spy of the court-- celadon! what makes he here? _enter_ celadon, olinda, _and_ sabina; _they walk over the stage together, he seeming to court them_. _olind_. nay, sweet celadon-- _sab_. nay, dear celadon. _fla_. o ho! i see his business now; 'tis with melissa's two daughters: look, look, how he peeps about, to see if the coast be clear; like an hawk that will not plume, if she be looked on. [_exeunt_ cel. olind. _and_ sab. so--at last he has trussed his quarry. _enter_ florimel. _flo_. did you see celadon this way? _fla_. if you had not asked the question, i should have thought you had come from watching him; he's just gone off with melissa's daughters. _flo_. melissa's daughters! he did not court 'em, i hope? _fla_. so busily, he lost no time: while he was teaching the one a tune, he was kissing the other's hand. _flo_. o fine gentleman! _fla_. and they so greedy of him! did you never see two fishes about a bait, tugging it this way and t'other way? for my part, i looked at least he should have lost a leg or arm i'the service.--nay, never vex yourself, but e'en resolve to break with him. _flo_. no, no, 'tis not come to that yet; i'll correct him first, and then hope the best from time. _fla_. from time! believe me, there's little good to be expected from him. i never knew the old gentleman with the scythe and hour-glass bring any thing but grey hair, thin cheeks, and loss of teeth: you see celadon loves others. _flo_. there's the more hope he may love me among the rest: hang it, i would not marry one of these solemn fops; they are good for nothing, but to make cuckolds. give me a servant, that is an high flier at all games, that is bounteous of himself to many women; and yet, whenever i pleased to throw out the lure of matrimony, should come down with a swing, and fly the better at his own quarry. _fla_. but are you sure you can take him down when you think good? _flo_. nothing more certain. _fla_. what wager will you venture upon the trial? _flo_. any thing. _fla_. my maidenhead to yours. _flo_. that's a good one; who shall take the forfeit? _fla_. i'll go and write a letter, as from these two sisters, to summon him immediately; it shall be delivered before you. i warrant, you see a strange combat betwixt the flesh and the spirit: if he leaves you to go to them, you'll grant he loves them better? _flo_. not a jot the more: a bee may pick of many flowers, and yet like some one better than all the rest. _fla_. but then your bee must not leave his sting behind him. _flo_. well; make the experiment however: i hear him coming, and a whole noise of fidlers at his heels. hey-day, what a mad husband shall i have!-- _enter celadon_. _fla_. and what a mad wife will he have! well, i must go a little way, but i'll return immediately, and write it: you'll keep him in discourse the while? [_exit_ fla. _cel_. where are you, madam? what, do you mean to run away thus? pray stand to't, that we may despatch this business. _flo_. i think you mean to watch me, as they do witches, to make me confess i love you. lord, what a bustle have you kept this afternoon? what with eating, singing, and dancing, i am so wearied, that i shall not be in case to hear any more love this fortnight. _cel_. nay, if you surfeit on't before trial, lord have mercy upon you, when i have married you. _flo_. but what king's revenue, do you think, will maintain this extravagant expence? _cel_. i have a damnable father, a rich old rogue, if he would once die! lord, how long does he mean to make it ere he dies! _flo_. as long as ever he can, i'll pass my word for him. _cel_. i think, then, we had best consider him as an obstinate old fellow, that is deaf to the news of a better world; and ne'er stay for him. _flo_. but e'en marry; and get him grandchildren in abundance, and great-grandchildren upon them, and so inch him and shove him out of the world by the very force of new generations--if that be the way, you must excuse me. _cel_. but dost thou know what it is to be an old maid? _flo_. no, nor hope i shan't these twenty years. _cel_. but when that time comes, in the first place, thou wilt be condemned to tell stories, how many men thou mightst have had; and none believe thee: then thou growest forward, and impudently weariest all thy friends to solicit man for thee. _flo_. away with your old common-place-wit: i am resolved to grow fat, and look young till forty, and then slip out of the world, with the first wrinkle, and the reputation of five and twenty. _cel_. well, what think you now of a reckoning betwixt us? _flo_. how do you mean? _cel_. to discount for so many days of my years service, as i have paid in this morning. _flo_. with all my heart. _cel_. _imprimis_, for a treat. _item_, for my glass coach. _item_, for sitting bare, and wagging your fan. and lastly, and principally, for my fidelity to you this long hour and half. _flo_. for this i bate you three weeks of your service; now hear your bill of faults; for your comfort 'tis a short one. _cel_. i know it. _flo_. _imprimis_, _item_, and sum total, for keeping company with melissa's daughters. _cel_. how the pox came you to know of that? gad, i believe the devil plays booty against himself, and tells you of my sins. [_aside_. _flo_. the offence being so small, the punishment shall be but proportionable; i will set you back only half a year. _cel_. you're most unconscionable: when then do you think we shall come together? there's none but the old patriarchs could live long enough to marry you at this rate. what, do you take me for some cousin of methusalem's, that i must stay an hundred years, before i come to beget sons and daughters? _flo_. here's an impudent lover! he complains of me without ever offering to excuse himself; _item_, a fortnight more for that. _cel_. so, there's another puff in my voyage, has blown me back to the north of scotland. _flo_. all this is nothing to your excuse for the two sisters. _cel_. 'faith, if ever i did more than kiss them, and that but once-- _flo_. what could you have done more to me? _cel_. an hundred times more; as thou shalt know, dear rogue, at time convenient. _flo_. you talk, you talk; could you kiss them, though but once, and ne'er think of me? _cel_. nay, if i had thought of thee, i had kissed them over a thousand times, with the very force of imagination. _flo_. the gallants are mightily beholden to you; you have found them out a new way to kiss their mistresses, upon other women's lips. _cel_. what would you have? you are my sultana queen, the rest are but in the nature of your slaves; i may make some slight excursions into the enemy's country for forage, or so, but i ever return to my head quarters. _enter one with a letter_. _cel_. to me? _mess_. if your name be celadon. [_cel. reads softly_. _flo_. he is swallowing the pill; presently we shall see the operation. _cel. to the page_.] child, come hither, child; here's money for thee: so, begone quickly, good child, before any body examines thee: thou art in a dangerous place, child--[_thrusts him out_.] very good; the sisters send me word, they will have the fiddles this afternoon, and invite me to sup there!--now, cannot i forbear, an i should be damned, tho' i have scap'd a scouring so lately for it. yet i love florimel better than both of them together; there's the riddle on't: but only for the sweet sake of variety.--[_aside_.] well, we must all sin, and we must all repent, and there's an end on't. _flo_. what is it, that makes you fidge up and down so? _cel_. 'faith, i am sent for by a very dear friend, and 'tis upon a business of life and death. _flo_. on my life, some woman? _cel_. on my honour, some man; do you think i would lie to you? _flo_. but you engaged to sup with me. _cel_. but i consider it may be scandalous to stay late in your lodgings. adieu, dear miss! if ever i am false to thee again!-- [_exit_ celadon. _flo_. see what constant metal you men are made of! he begins to vex me in good earnest. hang him, let him go and take enough of 'em: and yet, methinks, i can't endure he should neither. lord, that such a mad-cap as i should ever live to be jealous! i must after him. some ladies would discard him now, but i a fitter way for my revenge will find; i'll marry him, and serve him in his kind. [_exit_ flo. act iv. scene i,--_the walks_. melissa, _after her_ olinda _and_ sabina. _mel_. i must take this business up in time: this wild fellow begins to haunt my house again. well, i'll be bold to say it, 'tis as easy to bring up a young lion without mischief, as a maidenhead of fifteen, to make it tame for an husband's bed. not but that the young man is handsome, rich, and young, and i could be content he should marry one of them; but to seduce them both in this manner:--well, i'll examine them apart, and if i can find out which he loves, i'll offer him his choice.--olinda, come hither, child. _olin_. your pleasure, madam? _met_. nothing but for your good, olinda; what think you of celadon? _olin_. why i think he's a very mad fellow; but yet i have some obligements to him: he teaches me new airs of the guitar, and talks wildly to me, and i to him. _mel_. but tell me in earnest, do you think he loves you? _olin_. can you doubt it? there were never two so cut out for one another; we both love singing, dancing, treats, and music. in short, we are each other's counterpart. _mel_. but does he love you seriously? _olin_. seriously?--i know not that; if he did, perhaps i should not love him: but we sit and talk, and wrangle, and are friends; when we are together, we never hold our tongues; and then we have always a noise of fiddles at our heels; he hunts me merrily, as the hound does the hare; and either this is love, or i know it not. _mel_. well, go back, and call sabina to me. [_olinda goes behind_. this is a riddle past my finding out: whether he loves her, or no, is the question; but this, i am sure of, she loves him:--o my little favourite, i must ask you a question concerning celadon: is he in love with you? _sab_. i think, indeed, he does not hate me; at least, if a man's word may be taken for it. _mel_. but what expressions has he made you? _sab_. truly, the man has done his part: he has spoken civilly to me, and i was not so young but i understood him. _mel_. and you could be content to marry him? _sab_. i have sworn never to marry: besides he's a wild young man; yet, to obey you, mother, i would be content to be sacrificed. _mel_. no, no, we would but lead you to the altar. _sab_. not to put off the gentleman neither; for if i have him not, i am resolved to die a maid, that's once, mother. _mel_. both my daughters are in love with him, and i cannot yet find he loves either of them. _olin_. mother, mother, yonder's celadon in the walks. _mel_. peace, wanton; you had best ring the bells for joy. well, i'll not meet him, because i know not which to offer him; yet he seems to like the youngest best: i'll give him opportunity with her. olinda, do you make haste after me. _olin_. this is something hard though. [_exit_ mel. _enter_ celadon. _cel_. you see, ladies, the least breath of yours brings me to you: i have been seeking you at your lodgings, and from thence came hither after you. _sab_. 'twas well you found us. _cel_. found you! half this brightness betwixt you two was enough to have lighted me; i could never miss my way: here's fair olinda has beauty enough for one family; such a voice, such a wit, so noble a stature, so white a skin!-- _olin_. i thought he would be particular at last. [_aside_. _cel_. and young sabina, so sweet an innocence, such a rose-bud newly blown. this is my goodly palace of love, and that my little withdrawing room. a word, madam.--[_to_ sab. _olin_. i like not this--[_aside_.] sir, if you are not too busy with my sister, i would speak with you. _cel_. i come, madam. _sab_. time enough, sir; pray finish your discourse--and as you were a saying, sir,-- _olin_. sweet sir,-- _sab_. sister, you forget, my mother bid you make haste. _olin_. well, go you, and tell her i am coming. _sab_. i can never endure to be the messenger of ill news; but, if you please, i'll send her word you won't come. _olin_. minion, minion, remember this--[_exit olin_. _sab_. she's horribly in love with you. _cel_. lord, who could love that walking steeple! she's so high, that every time she sings to me, i am looking up for the bell that tolls to church.--ha! give me my little fifth-rate, that lies so snug. she! hang her, a dutch-built bottom: she's so tall, there's no boarding her. but we lose time--madam, let me seal my love upon your mouth. [_kiss_] soft and sweet, by heaven! sure you wear rose-leaves between your lips. _sab_. lord, lord, what's the matter with me! my breath grows so short, i can scarce speak to you. _cel_. no matter, give me thy lips again, and i'll speak for thee. _sab_. you don't love me-- _cel_. i warrant thee; sit down by me, and kiss again,--she warms faster than pygmalion's image. [_aside_]--[_kiss_.]--ay marry, sir, this was the original use of lips; talking, eating, and drinking came in by and by. _sab_. nay, pray be civil; will you be at quiet? _cel_. what, would you have me sit still, and look upon you, like a little puppy-dog, that's taught to beg with his fore-leg up? _enter_ florimel. _flo_. celadon the faithful! in good time, sir,-- _cel_. in very good time, florimel; for heaven's sake, help me quickly. _flo_. what's the matter? _cel_. do you not see? here's a poor gentlewoman in a swoon! (swoon away.) i have been rubbing her this half hour, and cannot bring her to her senses. _flo_. alas! how came she so? _cel_. oh barbarous! do you stay to ask questions? run, for charity. _flo_. help, help! alas! poor lady--[_exit_ flo. _sab_. is she gone? _cel_. ay, thanks be to my wit, that helped me at a pinch; i thank heaven, i never pumpt for a lye in all my life yet. _sab_. i am afraid you love her, celadon! _cel_. only as a civil acquaintance, or so; but, however, to avoid slander, you had best be gone before she comes again. _sab_. i can find a tongue as well as she. _cel_. ay, but the truth is, i am a kind of scandalous person, and for you to be seen in my company--stay in the walks, by this kiss i'll be with you presently. _enter_ florimel _running_. _flo_. help, help!--i can find nobody. _cel_. tis needless now, my dear; she's recovered, and gone off; but so wan and weakly,-- _flo_.umph! i begin to smell a rat.--what was your business here, celadon? _cel_. charity, christian charity; you saw i was labouring for life with her. _flo_. but how came you hither?--not that i care this, but only to be satisfied. [_sings_. _cel_. you are jealous, in my conscience! _flo_. who, i jealous!--then i wish this sigh may be the last that ever i may draw. [_sighs_. _cel_. but why do you sigh, then? _flo_. nothing but a cold, i cannot fetch my breath well. but what will you say, if i wrote the letter you had, to try your faith? _cel_. hey day! this is just the devil and the sinner; you lay snares for me, and then punish me for being taken: here's trying a man's faith indeed!--what, do you think i had the faith of a stock, or of a stone? nay, an you go to tantalize a man--i love upon the square, i can endure no tricks to be used to me. [olinda _and_ sabina _at the door peeping_. _olin_. and _sab_. celadon! celadon! _flo_. what voices are those? _cel_. some comrades of mine, that call me to play.--pox on them, they'll spoil all. [_aside_. _flo_. pray, let's see them. _cel_. hang them, tatterdemallions! they are not worth your sight.--pray, gentlemen, begone; i'll be with you immediately. _sab_. no; we'll stay here for you. _flo_. do your gentlemen speak with treble voices? i am resolved to see what company you keep. _cel_. nay, good my dear. [_he lays hold of her to pull her back, she lays hold of_ olinda, _by whom_ sabina _holds; so that, he pulling, they all come in_. _flo_. are these your comrades? [sings.] _'tis strephon calls, what would my love?_ why do you not roar out, like a great bass-viol, _come follow to the myrtle-grove_.--pray, sir, which of these fair ladies is it, for whom you were to do the courtesy? for it were unconscionable to leave you to them both:--what, a mans but a man, you know. _olin_. the gentleman may find an owner. _sab_. though not of you. _flo_. pray, agree whose the lost sheep is, and take him. _cel_. 'slife, they'll cry me anon, and tell my marks. _flo_. troth, i pity your highness there; i perceive he has left you for the little one: methinks he should have been afraid to break his neck, when he fell so high as from you to her. _sab_. well, my drolling lady, i may be even with you. _flo_. not this ten years, by the growth, yet. _sab_. can flesh and blood endure this! _flo_. how now, my amazon _in decimo sexto_! _olin_. do you affront my sister? _flo_. ay; but thou art so tall, i think i shall never affront thee. _sab_. come away, sister; we shall be jeered to death else. [_exeunt_ olin. _and_ sab. _flo_. why do you look that way? you can't forbear leering after the forbidden fruit.--but whene'er i take a wencher's word again! _cel_. a wencher's word!--why should you speak so contemptibly of the better half of mankind? i'll stand up for the honour of my vocation. _flo_. you are in no fault, i warrant!--'ware my busk[a]. [footnote a: the now almost forgotten _busk_ was a small slip of steel or wood, used to stiffen the stays. florimel threatens to employ it as a rod of chastisement.] _cel_. not to give a fair lady the lie, i am in fault; but otherwise--come, let us be friends, and let me wait on you to your lodgings. _flo_. this impudence shall not save you from my table-book. _item_, a month more for this fault. [_they walk to the door_. _ sold. [within.]_ stand!-- _ sold_. stand, give the word! _cel_. now, what's the meaning of this, trow?--guards set! _ sold_. give the word, or you cannot pass:--these are they, brother; let's in and seize them. _the two soldiers enter_. _ sold_. down with him! _ sold_. disarm him!_cel_. how now, rascals?-- [_draws, and beats one off, and catches the other_. ask your life, you villain. _ sold_. quarter! quarter! _cel_. was ever such an insolence? _ sold_. we did but our duty;--here we were set to take a gentleman and lady, that would steal a marriage without the queen's consent, and we thought you had been they. [_exit sold_. _flo_. your cousin philocles, and the princess candiope, on my life! for i heard the queen give private orders to lysimantes, and name them twice or thrice. _cel_. i know a score or two of madcaps here hard by, whom i can pick up from taverns, and gaming-houses, and bordels; those i'll bring to aid him,--now, florimel, there's an argument for wenching: where would you have had so many honest men together, upon the sudden, for a brave employment? _flo_. you'll leave me then, to take my fortune? _cel_. no:--if you will, i'll have you into the places aforesaid, and enter you into good company. _flo_. 'thank you, sir; here's a key, will let me through this back-door to my own lodgings. _cel_. if i come off with life, i'll see you this evening; if not,--adieu, florimel! _flo_. if you come not, i shall conclude you are killed; or taken, to be hanged for a rebel to-morrow morning: and then i'll honour your memory with a lampoon, instead of an epitaph. _cel_. no, no! i trust better in my fate: i know i am reserved to do you a courtesy. [_exit_ cel. [_as_ florimel _is unlocking the door to go out,_ flavia _opens it against her, and enters to her, followed by a page_. _fla_. florimel, do you hear the news? _flo_. i guess they are in pursuit of philocles. _fla_. when lysimantes came with the queen's orders, he refused to render up candìope; and, with some few brave friends he had about him, is forcing of his way through all the guards. _flo_. a gallant fellow!--i'll in, will you with me?-- hark! the noise comes this way! _fla_. i have a message from the queen to lysimantes.-- i hope i may be safe among the soldiers. _flo_. oh, very safe!--perhaps some honest fellow in the tumult may take pity of thy maidenhead, or so.--adieu! [_exit_ flo. _page_. the noise comes nearer, madam. _fla_. i am glad on't.--this message gives me the opportunity of speaking privately with lysimantes. _enter_ philocles _and_ candiope, _with three friends, pursued by_ lysimantes, _and soldiers_. _lys_. what is it renders you thus obstinate? you have no hope of flight, and to resist is full as vain. _phil_. i'll die rather than yield her up. _fla_. my lord! _lys_. how now? some new message from the queen?-- retire a while to a convenient distance. [_to the soldiers_. lys. _and_ flav. _whisper_. _lys_. o flavia, 'tis impossible! the queen in love with philocles! _fla_. i have suspected it before; but now my ears and eyes are witnesses. this hour i overheard her, to asteria, making such sad complaints of her hard fate!-- for my part, i believe, you lead him back but to his coronation. _lys_. hell take him first! _fla_. presently after this she called for me, and bid me run, and, with strict care, command you, on peril of your life, he had no harm: but, sir, she spoke it with so great concernment, methought i saw love, anger, and despair, all combating at once upon her face. _lys_. tell the queen,--i know not what, i am distracted so.-- but go, and leave me to my thoughts.-- [_exit_ flavia. was ever such amazing news, told in so strange and critical a moment?-- what shall i do?-- does she love philocles, who loves not her; and loves not lysimantes, who prefers her above his life?--what rests, but that i take this opportunity, which she herself has given me, to kill this happy rival!-- assist me, soldiers! _phil_. they shall buy me dearly. _cand_. ah me, unhappy maid! _enter _celadon, _with his friends, unbuttoned and reeling_. _cel_. courage, my noble cousin! i have brought a band of blades, the bravest youths of syracuse; some drunk, some sober, all resolved to run your fortune to the utmost.--fall on, mad boys! _lys_. hold a little!--i'm not secure of victory against these desperate ruffians. _cel_. no, but i'll secure you! they shall cut your throat for such another word of them. ruffians, quoth a'! call gamesters, whoremasters, and drunkards, ruffians! _lys_. pray, gentlemen, fall back a little. _cel_. o ho, are they gentlemen now with you!--speak first to your gentlemen soldiers to retire; and then i'll speak to my gentlemen ruffians. [cel. _signs to his party_. there's your disciplined men now.--[_they sign, and the soldiers retire on both sides_. come, gentlemen, let's lose no time: while they are talking, let's have one merry main before we die, for mortality sake. _ fr_. agreed! here's my cloak for a table. _ fr_. and my hat for a box. [_they lie down and throw_. _lys_. suppose i killed him! 'twould but exasperate the queen the more: he loves not her, nor knows he she loves him:-- sudden thought is come into my head,-- so to contrive it, that this philocles, and these his friends, shall bring to pass that for me, which i could never compass.--true, i strain a point of honour; but then her usage to me-- it shall be so.-- pray, philocles, command your soldiers off; as i will mine: i've somewhat to propose, which you perhaps may like. _can_. i will not leave him. _lys_. 'tis my desire you should not. _phil_. cousin, lead off your friends. _cel_. one word in your ear, coz:--let me advise you, either make your own conditions, or never agree with him: his men are poor rogues, they can never stand before us. [_exeunt all but_ lys. phil. _and_ cand. _lys_. suppose some friend, ere night, should bring you to possess all you desire; and not so only, but secure forever the nation's happiness? _phil_. i would think of him, as some god or angel. _lys_. that god or angel you and i may be to one another. we have betwixt us an hundred men; the citadel you govern: what were it now to seize the queen? _phil_. o impiety! to seize the queen!-- to seize her, said you? _lys_. the word might be too rough,--i meant, secure her. _phil_. was this your proposition?-- and had you none to make it to but me? _lys_. pray hear me out, ere you condemn me!-- i would not the least violence were offered her person. two small grants is all i ask; to make me happy in herself, and you in your candiope. _cand_. and will not you do this, my philocles?-- nay, now my brother speaks but reason. _phil_. interest makes all seem reason, that leads to it. interest, that does the zeal of sects create, to purge a church, and to reform a state. _lys_. in short, the queen hath sent to part you two:-- what more she means to her, i know not. _phil_. to her, alas!--why, will not you protect her? _lys_. with you i can; but where's my power alone? _cand_. you know she loves me not: you lately heard her, how she insulted over me: how she despised that beauty, which you say i have.-- i see, she purposes my death. _phil_. why do you fright me with it? 'tis in your brother's power to let us 'scape, and then you run no danger. _lys_. true, i may; but then my head must pay the forfeit of it. _phil_. o wretched philocles! whither would love hurry thee headlong? _lys_. cease these exclamations. there's no danger on your side: 'tis but to live without my sister; resolve that, and you have shot the gulf. _phil_. to live without her! is that nothing, think you? the damned in hell endure no greater pain, than seeing heaven from far with hopeless eyes. _cand_. candiope must die, and die for you:-- see it not unrevenged at least. _phil_. ha, unrevenged! on whom should i revenge it?-- but yet she dies, and i may hinder it? 'tis i then murder my candiope:-- and yet, should i take arms against my queen! that favoured me, raised me to what i am?-- alas! it must not be. _lys_. he cools again.--[_aside_. true, she once favoured you; but now i am informed. she is besotted on an upstart wretch so far, that she intends to make him master both of her crown and person. _phil_. knows he that! then, what i dreaded most is come to pass.--[_aside_. i am convinced of the necessity; let us make haste to raze that action from the annals of her reign: no motive but her glory could have wrought me. i am a traitor to her, to preserve her from treason to herself: yet heaven knows, with what a heavy heart philocles turns reformer. but have care this fault of her strange passion take no air. let not the vulgar blow upon her fame. _lys_. i will be careful:--shall we go, my lord? _phil_. time wastes apace; each first prepare his men.-- come, my candiope. [_exeunt_ phil. _and_ cand. _lys_. this ruins him forever with the queen; the odium's half his, the profit all my own. those who, like me, by others' help would climb, to make them sure, must dip them in their crime. [_exit_. scene ii.--_the queen's apartments_. _enter queen and_ asteria. _queen_. no more news yet from philocles? _ast_. none, madam, since flavia's return. _queen_. o, my asteria! if you loved me, sure you would say something to me of my philocles! i could speak ever of him. _ast_. madam, you commanded me no more to name him to you. _queen_. then i command you now, speak of nothing else:-- i charge you here, on your allegiance, tell me what i should do with him? _ast_. when you gave orders that he should be taken, you seemed resolved how to dispose of him. _queen_. dull asteria! not to know, mad people never think the same thing twice!-- alas! i'm hurried restless up and down:-- i was in anger once, and then i thought i had put into shore: but now a gust of love blows hard against me, and bears me off again. _ast_. shall i sing the song, you made of philocles, and called it _secret love_? _queen_. do; for that's all kindness. and while thou singest it, i can think nothing but what pleases me. song. _i feed a flame within, which so torments me, that it both pains my heart, and yet contents me: 'tis such a pleasing smart, and i so love if, that i had rather die, than once remove it. yet he, for whom i grieve, shall never know it; my tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it. not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses, but they fall silently, like dew on roses. thus, to prevent my love from being cruel, my heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel: and while i suffer this to give him quiet, my faith rewards my love, though he deny it. on his eyes will i gaze, and there delight me; while i conceal my love no frown can fright me: to be more happy, i dare not aspire; nor can i fall more low, mounting no higher_. _queen_. peace!--methinks i hear the noise of clashing swords, and clattering arms below. _enter_ flavia. now; what news, that you press in so rudely? _fla_. madam, the worst that can be:-- your guards upon the sudden are surprised, disarmed; some slain; all scattered. _queen_. by whom? _fla_. prince lysimantes, and lord philocles. _queen_. it cannot be; philocles is a prisoner. _fla_. what my eyes saw,-- _queen_. pull them out; they are false spectacles. _ast_. o, virtue! impotent and blind as fortune! who would be good, or pious, if this queen, thy great example, suffers! _queen_. peace, asteria! accuse not virtue; she has but given me a great occasion of showing what i am, when fortune leaves me. _ast_. philocles to do this! _queen_. ay, philocles!--i must confess 'twas hard!-- but there's a fate in kindness, still to be least returned, where most 'tis given.-- where's candiope? _fla_. philocles was whispering to her. _queen_. hence, screech-owl!--call my guards quickly there!-- put them apart in several prisons!-- alas! i had forgot, i have no guards, but those which are my jailors. never 'till now unhappy queen! the use of power, till lost, is seldom known; now, i should strike, i find my thunder gone. [_exeunt queen and_ flav. philocles _enters, and meets_ asteria _going out_. _phil_. asteria, where's the queen? _ast_. ah, my lord! what have you done? i came to seek you. _phil_. is it from her you come? _ast_. no; but on her behalf:--her heart's too great, in this low ebb of fortune, to entreat. _phil_. tis but a short eclipse, which past, a glorious day will soon ensue.-- but i would ask a favour too from you. _ast_. when conquerors petition, they command: those, that can captive queens, who can withstand? _phil_. she, with her happiness, might mine create; yet seems indulgent to her own ill fate: but she in secret hates me, sure; for why, if not, should she candiope deny? _ast_. if you dare trust my knowledge of her mind, she has no thoughts of you that are unkind. _phil_. i could my sorrows with some patience bear, did they proceed from any one but her: but from the queen! whose person i adore, by duty much, by inclination more. _ast_. he is inclined already; did he know, that she loved him, how would his passion grow! [_aside_. _phil_. that her fair hand with destiny combines! fate ne'er strikes deep, but when unkindness joins: for, to confess the secret of my mind, something so tender for the queen i find, that even candiope can scarce remove, and, were she lower, i should call it love. _ast_. she charged me, not this secret to betray; but i best serve her, if i disobey. for, if he loves, 'twas for her interest done; if not, he'll keep it secret for his own. [_aside._ _phil_. why are you in obliging me so slow? _ast_. the thing's of great importance, you would know; and you must first swear secresy to all. _phil_. i swear. _ast_. yet hold; your oath's too general: swear that candiope shall never know. _phil_. i swear. _ast_. no; not the queen herself. _phil_. i vow. _ast_. you wonder why i am so cautious grown, in telling what concerns yourself alone: but spare my vow, and guess what it may be, that makes the queen deny candiope: 'tis neither heat, nor pride, that moves her mind; methinks the riddle is not hard to find. _phil_. you seem so great a wonder to intend, as were, in me, a crime to apprehend. _ast_. 'tis not a crime to know; but would be one, to prove ungrateful when your duty's known. _phil_. why would you thus my easy faith abuse: i cannot think the queen so ill would chuse. but stay, now your imposture will appear; she has herself confessed she loved elsewhere: on some ignoble choice has placed her heart, one, who wants quality, and more, desert. _ast_. this, though unjust, you have most right to say; for, if you'll rail against yourself, you may. _phil_. dull that i was! a thousand things now crowd my memory. that make me know it could be none but i. her rage was love; and its tempestuous flame, like lightning, showed the heaven from whence it came. but in her kindness my own shame i see; have i dethroned her, then for loving me? i hate myself for that which i have done, much more, discovered, than i did unknown. how does she brook her strange imprisonment? _ast_. as great souls should, that make their own content. the hardest term, she for your act could find, was only this, o philocles, unkind! then, setting free a sigh, from her fair eyes she wiped two pearls, the remnant of wild showers, which hung like drops upon the bells of flowers: and thanked the heavens, which better did, what she designed, pursue, without her crime, to give her power to you. _phil_. hold, hold! you set my thoughts so near a crown, they mount above my reach, to pull them down: here constancy, ambition there does move; on each side beauty, and on both sides love. _ast_. methinks the least you can, is to receive this love with reverence, and your former leave. _phil_. think but what difficulties come between! _ast_. 'tis wondrous difficult to love a queen. _phil_. for pity, cease more reasons to provide, i am but too much yielding to your side; and, were my heart but at my own dispose, i should not make a scruple now to chuse. _ast_. then if the queen will my advice approve, her hatred to you shall expel her love. _phil_. not to be loved by her as hard would be, as to be hated by candiope. _ast_. i leave you to resolve while you have time; you must be guilty, but may chuse your crime. [_exit_ asteria. _phil_. one thing i have resolved; and that i'll do, both for my love, and for my honour too; but then (ingratitude and falsehood weighed), i know not which would most my soul upbraid. fate shoves me headlong down a rugged way; unsafe to run, and yet too steep to stay. [_exit_ phil. act v. scene i.--_the court_. florimel _in man's habit_. _flor_. 'twill be rare now, if i can go through with it, to outdo this mad celadon in all his tricks, and get both his mistresses from him; then i shall revenge myself upon all three, and save my own stake into the bargain; for i find i do love the rogue, in spite of all his infidelities. yonder they are, and this way they must come. if clothes and a _bon mien_ will take them, i shall do it.--save you, monsieur florimel! faith, me thinks you are a very janty fellow, _poudré et ajusté_, as well as the best of 'em. i can manage the little comb; set my hat, shake my garniture, toss about my empty noddle, walk with a courant slur, and at every step peck down my head: if i should be mistaken for some courtier now, pray where's the difference? _enter, to her,_ celadon, olinda, _and_ sabina. _olin_. never mince the matter! _sab_. you have left your heart behind with florimel; we know it. _cel_. you know you wrong me: when i am with florimel, 'tis still your prisoner, it only draws a longer chain after it. _flo_. is it e'en so! then farewell, poor florimel! thy maidenhead is condemned to die with thee. _cel_. but let's leave this discourse; 'tis all digression, that does not speak of your beauties. _flo_. now for me, in the name of impudence!--[_comes forward_.] they are the greatest beauties, i confess, that ever i beheld-- _cel_. how now, what's the meaning of this young fellow? _flo_. and therefore i cannot wonder that this gentleman, who has the honour to be known to you, should admire you, since i, that am a stranger-- _cel_. and a very impudent one, as i take it, sir. _flo_. am so extremely surprised, that i admire, love, am wounded, and am dying, all in a moment. _cel_. i have seen him somewhere, but where i know not:--pry'thee, my friend, leave us; dost thou think, we do not know our way in court? _flo_. i pretend not to instruct you in your way; you see i do not go before you; but you cannot possibly deny me the happiness to wait upon these ladies; me, who-- _cel_. thee, who shalt be beaten most unmercifully, if thou dost follow them. _flo_. you will not draw in court, i hope? _cel_. pox on him, let's walk away faster, and be rid of him. _flo_. o, take no care for me, sir! you shall not lose me; i'll rather mend my pace, than not wait on you. _olin_. i begin to like this fellow. _cel_. you make very bold here in my seraglio, and i shall find a time to tell you so, sir. _flo_. when you find a time to tell me on't, i shall find a time to answer you: but, pray, what do you find in yourself so extraordinary, that you should serve these ladies better than i? let me know what 'tis you value yourself upon, and let them judge betwixt us. _cel_. i am somewhat more a man than you. _flo_. that is, you are so much older than i:--do you like a man ever the better for his age, ladies? _sab_. well said, young-gentleman. _cel_. pish, thee! a young raw creature; thou hast ne'er been under the barber's hands yet. _flo_. no, nor under the surgeon's neither, as you have been. _cel_. 'slife, what would'st thou be at? i am madder than thou art. _flo_. the devil you are! i'll tope with you; i'll sing with you; i'll dance with you;--i'll swagger with you-- _cel_. i'll fight with you. _flo_. out upon fighting; 'tis grown so common a fashion, that a modish man condemns it; a man of garniture and feather is above the dispensation of the sword. _olin_. uds my life! here's the queen's music just going to us; you shall decide your quarrel by a dance. _sab_. who stops the fiddles? _cel_. base and treble, by your leaves, we arrest you at these ladies' suits. _flo_. come on, sirs, play me a jig; you shall see how i'll baffle him. dance. _flo_. your judgment, ladies. _olin_. you, sir; you, sir: this is the rarest gentleman! i could live and die with him-- _sab_. lord, how he sweats! please you, sir, to make use of my handkerchief? _olin_. you and i are merry, and just of an humour, sir; therefore we two should love one another. _sab_. and you and i are just of an age, sir; and therefore, methinks, we should not hate one another. _cel_. then i perceive, ladies, i am a castaway, a reprobate, with you: why, 'faith, this is hard luck now, that i should be no less than one whole hour in getting your affections, and now must lose 'em in a quarter of it. _olin_. no matter, let him rail; does the loss afflict you, sir? _cel_. no, in faith, does it not; for if you had not forsaken me, i had you: so the willows may flourish, for any branches i shall rob 'em of. _sab_. however, we have the advantage to have left you; not you us. _cel_. that's only a certain nimbleness in nature, you women have, to be first inconstant; but if you had not made the more haste, the wind was veering too upon my weathercock: the best on't is, florimel is worth both of you. _flo_. 'tis like she'll accept of their leavings. _cel_. she will accept on't, and she shall accept on't: i think i know more than you of her mind, sir. _enter_ melissa. _mel_. daughters, there's a poor collation within, that waits for you. _flo_. will you walk, musty sir? _cel_. no, marry, sir, i will not; i have surfeited of that old woman's face already. _flo_. begin some frolic, then; what will you do for her? _cel_. faith, i am no dog, to show tricks for her; i cannot come aloft to an old woman. _flo_. dare you kiss her? _cel_. i was never dared by any man. by your leave, old madam-- [_he plucks off her ruff_. _mel_. help! help! do you discover my nakedness? _cel_. peace, tiffany! no harm! [_he puts on the ruff_.] now, sir, here's florimel's health to you. [_kisses her_. _mel_. away, sir!--a sweet young man as you are, to abuse the gift of nature so! _cel_. good mother, do not commend me so; i am flesh and blood, and you do not know what you may pluck upon that reverend person of yours.--come on, follow your leader. [_gives_ florimel _the ruff; she puts it on_. _flo_. stand fair, mother-- _cel_. what, with your hat on? lie thou there;--and thou, too-- [_plucks off her hat and peruke, and discovers_ florimel. _all_. florimel! _flo_. my kind mistresses, how sorry i am, i can do you no further service! i think i had best resign you to celadon, to make amends for me. _cel_. lord! what a misfortune it was, ladies, that the gentleman could not hold forth to you? _olin_. we have lost celadon too. _mel_. come away; this is past enduring. [_exeunt_ mel. _and_ olin. _sab_. well, if ever i believe a man to be a man, for the sake of a peruke and feather again.-- _flo_. come, celadon, shall we make accounts even? lord! what a hanging-look was there? indeed, if you had been recreant to your mistress, or had forsworn your love, that sinner's face had been but decent; but, for the virtuous, the innocent, the constant celadon! _cel_. this is not very heroic in you now, to insult over a man in his misfortunes; but take heed, you have robb'd me of my two mistresses; i shall grow desperately constant, and all the tempest of my love will fall upon your head: i shall so pay you!-- _flo_. who, you pay me! you are a bankrupt, cast beyond all possibility of recovery. _cel_. if i am a bankrupt, i'll be a very honest one; when i cannot pay my debts, at least i'll give you up the possession of my body. _flo_. no, i'll deal better with you; since you are unable to pay, i'll give in your bond. _enter_ philocles _with a commanders staff in his hand, attended_. _phil_. cousin, i am sorry i must take you from your company about an earnest business. _flo_. there needs no excuse, my lord; we had despatched our affairs, and were just parting. _cel_. will you be going, sir? sweet sir,--damn'd sir!--i have but one word more to say to you. _flo_. as i am a man of honour, i'll wait on you some other time. _cel_. by these breeches,-- _flo_. which, if i marry you, i am resolved to wear; put that into our bargain, and so adieu, sir. [_exit_ flo. _phil_. hark you, cousin,--[_they whisper_. you'll see it exactly executed; i rely upon you. _cel_. i shall not fail, my lord; may the conclusion of it prove happy to you. [_exit_ cel. philocles _solus_. wheree'er i cast about my wandering eyes, greatness lies ready in some shape to tempt me. the royal furniture in every room, the guards, and the huge waving crowds of people, all waiting for a sight of that fair queen, who makes a present of her love to me: now tell me, stoick! if all these with a wish might be made thine, would'st thou not truck thy ragged virtue for 'em? if glory was a bait, that angels swallow'd, how then should souls allied to sense resist it? _enter_ candiope. ah poor candiope! i pity her, but that is all.-- _cand_. o my dear philocles! a thousand blessings wait on thee! the hope of being thine, i think, will put me past my meat and sleep with ecstasy, so i shall keep the fasts of seraphims, and wake for joy, like nightingales in may. _phil_. wake, philocles, wake from thy dream of glory, 'tis all but shadow to candiope: canst thou betray a love so innocent? [_aside_. _cand_. what makes you melancholick? i doubt, i have displeased you. _phil_. no, my love, i am not displeased with you, but with myself, when i consider, how little i deserve you. _cand_. say not so, my philocles; a love so true as yours, that would have left a court, and a queen's favour, to live in a poor hermitage with me,-- _phil_. ha! she has stung me to the quick! as if she knew the falsehood i intended: but, i thank heaven, it has recall'd my virtue; [_aside_. oh! my dear, i love you, and you only; [_to her_. go in, i have some business for a while; but i think minutes ages till we meet. _cand_. i knew you had; but yet i could not chuse, but come and look upon you. [_exit_ candiope. _phil_. what barbarous man would wrong so sweet a virtue! _enter the queen in black, with_ asteria. madam, the states are straight to meet; but why in these dark ornaments will you be seen? _queen_. they fit the fortune of a captive queen. _phil_. deep shades are thus to heighten colours set; so stars in night, and diamonds shine in jet. _queen_. true friends should so in dark afflictions shine, but i have no great cause to boast of mine. _phil_. you may have too much prejudice for some, and think them false, before their trials come. but, madam, what determine you to do? _queen_. i came not here to be advised by you: but charge you, by that power which once you owned, and which is still my right, even when unthroned, that whatsoe'er the states resolve of me, you never more think of candiope. _phil_. not think of her! ah, how should i obey! her tyrant eyes have forced my heart away. _queen_. by force retake it from those tyrant eyes, i'll grant you out my letters of reprise. _phil_. she has too well prevented that design, by giving me her heart, in change for mine. _queen_. thus foolish indians gold for glass forego; 'twas to your loss you prized your heart so low. i set its value when you were advanced, and as my favours grew, its rate enhanced. _phil_. the rate of subjects' hearts by yours must go, and love in yours has set the value low. _queen_. i stand corrected, and myself reprove; you teach me to repent my low-placed love: help me this passion from my heart to tear!-- now rail on him, and i will sit and hear. _phil_. madam, like you, i have repented too, and dare not rail on one, i do not know. _queen_. this, philocles, like strange perverseness shews, as if whate'er i said you would oppose; how come you thus concerned for this unknown? _phil_. i only judge his actions by my own. _queen_. i've heard too much, and you too much have said. o heavens, the secret of my soul's betrayed! he knows my love, i read it in his face, and blushes, conscious of his queen's disgrace. [_aside_. hence quickly, hence, or i shall die with shame. [_to him._ _phil_. now i love both, and both with equal flame. wretched i came, more wretched i retire: when two winds blow it, who can quench the fire? [_exit_ philocles. _queen_. o my asteria! i know not whom to accuse; but either my own eyes, or you, have told my love to philocles. _ast_. is't possible that he should know it, madam? _queen_. methinks, you ask that question guiltily. [_lays her hand on_ asteria's _shoulder._ confess, for i will know, what was the subject of your long discourse i'th' antichamber with him. _ast_. it was business to convince him, madam, how ill he did, being so much obliged, to join in your imprisonment. _queen_. nay, now i am confirmed my thought was true; for you could give him no such reason of his obligements, as my love. _ast_. because i saw him much a malecontent, i thought to win him to your interest, madam, by telling him it was no want of kindness, made your refusal of candiope. and he, perhaps-- _queen_. what of him now? _ast_. as men are apt, interpreted my words, to all the advantage he could wrest the sense, as if i meant you loved him. _queen_. have i deposited within thy breast the dearest treasure of my life, my glory, and hast thou thus betrayed me! but why do i accuse thy female weakness, and not my own, for trusting thee! unhappy queen, philocles knows thy fondness, and needs must think it done by thy command. _ast_. dear madam, think not so. _queen_. peace, peace, thou should'st for ever hold thy tongue: for it has spoke too much for all thy life. [_to her_. then philocles has told candiope, and courts her kindness with his scorn of me. o whither am i fallen! but i must rouse myself, and give a stop to all these ills by headlong passion caused. in hearts resolved weak love is put to flight, and only conquers, when we dare not fight. but we indulge our harms, and, while he gains an entrance, please ourselves into our pains. _enter_ lysimantes. _ast_. prince lysimantes, madam. _queen_. come near, you poor deluded criminal; see how ambition cheats you: you thought to find a prisoner here, but you behold a queen. _lys_. and may you long be so! 'tis true, this act may cause some wonder in your majesty. _queen_. none, cousin, none; i ever thought you ambitious, proud, designing. _lys_. yet all my pride, designs, and my ambition, were taught me by a master, with whom you are not unacquainted, madam. _queen_. explain yourself; dark purposes, like yours, need an interpretation. _lys_. 'tis love, i mean. _queen_. have my low fortunes given thee this insolence, to name it to thy queen? _lys_. yet you have heard, love named without offence. as much below you as you think my passion, i can look down on yours. _queen_. does he know it too! this is the extremest malice of my stars! [_aside_. _lys_. you see that princes' faults, (howe'er they think them safe from public view) fly out thro the dark crannies of their closets: we know what the sun does, even when we see him not, in t'other world. _queen_. my actions, cousin, never feared the light. _lys_. produce him, then, your darling of the dark. for such an one you have. _queen_. i know no such. _lys_. you know, but will not own him. _queen_. rebels ne'er want pretence to blacken kings, and this, it seems, is yours: do you produce him, or ne'er hereafter sully my renown with this aspersion:--sure he dare not name him. [_aside_. _lys_. i am too tender of your frame; or else-- nor are things brought to that extremity: provided you accept my passion, i'll gladly yield to think i was deceived. _queen_. keep in your error still; i will not buy your good opinion at so dear a rate, and my own misery, by being yours. _lys_. do not provoke my patience by such scorns. for fear i break through all, and name him to you. _queen_. hope not to fright me with your mighty looks; know, i dare stem that tempest in your brow, and dash it back upon you. _lys_. spite of prudence it will out:--'tis philocles! now judge, when i was made a property to cheat myself, by making him your prisoner, whether i had not right to take up arms? _queen_. poor envious wretch! was this the venom that swelled up thy breast? my grace to philocles mis-deemed my love! _lys_. tis true, the gentleman is innocent; he ne'er sinned up so high, not in his wishes; you know he loves elsewhere. _queen_. you mean your sister. _lys_. i wish some sibyl now would tell me, why you refused her to him. _queen_. perhaps i did not think him worthy of her. _lys_. did you not think him too worthy, madam? this is too thin a veil to hide your passion; to prove you love him not, yet give her him, and i'll engage my honour to lay down my arms. _queen_. he is arrived where i would wish-- [_aside_. call in the company, and you shall see what i will do. _lys_. who waits without there? [_exit_ lys. _queen_. now hold, my heart, for this one act of honour, and i will never ask more courage of thee: once more i have the means to reinstate myself into my glory. i feel my love to philocles within me shrink, and pull back my heart from this hard trial. but it must be, when glory says it must: as children, wading from some river's bank, first try the water with their tender feet; then, shuddering up with cold, step back again, and straight a little further venture on, till, at the last, they plunge into the deep, and pass, at once, what they were doubting long: i'll make the experiment; it shall be done in haste, because i'll put it past my power to undo. _enter at one door_ lysimantes, _at the other_ philocles, celadon, candiope, florimel, flavia, olinda, sabina, _the three deputies, and soldiers_. _lys_. in arms! is all well, philocles? _phil_. no, but it shall be. _queen_. he comes, and with him the fever of my love returns to shake me. i see love is not banished from my soul; he is still there, but is chained up by glory. _ast_. you've made a noble conquest, madam. _queen_. come hither philocles: i am first to tell you, i and my cousin are agreed; he has engaged to lay down arms. _phil_. 'tis well for him he has; for all his party, by my command, already are surprised, while i was talking with your majesty. _cel_. yes, 'faith, i have done him that courtesy; i brought his followers, under pretence of guarding it, to a strait place, where they are all coupt up without use of their arms, and may be pelted to death by the small infantry o'er the town. _queen_. 'twas more than i expected, or could hope; yet still i thought your meaning honest. _phil_. my fault was rashness, but 'twas full of zeal: nor had i e'er been led to that attempt, had i not seen, it would be done without me: but by compliance i preserved the power, which i have since made use of for your service. _queen_. and which i purpose so to recompence-- _lys_. with her crown, she means: i knew 'twould come to it. [_aside_. _phil_. o heavens, she'll own her love! then i must lose candiope for ever, and, floating in a vast abyss of glory, seek and not find myself!-- _queen_. take your candiope; and be as happy as love can make you both:--how pleased i am, that i can force my tongue to speak words, so far distant from my heart! [_aside_. _cand_. my happiness is more than i can utter! _lys_. methinks i could do violence on myself, for taking arms against a queen, so good, so bountiful: give me leave, madam, in my ecstasy of joy, to give you thanks for philocles:-- you have preserved my friend, and now he owes not his fortunes only to your favour; but, what's more, his life, and, more than that, his love. i am convinced, she never loved him now; since by her free consent, all force removed, she gives him to my sister. flavia was an impostor, and deceived me. [_aside_. _phil_. as for me, madam, i can only say, that i beg respite for my thanks; for, on a sudden, the benefit's so great, it overwhelms me. _ast_. mark but the faintness of the acknowledgement. [_to the queen, aside_. _queen to ast_.] i have observed it with you, and am pleased, he seems not satisfied; for i still wish that he may love me. _phil_. i see asteria deluded me, with flattering hopes of the queen's love. only to draw me off from lysimantes: but i will think no more on't. i'm going to possess candiope, and i am ravished with the joy on't!--ha! not ravished neither. for what can be more charming than that queen! behold how night sits lovely on her eye-brows, while day breaks from her eyes! then a crown too: lost, lost, for ever lost; and now 'tis gone, tis beautiful.--[_aside_. _ant_. how he eyes you still! [_to the queen._ _phil_. sure i had one of the fallen angels' dreams; all heaven within this hour was mine! [_aside_. _cand_. what is it, that disturbs you, dear? _phil_. only the greatness of my joy: i've ta'en too strong a cordial, love, and cannot yet digest it. _queen_. tis done! [_clapping her hand on_ asteria, but this pang more, and then a glorious birth.-- the tumults of this day, my loyal subjects, have settled in my heart a resolution, happy for you, and glorious too for me. first, for my cousin; tho', attempting on my person, he has incurred the danger of the laws, i will not punish him. _lys_. you bind me ever to my loyalty. _queen_. then that i may oblige you more to it, i here declare you rightful successor, and heir immediate to my crown: this, gentlemen--[_to the deputies_. i hope will still my subjects' discontents, when they behold succession firmly settled. _dep_. heaven preserve your majesty! _queen_. as for myself, i have resolved still to continue as i am, unmarried: the cares, observances, and all the duties which i should pay an husband, i will place upon my people; and our mutual love shall make a blessing more than conjugal, and this the states shall ratify. _lys_. heaven bear me witness, that i take no joy in the succession of a crown, which must descend to me so sad a way. _queen_. cousin, no more; my resolution's past which fate shall never alter. _phil_. then i am once more happy; for, since none must possess her, i am pleased with my own choice, and will desire no more: for multiplying wishes is a curse. that keeps the mind still painfully awake. _queen_. celadon. your care and loyalty have this day obliged me; but how to be acknowledging, i know not, unless you give the means. _cel_. i was in hope your majesty had forgot me; therefore, if you please, madam, i'll only beg a pardon for having taken up arms once to-day against you; for i have a foolish kind of conscience, which i wish many of your subjects had, that will not let me ask a recompence for my loyalty, when i know i have been a rebel. _queen_. your modesty shall not serve the turn; ask something. _cel_. then i beg, madam, you will command florimel never to be friends with me. _flo_. ask again; i grant that without the queen: but why are you afraid on't? _cel_. because i am sure, as soon as ever you are, you'll marry me. _flo_. do you fear it? _cel_. no, 'twill come with a fear. _flo_. if you do, i will not stick with you for an oath. _cel_. i require no oath till we come to church: and then after the priest, i hope; for i find it will be my destiny to marry thee. _flo_. if ever i say a word after the black gentleman for thee, celadon-- _cel_. then, i hope, you'll give me leave to bestow a faithful heart elsewhere. _flo_. ay, but if you would have one, you must bespeak it, for i am sure you have none ready made. _cel_. what say you, shall i marry flavia? _flo_. no, she'll be too cunning for you. _cel_. what say you to olinda, then? she's tall, and fair, and bonny. _flo_. and foolish, and apish, and fickle. _cel_. but sabina there's pretty, and young, and loving, and innocent. _flo_. and dwarfish, and childish, and fond, and flippant: if you marry her sister, you will get may-poles; and if you marry her, you will get fairies to dance about them. _cel_. nay, then, the case is clear, florimel; if you take 'em all from me, 'tis because you reserve me for yourself. _flo_. but this marriage is such a bugbear to me! much might be if we could invent but any way to make it easy. _cel_. some foolish people have made it uneasy, by drawing the knot faster than they need; but we that are wiser will loosen it a little. _flo_. 'tis true, indeed, there's some difference betwixt a girdle and a halter. _cel_. as for the first year, according to the laudable custom of new-married people, we shall follow one another up into chambers, and down into gardens, and think we shall never have enough of one another. so far 'tis pleasant enough, i hope. _flo_. but after that, when we begin to live like husband and wife, and never come near one another--what then, sir? _cel_. why, then, our only happiness must be to have one mind, and one will, florimel. _flo_. one mind, if thou wilt, but pr'ythee let us have two wills; for i find one will be little enough for me alone. but how, if those wills should meet and clash, celadon? _cel_. i warrant thee for that; husbands and wives keep their wills far enough asunder for ever meeting. one thing let us be sure to agree on, that is, never to be jealous. _flo_. no; but e'en love one another as long as we can; and confess the truth when we can love no longer. _cel_. when i have been at play, you shall never ask me what money i have lost. _flo_. when i have been abroad, you shall never enquire who treated me. _cel_. _item_, i will have the liberty to sleep all night, without your interrupting my repose for any evil design whatsoever. _flo_. _item_, then you shall bid me goodnight before you sleep. _cel_. provided always, that whatever liberties we take with other people, we continue very honest to one another. _flo_. as far as will consist with a pleasant life. _cel_. lastly, whereas the names of husband and wife hold forth nothing, but clashing and cloying, and dulness and faintness, in their signification; they shall be abolished for ever betwixt us. _flo_. and instead of those, we will be married by the more agreeable names of mistress and gallant. _cel_. none of my privileges to be infringed by thee, florimel, under the penalty of a month of fasting nights. _flo_. none of my privileges to be infringed by thee, celadon, under the penalty of cuckoldom. _cel_. well, if it be my fortune to be made a cuckold, i had rather thou should'st make me one, than any one in sicily; and, for my comfort, i shall have thee oftener than any of thy servants. _flo_. look ye now, is not such a marriage as good as wenching, celadon? _cel_. this is very good; but not so good, florimel. _queen_. now set we forward to the assembly.--you promise, cousin, your consent? _lys_. but most unwillingly. _queen_. philocles, i must beg your voice too. _phil_. most joyfully i give it. _lys_. madam, but one word more;-- since you are so resolved, that you may see, bold as my passion was, 'twas only for your person, not your crown; i swear no second love shall violate the flame i had for you, but, in strict imitation of your oath, i vow a single life. _queen_. now, my asteria, my joys are full; [_to_ asteria. the powers above, that see the innocent love i bear to philocles, have given its due reward; for by this means the right of lysimantes will devolve upon candiope: and i shall have this great content, to think, when i am dead, my crown may fall on philocles's head. [_exeunt_. epilogue, written by a person of honour. our poet, something doubtful of his fate, made choice of me to be his advocate, relying on my knowledge in the laws; and i as boldly undertook the cause. i left my client yonder in a rant, against the envious, and the ignorant, who are, he says, his only enemies: but he condemns their malice, and defies the sharpest of his censurers to say, where there is one gross fault in all his play. the language is so fitted for each part, the plot according to the rules of art, and twenty other things he bid me tell you; but i cried, e'en go do't yourself for nelly.[a] reason with judges, urged in the defence of those they would condemn, is insolence; i therefore wave the merits of his play, and think it fit to plead this safer way. if when too many in the purchase share, robbing's not worth the danger nor the care; the men of business must, in policy, cherish a little harmless poetry, all wit would else grow up to knavery. wit is a bird of music, or of prey; mounting, she strikes at all things in her way. but if this birdlime once but touch her wings, on the next bush she sits her down and sings. i have but one word more; tell me, i pray, what you will get by damning of our play? a whipt fanatic, who does not recant, is, by his brethren, called a suffering saint; and by your hands should this poor poet die, before he does renounce his poetry, his death must needs confirm the party more, than all his scribbling life could do before; where so much zeal does in a sect appear, 'tis to no purpose, 'faith, to be severe. but t'other day, i heard this rhyming fop say,--critics were the whips, and he the top; for, as a top spins more, the more you baste her, so, every lash you give, he writes the faster. [footnote a: the epilogue appears to have been spoken by nell gwynn.] prologue, spoken by mrs boutell to the maiden queen, in man's clothes. _the following prologue and epilogue occur in the "covent-garden drollery" a publication which contains original copies of several of dryden's fugitive pieces. they appear to have been spoken upon occasion of the male characters in "the maiden queen" being represented by female performers. from our author's connection both with the play and with mrs reeves, who spoke the epilogue, it is probable he wrote both that and the prologue; and therefore (although not much worth preserving) we have here added them. from the reference to ravenscroft's play of "the citizen turned gentleman," in the last line of the epilogue, it would seem the prologue and epilogue were written and spoken in _. women, like us, (passing for men,) you'll cry, presume too much upon your secrecy. there's not a fop in town, but will pretend to know the cheat himself, or by his friend; then make no words on't, gallants, 'tis e'en true, we are condemn'd to look and strut, like you. since we thus freely our hard fate confess, accept us, these bad times, in any dress. you'll find the sweet on't: now old pantaloons will go as far as, formerly, new gowns; and from your own cast wigs, expect no frowns. the ladies we shall not so easily please; they'll say,--what impudent bold things are these, that dare provoke, yet cannot do us right, like men, with huffing looks, that dare not fight!-- but this reproach our courage must not daunt; the bravest soldier may a weapon want; let her that doubts us still send her gallant. ladies, in us you'll youth and beauty find: all things--but one--according to your mind: and when your eyes and ears are feasted here, rise up, and make out the short meal elsewhere. epilogue, spoken by mrs reeves to the maiden queen, in man's clothes. what think you, sirs, was't not all well enough? will you not grant that we can strut and huff? men may be proud; but faith, for aught i see, they neither walk, nor cock, so well as we; and, for the fighting part, we may in time grow up to swagger in heroic rhyme; for though we cannot boast of equal force, yet, at some weapons, men have still the worse. why should not then we women act alone? or whence are men so necessary grown? our's are so old, they are as good as none. some who have tried them, if you'll take their oaths, swear they're as arrant tinsel as their clothes. imagine us but what we represent, and we could e'en give you as good content. our faces, shapes,--all's better then you see, and for the rest, they want as much as we. oh, would the higher powers behind to us, and grant us to set up a female house! we'll make ourselves to please both sexes then,-- to the men women, to the women men. here, we presume, our legs are no ill sight, and they will give you no ill dreams at night: in dreams both sexes may their passions ease, you make us then as civil as you please. this would prevent the houses joining too, at which we are as much displeased as you; for all our women most devoutly swear, each would be rather a poor actress here, then to be made a mamamouchi [a] there. [footnote a: alluding to ravenscroft's play of the "citizen turned gentleman," acted at the duke's house in see vol. iv. pp. , - .] end of the second volume. the works of john dryden, now first collected _in eighteen volumes_. illustrated with notes, historical, critical, and explanatory, and a life of the author, by walter scott, esq. vol. iii. london: printed for william miller, albemarle street, by james ballantyne and co. edinburgh. . contents of volume third. * * * * * page sir martin mar-all, or the feigned innocence, a comedy, the tempest, or the enchanted island, a comedy, preface, an evening's love, or the mock astrologer, a comedy, epistle dedicatory to the duke of newcastle, preface, tyrannic love, or the royal martyr, a tragedy, epistle dedicatory to the duke of monmouth and buccleuch, preface, sir martin mar-all; or, the feigned innocence. a comedy. sir martin mar-all. sir martin mar-all is imitated from the french of moliere: nor, even with that qualification, is it entirely the work of dryden. william cavendish, duke of newcastle, renowned for his loyalty and gallantry during the civil wars, whether in compliance with the general custom amongst the men of wit and honour at the court of charles, or in order to place himself upon a level with that voluminous authoress, his duchess, thought fit to compose several plays. amongst other lucubrations, he translated moliere's "_l'etourdi_," and presented it to our author, by whom it was adapted for the stage. from respect to his grace, it was published anonymously until , when it appeared with dryden's name. the noble duke being far more eminent as a soldier and an equestrian, than as an author, it may be readily allowed, that what is diverting in the piece has been inserted by our author. upon the stage, indeed, the repeated and incorrigible blunders of sir martin must have appeared very diverting, since the play ran for no less than thirty-three nights, and was four times acted at court. nokes, who acted this unfortunate coxcomb with inimitable humour, is said to have contributed much to this uncommon success. moliere's play is followed with considerable exactness, allowing for such variations as the change of the scene from paris to london appeared naturally to demand. one remarkable difference occurs in the conclusion: coelie is, in the original, at length united to her inconsiderate and blundering admirer. mrs millisent, the corresponding character in sir martin mar-all, rewards, with her hand and fortune, the ingenious warner, who has all along laboured to gain her for his master. the alternative was a little embarrassing; but the decorum of the french stage would not have permitted the union of a lady with an intriguing domestic, nor would an english audience have been less shocked with seeing her bestowed on a fool. besides, sir martin mar-all is a more contemptible character than lelie, who is less conceited and foolish, than thoughtless and inconsequential. but although the character of a menial was not quite so low in the th as in the th century,--for pages, and the higher class of attendants in a nobleman's family, were often men of some birth,--yet there is much grossness in the conduct of the lady, who, in pure admiration of wit, marries a man, who never thought of her. "_l'amant indiscret_," of quinault, another french play, has also been consulted by dryden in furbishing forth the duke of newcastle's labours. in that part of the play, which occasions its second title of "the feigned innocence," the reader will hardly find wit enough to counterbalance the want of delicacy. sir martin mar-all was performed by the duke of york's servants, probably at the desire of the duke of newcastle, as dryden was engaged to write for the other house. it seems to have been acted in , and was published, but without the author's name, in . prologue. fools, which each man meets in his dish each day, are yet the great regalios of a play; in which to poets you but just appear, to prize that highest, which cost them so dear; fops in the town more easily will pass; one story makes a statutable ass: but such in plays must be much thicker sown, like yolks of eggs, a dozen beat to one. observing poets all their walks invade, as men watch woodcocks gliding through a glade: and when they have enough for comedy, they stow their several bodies in a pye: the poet's but the cook to fashion it, for, gallants, you yourselves have found the wit. to bid you welcome, would your bounty wrong; none welcome those who bring their cheer along. dramatis personÆ. _lord_ dartmouth, _in love with mrs_ christian. _mr_ moody, _the swash-buckler_[a]. _sir_ martin mar-all, _a fool_. warner, _his man_. _sir_ john swallow, _a kentish knight_. _lady_ dupe, _the old lady_. _mrs_ christian, _her young niece_. _mrs_ millisent, _the swash-buckler's daughter_. rose, _her maid_. _mrs_ preparation, _woman to the old lady_. _other servants, men and women, a carrier, bailiffs._ scene--_covent garden_. [footnote a: _swash-buckler_ seems to have been a title for those, who retained the old blunt manners of queen elizabeth's time, when sword and buckler were the common weapons. "of old, when englishmen were fenced with bucklers, as with a rampier, nothing was more common with them, than to fight about taking the right or left hand on the wall, or upon any unpleasing countenance: clashing of swords was then daily music in every street." moryson's _itinerary_, part iii. book iv.--the buckler was disused in the latter end of queen elizabeth's reign; but those who affected the old-fashioned, blunt, boisterous manners, common when that ancient weapon was used in brawls, were, like old moody in the play, still termed _swash-bucklers_.] sir martin mar-all. act i. scene i. _enter_ warner _solus_. _warn._ where the devil is this master of mine? he is ever out of the way, when he should do himself good! this 'tis to serve a coxcomb, one that has no more brains than just those i carry for him. well! of all fops commend me to him for the greatest; he's so opinioned of his own abilities, that he is ever designing somewhat, and yet he sows his stratagems so shallow, that every daw can pick them up: from a plotting fool, the lord deliver me. here he comes;--o! it seems his cousin's with him; then it is not so bad as i imagined. _enter_ sir martin mar-all, _and_ lady dupe. _l. dupe._ i think 'twas well contrived for your access, to lodge her in the same house with you. _sir mart._ 'tis pretty well, i must confess. _warn._ had he plotted it himself, it had been admirable. [_aside._ _l. dupe._ for when her father moody writ to me to take him lodgings, i so ordered it, the choice seemed his, not mine. _sir mart._ i have hit of a thing myself sometimes, when wiser heads have missed it; but that might be mere luck. _l. dupe._ fortune does more than wisdom. _sir mart._ nay, for that you shall excuse me; i will not value any man's fortune at a rush, except he have wit and parts to bear him out. but when do you expect them? _l. dupe._ this tide will bring them from gravesend. you had best let your man go, as from me, and wait them at the stairs in durham-yard. _sir mart._ lord, cousin, what a-do is here with your counsel! as though i could not have thought of that myself. i could find in my heart not to send him now----stay a little----i could soon find out some other way. _warn._ a minute's stay may lose your business. _sir mart._ well, go then; but you must grant, if he had staid, i could have found a better way--you grant it. _l. dupe._ for once i will not stand with you. [_exit_ warner.] 'tis a sweet gentlewoman, this mrs millisent, if you can get her. _sir mart._ let me alone for plotting. _l. dupe._ but by your favour, sir, 'tis not so easy; her father has already promised her; and the young gentleman comes up with them: i partly know the man--but the old squire is humoursome; he's stout, and plain in speech, and in behaviour; he loves none of the fine town tricks of breeding, but stands up for the old elizabeth way in all things. this we must work upon. _sir mart._ sure you think you have to deal with a fool, cousin? _enter_ mrs christian. _l. dupe._ o my dear niece, i have some business with you. [_whispers._ _sir. mart._ well, madam, i'll take one turn here in the piazzas; a thousand things are hammering in this head; 'tis a fruitful noddle, though i say it. [_exit_ sir mart. _l. dupe._ go thy ways for a most conceited fool--but to our business, cousin: you are young, but i am old, and have had all the love-experience that a discreet lady ought to have; and, therefore, let me instruct you about the love this rich lord makes to you. _chr._ you know, madam, he's married, so that we cannot work upon that ground of matrimony. _l. dupe._ but there are advantages enough for you, if you will be wise, and follow my advice. _chr._ madam, my friends left me to your care, therefore i will wholly follow your counsel, with secrecy and obedience. _l. dupe._ sweetheart, it shall be the better for you another day: well then, this lord that pretends to you is crafty and false, as most men are, especially in love; therefore, we must be subtle to meet with all his plots, and have countermines against his works, to blow him up. _chr._ as how, madam? _l. dupe._ why, girl, he'll make fierce love to you, but you must not suffer him to ruffle you, or steal a kiss: but you must weep and sigh, and say you'll tell me on't, and that you will not be used so, and play the innocent, just like a child, and seem ignorant of all. _chr._ i warrant you i'll be very ignorant, madam. _l. dupe._ and be sure, when he has towsed you, not to appear at supper that night, that you may fright him. _chr._ no, madam. _l. dupe._ that he may think you have told me. _chr._ ay, madam. _l. dupe._ and keep your chamber, and say your head aches. _chr._ o most extremely, madam. _l. dupe._ and lock the door, and admit of no night visits: at supper i'll ask where's my cousin, and, being told you are not well, i'll start from the table to visit you, desiring his lordship not to incommode himself; for i will presently wait on him again. _chr._ but how, when you are returned, madam? _l. dupe._ then somewhat discomposed, i'll say, i doubt the meazles or small-pox will seize on you, and then the girl is spoiled; saying, poor thing, her portion is her beauty, and her virtue; and often send to see how you do, by whispers in my servant's ears, and have those whispers of your health returned to mine: if his lordship, thereupon, asks how you do, i will pretend it was some other thing. _chr._ right, madam, for that will bring him further in suspence. _l. dupe._ a hopeful girl! then will i eat nothing that night, feigning my grief for you; but keep his lordship company at meal, and seem to strive to put my passion off, yet shew it still by small mistakes. _chr._ and broken sentences. _l. dupe._ a dainty girl! and after supper visit you again, with promise to return strait to his lordship; but after i am gone, send an excuse, that i have given you a cordial, and mean to watch that night in person with you. _chr._ his lordship then will find the prologue of his trouble, doubting i have told you of his ruffling. _l. dupe._ and more than that, fearing his father should know of it, and his wife, who is a termagant lady: but when he finds the coast is clear, and his late ruffling known to none but you, he will be drunk with joy. _chr._ finding my simple innocence, which will inflame him more. _l. dupe._ then what the lion's skin has failed him in, the fox's subtlety must next supply, and that is just, sweetheart, as i would have it; for crafty folks treaties are their advantage: especially when his passion must be satisfied at any rate, and you keep shop to set the price of love: so now you see the market is your own. _chr._ truly, madam, this is very rational; and by the blessing of heaven upon my poor endeavours, i do not doubt to play my part. _l. dupe._ my blessing and my prayers go along with thee. _enter_ sir john swallow, mrs millisent, _and_ rose, _her maid_. _chr._ i believe, madam, here is the young heiress you expect, and with her he who is to marry her. _l. dupe._ however i am sir martin's friend, i must not seem his enemy. _sir john._ madam, this fair young lady begs the honour to be known to you. _mill._ my father made me hope it, madam. _l. dupe._ sweet lady, i believe you have brought all the freshness of the country up to town with you. [_they salute._ _mill._ i came up, madam, as we country-gentlewomen use, at an easter-term, to the destruction of tarts and cheese-cakes, to see a new play, buy a new gown, take a turn in the park, and so down again to sleep with my fore-fathers. _sir john._ rather, madam, you are come up to the breaking of many a poor heart, that, like mine, will languish for you. _chr._ i doubt, madam, you are indisposed with your voyage; will you please to see the lodgings your father has provided for you? _mill._ to wait upon you, madam. _l. dupe._ this is the door; there is a gentleman will wait you immediately in your lodging, if he might presume on your commands. [_in a whisper._ _mill._ you mean sir martin mar-all: i am glad he has entrusted his passion with so discreet a person. [_in a whisper_.] sir john, let me entreat you to stay here, that my father may have intelligence where to find us. _sir john._ i shall obey you, madam. [_exeunt women._ _enter_ sir martin mar-all. _sir john._ sir martin mar-all! most happily encountered! how long have you been come to town? _sir mart._ some three days since, or thereabouts: but, i thank god, i am very weary on't already. _sir john._ why, what's the matter, man? _sir mart._ my villainous old luck still follows me in gaming; i never throw the dice out of my hand, but my gold goes after them: if i go to piquet, though it be but with a novice in't, he will picque and repicque, and capot me twenty times together: and, which most mads me, i lose all my sets when i want but one of up. _sir john._ the pleasure of play is lost, when one loses at that unreasonable rate. _sir mart._ but i have sworn not to touch either cards or dice this half year. _sir john._ the oaths of losing gamesters are most minded; they forswear play as an angry servant does his mistress, because he loves her but too well. _sir mart._ but i am now taken up with thoughts of another nature; i am in love, sir. _sir john._ that's the worst game you could have played at; scarce one woman in an hundred will play with you upon the square. you venture at more uncertainty than at a lottery: for you set your heart to a whole sex of blanks. but is your mistress widow, wife, or maid? _sir mart._ i can assure you, sir, mine is a maid; the heiress of a wealthy family, fair to a miracle. _sir john._ does she accept your service? _sir mart._ i am the only person in her favour. _enter_ warner. _sir john._ is she of town or country? _warn._ how's this? [_aside._ _sir mart._ she is of kent, near canterbury. _warn._ what does he mean? this is his rival. [_aside._ _sir john._ near canterbury, say you? i have a small estate lies thereabouts, and more concernments than one besides. _sir mart._ i'll tell you then. being at canterbury, it was my fortune once, in the cathedral church-- _warn._ what do you mean, sir, to intrust this man with your affairs thus? _sir mart._ trust him? why, he's a friend of mine. _warn._ no matter for that; hark you, a word, sir. _sir mart._ pr'ythee leave fooling; and as i was saying----i was in the church, when i first saw this fair one. _sir john._ her name, sir, i beseech you. _warn._ for heaven's sake, sir, have a care. _sir mart._ thou art such a coxcomb--her name's millisent. _warn._ now, the pox take you, sir, what do you mean? _sir john._ millisent, say you? that's the name of my mistress. _sir mart._ lord! what luck is that now! well, sir, it happened one of her gloves fell down; i stooped to take it up; and, in the stooping, made her a compliment. _warn._ the devil cannot hold him; now will this thick-skulled master of mine tell the whole story to his rival! _sir mart._ you'll say, 'twas strange, sir; but at the first glance we cast on one another, both our hearts leaped within us, our souls met at our eyes, and with a tickling kind of pain slid to each other's breast, and in one moment settled as close and warm, as if they long had been acquainted with their lodging. i followed her somewhat at a distance, because her father was with her. _warn._ yet hold, sir. _sir mart._ saucy rascal, avoid my sight; must you tutor me?--so, sir, not to trouble you, i enquired out her father's house, without whose knowledge i did court the daughter, and both then, and often since coming to canterbury, i received many proofs of her kindness to me. _warn._ you had best tell him too, that i am acquainted with her maid, and manage your love under-hand with her. _sir mart._ well remembered, i'faith; i thank thee for that, i had forgot it, i protest! my valet de chambre, whom you see here with me, grows me acquainted with her woman. _warn._ o the devil! _sir mart._ in fine, sir, this maid, being much in her mistress's favour, so well solicited my cause, that, in fine, i gained from fair mistress millisent an assurance of her kindness, and an engagement to marry none but me. _warn._ 'tis very well! you have made a fair discovery! _sir john._ a most pleasant relation, i assure you: you are a happy man, sir! but what occasion brought you now to london? _sir mart._ that was in expectation to meet my mistress here; she writ me word from canterbury, she and her father shortly would be here. _sir john._ she and her father, said you, sir? _warn._ tell him, sir, for heaven's sake tell him all. _sir mart._ so i will, sir, without your bidding: her father and she are come up already, that's the truth on't, and are to lodge by my contrivance in yon house; the master of which is a cunning rascal as any in town----him i have made my own, for i lodge there. _warn._ you do ill, sir, to speak so scandalously of my landlord. _sir mart._ peace, or i'll break your fool's head; so, that by his means i shall have free egress and regress when i please, sir, without her father's knowledge. _warn._ i am out of patience to hear this. _sir john._ methinks you might do well, sir, to speak openly to her father. _sir mart._ thank you for that, i'faith; in speaking to old moody, i may soon spoil all. _warn._ so, now he has told her father's name, 'tis past recovery. _sir john._ is her father's name moody, say you? _sir mart._ is he of your acquaintance? _sir john._ yes, sir; i know him for a man who is too wise for you to over-reach; i am certain he will never marry his daughter to you. _sir mart._ why, there's the jest of it: he shall never know it: 'tis but your keeping of my counsel; i'll do as much for you, mun. _sir john._ no, sir, i'll give you better; trouble not yourself about this lady; her affections are otherwise engaged to my knowledge----hark in your ear----her father hates a gamester like a devil: i'll keep your counsel for that too. _sir mart._ nay, but this is not all, dear sir john? _sir john._ this is all, i assure you: only i will make bold to seek your mistress out another lodging. [_exit_ sir john. _warn._ your affairs are now put into an excellent posture, thank your incomparable discretion; this was a stratagem my shallow wit could never have reached, to make a confident of my rival. _sir mart._ i hope thou art not in earnest, man! is he my rival? _warn._ 'slife, he has not found it out all this while! well, sir, for a quick apprehension let you alone. _sir mart._ how the devil camest thou to know on't? and why the devil didst thou not tell me on't? _warn._ to the first of your devils i answer, her maid, rose, told me on't: to the second, i wish a thousand devils take him that would not hear me. _sir mart._ o unparallelled misfortune! _warn._ o unparallelled ignorance! why he left her father at the water-side, while he led the daughter to her lodging, whither i directed him; so that if you had not laboured to the contrary, fortune had placed you in the same house with your mistress, without the least suspicion of your rival, or of her father. but 'tis well you have satisfied your talkative humour: i hope you have some new project of your own to set all right again: for my part, i confess all my designs for you are wholly ruined; the very foundations of them are blown up. _sir mart._ pr'ythee insult not over the destiny of a poor undone lover; i am punished enough for my indiscretion in my despair, and have nothing to hope for now but death. _warn._ death is a bug-word; things are not brought to that extremity; i'll cast about to save all yet. _enter lady_ dupe. _l. dupe._ o, sir martin! yonder has been such a stir within; sir john, i fear, smokes your design, and by all means would have the old man remove his lodging; pray god, your man has not played false. _warn._ like enough i have: i am coxcomb sufficient to do it; my master knows, that none but such a great calf as i could have done it, such an overgrown ass, a self-conceited idiot as i. _sir mart._ nay, warner. _warn._ pray, sir, let me alone: what is it to you if i rail upon myself? now could i break my own logger-head. _sir mart._ nay, sweet warner. _warn._ what a good master have i, and i to ruin him: o beast! _l. dupe._ not to discourage you wholly, sir martin, this storm is partly over. _sir mart._ as how, dear cousin? _l. dupe._ when i heard sir john complain of the landlord, i took the first hint of it, and joined with him, saying, if he were such an one, i would have nothing to do with him: in short, i rattled him so well, that sir john was the first who did desire they might be lodged with me, not knowing that i was your kinswoman. _sir mart._ pox on't, now i think on't, i could have found out this myself. _warn._ are you there again, sir? now, as i have a soul---- _sir mart._ mum, good warner, i did but forget myself a little; i leave myself wholly to you, and my cousin: get but my mistress for me, and claim whatever reward you can desire. _warn._ hope of reward will diligence beget, find you the money, and i'll find the wit. [_exeunt._ act ii. scene i. _enter lady_ dupe, _and mrs_ christian. _chr._ it happened, madam, just as you said it would; but was he so concerned for my feigned sickness? _l. dupe._ so much, that moody and his daughter, our new guests, take notice of the trouble; but the cause was kept too close for strangers to divine. _chr._ heaven grant he be but deep enough in love, and then---- _l. dupe._ and then thou shalt distil him into gold, my girl. yonder he comes, i'll not be seen: you know your lesson, child. [_exit._ _chr._ i warrant you. _enter lord_ dartmouth. _lord._ pretty mistress christian, how glad am i to meet you thus alone! _chr._ o the father! what will become of me now? _lord._ no harm, i warrant you; but why are you so afraid? _chr._ a poor weak innocent creature as i am, heaven of his mercy, how i quake and tremble! i have not yet clawed off your last ill usage, and now i feel my old fit come again; my ears tingle already, and my back shuts and opens; ay, just so it began before. _lord._ nay, my sweet mistress, be not so unjust to suspect any new attempt: i am too penitent for my last fault, so soon to sin again. i hope you did not tell it to your aunt. _chr._ the more fool i, i did not. _lord._ you never shall repent your goodness to me; but may not i presume there was some little kindness in it, which moved you to conceal my crime? _chr._ methought i would not have mine aunt angry with you, for all this earthly good; but yet i'll never be alone with you again. _lord._ pretty innocence! let me sit nearer to you: you do not understand what love i bear you. i vow it is so pure, my soul's not sullied with one spot of sin: were you a sister, or a daughter to me, with a more holy flame i could not burn. _chr._ nay, now you speak high words; i cannot understand you. _lord._ the business of my life shall be but how to make your fortune, and my care and study to advance and see you settled in the world. _chr._ i humbly thank your lordship. _lord._ thus i would sacrifice my life and fortunes, and in return you cruelly destroy me. _chr._ i never meant you any harm, not i. _lord._ then what does this white enemy so near me? [_touching her hand gloved._] sure 'tis your champion, and you arm it thus to bid defiance to me. _chr._ nay, fie, my lord! in faith, you are to blame. [_pulling her hand away._ _lord._ but i am for fair wars; an enemy must first be searched for privy armour, ere we do engage. [_pulls at her glove._ _chr._ what does your lordship mean? _lord._ i fear you bear some spells and charms about you, and, madam, that's against the law of arms. _chr._ my aunt charged me not to pull off my glove, for fear of sun-burning my hand. _lord._ she did well to keep it from your eyes, but i will thus preserve it. [_hugging her bare hand._ _chr._ why do you crush it so? nay, now you hurt me, nay--if you squeeze it ne'er so hard--there's nothing to come out on't--fie--is this loving one--what makes you take your breath so short? _lord._ the devil take me if i can answer her a word; all my senses are quite employed another way. _chr._ ne'er stir, my lord, i must cry out. _lord._ then i must stop your mouth--this ruby for a kiss--that is but one ruby for another. _chr._ this is worse and worse. _lady within._ why, niece, where are you, niece? _lord._ pox of her old mouldy chops. _chr._ do you hear, my aunt calls? i shall be hanged for staying with you--let me go, my lord. [_gets from him._ _enter lady_ dupe. _l. dupe._ my lord! heaven bless me, what makes your lordship here? _lord._ i was just wishing for you, madam; your niece and i have been so laughing at the blunt humour of your country-gentleman. i must go pass an hour with him. [_exit_ lord. _chr._ you made a little too much haste; i was just exchanging a kiss for a ruby. _l. dupe._ no harm done; it will make him come on the faster: never full gorge an hawk you mean to fly: the next will be a necklace of pearl, i warrant you. _chr._ but what must i do next? _l. dupe._ tell him i grew suspicious, and examined you whether he made not love; which you denied. then tell him how my maids and daughters watch you; so that you tremble when you see his lordship. _chr._ and that your daughters are so envious, that they would raise a false report to ruin me. _l. dupe._ therefore you desire his lordship, as he loves you, of which you are confident, henceforward to forbear his visits to you. _chr._ but how, if he should take me at my word? _l. dupe._ why, if the worst come to the worst, he leaves you an honest woman, and there's an end on't: but fear not that; hold out his messages, and then he'll write, and that is it, my bird, which you must drive it to: then all his letters will be such ecstasies, such vows and promises, which you must answer short and simply, yet still ply out of them your advantages. _chr._ but, madam! he's in the house, he will not write. _l. dupe._ you fool--he'll write from the next chamber to you; and, rather than fail, send his page post with it, upon a hobby-horse: then grant a meeting, but tell me of it, and i'll prevent him by my being there; he'll curse me, but i care not. when you are alone, he'll urge his lust, which answer you with scorn and anger. _chr._ as thus an't please you, madam. what! does he think i will be damn'd for him? defame my family, ruin my name, to satisfy his pleasure? _l. dupe._ then he will be profane in his arguments, urge nature's laws to you. _chr._ by'r lady, and those are shrewd arguments; but i am resolved i'll stop my ears. _l. dupe._ then when he sees no other thing will move you, he'll sign a portion to you beforehand: take hold of that, and then of what you will. [_exeunt._ scene ii. _enter sir_ john, _mrs_ millisent, _and_ rose. _sir john._ now, fair mrs millisent, you see your chamber; your father will be busy a few minutes, and in the mean time permits me the happiness to wait on you. _mill._ methinks you might have chose us better lodgings, this house is full; the other, we saw first, was more convenient. _sir john._ for you, perhaps, but not for me: you might have met a lover there, but i a rival. _mill._ what rival? _sir john._ you know sir martin, i need not name it to you. _mill._ i know more men besides him. _sir john._ but you love none besides him: can you deny your affection to him? _mill._ you have vexed me so, i will not satisfy you. _sir john._ then i perceive i am not likely to be so much obliged to you, as i was to him. _mill._ this is romance--i'll not believe a word on't. _sir john._ that's as you please: however 'tis believed, his wit will not much credit your choice. madam, do justice to us both; pay his ingratitude and folly with your scorn; my service with your love. by this time your father stays for me: i shall be discreet enough to keep this fault of yours from him; the lawyers wait for us to draw your jointure; and i would beg your pardon for my absence, but that my crime is punished in itself. [_exit._ _mill._ could i suspect this usage from a favoured servant! _rose._ first hear sir martin, ere you quite condemn him; consider, 'tis a rival who accused him. _mill._ speak not a word in his behalf: methought too, sir john called him fool. _rose._ indeed he has a rare way of acting a fool, and does it so naturally, it can be scarce distinguished. _mill._ nay, he has wit enough, that's certain. _rose._ how blind love is! _enter_ warner. _mill._ how now, what's his business? i wonder, after such a crime, if his master has the face to send him to me. _rose._ how durst you venture hither? if either sir john or my old master see you!-- _warn._ pish! they are both gone out. _rose._ they went but to the next street; ten to one but they return and catch you here. _warn._ twenty to one i am gone before, and save them a labour. _mill._ what says that fellow to you? what business can he have here? _warn._ lord, that your ladyship should ask that question, knowing whom i serve! _mill._ i'll hear nothing from your master. _warn._ never breathe, but this anger becomes your ladyship most admirably; but though you'll hear nothing from him, i hope i may speak a word or two to you from myself, madam. _rose._ 'twas a sweet prank your master played us: a lady's well helped up, that trusts her honour in such a person's hands: to tell also,----and to his rival too. excuse him if thou canst. [_aside._ _warn._ how the devil should i excuse him? thou know'st he is the greatest fop in nature. [_aside to_ rose. _rose._ but my lady does not know it; if she did-- _mill._ i'll have no whispering. _warn._ alas, madam, i have not the confidence to speak out, unless you can take mercy on me. _mill._ for what? _warn._ for telling sir john you loved my master, madam. but sure i little thought he was his rival. _rose._ the witty rogue has taken it on himself. [_aside._ _mill._ your master then is innocent? _warn._ why, could your ladyship suspect him guilty? pray tell me, do you think him ungrateful, or a fool? _mill._ i think him neither. _warn._ take it from me, you see not the depth of him. but when he knows what thoughts you harbour of him, as i am faithful, and must tell him, i wish he does not take some pet, and leave you. _mill._ thou art not mad, i hope, to tell him on't; if thou dost, i'll be sworn, i'll forswear it to him. _warn._ upon condition then you'll pardon me, i'll see what i can do to hold my tongue. _mill._ this evening, in st james's park, i'll meet him. [_knock within._ _warn._ he shall not fail you, madam. _rose._ somebody knocks--oh, madam, what shall we do! 'tis sir john, i hear his voice. _warn._ what will become of me? _mill._ step quickly behind that door. [warner _goes out_. _to them sir_ john. _mill._ you've made a quick despatch, sir. _sir john._ we have done nothing, madam; our man of law was not within--but i must look for some writings. _mill._ where are they laid? _sir john._ in the portmanteau in the drawing-room. [_is going to the door._ _mill._ pray stay a little, sir. _warn._ [_at the door_.] he must pass just by me; and, if he sees me, i am but a dead man. _sir john._ why are you thus concerned? why do you hold me? _mill._ only a word or two i have to tell you. 'tis of importance to you. _sir john._ give me leave-- _mill._ i must not, before i discover the plot to you. _sir john._ what plot? _mill._ sir martin's servant, like a rogue, comes hither to tempt me from his master, to have met him. _warn._ [_at the door_.] now, would i had a good bag of gunpowder at my breech, to ram me into some hole! _mill._ for my part, i was so startled at the message, that i shall scarcely be myself these two days. _sir john._ oh that i had the rascal! i would teach him to come upon such errands. _warn._ oh for a gentle composition, now! an arm or leg i would give willingly. _sir john._ what answer did you make the villain? _mill._ i over-reached him clearly, by a promise of an appointment of a place i named, where i never meant to come: but would have had the pleasure, first, to tell you how i served him. _sir john._ and then to chide your mean suspicion of me; indeed i wondered you should love a fool. but where did you appoint to meet him? _mill._ in grays-inn walks. _warn._ by this light, she has put the change upon him! o sweet womankind, how i love thee for that heavenly gift of lying! _sir john._ for this evening i will be his mistress; he shall meet another penelope than he suspects. _mill._ but stay not long away. _sir john._ you overjoy me, madam. [_exit._ _warn._ [_entering_.] is he gone, madam? _mill._ as far as grays-inn walks: now i have time to walk the other way, and see thy master. _warn._ rather let him come hither: i have laid a plot, shall send his rival far enough from watching him, ere long. _mill._ art thou in earnest? _warn._ 'tis so designed, fate cannot hinder it. our landlord, where we lie, vexed that his lodgings should be so left by sir john, is resolved to be revenged, and i have found the way. you'll see the effects on't presently. _rose._ o heavens! the door opens again, and sir john is returned once more. _enter sir_ john. _sir john._ half my business was forgot; you did not tell me when you were to meet him. ho! what makes this rascal here? _warn._ 'tis well you're come, sir, else i must have left untold a message i have for you. _sir john._ well, what's your business, sirrah? _warn._ we must be private first; 'tis only for your ear. _rose._ i shall admire his wit, if in this plunge he can get off. _warn._ i came hither, sir, by my master's order,---- _sir john._ i'll reward you for it, sirrah, immediately. _warn._ when you know all, i shall deserve it, sir: i came to sound the virtue of your mistress: which i have done so cunningly, i have at last obtained the promise of a meeting. but my good master, whom i must confess more generous than wise, knowing you had a passion for her, is resolved to quit: and, sir, that you may see how much he loves you, sent me in private to advise you still to have an eye upon her actions. _sir john._ take this diamond for thy good news; and give thy master my acknowledgments. _warn._ thus the world goes, my masters! he, that will cozen you, commonly gets your goodwill into the bargain. [_aside._ _sir john._ madam, i am now satisfied of all sides; first of your truth, then of sir martin's friendship. in short, i find you two cheated each other, both to be true to me. _mill._ warner is got off as i would wish, and the knight over-reached. [_aside._ _enter to them the landlord, disguised like a carrier._ _rose._ how now! what would this carrier have? _warn._ this is our landlord, whom i told you of; but keep your countenance. [_aside to her._ _land._ i was looking hereaway for one sir john swallow; they told me, i might hear news of him in this house. _sir john._ friend, i am the man; what have you to say to me? _land._ nay, faith, sir, i am not so good a schollard to say much, but i have a letter for you in my pouch, there's plaguy news in it, i can tell you that. _sir john._ from whom is your letter? _land._ from your old uncle anthony. _sir john._ give me your letter quickly. _land._ nay, soft and fair goes far.--hold you, hold you. it is not in this pocket. _sir john._ search in the other, then; i stand on thorns. _land._ i think i feel it now, this should be who. _sir john._ pluck it out then. _land._ i'll pluck out my spectacles, and see first. [_reads_.] to mr paul grimbard--apprentice to----no, that's not for you, sir--that's for the son of the brother of the nephew of the cousin of my gossip dobson. _sir john._ pr'ythee despatch; dost thou not know the contents on't? _land._ yes, as well as i do my _pater noster_. _sir john._ well, what's the business on't? _land._ nay, no great business; 'tis but only that your worship's father's dead. _sir john._ my loss is beyond expression! how died he? _land._ he went to bed as well to see to as any man in england; and when he awakened the next morning-- _sir john._ what then? _land._ he found himself stark dead. _sir john._ well, i must of necessity take orders for my father's funeral, and my estate; heaven knows with what regret i leave you, madam. _mill._ but are you in such haste, sir? i see you take all occasions to be from me. _sir john._ dear madam, say not so: a few days will, i hope, return me to you. _to them sir_ martin. noble sir martin, the welcomest man alive! let me embrace my friend. _rose._ how untowardly he returns the salute! warner will be found out. [_aside._ _sir john._ well, friend! you have obliged me to you eternally. _sir mart._ how have i obliged you, sir? i would have you to know i scorn your words; and i would i were hanged if it be not the farthest of my thoughts. _mill._ o cunning youth, he acts the fool most naturally. were we alone, how would we laugh together! [_aside._ _sir john._ this is a double generosity, to do me favours, and conceal 'em from me; but honest warner here has told me all. _sir mart._ what has the rascal told you? _sir john._ your plot to try my mistress for me--you understand me, concerning your appointment. _warn._ sir, i desire to speak in private with you. _sir mart._ this impertinent rascal! when i am most busy, i am ever troubled with him. _warn._ but it concerns you i should speak with you, good sir. _sir mart._ that's a good one, i'faith; thou knowest breeding well, that i should whisper with a serving-man before company. _warn._ remember, sir, last time it had been better---- _sir mart._ peace, or i'll make you feel my double fists; if i don't fright him, the saucy rogue will call me fool before the company. _mill._ that was acted most naturally again. [_aside._ _sir john._ [_to him_.] but what needs this dissembling, since you are resolved to quit my mistress to me? _sir mart._ i quit my mistress! that's a good one, i'faith. _mill._ tell him you have forsaken me. [_aside._ _sir mart._ i understand you, madam, you would save a quarrel; but, i'faith, i'm not so base: i'll see him hanged first. _warn._ madam, my master is convinced, in prudence he should say so: but love o'ermasters him; when you are gone perhaps he may. _mill._ i'll go then: gentlemen, your servant; i see my presence brings constraint to the company. [_exeunt_ mill. _and_ rose. _sir john._ i'm glad she's gone; now we may talk more freely; for if you have not quitted her, you must. _warn._ pray, sir, remember yourself: did not you send me of a message to sir john, that for his friendship you had left mistress millisent? _sir mart._ why, what an impudent lying rogue art thou! _sir john._ how's this! has warner cheated me? _warn._ do not suspect it in the least: you know, sir, it was not generous, before a lady, to say he quitted her. _sir john_ o! was that it? _warn._ that was all: say yes, good sir john--or i'll swinge you. [_aside._ _sir mart._ yes, good sir john. _warn._ that's well; once in his life he has heard good counsel. _sir mart._ heigh, heigh, what makes my landlord here? he has put on a fool's coat, i think, to make us laugh. _warn._ the devil's in him, he's at it again; his folly's like a sore in a surfeited horse; cure it in one place, and it breaks out in another. _sir mart._ honest landlord, i'faith, and what makes you here? _sir john._ are you acquainted with this honest man? _land._ take heed what you say, sir. [_to sir_ mart. _softly_. _sir mart._ take heed what you say, sir! why? who should i be afraid of? of you, sir? i say, sir, i know him, sir; and i have reason to know him, sir; for i am sure i lodge in his house, sir--nay, never think to terrify me, sir; 'tis my landlord here in charles-street, sir. _land._ now i expect to be paid for the news i brought him. _sir john._ sirrah, did not you tell me that my father-- _land._ is in very good health, for aught i know, sir; i beseech you to trouble yourself no farther concerning him. _sir john._ who set you on to tell this lie? _sir mart._ ay, who set you on, sirrah? this was a rogue that would cozen us both; he thought i did not know him: down on your marrowbones, and confess the truth: have you no tongue, you rascal? _sir john._ sure 'tis some silenced minister: he grows so fat he cannot speak. _land._ why, sir, if you would know, 'twas for your sake i did it. _warn._ for my master's sake! why, you impudent varlet, do you think to 'scape us with a lye? _sir john._ how was it for his sake? _warn._ 'twas for his own, sir; he heard you were the occasion the lady lodged not at his house, and so he invented this lie; partly to revenge himself of you; and partly, i believe, in hope to get her once again when you were gone. _sir john._ fetch me a cudgel, pr'ythee. _land._ o good sir! if you beat me, i shall run into oil immediately. _warn._ hang him, rogue; he's below your anger: i'll maul him for you--the rogue's so big, i think 'twill ask two days to beat him all over. [_beats him._ _land._ o rogue! o villain, warner! bid him hold, and i'll confess, sir. _warn._ get you gone without replying: must such as you be prating? [_beats him out._ _enter_ rose. _rose._ sir, dinner waits you on the table. _sir john._ friend, will you go along, and take part of a bad repast? _sir mart._ thank you; but i am just risen from table. _warn._ now he might sit with his mistress, and has not the wit to find it out. _sir john._ you shall be very welcome. _sir mart._ i have no stomach, sir. _warn._ get you in with a vengeance: you have a better stomach than you think you have. [_pushes him._ _sir mart._ this hungry diego rogue would shame me; he thinks a gentleman can eat like a serving-man. _sir john._ if you will not, adieu, dear sir; in any thing command me. [_exit._ _sir mart._ now we are alone: han't i carried matters bravely, sirrah? _warn._ o yes, yes, you deserve sugar-plums; first for your quarrelling with sir john; then for discovering your landlord; and, lastly, for refusing to dine with your mistress. all this is since the last reckoning was wiped out. _sir mart._ then why did my landlord disguise himself, to make a fool of us? _warn._ you have so little brains, that a penny-worth of butter, melted under 'em, would set 'em afloat: he put on that disguise, to rid you of your rival. _sir mart._ why was not i worthy to keep your counsel then? _warn._ it had been much at one: you would but have drunk the secret down, and pissed it out to the next company. _sir mart._ well, i find i am a miserable man: i have lost my mistress, and may thank myself for it. _warn._ you'll not confess you are a fool, i warrant. _sir mart._ well, i am a fool, if that will satisfy you: but what am i the nearer, for being one? _warn._ o yes, much the nearer; for now fortune's bound to provide for you; as hospitals are built for lame people, because they cannot help themselves. well; i have a project in my pate. _sir mart._ dear rogue, what is't? _warn._ excuse me for that: but while 'tis set a working, you would do well to screw yourself into her father's good opinion. _sir mart._ if you will not tell me, my mind gives me, i shall discover it again. _warn._ i'll lay it as far out of your reach as i can possibly. ----for secrets are edged tools, and must be kept from children and from fools. [_exeunt._ act iii. scene i. _enter_ rose _and_ warner _meeting_. _rose._ your worship's most happily encountered. _warn._ your ladyship's most fortunately met. _rose._ i was going to your lodging. _warn._ my business was to yours. _rose._ i have something to say to you that---- _warn._ i have that to tell you---- _rose._ understand then---- _warn._ if you'll hear me---- _rose._ i believe that---- _warn._ i am of opinion, that---- _rose._ pry'thee hold thy peace a little, till i have done. _warn._ cry you mercy, mrs rose; i'll not dispute your ancient privilege of talking. _rose._ my mistress, knowing sir john was to be abroad upon business this afternoon, has asked leave to see a play: and sir john has so great a confidence of your master, that he will trust no body with her, but him. _warn._ if my master gets her out, i warrant her, he shall shew her a better play than any is at either of the houses--here they are: i'll run and prepare him to wait upon her. [_exit._ _enter old_ moody, _mrs_ millisent, _and lady_ dupe. _mill._ my hoods and scarfs there, quickly. _l. dupe._ send to call a coach there. _mood._ but what kind of man is this sir martin, with whom you are to go? _l. dupe._ a plain down-right country-gentleman, i assure you. _mood._ i like him much the better for it. for i hate one of those you call a man of the town, one of those empty fellows of mere out-side: they have nothing of the true old english manliness. _rose._ i confess, sir, a woman's in a bad condition, that has nothing to trust to, but a peruke above, and a well-trimmed shoe below. _to them sir_ martin. _mill._ this, sir, is sir john's friend; he is for your humour, sir; he is no man of the town, but bred up in the old elizabeth way of plainness. _sir mart._ ay, madam, your ladyship may say your pleasure of me. _to them_ warner. _warn._ how the devil got he here before me! 'tis very unlucky i could not see him first. _sir mart._ but, as for painting, music, poetry, and the like, i'll say this of myself---- _warn._ i'll say that for him, my master understands none of them, i assure you, sir. _sir mart._ you impudent rascal, hold your tongue: i must rid my hands of this fellow; the rogue is ever discrediting me before company. _mood._ never trouble yourself about it, sir, for i like a man that---- _sir mart._ i know you do, sir, and therefore i hope you'll think never the worse of me for his prating: for, though i do not boast of my own good parts---- _warn._ he has none to boast of, upon my faith, sir. _sir mart._ give him not the hearing, sir; for, if i may believe my friends, they have flattered me with an opinion of more---- _warn._ of more than their flattery can make good, sir; 'tis true he tells you, they have flattered him; but, in my conscience, he is the most down-right simple-natured creature in the world. _sir mart._ i shall consider you hereafter, sirrah; but i am sure in all companies i pass for a virtuoso. _mood._ virtuoso! what's that too? is not virtue enough without o so? _sir mart._ you have reason, sir. _mood._ there he is again too; the town phrase; a great compliment i wis! _you have reason, sir_; that is, you are no beast, sir. _warn._ a word in private, sir; you mistake this old man; he loves neither painting, music, nor poetry; yet recover yourself, if you have any brains. [_aside to him._ _sir mart._ say you so? i'll bring all about again, i warrant you.--i beg your pardon a thousand times, sir; i vow to gad i am not master of any of those perfections; for, in fine, sir, i am wholly ignorant of painting, music, and poetry; only some rude escapes; but, in fine, they are such, that, in fine, sir---- _warn._ this is worse than all the rest. [_aside._ _mood._ by coxbones, one word more of all this gibberish, and old madge shall fly about your ears: what is this, _in fine_, he keeps such a coil with too? _mill._ 'tis a phrase _a-la-mode_, sir; and is used in conversation now, as a whiff of tobacco was formerly in the midst of a discourse for a thinking while. _l. dupe._ in plain english, _in fine_ is, in the end, sir. _mood._ but, by coxbones, there is no end on't, methinks: if thou wilt have a foolish word to lard thy lean discourse with, take an english one when thou speakest english! as, so sir, and then sir, and so forth; 'tis a more manly kind of nonsense: and a pox of, _in fine_, for i'll hear no more on't. _warn._ he's gravelled, and i must help him out. [_aside_.] madam, there's a coach at the door, to carry you to the play. _sir mart._ which house do you mean to go to? _mill._ the duke's, i think. _sir mart._ it is a damn'd play, and has nothing in't. _mill._ then let us to the king's. _sir mart._ that's e'en as bad. _warn._ this is past enduring. [_aside_.] there was an ill play set up, sir, on the posts; but i can assure you the bills are altered since you saw them, and now there are two admirable comedies at both houses. _mood._ but my daughter loves serious plays. _warn._ they are tragi-comedies, sir, for both. _sir mart._ i have heard her say, she loves none but tragedies. _mood._ where have you heard her say so, sir? _warn._ sir, you forget yourself; you never saw her in your life before. _sir mart._ what, not at canterbury, in the cathedral church there? this is the impudentest rascal---- _warn._ mum, sir. _sir mart._ ah lord, what have i done! as i hope to be saved, sir, it was before i was aware; for if ever i set eyes on her before this day, i wish-- _mood._ this fellow is not so much fool, as he makes one believe he is. _mill._ i thought he would be discovered for a wit: this 'tis to over-act one's part! [_aside._ _mood._ come away, daughter, i will not trust you in his hands; there's more in it than i imagined. [_exeunt_ moody, mill. _lady_ dupe, _and_ rose. _sir mart._ why do you frown upon me so, when you know your looks go to the heart of me? what have i done besides a little _lapsus linguæ_? _warn._ why, who says you have done any thing? you, a mere innocent! _sir mart._ as the child that's to be born, in my intentions; if i know how i have offended myself any more than----in one word---- _warn._ but don't follow me, however: i have nothing to say to you. _sir mart._ i'll follow you to the world's end, till you forgive me. _warn._ i am resolved to lead you a dance then. [_exit running._ _sir mart._ the rogue has no mercy in him; but i must mollify him with money. [_exit._ scene ii. _enter lady_ dupe. _l. dupe._ truly, my little cousin's the aptest scholar, and takes out love's lessons so exactly, that i joy to see it; she has got already the bond of two thousand pounds sealed for her portion, which i keep for her; a pretty good beginning: 'tis true, i believe he has enjoyed her, and so let him; mark antony wooed not at so dear a price. _enter, to her_, christian. _chr._ o madam, i fear i am breeding! _l. dupe._ a taking wench! but 'tis no matter; have you told any body? _chr._ i have been venturing upon your foundations, a little to dissemble. _l. dupe._ that's a good child; i hope it will thrive with thee, as it has with me: heaven has a blessing in store upon our endeavours. _chr._ i feigned myself sick, and kept my bed; my lord, he came to visit me, and, in the end, i disclosed it to him, in the saddest passion! _l. dupe._ this frightened him, i hope, into a study how to cloak your disgrace, lest it should have vent to his lady. _chr._ 'tis true; but all the while i subtly drove it, that he should name you to me as the fittest instrument of the concealment; but how to break it to you, strangely does perplex him. he has been seeking you all over the house; therefore, i'll leave your ladyship, for fear we should be seen together. [_exit._ _l. dupe._ now i must play my part; nature, in women, teaches more than art. _enter lord._ _lord._ madam, i have a secret to impart; a sad one too, and have no friend to trust, but only you. _l. dupe._ your lady, or your children, sick? _lord._ not that i know. _l. dupe._ you seem to be in health. _lord._ in body, not in mind. _l. dupe._ some scruple of conscience, i warrant; my chaplain shall resolve you. _lord._ madam, my soul's tormented. _l. dupe._ o take heed of despair, my lord! _lord._ madam, there is no medicine for this sickness, but only you; your friendship's my safe haven, else i am lost, and shipwrecked. _l. dupe._ pray tell me what it is. _lord._ could i express it by sad sighs and groans, or drown it with myself in seas of tears, i should be happy,--would, and would not tell. _l. dupe._ command whatever i can serve you in; i will be faithful still to all your ends, provided they be just and virtuous. _lord._ that word has stopt me. _l. dupe._ speak out, my lord, and boldly tell what 'tis. _lord._ then, in obedience to your commands; your cousin is with child. _l. dupe._ which cousin? _lord._ your cousin christian, here in the house. _l. dupe._ alas! then she has stolen a marriage, and undone herself: some young fellow, on my conscience, that's a beggar; youth will not be advised: well, i'll never meddle more with girls; one is no more assured of them, than grooms of mules; they'll strike when least one thinks on't: but pray, your lordship, what is her choice then for a husband? _lord._ she----is not married, that i know of, madam. _l. dupe._ not married! 'tis impossible; the girl does sure abuse you. i know her education has been such, the flesh could not prevail; therefore, she does abuse you, it must be so. _lord._ madam, not to abuse you longer, she is with child, and i the unfortunate man, who did this most unlucky act. _l. dupe._ you! i'll never believe it. _lord._ madam, 'tis too true; believe it, and be serious how to hide her shame; i beg it here upon my knees. _l. dupe._ oh, oh, oh! [_she faints away._ _lord._ who's there? who's there? help, help, help! _enter two women_, rose, _and mrs_ millisent. _ wom._ o merciful god, my lady's gone! _ wom._ whither? _ wom._ to heaven; god knows, to heaven! _rose._ rub her, rub her; fetch warm clothes! _ wom._ i say, run to the cabinet of quintessence; gilbert's water! gilbert's water! _ wom._ now all the good folks of heaven look down upon her! _mill._ set her in the chair. _rose._ open her mouth with a dagger or a key; pour, pour! where's the spoon? _ wom._ she stirs! she revives! merciful to us all! what a thing was this? speak, lady, speak! _l. dupe._ so, so, so! _mill._ alas! my lord, how came this fit? _lord._ with sorrow, madam. _l. dupe._ now i am better: bess, you have not seen me thus? _ wom._ heaven forefend that i should live to see you so again. _l. dupe._ go, go, i'm pretty well; withdraw into the next room; but be near, i pray, for fear of the worst. [_they go out_.] my lord, sit down near me, i pray; i'll strive to speak a few words to you, and then to bed; nearer, my voice is faint. my lord, heaven knows how i have ever loved you; and is this my reward? had you none to abuse but me in that unfortunate fond girl, that you know was dearer to me than my life? this was not love to her, but an inveterate malice to poor me. oh, oh! [_faints again._ _lord._ help, help, help! _all the women again._ _ wom._ this fit will carry her: alas, it is a lechery! _ wom._ the balsam, the balsam! _ wom._ no, no, the chemistry oil of rosemary: hold her up, and give her air. _mill._ feel whether she breathes, with your hand before her mouth. _rose._ no, madam, 'tis key-cold. _ wom._ look up, dear madam, if you have any hope of salvation! _ wom._ hold up your finger, madam, if you have any hope of fraternity. o the blessed saints, that hear me not, take her mortality to them! _l. dupe._ enough, so, 'tis well--withdraw, and let me rest a while; only my dear lord remain. _ wom._ pray your lordship keep her from swebbing. [_exeunt women._ _lord._ here humbly, once again, i beg your pardon and your help. _l. dupe._ heaven forgive you, and i do: stand up, my lord, and sit close by me: o this naughty girl! but did your lordship win her soon? _lord._ no, madam, but with much difficulty. _l. dupe._ i'm glad on't; it shewed the girl had some religion in her; all my precepts were not in vain: but you men are strange tempters; good my lord, where was this wicked act, then, first committed? _lord._ in an out-room, upon a trunk. _l. dupe._ poor heart, what shifts love makes! oh, she does love you dearly, though to her ruin! and then, what place, my lord? _lord._ an old waste room, with a decayed bed in't. _l. dupe._ out upon that dark room for deeds of darkness! and that rotten bed! i wonder it did hold your lordship's vigour: but you dealt gently with the girl. well, you shall see i love you: for i will manage this business to both your advantages, by the assistance of heaven i will; good my lord, help, lead me out. [_exeunt._ scene iii. _enter_ warner _and_ rose. _rose._ a mischief upon all fools! do you think your master has not done wisely? first to mistake our old man's humour; then to dispraise the plays; and, lastly, to discover his acquaintance with my mistress: my old master has taken such a jealousy of him, that he will never admit him into his sight again. _warn._ thou makest thyself a greater fool than he, by being angry at what he cannot help. i have been angry with him too; but these friends have taken up the quarrel. [_shews gold_.] look you, he has sent these mediators to mitigate your wrath: here are twenty of them have made a long voyage from guinea to kiss your hands: and when the match is made, there are an hundred more in readiness to be your humble servants. _rose._ rather than fall out with you, i'll take them; but i confess, it troubles me to see so loyal a lover have the heart of an emperor, and yet scarce the brains of a cobler. _warn._ well, what device can we two beget betwixt us, to separate sir john swallow and thy mistress? _rose._ i cannot on the sudden tell; but i hate him worse than foul weather without a coach. _warn._ then i'll see if my project be luckier than thine. where are the papers concerning the jointure i have heard you speak of? _rose._ they lie within, in three great bags; some twenty reams of paper in each bundle, with six lines in a sheet: but there is a little paper where all the business lies. _warn._ where is it? canst thou help me to it? _rose._ by good chance he gave it to my custody, before he set out for london. you came in good time; here it is, i was carrying it to him; just now he sent for it. _warn._ so, this i will secure in my pocket; when thou art asked for it, make two or three bad faces, and say it was left behind: by this means, he must of necessity leave the town, to see for it in kent. _enter sir_ john, _sir_ martin, _and mrs_ millisent. _sir john._ 'tis no matter, though the old man be suspicious; i knew the story all beforehand; and since then you have fully satisfied me of your true friendship to me.--where are the writings? [_to_ rose. _rose._ sir, i beg your pardon; i thought i had put them up amongst my lady's things, and it seems, in my haste, i quite forgot them, and left them at canterbury. _sir john._ this is horribly unlucky! where do you think you left them? _rose._ upon the great box in my lady's chamber; they are safe enough, i'm sure. _sir john._ it must be so--i must take post immediately: madam, for some few days i must be absent; and to confirm you, friend, how much i trust you, i leave the dearest pledge i have on earth, my mistress, to your care. _mill._ if you loved me, you would not take all occasions to leave me thus. _warn._ [_aside_.] do, go to kent, and when you come again, here they are ready for you. [_shews the paper._ _sir mart._ what's that you have in your hand there, sirrah? _warn._ pox, what ill luck was this! what shall i say? _sir mart._ sometimes you have tongue enough; what, are you silent? _warn._ 'tis an account, sir, of what money you have lost since you came to town. _sir mart._ i am very glad on't: now i'll make you all see the severity of my fortune----give me the paper. _warn._ heaven! what does he mean to do? it is not fair writ out, sir. _sir john._ besides, i am in haste; another time, sir---- _sir mart._ pray, oblige me, sir; 'tis but one minute: all people love to be pitied in their misfortunes, and so do i: will you produce it, sirrah? _warn._ dear master! _sir mart._ dear rascal! am i master, or you, you rogue? _warn._ hold yet, sir, and let me read it: you cannot read my hand. _sir mart._ this is ever his way to be disparaging me; but i'll let you see, sirrah, that i can read your hand better than you yourself can. _warn._ you'll repent it; there's a trick in't, sir. _sir mart._ is there so, sirrah? but i'll bring you out of all your tricks with a vengeance to you----[_reads_.] how now! what's this? a true particular of the estate of sir john swallow, knight, lying and situate in, &c. _sir john._ this is the very paper i had lost: i'm very glad on't; [_takes the paper_.] it has saved me a most unwelcome journey--but i will not thank you for the courtesy, which now i find you never did intend me--this is confederacy, i smoke it now--come, madam, let me wait on you to your father. _mill._ well, of a witty man, this was the foolishest part that ever i beheld. [_exeunt sir_ john, millisent, _and_ rose. _sir mart._ i am a fool, i must confess it; and i am the most miserable one without thy help--but yet it was such a mistake as any man might have made. _warn._ no doubt of it. _sir mart._ pr'ythee chide me! this indifference of thine wounds me to the heart. _warn._ i care not. _sir mart._ wilt thou not help me for this once? _warn._ sir, i kiss your hands, i have other business. _sir mart._ dear warner! _warn._ i am inflexible. _sir mart._ then i am resolved i'll kill myself. _warn._ you are master of your own body. _sir mart._ will you let me damn my soul? _warn._ at your pleasure, as the devil and you can agree about it. _sir mart._ d'ye see, the point's ready? will you do nothing to save my life? _warn._ not in the least. _sir mart._ farewell, hard-hearted warner. _warn._ adieu, soft-headed sir martin. _sir mart._ is it possible? _warn._ why don't you despatch, sir? why all these preambles? _sir mart._ i'll see thee hanged first: i know thou wouldst have me killed, to get my clothes. _warn._ i knew it was but a copy of your countenance; people in this age are not so apt to kill themselves. _sir mart._ here are yet ten pieces in my pocket; take 'em, and let's be friends. _warn._ you know the easiness of my nature, and that makes you work upon it so. well, sir, for this once i cast an eye of pity on you; but i must have ten more in hand, before i can stir a foot. _sir mart._ as i am a true gamester, i have lost all but these; but if thou'lt lend me them, i'll give 'em thee again. _warn._ i'll rather trust you till to-morrow; once more look up, i bid you hope the best. why should your folly make your love miscarry, since men first play the fools, and then they marry? [_exeunt._ act iv. scene i. _enter sir_ martin mar-all _and_ warner. _sir mart._ but are they to be married this day in private, say you? _warn._ 'tis so concluded, sir, i dare assure you. _sir mart._ but why so soon, and in private? _warn._ so soon, to prevent the designs upon her; and in private, to save the effusion of christian money. _sir mart._ it strikes to my heart already; in fine, i am a dead man. warner-- _warn._ well, go your ways, i'll try what may be done. look if he will stir now; your rival and the old man will see us together; we are just below the window. _sir mart._ thou canst not do it. _warn._ on the peril of my twenty pieces be it. _sir mart._ but i have found a way to help thee out; trust to my wit but once. _warn._ name your wit, or think you have the least grain of wit but once more, and i'll lay it down for ever. _sir mart._ you are a saucy, masterly companion; and so i leave you. [_exit._ _warn._ help, help, good people! murder, murder! _enter sir_ john _and_ moody. _sir john and mood._ how now, what's the matter? _warn._ i am abused, i am beaten, i am lamed for ever. _mood._ who has used thee so? _warn._ the rogue, my master. _sir john._ what was the offence? _warn._ a trifle, just nothing. _sir john._ that's very strange. _warn._ it was for telling him he lost too much at play: i meant him nothing but well, heaven knows; and he, in a cursed damned humour, would needs revenge his losses upon me: and kicked me, took away my money, and turned me off; but, if i take it at his hands,-- _mood._ by cox-nowns, it was an ill-natured part; nay, i thought no better would come on't, when i heard him at his vow to gads, and in fines. _warn._ but, if i live, i'll cry quittance with him: he had engaged me to get mrs millisent, your daughter, for him; but if i do not all i can to make her hate him! a great booby, an overgrown oaf, a conceited bartlemew-- _sir john._ pr'ythee leave off thy choler, and hear me a little: i have had a great mind to thee a long time; if thou thinkest my service better than his, from this minute i entertain thee. _warn._ with all my heart, sir; and so much the rather, that i might spite him with it. this was the most propitious fate-- _mood._ propitious! and fate! what a damned scanderbag rogue art thou, to talk at this rate? hark you, sirrah, one word more of this gibberish, and i'll set you packing from your new service: i'll have neither propitious nor fate come within my doors. _sir john._ nay, pray, father-- _warn._ good old sir, be pacified; i was pouring out a little of the dregs that i had left in me of my former service, and now they are gone, my stomach's clear of them. _sir john._ this fellow is come in a happy hour; for now, sir, you and i may go to prepare the licence, and, in the mean time, he may have an eye upon your daughter. _warn._ if you please i'll wait upon her till she's ready, and then bring her to what church you shall appoint. _mood._ but, friend, you'll find she'll hang an arse, and be very loath to come along with you, and therefore i had best stay behind and bring her myself. _warn._ i warrant you i have a trick for that, sir: she knows nothing of my being turned away; so i'll come to her as from sir martin, and, under pretence of carrying her to him, conduct her to you. _sir john._ my better angel-- _mood._ by the mass, 'twas well thought on; well, son, go you before, i'll speak but one word for a dish or two at dinner, and follow you to the licence office. sirrah, stay you here, till my return. [_exeunt sir_ john _and_ moody. _warn._ was there ever such a lucky rogue as i? i had always a good opinion of my wit, but could never think i had so much as now i find. i have now gained an opportunity to carry away mrs millisent, for my master to get his mistress by means of his rival, to receive all his happiness, where he could expect nothing but misery: after this exploit, i will have lilly draw me in the habit of a hero, with a laurel on my temples, and an inscription below it; _this is warner, the flower of serving-men._ _enter messenger._ _mess._ pray do me the favour to help me to the speech of mr moody. _warn._ what's your business? _mess._ i have a letter to deliver to him. _warn._ here he comes, you may deliver it yourself to him. _enter_ moody. _mess._ sir, a gentleman met me at the corner of the next street, and bid me give this into your own hands. _mood._ stay, friend, till i have read it. _mess._ he told me, sir, it required no answer. [_exit mess._ mood. reads. _sir, permit me, though a stranger, to give you counsel; some young gallants have had intelligence, that this day you intend privately to marry your daughter, the rich heiress; and, in fine, above twenty of them have dispersed themselves to watch her going out: therefore, put it off, if you will avoid mischief, and be advised by_ _your unknown servant._ _mood._ by the mackings, i thought there was no good in't, when i saw _in fine_ there; there are some papishes, i'll warrant, that lie in wait for my daughter; or else they are no englishmen, but some of your french outalian-rogues; i owe him thanks, however, this unknown friend of mine, that told me on't. warner, no wedding to-day, warner. _warn._ why, what's the matter, sir? _mood._ i say no more, but some wiser than some; i'll keep my daughter at home this afternoon, and a fig for all these outalians. [_exit_ moody. _warn._ so, here's another trick of fortune, as unexpected for bad, as the other was for good. nothing vexes me, but that i had made my game cock-sure, and then to be back-gammoned: it must needs be the devil that writ this letter; he owed my master a spite, and has paid him to the purpose: and here he comes as merry too! he little thinks what misfortune has befallen him; and, for my part, i am ashamed to tell him. _enter sir_ martin _laughing_. _sir mart._ warner, such a jest, warner! [_laughs again._ _warn._ what a murrain is the matter, sir? where lies this jest that tickles you? _sir mart._ let me laugh out my laugh, and i'll tell thee. [_laughs again._ _warn._ i wish you may have cause for all this mirth. _sir mart._ hereafter, warner, be it known unto thee, i will endure no more to be thy may-game: thou shalt no more dare to tell me, i spoil thy projects, and discover thy designs; for i have played such a prize, without thy help, of my own mother-wit, ('tis true i am hasty sometimes, and so do harm; but when i have a mind to shew myself, there's no man in england, though i say't, comes near me as to point of imagination) i'll make thee acknowledge i have laid a plot that has a soul in't. _warn._ pray, sir, keep me no longer in ignorance of this rare invention. _sir mart._ know then, warner, that, when i left thee, i was possessed with a terrible fear, that my mistress should be married: well, thought i to myself,--and mustering up all the forces of my wit, i did produce such a stratagem! _warn._ but what was it? _sir mart._ i feigned a letter as from an unknown friend to moody, wherein i gave him to understand, that if his daughter went out this afternoon, she would infallibly be snapped by some young fellows that lay in wait for her. _warn._ very good. _sir mart._ that which follows is yet better; for he i sent assures me, that in that very nick of time my letter came, her father was just sending her abroad with a very foolish rascally fellow, that was with him. _warn._ and did you perform all this, a'god's name? could you do this wonderful miracle without giving your soul to the devil for his help? _sir mart._ i tell thee, man, i did it; and it was done by the help of no devil, but this familiar of my own brain; how long would it have been ere thou couldst have thought of such a project? martin said to his man, _who's the fool now?_ _warn._ who's the fool! why, who uses to be the fool? he that ever was since i knew him, and ever will be so. _sir mart._ what a pox! i think thou art grown envious; not one word in my commendation? _warn._ faith, sir, my skill is too little to praise you as you deserve; but if you would have it according to my poor ability, you are one that had a knock in your cradle, a conceited lack-wit, a designing ass, a hair-brained fop, a confounded busy-brain, with an eternal windmill in it; this, in short, sir, is the contents of your panegyric. _sir mart._ but what the devil have i done, to set you thus against me? _warn._ only this, sir: i was the foolish rascally fellow that was with moody, and your worship was he to whom i was to bring his daughter. _sir mart._ but how could i know this? i am no witch. _warn._ no, i'll be sworn for you, you are no conjurer. will you go, sir? _sir mart._ will you hear my justification? _warn._ shall i see the back of you? speak not a word in your defence. [_shoves him._ _sir mart._ this is the strangest luck now---- [_exit._ _warn._ i'm resolved this devil of his shall never weary me; i will overcome him, i will invent something that shall stand good in spite of his folly. let me see-- _enter lord._ _lord._ here he is--i must venture on him, for the tyranny of this old lady is unsupportable; since i have made her my confident, there passes not an hour, but she passes a pull at my purse-strings; i shall be ruined if i do not quit myself of her suddenly: i find, now, by sad experience, that a mistress is much more chargeable than a wife, and after a little time too, grows full as dull and insignificant.--mr warner! have you a mind to do yourself a courtesy, and me another? _warn._ i think, my lord, the question need not be much disputed, for i have always had a great service for your lordship, and some little kindness for myself. _lord._ what if you should propose mistress christian as a wife to your master? you know he's never like to compass t'other. _warn._ i cannot tell that, my lord. _lord._ five hundred pounds are yours at the day of marriage. _warn._ five hundred pounds! 'tis true, the temptation is very sweet and powerful; the devil, i confess, has done his part, and many a good murder and treason have been committed at a cheaper rate; but yet---- _lord._ what yet? _warn._ to confess the truth, i am resolved to bestow my master upon that other lady (as difficult as your lordship thinks it), for the honour of my wit is engaged in it: will it not be the same to your lordship, were she married to any other? _lord._ the very same. _warn._ come, my lord, not to dissemble with you any longer, i know where it is that your shoe wrings you: i have observed something in the house, betwixt some parties that shall be nameless: and know, that you have been taking up linen at a much dearer rate, than you might have had it in any draper's in town. _lord._ i see i have not danced in a net before you. _warn._ as for that old lady, whom hell confound, she is the greatest jilt in nature; cheat is her study; all her joy to cozen; she loves nothing but herself; and draws all lines to that corrupted centre. _lord._ i have found her out, though late: first, i'll undertake i ne'er enjoyed her niece under the rate of five hundred pounds a-time; never was woman's flesh held up so high: every night i find out for a new maidenhead, and she has sold it me as often as ever mother temple, bennet, or gifford, have put off boiled capons for quails and partridges. _warn._ this is nothing to what bills you'll have when she's brought to bed, after her hard bargain, as they call it; then crammed capons, pea-hens, chickens in the grease, pottages, and fricasees, wine from shatling, and la-fronds, with new river, clearer by sixpence the pound than ever god almighty made it; then midwife--dry nurse--wet nurse--and all the rest of their accomplices, with cradle, baby-clouts, and bearing-clothes--possets, caudles, broths, jellies, and gravies; and behind all these, glisters, suppositers, and a barbarous apothecary's bill, more inhuman than a tailor's. _lord._ i sweat to think on't. _warn._ well, my lord, cheer up! i have found a way to rid you of it all; within a short time you shall know more; yonder appears a young lady, whom i must needs speak with; please you go in, and prepare the old lady and your mistress. _lord._ good luck, and five hundred pounds attend thee. [_exit._ _enter_ millisent _and_ rose _above_. _mill._ i am resolved i'll never marry him. _rose._ so far you are right, madam. _mill._ but how to hinder it, i cannot possibly tell; for my father presses me to it, and will take no denial: would i knew some way! _warn._ madam, i'll teach you the very nearest, for i have just now found it out. _rose._ are you there, mr littleplot? _warn._ studying to deserve thee, rose, by my diligence for thy lady; i stand here, methinks, just like a wooden mercury, to point her out the way to matrimony. _rose._ or, serving-man like, ready to carry up the hot meat for your master, and then to fall upon the cold yourself. _warn._ i know not what you call the cold, but i believe i shall find warm work on't: in the first place, then, i must acquaint you, that i have seemingly put off my master, and entered myself into sir john's service. _mill._ most excellent! _warn._ and thereupon, but base---- _enter_ moody. _mill._ something he would tell us; but see what luck's here! _mood._ how now, sirrah? are you so great there already? _mill._ i find my father's jealous of him still. _warn._ sir, i was only teaching my young lady a new song, and if you please you shall hear it. sings. _make ready, fair lady, to-night, and stand at the door below; for i will be there, to receive you with care, and to your true love you shall go._ _mood._ ods bobs, this is very pretty. _mill._ ay, so is the lady's answer too, if i could but hit on't. sings. _and when the stars twinkle so bright, then down to the door will i creep; to my love will i fly, e'er the jealous can spy, and leave my old daddy asleep._ _mood._ bodikins, i like not that so well, to cozen her old father: it may be my own case another time. _rose._ oh, madam! yonder's your persecutor returned. _enter sir_ john. _mill._ i'll into my chamber, to avoid the sight of him as long as i can. lord! that my old doating father should throw me away upon such an _ignoramus_, and deny me to such a wit as sir martin. [_exeunt_ mill. _and_ rose _from above_. _mood._ o, son! here has been the most villainous tragedy against you. _sir john._ what tragedy? has there been any blood shed since i went? _mood._ no blood shed: but, as i told you, a most damnable tragedy. _warn._ a tragedy! i'll be hanged if he does not mean a stratagem. _mood._ jack sauce! if i say it is a tragedy, it shall be a tragedy, in spite of you; teach your grandam how to piss. what! i hope i am old enough to spout english with you, sir. _sir john._ but what was the reason you came not after me? _mood._ 'twas well i did not; i'll promise you, there were those would have made bold with mistress bride; and if she had stirred out of doors, there were whipsters abroad, i'faith, padders of maidenheads, that would have trussed her up, and picked the lock of her affections, ere a man could have said, what's this? but, by good luck, i had warning of it by a friend's letter. _sir john._ the remedy for all such dangers is easy; you may send for a parson, and have the business despatched at home. _mood._ a match, i'faith; do you provide a _domine_, and i'll go tell her our resolutions, and hearten her up against the day of battle. [_exit._ _sir john._ now i think on't, this letter must needs come from sir martin; a plot of his, upon my life, to hinder our marriage. _warn._ i see, sir, you'll still mistake him for a wit; but i'm much deceived, if that letter came not from another hand. _sir john._ from whom, i pr'ythee? _warn._ nay, for that you shall excuse me, sir; i do not love to make a breach between persons, that are to be so near related. _sir john._ thou seemest to imply, that my mistress was in the plot. _warn._ can you make a doubt on't? do you not know she ever loved him, and can you hope she has so soon forsaken him? you may make yourself miserable, if you please, by such a marriage. _sir john._ when she is once mine, her virtue will secure me. _warn._ her virtue! _sir john._ what, do you make a mock on't? _warn._ not i; i assure you, sir, i think it no such jesting matter. _sir john._ why, is she not honest? _warn._ yes, in my conscience is she; for sir martin's tongue's no slander. _sir john._ but does he say to the contrary? _warn._ if one would believe him,--which, for my part, i do not,--he has in a manner confessed it to me. _sir john._ hell and damnation! _warn._ courage, sir, never vex yourself; i'll warrant you 'tis all a lie. _sir john._ but, how shall i be sure 'tis so? _warn._ when you are married, you'll soon make trial, whether she be a maid or no. _sir john._ i do not love to make that experiment at my own cost. _warn._ then you must never marry. _sir john._ ay, but they have so many tricks to cheat a man, which are entailed from mother to daughter through all generations; there's no keeping a lock for that door, for which every one has a key. _warn._ as, for example, their drawing up their breaths, with--oh! you hurt me, can you be so cruel? then, the next day, she steals a visit to her lover, that did you the courtesy beforehand, and in private tells him how she cozened you; twenty to one but she takes out another lesson with him, to practise the next night. _sir john._ all this while, miserable i must be their may-game! _warn._ 'tis well, if you escape so; for commonly he strikes in with you, and becomes your friend. _sir john._ deliver me from such a friend, that stays behind with my wife, when i gird on my sword to go abroad. _warn._ ay, there's your man, sir; besides, he will be sure to watch your haunts, and tell her of them, that, if occasion be, she may have wherewithal to recriminate: at least she will seem to be jealous of you; and who would suspect a jealous wife? _sir john._ all manner of ways i am most miserable. _warn._ but, if she be not a maid when you marry her, she may make a good wife afterwards; 'tis but imagining you have taken such a man's widow. _sir john._ if that were all; but the man will come and claim her again. _warn._ examples have been frequent of those that have been wanton, and yet afterwards take up. _sir john._ ay, the same thing they took up before. _warn._ the truth is, an honest simple girl, that's ignorant of all things, maketh the best matrimony: there is such pleasure in instructing her; the best is, there's not one dunce in all the sex; such a one with a good fortune---- _sir john._ ay, but where is she, warner? _warn._ near enough, but that you are too far engaged. _sir john._ engaged to one, that hath given me the earnest of cuckoldom beforehand! _warn._ what think you then of mrs christian here in the house? there's five thousand pounds, and a better penny. _sir john._ ay, but is she fool enough? _warn._ she's none of the wise virgins, i can assure you. _sir john._ dear warner, step into the next room, and inveigle her out this way, that i may speak to her. _warn._ remember, above all things, you keep this wooing secret; if it takes the least wind, old moody will be sure to hinder it. _sir john._ dost thou think i shall get her aunt's consent? _warn._ leave that to me. [_exit_ warn. _sir john._ how happy a man shall i be, if i can but compass this! and what a precipice have i avoided! then the revenge, too, is so sweet, to steal a wife under her father's nose, and leave 'em in the lurch, who have abused me; well, such a servant as this warner is a jewel. _enter_ warner _and mrs_ christian _to him_. _warn._ there she is, sir; now i'll go to prepare her aunt. [_exit._ _sir john._ sweet mistress, i am come to wait upon you. _chr._ truly you are too good to wait on me. _sir john._ and in the condition of a suitor. _chr._ as how, forsooth? _sir john._ to be so happy as to marry you. _chr._ o lord, i would not marry for any thing! _sir john._ why? 'tis the honest end of womankind. _chr._ twenty years hence, forsooth: i would not lie in bed with a man for a world, their beards will so prickle one. _sir john._ pah!--what an innocent girl it is, and very child! i like a colt that never yet was backed; for so i shall make her what i list, and mould her as i will. lord! her innocence makes me laugh my cheeks all wet. [_aside_.]--sweet lady---- _chr._ i'm but a gentlewoman, forsooth. _sir john._ well then, sweet mistress, if i get your friends' consent, shall i have yours? _chr._ my old lady may do what she will, forsooth; but by my truly, i hope she will have more care of me, than to marry me yet. lord bless me, what should i do with a husband? _sir john._ well, sweetheart, then instead of wooing you, i must woo my old lady. _chr._ indeed, gentleman, my old lady is married already: cry you mercy, forsooth, i think you are a knight. _sir john._ happy in that title, only to make you a lady. _chr._ believe me, mr knight, i would not be a lady; it makes folks proud, and so humorous, and so ill huswifes, forsooth. _sir john._ pah!--she's a baby, the simplest thing that ever yet i knew: the happiest man i shall be in the world; for should i have my wish, it should be to keep school, and teach the bigger girls, and here, in one, my wish it is absolved. _enter lady_ dupe. _l. dupe._ by your leave, sir: i hope this noble knight will make you happy, and you make him-- _chr._ what should i make him? [_sighing._ _l. dupe._ marry, you shall make him happy in a good wife. _chr._ i will not marry, madam. _l. dupe._ you fool! _sir john._ pray, madam, let me speak with you; on my soul, 'tis the prettiest innocentest thing in the world. _l. dupe._ indeed, sir, she knows little besides her work, and her prayers; but i'll talk with the fool. _sir john._ deal gently with her, dear madam. _l. dupe._ come, christian, will you not marry this noble knight? _chr._ ye--ye--yes---- [_sobbingly._ _l. dupe._ sir, it shall be to night. _sir john._ this innocence is a dowry beyond all price. [_exeunt old lady and mrs_ christian. _enter sir_ martin _to sir_ john, _musing_. _sir mart._ you are very melancholy, methinks, sir. _sir john._ you are mistaken, sir. _sir mart._ you may dissemble as you please, but mrs millisent lies at the bottom of your heart. _sir john._ my heart, i assure you, has no room for so poor a trifle. _sir mart._ sure you think to wheedle me; would you have me imagine you do not love her? _sir john._ love her! why should you think me such a sot? love a prostitute, an infamous person! _sir mart._ fair and soft, good sir john. _sir john._ you see, i am no very obstinate rival, i leave the field free to you: go on, sir, and pursue your good fortune, and be as happy as such a common creature can make thee. _sir mart._ this is hebrew-greek to me; but i must tell you, sir, i will not suffer my divinity to be prophaned by such a tongue as yours. _sir john._ believe it; whate'er i say, i can quote my author for. _sir mart._ then, sir, whoever told it you, lied in his throat, d'ye see, and deeper than that, d'ye see, in his stomach, and his guts, d'ye see: tell me she's a common person! he's a son of a whore that said it, and i'll make him eat his words, though he spoke 'em in a privy-house. _sir john._ what if warner told me so? i hope you'll grant him to be a competent judge in such a business. _sir mart._ did that precious rascal say it?--now i think on't, i'll not believe you: in fine, sir, i'll hold you an even wager he denies it. _sir john._ i'll lay you ten to one, he justifies it to your face. _sir mart._ i'll make him give up the ghost under my fist, if he does not deny it. _sir john._ i'll cut off his ears upon the spot, if he does not stand to't. _enter_ warner. _sir mart._ here he comes, in pudding-time, to resolve the question:--come hither, you lying varlet, hold up your hand at the bar of justice, and answer me to what i shall demand. _warn._ what-a-goodjer is the matter, sir? _sir mart._ thou spawn of the old serpent, fruitful in nothing but in lies! _warn._ a very fair beginning this. _sir mart._ didst thou dare to cast thy venom upon such a saint as mrs millisent, to traduce her virtue, and say it was adulterate? _warn._ not guilty, my lord. _sir mart._ i told you so. _sir john._ how, mr rascal! have you forgot what you said but now concerning sir martin and mrs millisent? i'll stop the lie down your throat, if you dare deny it. _sir mart._ say you so! are you there again, i'faith? _warn._ pray pacify yourself, sir; 'twas a plot of my own devising. [_aside._ _sir mart._ leave off your winking and your pinking, with a hose-pox t'ye. i'll understand none of it; tell me in plain english the truth of the business; for an you were my own brother, you should pay for it: belie my mistress! what a pox, d'ye think i have no sense of honour? _warn._ what the devil's the matter w'ye? either be at quiet, or i'll resolve to take my heels, and begone. _sir mart._ stop thief, there! what, did you think to 'scape the hand of justice? [_lays hold on him_.] the best on't is, sirrah, your heels are not altogether so nimble as your tongue. [_beats him._ _warn._ help! murder! murder! _sir mart._ confess, you rogue, then. _warn._ hold your hands, i think the devil's in you,--i tell you 'tis a device of mine. _sir mart._ and have you no body to devise it on but my mistress, the very map of innocence? _sir john._ moderate your anger, good sir martin. _sir mart._ by your patience, sir, i'll chastise him abundantly. _sir john._ that's a little too much, sir, by your favour, to beat him in my presence. _sir mart._ that's a good one, i'faith; your presence shall hinder me from beating my own servant? _warn._ o traitor to all sense and reason! he's going to discover that too. _sir mart._ an i had a mind to beat him to mummy, he's my own, i hope. _sir john._ at present, i must tell you, he's mine, sir. _sir mart._ hey-day! here's fine juggling! _warn._ stop yet, sir, you are just upon the brink of a precipice. [_aside._ _sir mart._ what is't thou mean'st now?--o lord! my mind misgives me, i have done some fault; but would i were hanged if i can find it out. [_aside._ _warn._ there's no making him understand me. _sir mart._ pox on't, come what will, i'll not be faced down with a lie; i say, he is my man. _sir john._ pray remember yourself better; did not you turn him away for some fault lately, and laid a livery of black and blue on his back, before he went? _sir mart._ the devil of any fault, or any black and blue, that i remember: either the rascal put some trick upon you, or you would upon me. _sir john._ o ho, then it seems the cudgelling and turning away were pure invention; i am glad i understand it. _sir mart._ in fine, its all so damned a lie---- _warn._ alas! he has forgot it, sir; good wits, you know, have bad memories. _sir john._ no, no, sir, that shall not serve your turn; you may return when you please to your old master; i give you a fair discharge, and a glad man i am to be so rid of you: were you thereabouts, i'faith? what a snake i had entertained in my bosom! fare you well, sir, and lay your next plot better between you, i advise you. [_exit sir_ john. _warn._ lord, sir, how you stand, as you were nipped i'the head! have you done any new piece of folly, that makes you look so like an ass? _sir mart._ here's three pieces of gold yet, if i had the heart to offer it thee. [_holds the gold afar off, trembling._ _warn._ noble sir, what have i done to deserve so great a liberality? i confess, if you had beaten me for my own fault, if you had utterly destroyed all my projects, then it might have been expected, that ten or twenty pieces should have been offered by way of recompence or satisfaction. _sir mart._ nay, an you be so full of your flouts, your friend and servant; who the devil could tell the meaning of your signs and tokens, an you go to that? _warn._ you are no ass then? _sir mart._ well, sir, to do you service, d'ye see, i am an ass in a fair way; will that satisfy you? _warn._ for this once produce those three pieces; i am contented to receive that inconsiderable tribute; or make 'em six, and i'll take the fault upon myself. _sir mart._ are we friends then? if we are, let me advise you---- _warn._ yet advising! _sir mart._ for no harm, good warner: but pray next time make me of your council, let me enter into the business, instruct me in every point, and then if i discover all, i am resolved to give over affairs, and retire from the world. _warn._ agreed, it shall be so; but let us now take breath a while, then on again. for though we had the worst, those heats are past; we'll whip and spur, and fetch him up at last. [_exeunt._ act v. scene i. _enter lord, lady_ dupe, _mistress_ christian, rose, _and_ warner. _lord._ your promise is admirably made good to me, that sir john swallow should be this night married to mrs christian; instead of that, he is more deeply engaged than ever with old moody. _warn._ i cannot help those ebbs and flows of fortune. _l. dupe._ i am sure my niece suffers most in't; he's come off to her with a cold compliment of a mistake in his mistress's virtue, which he has now found out, by your master's folly, to be a plot of yours to separate them. _chr._ to be forsaken, when a woman has given her consent! _lord._ 'tis the same scorn, as to have a town rendered up, and afterwards slighted. _rose._ you are a sweet youth, sir, to use my lady so, when she depended on you; is this the faith of a valet de chambre? i would be ashamed to be such a dishonour to my profession; it will reflect upon us in time; we shall be ruined by your good example. _warn._ as how, my dear lady embassadress? _rose._ why, they say the women govern their ladies, and you govern us: so if you play fast and loose, not a gallant will bribe us for our good wills; the gentle guinea will now go to the ordinary, which used as duly to steal into our hands at the stair-foot, as into mr doctor's at parting. _lord._ night's come, and i expect your promise. _l. dupe._ fail with me if you think good, sir. _chr._ i give no more time. _rose._ and if my mistress go to bed a maid to-night-- _warn._ hey-day! you are dealing with me, as they do with the bankrupts, call in all your debts together; there's no possibility of payment at this rate, but i'll coin for you all as fast as i can, i assure you. _l. dupe._ but you must not think to pay us with false money, as you have done hitherto. _rose._ leave off your mountebank tricks with us, and fall to your business in good earnest. _warn._ faith, and i will, rose; for, to confess the truth, i am a kind of mountebank; i have but one cure for all your diseases, that is, that my master may marry mrs millisent, for then sir john swallow will of himself return to mrs christian. _lord._ he says true, and therefore we must all be helping to that design. _warn._ i'll put you upon something, give me but a thinking time. in the first place, get a warrant and bailiffs to arrest sir john swallow upon a promise of marriage to mrs christian. _lord._ very good. _l. dupe._ we'll all swear it. _warn._ i never doubted your ladyship in the least, madam--for the rest we will consider hereafter. _lord._ leave this to us. [_ex. lord, lady_ dupe, _and_ chr. _warn._ rose, where's thy lady? _mill._ [_above_.] what have you to say to her? _warn._ only to tell you, madam, i am going forward in the great work of projection. _mill._ i know not whether you will deserve my thanks when the work's done. _warn._ madam, i hope you are not become indifferent to my master? _mill._ if he should prove a fool, after all your crying up his wit, i shall be a miserable woman. _warn._ a fool! that were a good jest, i'faith: but how comes your ladyship to suspect it? _rose._ i have heard, madam, your greatest wits have ever a touch of madness and extravagance in them, so perhaps has he. _warn._ there's nothing more distant than wit and folly; yet, like east and west, they may meet in a point, and produce actions that are but a hair's breadth from one another. _rose._ i'll undertake he has wit enough to make one laugh at him a whole day together: he's a most comical person. _mill._ for all this, i will not swear he is no fool; he has still discovered all your plots. _warn._ o, madam, that's the common fate of your machiavelians; they draw their designs so subtle, that their very fineness breaks them. _mill._ however, i'm resolved to be on the sure side: i will have certain proof of his wit, before i marry him. _warn._ madam, i'll give you one; he wears his clothes like a great sloven, and that's a sure sign of wit; he neglects his outward parts; besides, he speaks french, sings, dances, plays upon the lute. _mill._ does he do all this, say you? _warn._ most divinely, madam. _mill._ i ask no more; then let him give me a serenade immediately; but let him stand in view, i'll not be cheated. _warn._ he shall do't, madam:---but how, the devil knows; for he sings like a screech-owl, and never touched the lute. [_aside._ _mill._ you'll see't performed? _warn._ now i think on't, madam, this will but retard our enterprise. _mill._ either let him do't, or see me no more. _warn._ well, it shall be done, madam; but where's your father? will not he overhear it? _mill._ as good hap is, he's below stairs, talking with a seaman, that has brought him news from the east indies. _warn._ what concernment can he have there? _mill._ he had a bastard son there, whom he loved extremely: but not having any news from him these many years, concluded him dead; this son he expects within these three days. _warn._ when did he see him last? _mill._ not since he was seven years old. _warn._ a sudden thought comes into my head, to make him appear before his time; let my master pass for him, and by that means he may come into the house unsuspected by your father, or his rival. _mill._ according as he performs his serenade, i'll talk with you----make haste----i must retire a little. [_exit_ mill. _from above_. _rose._ i'll instruct him most rarely, he shall never be found out; but, in the mean time, what wilt thou do for a serenade? _warn._ faith, i am a little non-plus'd on the sudden; but a warm consolation from thy lips, rose, would set my wits a working again. _rose._ adieu, warner. [_exit._ _warn._ inhuman rose, adieu!--blockhead warner, into what a premunire hast thou brought thyself; this 'tis to be so forward to promise for another;--but to be godfather to a fool, to promise and vow he should do any thing like a christian-- _enter sir_ martin mar-all. _sir mart._ why, how now, bully, in a brown study? for my good, i warrant it; there's five shillings for thee. what! we must encourage good wits sometimes. _warn._ hang your white pelf: sure, sir, by your largess, you mistake me for martin parker, the ballad-maker; your covetousness has offended my muse, and quite dulled her. _sir mart._ how angry the poor devil is! in fine, thou art as choleric as a cook by a fireside. _warn._ i am overheated, like a gun, with continual discharging my wit: 'slife, sir, i have rarified my brains for you, 'till they are evaporated; but come, sir, do something for yourself like a man: i have engaged you shall give to your mistress a serenade in your proper person: i'll borrow a lute for you. _sir mart._ i'll warrant thee i'll do't, man. _warn._ you never learned: i do not think you know one stop. _sir mart._ 'tis no matter for that, sir; i'll play as fast as i can, and never stop at all. _warn._ go to, you are an invincible fool, i see. get up into your window, and set two candles by you; take my landlord's lute in your hand, and fumble on it, and make grimaces with your mouth, as if you sung; in the mean time, i'll play in the next room in the dark, and consequently your mistress, who will come to her balcony over against you, will think it to be you; and at the end of every tune, i'll ring the bell that hangs between your chamber and mine, that you may know when to have done. _sir mart._ why, this is fair play now, to tell a man beforehand what he must do; gramercy, i'faith, boy, now if i fail thee---- _warn._ about your business, then, your mistress and her maid appear already: i'll give you the sign with the bell when i am prepared, for my lute is at hand in the barber's shop. [_exeunt._ _enter mrs_ millisent, _and_ rose, _with a candle by them, above._ _rose._ we shall have rare music. _mill._ i wish it prove so; for i suspect the knight can neither play nor sing. _rose._ but if he does, you are bound to pay the music, madam. _mill._ i'll not believe it, except both my ears and eyes are witnesses. _rose._ but 'tis night, madam, and you cannot see him; yet he may play admirably in the dark. _mill._ where's my father? _rose._ you need not fear him, he's still employed with that same seaman; and i have set mrs christian to watch their discourse, that, betwixt her and me, warner may have wherewithal to instruct his master. _mill._ but yet there's fear my father will find out the plot. _rose._ not in the least; for my old lady has provided two rare disguises for the master and the man. _mill._ peace, i hear them beginning to tune the lute. _rose._ and see, madam, where your true knight, sir martin, is placed yonder like apollo, with his lute in his hand, and his rays about his head. [sir martin _appears at the adverse window; a tune is played; when it is done_, warner _rings, and_ sir martin _holds_.] did he not play most excellently, madam? _mill._ he played well, and yet methinks he held his lute but untowardly. _rose._ dear madam, peace; now for the song. the song[b]. _blind love, to this hour, had never, like me, a slave under his power: then blest be the dart, that he threw at my heart; for nothing can prove a joy so great, as to be wounded with love. my days, and my nights, are filled to the purpose with sorrows and frights: from my heart still i sigh, and my eyes are ne'er dry; so that, cupid be praised, i am to the top of love's happiness raised. my soul's all on fire, so that i have the pleasure to doat and desire: such a pretty soft pain, that it tickles each vein; 'tis the dream of a smart, which makes me breathe short, when it beats at my heart. sometimes, in a pet, when i am despised, i my freedom would get: but strait a sweet smile does my anger beguile, and my heart does recal; then the more i do struggle, the lower i fall. heaven does not impart such a grace, as to love, unto every ones heart; for many may wish to be wounded, and miss: then blest be loves fire, and more blest her eyes, that first taught me desire._ _the song being done_, warner _rings again; but_ sir martin _continues fumbling, and gazing on his mistress_. _mill._ a pretty humoured song. but stay, methinks he plays and sings still, and yet we cannot hear him. play louder, sir martin, that we may have the fruits on't. _warn._ [_peeping_.] death! this abominable fool will spoil all again. damn him, he stands making his grimaces yonder; and he looks so earnestly upon his mistress, that he hears me not. [_rings again._ _mill._ ah, ah! have i found you out, sir? now, as i live and breathe, this is pleasant: rose, his man played and sung for him, and he, it seems, did not know when he should give over. [mill. _and_ rose _laugh_. _warn._ they have found him out, and laugh yonder, as if they would split their sides. why, mr fool, oaf, coxcomb, will you hear none of your names? _mill._ sir martin, sir martin, take your man's counsel, and keep time with your music. _sir mart._ [_peeping_.] hah! what do you say, madam? how does your ladyship like my music? _mill._ o most heavenly! just like the harmony of the spheres, that is to be admired, and never heard. _warn._ you have ruined all, by your not leaving off in time. _sir mart._ what the devil would you have a man do, when my hand is in! well, o'my conscience, i think there is a fate upon me. [_noise within._ _mill._ look, rose, what's the matter. _rose._ 'tis sir john swallow pursued by the bailiffs, madam, according to our plot; it seems they have dogged him thus late to his lodging. _mill._ that's well; for though i begin not to love this fool, yet i am glad i shall be rid of him. [_exeunt_ mill. _and_ rose. _enter_ sir john, _pursued by three bailiffs over the stage_. _sir mart._ now i'll redeem all again; my mistress shall see my valour, i'm resolved on't. villains, rogues, poltroons! what? three upon one? in fine, i'll be with you immediately. [_exit._ _warn._ why, sir, are you stark mad? have you no grain of sense left? he's gone! now is he as earnest in the quarrel as cokes among the puppets; 'tis to no purpose whatever i do for him. [_exit_ warner. _enter_ sir john _and_ sir martin (_having driven away the bailiffs_); sir martin _flourishes his sword_. sir mart. _victoria! victoria!_ what heart, sir john? you have received no harm, i hope? _sir john._ not the least; i thank you, sir, for your timely assistance, which i will requite with any thing, but the resigning of my mistress. dear sir martin, a goodnight. _sir mart._ pray let me wait upon you in, sir john. _sir john._ i can find my way to mrs millisent without you, sir, i thank you. _sir mart._ but pray, what were you to be arrested for? _sir john._ i know no more than you; some little debts perhaps i left unpaid by my negligence: once more, good night, sir. [_exit._ _sir mart._ he's an ungrateful fellow; and so, in fine, i shall tell him when i see him next--monsieur---- _enter_ warner. warner, _a propos_! i hope you'll applaud me now. i have defeated the enemy, and that in sight of my mistress; boy, i have charmed her, i'faith, with my valour. _warn._ ay, just as much as you did e'en now with your music; go, you are so beastly a fool, that a chiding is thrown away upon you. _sir mart._ fool in your face, sir; call a man of honour fool, when i have just achieved such an enterprise--gad, now my blood's up, i am a dangerous person, i can tell you that, warner. _warn._ poor animal, i pity thee! _sir mart._ i grant i am no musician, but you must allow me for a swordsman: i have beat them bravely; and, in fine, i am come off unhurt, save only a little scratch in the head. _warn._ that's impossible; thou hast a skull so thick, no sword can pierce it; but much good may it do you, sir, with the fruits of your valour: you rescued your rival, when he was to be arrested, on purpose to take him off from your mistress. _sir mart._ why, this is ever the fate of ingenious men; nothing thrives they take in hand. _enter_ rose. _rose._ sir martin, you have done your business with my lady, she'll never look upon you more; she says, she's so well satisfied of your wit and courage, that she will not put you to any further trial. _sir mart._ warner, is there no hopes, warner? _warn._ none that i know. _sir mart._ let's have but one civil plot more before we part. _warn._ 'tis to no purpose. _rose._ yet, if he had some golden friends, that would engage for him the next time---- _sir mart._ here's a jacobus and a carolus will enter into bonds for me. _rose._ i'll take their royal words for once. [_she fetches two disguises._ _warn._ the meaning of this, dear rose? _rose._ 'tis in pursuance of thy own invention, warner; a child which thy wit hath begot upon me: but let us lose no time. help! help! dress thy master, that he may be anthony, old moody's bastard, and thou his, come from the east indies. _sir mart._ hey-tarock it--now we shall have rose's device too; i long to be at it, pray let's hear more on it. _rose._ old moody, you must know, in his younger years, when he was a cambridge-scholar, made bold with a townsman's daughter there, by whom he had a bastard, whose name was anthony, whom you, sir martin, are to represent. _sir mart._ i warrant you; let me alone for tony: but pray go on, rose. _rose._ this child, in his father's time, he durst not own, but bred him privately in the isle of ely, till he was seven years old, and from thence sent him with one bonaventure, a merchant, for the east indies. _warn._ but will not this over-burden your memory, sir? _sir mart._ there's no answering thee any thing; thou thinkest i am good for nothing. _rose._ bonaventure died at surat within two years, and this anthony has lived up and down in the mogul's country, unheard of by his father till this night, and is expected within these three days: now if you can pass for him, you may have admittance into the house, and make an end of all the business before the other anthony arrives. _warn._ but hold, rose, there's one considerable point omitted; what was his mother's name? _rose._ that indeed i had forgot; her name was dorothy, daughter to one draw-water, a vintner at the rose. _warn._ come, sir, are you perfect in your lesson? anthony moody, born in cambridge, bred in the isle of ely, sent into the mogul's country at seven years old, with one bonaventure, a merchant, who died within two years; your mother's name dorothy draw-water, the vintner's daughter at the rose. _sir mart._ i have it all _ad unguem_--what! do'st think i'm a sot? but stay a little,----how have i lived all this while in that same country? _warn._ what country?--pox, he has forgot already! _rose._ the mogul's country. _sir mart._ ay, ay, the mogul's country. what the devil, any man may mistake a little; but now i have it perfect: but what have i been doing all this while in the mogul's country?--he's a heathen rogue, i am afraid i shall never hit upon his name. _warn._ why, you have been passing your time there no matter how. _rose._ well, if this passes upon the old man, i'll bring your business about again with my mistress, never fear it; stay you here at the door, i'll go tell the old man of your arrival. _warn._ well, sir, now play your part exactly, and i'll forgive all your former errors. _sir mart._ hang them, they were only slips of youth. how peremptory and domineering this rogue is, now he sees i have need of his service! would i were out of his power again, i would make him lie at my feet like any spaniel. _enter_ moody, _sir_ john, _lord_, _lady_ dupe, millisent, christian, _and_ rose. _mood._ is he here already, say'st thou? which is he? _rose._ that sun-burned gentleman. _mood._ my dear boy, anthony, do i see thee again before i die? welcome, welcome. _sir mart._ my dear father, i know it is you by instinct; for, methinks, i am as like you, as if i were spit out of your mouth. _rose._ keep it up, i beseech your lordship. [_aside to the lord._ _lord._ he's wonderous like indeed. _l. dupe._ the very image of him. _mood._ anthony, you must salute all this company: this is my lord dartmouth, this my lady dupe, this her niece mrs christian. [_he salutes them._ _sir mart._ and that's my sister; methinks i have a good resemblance of her too: honest sister, i must needs kiss you, sister. _warn._ this fool will discover himself; i foresee it already by his carriage to her. _mood._ and now, anthony, pray tell us a little of your travels. _sir mart._ time enough for that, forsooth, father; but i have such a natural affection for my sister, that, methinks, i could live and die with her: give me thy hand, sweet sister. _sir john._ she's beholden to you, sir. _sir mart._ what if she be, sir? what's that to you, sir? _sir john._ i hope, sir, i have not offended you? _sir mart._ it may be you have, and it may be you have not, sir; you see i have no mind to satisfy you, sir: what a devil! a man cannot talk a little to his own flesh and blood, but you must be interposing, with a murrain to you. _mood._ enough of this, good anthony; this gentleman is to marry your sister. _sir mart._ he marry my sister! ods foot, sir, there are some bastards, that shall be nameless, that are as well worthy to marry her, as any man; and have as good blood in their veins. _sir john._ i do not question it in the least, sir. _sir mart._ 'tis not your best course, sir; you marry my sister! what have you seen of the world, sir? i have seen your hurricanos, and your calentures, and your ecliptics, and your tropic lines, sir, an you go to that, sir. _warn._ you must excuse my master; the sea's a little working in his brain, sir. _sir mart._ and your prester johns of the east indies, and your great turk of rome and persia. _mood._ lord, what a thing it is to be learned, and a traveller! bodikin, it makes me weep for joy; but, anthony, you must not bear yourself too much upon your learning, child. _mill._ pray, brother, be civil to this gentleman for my sake. _sir mart._ for your sake, sister millisent, much may be done, and here i kiss your hand on it. _warn._ yet again, stupidity? _mill._ nay, pray, brother, hands off; now you are too rude. _sir mart._ dear sister, as i am a true east india gentleman---- _mood._ but pray, son anthony, let us talk of other matters; and tell me truly, had you not quite forgot me? and yet i made woundy much of you, when you were young. _sir mart._ i remember you as well as if i saw you but yesterday: a fine grey-headed--grey-bearded old gentleman, as ever i saw in all my life. _warn. aside._] grey-bearded old gentleman! when he was a scholar at cambridge! _mood._ but do you remember where you were bred up? _sir mart._ o yes, sir, most perfectly, in the isle--stay--let me see, oh--now i have it--in the isle of scilly. _mood._ in the isle of ely, sure you mean? _warn._ without doubt, he did, sir; but this damn'd isle of scilly runs in his head, ever since his sea voyage. _mood._ and your mother's name was--come, pray let me examine you--for that, i'm sure, you cannot forget. _sir mart._ warner! what was it, warner? [_aside._ _warn._ poor mrs dorothy draw-water, if she were now alive, what a joyful day would this be to her! _mood._ who the devil bid you speak, sirrah? _sir mart._ her name, sir, was mrs dorothy draw-water. _sir john._ i'll be hanged if this be not some cheat. _mill._ he makes so many stumbles, he must needs fall at last. _mood._ but you remember, i hope, where you were born? _warn._ well, they may talk what they will of oxford for an university, but cambridge for my money. _mood._ hold your tongue, you scanderbag rogue you; this is the second time you have been talking when you should not. _sir mart._ i was born at cambridge; i remember it as perfectly as if it were but yesterday. _warn._ how i sweat for him! he's remembering ever since he was born. _mood._ and who did you go over with to the east-indies? _sir mart_. warner! [_aside._ _warn._ 'twas a happy thing, sir, you lighted upon so honest a merchant as mr bonaventure, to take care of him. _mood._ saucy rascal! this is past all sufferance. _rose._ we are undone, warner, if this discourse go on any further. _lord._ pray, sir, take pity on the poor gentleman; he has more need of a good supper, than to be asked so many questions. _sir john._ these are rogues, sir, i plainly perceive it; pray let me ask him one question--which way did you come home, sir? _sir mart._ we came home by land, sir. _warn._ that is, from india to persia, from persia to turkey, from turkey to germany, from germany to france. _sir john._ and from thence, over the narrow seas on horse-back. _mood._ 'tis so, i discern it now; but some shall smoke for it. stay a little, anthony, i'll be with you presently. [_exit_ mood. _warn._ that wicked old man is gone for no good, i'm afraid; would i were fairly quit of him. [_aside._ _mill. aside._] tell me no more of sir martin, rose; he wants natural sense, to talk after this rate: but for this warner, i am strangely taken with him; how handsomely he brought him off! _enter_ moody, _with two cudgels_. _mood._ among half a score tough cudgels i had in my chamber, i have made choice of these two, as best able to hold out. _mill._ alas! poor warner must be beaten now, for all his wit; would i could bear it for him! _warn._ but to what end is all this preparation, sir? _mood._ in the first place, for your worship, and in the next, for this east-india apostle, that will needs be my son anthony. _warn._ why, d'ye think he is not? _mood._ no, thou wicked accomplice in his designs, i know he is not. _warn._ who, i his accomplice? i beseech you, sir, what is it to me, if he should prove a counterfeit? i assure you he has cozened me in the first place. _sir john._ that's likely, i'faith, cozen his own servant! _warn._ as i hope for mercy, sir, i am an utter stranger to him; he took me up but yesterday, and told me the story, word for word, as he told it you. _sir mart._ what will become of us two now? i trust to the rogue's wit to bring me off. _mood._ if thou wouldst have me believe thee, take one of these two cudgels, and help me to lay it on soundly. _warn._ with all my heart. _mood._ out, you cheat, you hypocrite, you impostor! do you come hither to cozen an honest man? [_beats him._ _sir mart._ hold, hold, sir! _warn._ do you come hither, with a lye, to get a father, mr anthony of east india? _sir mart._ hold, you inhuman butcher! _warn._ i'll teach you to counterfeit again, sir. _sir mart._ the rogue will murder me. [_exit sir_ mart. _mood._ a fair riddance of 'em both: let's in and laugh at 'em. [_exeunt._ scene ii. _enter again sir_ martin _and_ warner. _sir mart._ was there ever such an affront put upon a man, to be beaten by his servant? _warn._ after my hearty salutations upon your backside, sir, may a man have leave to ask you, what news from the mogul's country? _sir mart._ i wonder where thou hadst the impudence to move such a question to me, knowing how thou hast used me. _warn._ now, sir, you may see what comes of your indiscretion and stupidity: i always give you warning of it; but, for this time, i am content to pass it without more words, partly, because i have already corrected you, though not so much as you deserve. _sir mart._ do'st thou think to carry it off at this rate, after such an injury? _warn._ you may thank yourself for't; nay, 'twas very well i found out that way, otherwise i had been suspected as your accomplice. _sir mart._ but you laid it on with such a vengeance, as if you were beating of a stock-fish. _warn._ to confess the truth on't, you had angered me, and i was willing to evaporate my choler; if you will pass it by so, i may chance to help you to your mistress: no more words of this business, i advise you, but go home and grease your back. _sir mart._ in fine, i must suffer it at his hands: for if my shoulders had not paid for this fault, my purse must have sweat blood for't: the rogue has got such a hank upon me---- _warn._ so, so! here's another of our vessels come in, after the storm that parted us. _enter_ rose. what comfort, rose? no harbour near? _rose._ my lady, as you may well imagine, is most extremely incensed against sir martin; but she applauds your ingenuity to the skies. i'll say no more, but thereby hangs a tale. _sir mart._ i am considering with myself about a plot, to bring all about again. _rose._ yet again plotting! if you have such a mind to't, i know no way so proper for you, as to turn poet to pugenello. _warn._ hark! is not that music in your house? [_music plays._ _rose._ yes, sir john has given my mistress the fiddles, and our old man is as jocund yonder, and does so hug himself, to think how he has been revenged upon you! _warn._ why, he does not know 'twas me, i hope? _rose._ 'tis all one for that. _sir mart._ i have such a plot!--i care not, i will speak, an i were to be hanged for't. shall i speak, dear warner? let me now; it does so wamble within me, just like a clyster, i'faith la, and i can keep it no longer, for my heart. _warn._ well, i am indulgent to you; out with it boldly, in the name of nonsense. _sir mart._ we two will put on vizards, and with the help of my landlord, who shall be of the party, go a mumming there, and by some device of dancing, get my mistress away, unsuspected by them all. _rose._ what if this should hit now, when all your projects have failed, warner? _warn._ would i were hanged, if it be not somewhat probable: nay, now i consider better on't--exceedingly probable; it must take, 'tis not in nature to be avoided. _sir mart._ o must it so, sir! and who may you thank for't? _warn._ now am i so mad he should be the author of this device! how the devil, sir, came you to stumble on't? _sir mart._ why should not my brains be as fruitful as yours, or any man's? _warn._ this is so good, it shall not be your plot, sir; either disown it, or i will proceed no further. _sir mart._ i would not lose the credit of my plot, to gain my mistress: the plot's a good one, and i'll justify it upon any ground in england; an you will not work upon't, it shall be done without you. _rose._ i think the knight has reason. _warn._ well, i'll order it however to the best advantage: hark you, rose. [_whispers._ _sir mart._ if it miscarry by your ordering, take notice, 'tis your fault; 'tis well invented, i'll take my oath on't. _rose._ i must into them, for fear i should be suspected; but i'll acquaint my lord, my old lady, and all the rest, who ought to know it, with your design. _warn._ we'll be with you in a twinkling: you and i, rose, are to follow our leaders, and be paired to night.---- _rose._ to have, and to hold, are dreadful words, warner; but, for your sake, i'll venture on 'em. [_exeunt._ scene iii. _enter lord, lady_ dupe, _and_ christian. _l. dupe._ nay! good my lord, be patient. _lord._ does he think to give fiddles and treatments in a house, where he has wronged a lady? i'll never suffer it. _l. dupe._ but upon what ground will you raise your quarrel? _lord._ a very just one,--as i am her kinsman. _l. dupe._ he does not know yet why he was to be arrested; try that way again. _lord._ i'll hear of nothing but revenge. _enter_ rose. _rose._ yes, pray hear me one word, my lord; sir martin himself has made a plot. _chr._ that's like to be a good one. _rose._ a fool's plot may be as lucky as a fool's handsel; 'tis a very likely one, and requires nothing for your part, but to get a parson in the next room; we'll find work for him. _l. dupe._ that shall be done immediately; christian, make haste, and send for mr ball, the non-conformist; tell him, here are two or three angels to be earned. _chr._ and two or three possets to be eaten: may i not put in that, madam? _l. dupe._ surely you may. [_exit_ chr. _rose._ then for the rest--'tis only this--oh! they are here! pray take it in a whisper: my lady knows of it already. _enter_ moody, _sir_ john, _and mrs_ millisent. _mill._ strike up again, fiddle, i'll have a french dance. _sir john._ let's have the brawls. _mood._ no, good sir john, no quarrelling among friends. _l. dupe._ your company is like to be increased, sir; some neighbours, that heard your fiddles, are come a mumming to you. _mood._ let them come in, and we'll be jovy; an i had but my hobby-horse at home---- _sir john._ what, are they men, or women? _l. dupe._ i believe some 'prentices broke loose. _mill._ rose, go, and fetch me down two indian gowns and vizard-masks----you and i will disguise too, and be as good a mummery to them, as they to us. [_exit_ rose. _mood._ that will be most rare. _enter sir_ martin mar-all, warner, _landlord, disguised like a tony_. _mood._ o here they come! gentlemen maskers, you are welcome--[warner _signs to the music for a dance_.] he signs for a dance, i believe; you are welcome. mr music, strike up; i'll make one, as old as i am. _sir john._ and i'll not be out. [_dance._ _lord._ gentlemen maskers, you have had your frolic, the next turn is mine; bring two flute-glasses and some stools, ho! we'll have the ladies' healths. _sir john._ but why stools, my lord? _lord._ that you shall see: the humour is, that two men at a time are hoisted up: when they are above, they name their ladies, and the rest of the company dance about them while they drink: this they call the frolic of the altitudes. _mood._ some highlander's invention, i'll warrant it. _lord._ gentlemen-maskers, you shall begin. [_they hoist sir_ mart. _and_ warn. _sir john._ they point to mrs millisent and mrs christian, _a lou's touche! touche!_ [_while they drink, the company dances and sings: they are taken down._ _mood._ a rare toping health this: come, sir john, now you and i will be in our altitudes. _sir john._ what new device is this, trow? _mood._ i know not what to make on't. [_when they are up, the company dances about them: they dance off. tony dances a jigg._ _sir john._ pray, mr fool, where's the rest of your company? i would fain see 'em again. [_to tony._ _land._ come down, and tell them so, cudden. _sir john._ i'll be hanged if there be not some plot in it, and this fool is set here to spin out the time. _mood._ like enough! undone! undone! my daughter's gone! let me down, sirrah. _land._ yes, cudden. _sir john._ my mistress is gone, let me down first. _land._ this is the quickest way, cudden. [_he offers to pull down the stools._ _sir john._ hold! hold! or thou wilt break my neck. _land._ an you will not come down, you may stay there, cudden. [_exit landlord, dancing._ _mood._ o scanderbag villains! _sir john._ is there no getting down? _mood._ all this was long of you, sir jack. _sir john._ 'twas long of yourself, to invite them hither. _mood._ o you young coxcomb, to be drawn in thus! _sir john._ you old scot you, to be caught so sillily! _mood._ come but an inch nearer, and i'll so claw thee. _sir john._ i hope i shall reach to thee. _mood._ an 'twere not for thy wooden breast-work there---- _sir john._ i hope to push thee down from babylon. _enter lord, lady_ dupe, _sir_ martin, warner, rose, millisent _veiled, and landlord_. _lord._ how, gentlemen! what, quarrelling among yourselves! _mood._ coxnowns! help me down, and let me have fair play; he shall never marry my daughter. _sir mart._ [_leading_ rose.] no, i'll be sworn that he shall not; therefore never repine, sir, for marriages, you know, are made in heaven; in fine, sir, we are joined together in spite of fortune. _rose._ [_pulling off her mask_.] that we are, indeed, sir martin, and these are witnesses; therefore, in fine, never repine, sir, for marriages, you know, are made in heaven. _omn._ rose! _warn._ what, is rose split in two? sure i have got one rose! _mill._ ay, the best rose you ever got in all your life. [_pulls off her mask._ _warn._ this amazeth me so much, i know not what to say, or think. _mood._ my daughter married to warner! _sir mart._ well, i thought it impossible that any man in england should have over-reached me: sure, warner, there is some mistake in this: pr'ythee, billy, let's go to the parson to make all right again, that every man have his own, before the matter go too far. _warn._ well, sir! for my part, i will have nothing farther to do with these women, for, i find, they will be too hard for us; but e'en sit down by the loss, and content myself with my hard fortune: but, madam, do you ever think i will forgive you this, to cheat me into an estate of two thousand pounds a-year? _sir mart._ an i were as thee, i would not be so served, warner. _mill._ i have served him but right, for the cheat he put upon me, when he persuaded me you were a wit----now, there's a trick for your trick, sir. _warn._ nay, i confess you have outwitted me. _sir john._ let me down, and i'll forgive all freely. [_they let him down._ _mood._ what am i kept here for? _warn._ i might in policy keep you there, till your daughter and i had been in private, for a little consummation: but for once, sir, i'll trust your good nature. [_takes him down too._ _mood._ an thou wert a gentleman, it would not grieve me. _mill._ that i was assured of before i married him, by my lord here. _lord._ i cannot refuse to own him for my kinsman, though his father's sufferings in the late times have ruined his fortunes. _mood._ but yet he has been a serving man. _warn._ you are mistaken, sir, i have been a master; and, besides, there is an estate of eight hundred pounds a year, only it is mortgaged for six thousand pounds. _mood._ well, we'll bring it off; and, for my part, i am glad my daughter has missed _in fine_ there. _sir john._ i will not be the only man that must sleep without a bed-fellow to-night, if this lady will once again receive me. _l. dupe._ she's yours, sir. _lord._ and the same parson, that did the former execution, is still in the next chamber; what with candles, wine, and quidding, which he has taken in abundance, i think he will be able to wheedle two more of you into matrimony. _mill._ poor sir martin looks melancholy! i am half afraid he is in love. _warn._ not with the lady that took him for a wit, i hope. _rose._ at least, sir martin can do more than you, mr warner; for he can make me a lady, which you cannot my mistress. _sir mart._ i have lost nothing but my man, and, in fine, i shall get another. _mill._ you'll do very well, sir martin, for you'll never be your own man, i assure you. _warn._ for my part, i had loved you before, if i had followed my inclination. _mill._ but now i am afraid you begin of the latest, except your love can grow up, like a mushroom, at a night's warning. _warn._ for that matter, never trouble yourself; i can love as fast as any man, when i am nigh possession; my love falls heavy, and never moves quick till it comes near the centre; he's an ill falconer, that will unhood before the quarry be in sight. love's an high-mettled hawk that beats the air, but soon grows weary when the game's not near. [_exeunt omnes._ [footnote b: this song is translated from voiture.] epilogue. as country vicars, when the sermon's done, run headlong to the benediction; well knowing, though the better sort may stay, the vulgar rout will run unblest away: so we, when once our play is done, make haste with a short epilogue to close your taste. in thus withdrawing, we seem mannerly; but, when the curtain's down, we peep, and see a jury of the wits, who still stay late, and in their club decree the poor play's fate; their verdict back is to the boxes brought, thence all the town pronounces it their thought. thus, gallants, we, like lilly, can foresee; but if you ask us what our doom will be, we by to-morrow will our fortune cast, as he tells all things when the year is past. the tempest; or, the enchanted island. a comedy. the tempest. in this alteration of the "tempest," dryden acknowledges his obligation to sir william davenant, whom he extols for his quick and piercing imagination. sir william was the son of an inn-keeper in oxford, whose house was frequented by our immortal shakespeare; and hence an ill-founded tradition ascribed to him a paternal interest in young davenant: but this slander on shakespeare's moral character has been fully refuted in the prolegomena to johnson and steevens' edition of his plays. davenant was appointed poet laureat upon the death of ben jonson. during the civil wars, he distinguished himself on the royal side, was lieutenant-general of ordnance to the earl of newcastle, and was knighted by charles at the siege of gloucester. he was afterwards much trusted by henrietta, the queen-dowager; and was finally made prisoner by an english man of war, in attempting to convey a colony of loyalists to virginia. after a long captivity in the tower, he was liberated through the intercession of the lord-keeper, whitelocke; the wisest and most temperate of the counsellors of the ruling power. through his countenance, sir william was protected, or connived at, in bringing forward certain interludes and operas, even during the rigid sway of fanaticism. after the restoration, he became manager of a company of players, called the duke of york's servants, in distinction to the king's company, which was directed by killigrew. he introduced upon the stage much pomp in dress, scenery, and decoration, as if to indemnify the theatrical muses for the poor shifts to which they had been reduced during the usurpation. sir william davenant died in , at the age of . "gondibert," his greatest performance, incurred, when first published, more ridicule, and in latter times more neglect, than its merits deserve. an epic poem, in elegiac stanzas, must always be tedious, because no structure of verse is more unfavourable to narration than that which almost peremptorily requires each sentence to be restricted, or protracted, to four lines. but the liveliness of davenant's imagination, which dryden has pointed out as his most striking attribute, has illuminated even the dull and dreary path which he has chosen; and perhaps few poems afford more instances of vigorous conceptions, and even felicity of expression, than the neglected "gondibert.[c]" the alteration of the tempest was davenant's last work; and it seems to have been undertaken, chiefly, with a view to give room for scenical decoration. few readers will think the play much improved by the introduction of the sea-language, which davenant had acquired during the adventurous period of his life. nevertheless, the ludicrous contest betwixt the sailors, for the dukedom and viceroyship of a barren island, gave much amusement at the time, and some of the expressions were long after proverbial[d]. much cannot be said for davenant's ingenuity, in contrasting the character of a woman, who had never seen a man, with that of a man, who had never seen a woman, or in inventing a sister monster for caliban. the majestic simplicity of shakespeare's plan is injured by thus doubling his characters; and his wild landscape is converted into a formal parterre, where "each alley has its brother." in sketching characters drawn from fancy, and not from observation, the palm of genius must rest with the first inventor; others are but copyists, and a copy shews no where to such disadvantage as when placed by the original. besides, although we are delighted with the feminine simplicity of miranda, it becomes unmanly childishness in hippolito; and the premature coquetry of dorinda is disgusting, when contrasted with the maidenly purity that chastens the simplicity of shakespeare's heroine. the latter seems to display, as it were by instinct, the innate dignity of her sex; the former, to shew, even in solitude, the germ of those vices, by which, in a voluptuous age, the female character becomes degraded. the wild and savage character of caliban is also sunk into low and vulgar buffoonery. dryden has not informed us of the share he had in this alteration: it was probably little more than the care of adapting it to the stage. the prologue is one of the most masterly tributes ever paid at the shrine of shakespeare. from the epilogue, the tempest appears to have been acted in . although dryden was under engagements to the king's company, this play was performed by the duke's servants, probably because written in conjunction with davenant, their manager. it was not published until . footnotes. [footnote c: an excellent critical essay upon the beauties and defects of davenant's epic, may be found in aikin's miscellanies. those who are insensible to theme rits of the poem, may admire the courage of the author, who wrote some part of it when he conceived himself within a week of being hanged. a tradition prevails, that his life was saved by milton, whose life, in return, he saved at the restoration. were the story true, how vast was the requital!] [footnote d: as, "peace and the but," &c.] preface. the writing of prefaces to plays was probably invented by some very ambitious poet, who never thought he had done enough: perhaps by some ape of the french eloquence, which uses to make a business of a letter of gallantry, an examen of a farce; and, in short, a great pomp and ostentation of words on every trifle. this is certainly the talent of that nation, and ought not to be invaded by any other. they do that out of gaiety, which would be an imposition[e] upon us. we may satisfy ourselves with surmounting them in the scene, and safely leave them those trappings of writings, and flourishes of the pen, with which they adorn the borders of their plays, and which are indeed no more than good landscapes to a very indifferent picture. i must proceed no farther in this argument, lest i run myself beyond my excuse for writing this. give me leave, therefore, to tell you, reader, that i do not set a value on any thing i have written in this play, but out of gratitude to the memory of sir william davenant, who did me the honour to join me with him in the alteration of it. it was originally shakespeare's; a poet for whom he had particularly a high veneration, and whom he first taught me to admire. the play itself had formerly been acted with success in the black friars: and our excellent fletcher had so great a value for it, that he thought fit to make use of the same design, not much varied, a second time. those, who have seen his "sea-voyage," may easily discern that it was a copy of shakespeare's "tempest:" the storm, the desert island, and the woman who had never seen a man, are all sufficient testimonies of it. but fletcher was not the only poet who made use of shakespeare's plot: sir john suckling, a professed admirer of our author, has followed his footsteps in his "goblins;" his _regmella_ being an open imitation of shakespeare's _miranda_, and his spirits, though counterfeit, yet are copied from _ariel_. but sir william davenant, as he was a man of a quick and piercing imagination, soon found that somewhat might be added to the design of shakespeare, of which neither fletcher nor suckling had ever thought: and, therefore, to put the last hand to it, he designed the counter-part to shakespeare's plot, namely, that of a man who had never seen a woman; that by this means those two characters of innocence and love might the more illustrate and commend each other. this excellent contrivance he was pleased to communicate to me, and to desire my assistance in it. i confess, that from the very first moment it so pleased me, that i never writ any thing with more delight. i must likewise do him that justice to acknowledge, that my writing received daily his amendments; and that is the reason why it is not so faulty, as the rest which i have done, without the help or correction of so judicious a friend. the comical parts of the sailors were also of his invention, and, for the most part, his writing, as you will easily discover by the style. in the time i writ with him, i had the opportunity to observe somewhat more nearly of him, than i had formerly done, when i had only a bare acquaintance with him: i found him then of so quick a fancy, that nothing was proposed to him, on which he could not suddenly produce a thought, extremely pleasant and surprising: and those first thoughts of his, contrary to the old latin proverb, were not always the least happy. and as his fancy was quick, so likewise were the products of it remote and new. he borrowed not of any other; and his imagination's were such as could not easily enter into any other man. his corrections were sober and judicious: and he corrected his own writings much more severely than those of another man, bestowing twice the time and labour in polishing, which he used in invention. it had perhaps been easy enough for me to have arrogated more to myself than was my due, in the writing of this play, and to have passed by his name with silence in the publication of it, with the same ingratitude which others have used to him, whose writings he hath not only corrected, as he hath done this, but has had a greater inspection over them, and sometimes added whole scenes together, which may as easily be distinguished from the rest, as true gold from counterfeit, by the weight. but, besides the unworthiness of the action, which deterred me from it, (there being nothing so base as to rob the dead of his reputation,) i am satisfied i could never have received so much honour, in being thought the author of any poem, how excellent soever, as i shall from the joining my imperfections with the merit and name of shakespeare and sir william davenant. john dryden. _december . ._ [footnote e: a task imposed on us.] prologue. as when a tree's cut down, the secret root lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot; so, from old shakespeare's honoured dust, this day springs up and buds a new-reviving play: shakespeare, who (taught by none) did first impart to fletcher wit, to labouring jonson art. he, monarch-like, gave those, his subjects, law; and is that nature which they paint and draw. fletcher reached that which on his heights did grow, whilst jonson crept, and gathered all below. this did his love, and this his mirth, digest: one imitates him most, the other best. if they have since outwrit all other men, 'tis with the drops which fell from shakespeare's pen, the storm, which vanished on the neighbouring shore, was taught by shakespeare's tempest first to roar. that innocence and beauty, which did smile in fletcher, grew on this enchanted isle. but shakespeare's magic could not copied be; within that circle none durst walk but he. i must confess 'twas bold, nor would you now that liberty to vulgar wits allow, which works by magic supernatural things: but shakespeare's power is sacred as a king's. those legends from old priesthood were received, and he then writ, as people then believed. but if for shakespeare we your grace implore, we for our theatre shall want it more: who, by our dearth of youths, are forced to employ one of our women to present a boy; and that's a transformation, you will say, exceeding all the magic in the play. let none expect, in the last act, to find her sex transformed from man to womankind. whate'er she was before the play began, all you shall see of her is perfect man. or, if your fancy will be farther led to find her woman--it must be a-bed. dramatis personÆ. alonzo, _duke of savoy, and usurper of the dukedom of mantua_. ferdinand, _his son_. prospero, _right duke of milan_. antonio, _his brother, usurper of the dukedom_. gonzalo, _a nobleman of savoy_. hippolito, _one that never saw woman, right heir of the dukedom of mantua_. stephano, _master of the ship_. the tempest; or, the enchanted island. a comedy. mustacho, _his mate_. trincalo, _boatswain_. ventoso, _a mariner_. _several mariners_. _a cabin-boy_. miranda, } _daughters to_ prospero, dorinda, } _that never saw man_. ariel, _an airy spirit, attendant on_ prospero. _several spirits, guards to_ prospero. caliban, } _two monsters of the isle_. sycorax, _his sister_. } the tempest. act i. scene i.--_the front of the stage is opened, and the band of twenty-four violins, with the harpsicals and theorbos which accompany the voices, are placed between the pit and the stage. while the overture is playing, the curtain rises, and discovers a new frontispiece, joined to the great pilasters, on each side of the stage. this frontispiece is a noble arch, supported by large wreathed columns of the corinthian order; the wreathings of the columns are beautified with roses wound round them, and several cupids flying about them. on the cornice, just over the capitals, sits on either side a figure, with a trumpet in one hand, and a palm in the other, representing fame. a little farther, on the same cornice, on each side of a compass-pediment, lie a lion and a unicorn, the supporters of the royal arms of england. in the middle of the arch are several angels, holding the king's arms, as if they were placing them in the midst of that compass-pediment. behind this is the scene, which represents a thick cloudy sky, a very rocky coast, and a tempestuous sea in perpetual agitation. this tempest (supposed to be raised by magick) has many dreadful objects in it, as several spirits in horrid shapes flying down amongst the sailors, then rising and crossing in the air. and when the ship is sinking, the whole house is darkened, and a shower of fire falls upon them. this is accompanied with lightning, and several claps of thunder, to the end of the storm._ _enter_ mustacho _and_ ventoso. _vent._ what a sea comes in! _must._ a foaming sea; we shall have foul weather. _enter_ trincalo. _trinc._ the scud comes against the wind, 'twill blow hard. _enter_ stephano. _steph._ boatswain! _trinc._ here, master, what say you? _steph._ ill weather; let's off to sea. _must._ let's have sea room enough, and then let it blow the devil's head off. _steph._ boy! boy! _enter cabin boy._ _boy._ yaw, yaw, here, master. _steph._ give the pilot a dram of the bottle. [_exeunt_ stephano _and boy_. _enter mariners, and pass over the stage._ _trinc._ bring the cable to the capstorm. _enter_ alonso, antonio, _and_ gonzalo. _alon._ good boatswain, have a care; where's the master? play the men. _trinc._ pray keep below. _anto._ where's the master, boatswain? _trinc._ do you not hear him? you hinder us: keep your cabins, you help the storm. _gonz._ nay, good friend, be patient. _trinc._ ay, when the sea is: hence! what care these roarers for the name of duke? to cabin; silence; trouble us not. _gonz._ good friend, remember whom thou hast aboard. _trinc._ none that i love more than myself: you are a counsellor; if you can advise these elements to silenuse your wisdom: if yon cannot, make yourself ready in the cabin for the ill hour. cheerly, good hearts! out of our way, sirs. [_exeunt_ trincalo _and mariners_. _gonz._ i have great comfort from this fellow; methinks his complexion is perfect gallows: stand fast, good fate, to his hanging; make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own does little advantage us; if he be not born to be hanged, we shall be drowned. [_exit._ _enter_ trincalo _and_ stephano. _trinc._ up aloft, lads. come, reef both topsails. _steph._ make haste, let's weigh, let's weigh, and off to sea. [_exit_ steph. _enter two mariners, and pass over the stage._ _trinc._ hands down! man your main capstorm. _enter_ mustacho _and_ ventoso _at the other door_. _must._ up aloft! and man your seere capstorm. _vent._ my lads, my hearts of gold, get in your capstorm-bar. hoa up, hoa up! [_exeunt_ mustacho _and_ ventoso. _enter_ stephano. _steph._ hold on well! hold on well! nip well there; quarter-master, get's more nippers. [_exit_ steph. _enter two mariners, and pass over again._ _trinc._ turn out, turn out all hands to capstorm. you dogs, is this a time to sleep? lubbord. heave together, lads. [trincalo _whistles_. [_exeunt_ mustacho _and_ ventoso. _must. within._ our vial's broke. _vent. within._ 'tis but our vial-block has given way. come, heave, lads! we are fixed again. heave together, bullies. _enter_ stephano. _steph._ cut down the hammocks! cut down the hammocks! come, my lads: come, bullies, chear up! heave lustily. the anchor's apeak. _trinc._ is the anchor apeak? _steph._ is a weigh! is a weigh. _trinc._ up aloft, my lads, upon the fore-castle; cut the anchor, cut him. _all within._ haul catt, haul catt, haul catt, haul: haul catt, haul. below. _steph._ aft, aft, and loose the mizen! _trinc._ get the mizen-tack aboard. haul aft mizen-sheet. _enter_ mustacho. _must._ loose the main-top sail! _steph._ let him alone, there's too much wind. _trinc._ loose fore-sail! haul aft both sheets! trim her right before the wind. aft! aft! lads, and hale up the mizen here. _must._ a mackrel-gale, master. _steph. within._ port hard, port! the wind veers forward, bring the tack aboard-port is. starboard, starboard, a little steady; now steady, keep her thus, no nearer you cannot come, 'till the sails are loose. _enter_ ventoso. _vent._ some hands down: the guns are loose. [_exit_ must. _trinc._ try the pump, try the pump. [_exit_ vent. _enter_ mustacho _at the other door_. _must._ o master! six foot water in hold. _steph._ clap the helm hard aweather! flat, flat, flat-in the fore-sheet there. _trinc._ over-haul your fore-bowling. _steph._ brace in the larboard. [_exit._ _trinc._ a curse upon this howling, [_a great cry within_.] they are louder than the weather. _enter_ antonio _and_ gonzalo. yet again, what do you here? shall we give over, and drown? have you a mind to sink? _gonz._ a pox on your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, uncharitable dog. _trinc._ work you then, and be poxed. _anto._ hang, cur, hang, you whorson insolent noise-maker! we are less afraid to be drowned than you are. _trinc._ ease the fore-brace a little. [_exit._ _gonz._ i'll warrant him for drowning, though the ship were no stronger than a nut-shell, and as leaky as an unstanched wench. _enter_ alonzo _and_ ferdinand. _ferd._ for myself i care not, but your loss brings a thousand deaths to me. _alon._ o name not me, i am grown old, my son; i now am tedious to the world, and that, by use, is so to me: but, ferdinand, i grieve my subjects' loss in thee: alas! i suffer justly for my crimes, but why thou should'st--o heaven! [_a cry within._ hark! farewell, my son, a long farewell! _enter_ trincalo, mustacho, _and_ ventoso. _trinc._ what, must our mouths be cold then? _vent._ all's lost. to prayers, to prayers. _gonz._ the duke and prince are gone within to prayers. let's assist them. _must._ nay, we may e'en pray too, our case is now alike. _ant._ mercy upon us! we split, we split! _gonz._ let's all sink with the duke, and the young prince. [_exeunt._ _enter_ stephano _and_ trincalo. _trinc._ the ship is sinking. [_a new cry within._ _steph._ run her ashore! _trinc._ luff! luff! or we are all lost! there's a rock upon the starboard-bow. _steph._ she strikes, she strikes! all shift for themselves. [_exeunt._ scene ii.--_in the midst of the shower of fire, the scene changes. the cloudy sky, rocks, and sea vanish; and, when the lights return, discover that beautiful part of the island, which was the habitation of_ prospero: _'tis composed of three walks of cypress-trees; each side-walk leads to a cave, in one of which_ prospero _keeps his daughter, in the other_ hippolito: _the middle-walk is of great depth, and leads to an open part of the island_. _enter_ prospero _and_ miranda. _prosp._ miranda, where's your sister? _mir._ i left her looking from the pointed rock, at the walk's end, on the huge beat of waters. _prosp._ it is a dreadful object. _mir._ if by your art, my dearest father, you have put them in this roar, allay them quickly. _prosp._ i have so ordered, that not one creature in the ship is lost: i have done nothing but in care of thee, my daughter, and thy pretty sister: you both are ignorant of what you are, not knowing whence i am, nor that i'm more than prospero, master of a narrow cell, and thy unhappy father. _mir._ i ne'er endeavoured to know more than you were pleased to tell me. _prosp._ i should inform thee farther. _mir._ you often, sir, began to tell me what i am, but then you stopt. _prosp._ the hour's now come; obey, and be attentive. canst thou remember a time, before we came into this cell? i do not think thou canst, for then thou wert not full three years old. _mir._ certainly i can, sir. _prosp._ tell me the image then of any thing, which thou dost keep in thy remembrance still. _mir._ sir, had i not four or five women once, that tended me? _prosp._ thou hadst, and more, miranda: what seest thou else, in the dark back-ward, and abyss of time? if thou rememberest aught, ere thou cam'st here, then how thou cam'st thou mayest remember too. _mir._ sir, that i do not. _prosp._ fifteen years since, miranda, thy father was the duke of milan, and a prince of power. _mir._ sir, are not you my father? _prosp._ thy mother was all virtue, and she said thou wast my daughter, and thy sister too. _mir._ o heavens! what foul play had we, that we hither came? or was't a blessing that we did? _prosp._ both, both, my girl. _mir._ but, sir, i pray, proceed. _prosp._ my brother, and thy uncle, called antonio, to whom i trusted then the manage of my state, while i was wrapped with secret studies,--that false uncle, having attained the craft of granting suits, and of denying them; whom to advance, or lop, for over-topping,--soon was grown the ivy, which did hide my princely trunk, and sucked my verdure out: thou attend'st not. _mir._ o good sir, i do. _prosp._ i thus neglecting worldly ends, and bent to closeness, and the bettering of my mind, waked in my false brother an evil nature: he did believe he was indeed the duke, because he then did execute the outward face of sovereignty---- do'st thou still mark me? _mir._ your story would cure deafness. _prosp._ this false duke needs would be absolute in milan, and confederate with savoy's duke, to give him tribute, and to do him homage. _mir._ false man! _prosp._ this duke of savoy, being an enemy to me inveterate, strait grants my brother's suit; and on a night, mated to his design, antonio opened the gates of milan, and in the dead of darkness hurried me thence, with thy young sister, and thy crying self. _mir._ but wherefore did they not that hour destroy us? _prosp._ they durst not, girl, in milan, for the love my people bore me; in short, they hurried us away to savoy, and thence aboard a bark at nissa's port, bore us some leagues to sea, where they prepared a rotten carcase of a boat, not rigged, no tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats instinctively had quit it. _mir._ alack! what trouble was i then to you? _prosp._ thou and thy sister were two cherubims, which did preserve me: you both did smile, infused with fortitude from heaven. _mir._ how came we ashore? _prosp._ by providence divine. some food we had, and some fresh water, which a nobleman of savoy, called gonzalo, appointed master of that black design, gave us; with rich garments, and all necessaries, which since have steaded much; and of his gentleness (knowing i loved my books) he furnished me, from mine own library, with volumes, which i prize above my dukedom. _mir._ would i might see that man! _prosp._ here in this island we arrived, and here have i your tutor been. but by my skill i find, that my mid-heaven doth depend on a most happy star, whose influence if i now court not, but omit, my fortunes will ever after droop: here cease more questions; thou art inclined to sleep: 'tis a good dulness, and give it way; i know thou can'st not chuse. [_she falls asleep._ come away, my spirit: i am ready now; approach, my ariel, come. _enter_ ariel. _ariel._ all hail, great master, grave sir, hail! i come to answer thy best pleasure, be it to fly, to swim, to shoot into the fire, to ride into the curled clouds; to thy strong bidding task ariel, and all his qualities. _prosp._ hast thou, spirit, performed to point the tempest, that i bade thee? _ariel._ to every article. i boarded the duke's ship; now on the beak, now in the waste, the deck, in every cabin, i flamed amazement; and sometimes i seemed to burn in many places; on the top-mast, the yards, and bow-sprit, i did flame distinctly; nay, once i rained a shower of fire upon them. _prosp._ my brave spirit!-- who was so firm, so constant, that this coil did not infect his reason? _ariel._ not a soul, but felt a fever of the mind, and played some tricks of desperation; all, but mariners, plunged in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel: the duke's son, ferdinand, with hair upstaring, (more like reeds than hair) was the first man that leaped; cried, _hell is empty! and all the devils are here!_ _prosp._ why, that's my spirit!-- but, was not this nigh shore? _ariel._ close by, my master. _prosp._ but, ariel, are they safe? _ariel._ not a hair perished. in troops i have dispersed them round this isle: the duke's son i have landed by himself, whom i have left warming the air with sighs, in an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, his arms enfolded in this sad knot. _prosp._ say how thou hast disposed the mariners of the duke's ship, and all the rest o'the fleet? _ariel._ safely in harbour is the duke's ship; in the deep nook, where once thou called'st me up, at midnight, to fetch dew from the still vexed bermoothes, there she's hid; the mariners all under hatches stowed; whom, with a charm, joined to their suffered labour, i have left asleep: and for the rest o'the fleet, which i dispersed, they all have met again, and are upon the mediterranean float, bound sadly home for italy; supposing that they saw the duke's ship wrecked, and his great person perish. _prosp._ ariel, thy charge exactly is performed: but there's more work;-- what is the time o'the day? _ariel._ past the mid season. _prosp._ at least two glasses. the time 'tween six and now must by us both be spent most preciously. _ariel._ is there more toil? since thou dost give me pains, let me remember thee what thou hast promised, which is not yet performed me. _prosp._ how now, moody! what is't thou canst demand? _ariel._ my liberty. _prosp._ before the time be out?--no more! _ariel._ i pr'ythee, remember i have done thee faithful service; told thee no lies; made thee no mistakings; served without or grudge, or grumblings; thou didst promise to bate me a full year. _prosp._ dost thou forget from what a torment i did free thee? _ariel._ no. _prosp._ thou dost; and think'st it much to tread the ooze of the salt deep; to run against the sharp wind of the north; to do my business in the veins of the earth, when it is baked with frost. _ariel._ i do not, sir. _prosp._ thou liest, malignant thing!--hast thou forgot the foul witch sycorax, who, with age and envy, was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her? _ariel._ no, sir. _prosp._ thou hast! where was she born? speak, tell me. _ariel._ sir, in argier. _prosp._ oh, was she so!--i must, once every month, recount what thou hast been, which thou forgettest. this damned witch sycorax, for mischiefs manifold, and sorceries too terrible to enter human hearing, from argier, thou know'st, was banished: but, for one thing she did, they would not take her life.--is not this true? _ariel._ ay, sir. _prosp._ this blue-eyed hag was hither brought with child, and here was left by the sailors: thou, my slave, as thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant; and, 'cause thou wast a spirit too delicate to act her earthy and abhorred commands, refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, by help of her more potent ministers, (in her unmitigable rage) into a cloven pine; within whose rift imprisoned, thou didst painfully remain a dozen years, within which space she died, and left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans, as fast as mill-wheels strike. then was this isle (save for two brats, which she did litter here, the brutish caliban, and his twin-sister, two freckled hag-born whelps) not honoured with a human shape. _ariel._ yes; caliban her son, and sycorax his sister. _prosp._ dull thing! i say so.--he, that caliban, and she, that sycorax, whom i now keep in service. thou best know'st what torment i did find thee in; thy groans did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts of ever-angry bears; it was a torment to lay upon the damned, which sycorax could ne'er again undo: it was my art, when i arrived and heard thee, that made the pine to gape, and let thee out. _ariel._ i thank thee, master. _prosp._ if thou more murmurest, i will rend an oak, and peg thee in his knotty entrails, till thou hast howled away twelve winters more. _ariel._ pardon, master; i will be correspondent to command, and be a gentle spirit. _prosp._ do so; and after two days i'll discharge thee. _ariel._ thanks, my great master. but i have yet one request. _prosp._ what's that, my spirit? _ariel._ i know that this day's business is important, requiring too much toil for one alone. i have a gentle spirit for my love, who, twice seven years has waited for my freedom: let it appear, it will assist me much, and we with mutual joy shall entertain each other. this, i beseech you, grant me. _prosp._ you shall have your desire. _ariel._ that's my noble master.--milcha! [milcha _flies down to his assistance_. _milc._ i am here, my love. _ariel._ thou art free! welcome, my dear!-- what shall we do? say, say, what shall we do? _prosp._ be subject to no sight but mine; invisible to every eye-ball else. hence, with diligence; anon thou shalt know more. [_they both fly up, and cross in the air._ thou hast slept well, my child. [_to_ mir. _mir._ the sadness of your story put heaviness in me. _prosp._ shake it off.--come on, i'll now call caliban, my slave, who never yields us a kind answer. _mir._ 'tis a creature, sir, i do not love to look on. _prosp._ but, as it is, we cannot miss him: he does make our fire, fetch in our wood, and serve in offices that profit us.--what ho, slave! caliban! thou earth, thou, speak! _calib._ [_within_.] there's wood enough within. _prosp._ thou poisonous slave! got by the devil himself upon thy wicked dam, come forth! _enter_ caliban. _calib._ as wicked dew, as e'er my mother brushed with raven's feather from unwholesome fens, drop on you both! a south-west wind blow on you, and blister you all o'er! _prosp._ for this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps, side-stitches, that shall pen thy breath up: urchins shall prick thee till thou bleed'st: thou shalt be pinched as thick as honey-combs, each pinch more stinging than the bees which made them. _calib._ i must eat my dinner: this island's mine by sycorax my mother, which thou took'st from me. when thou earnest first, thou stroak'dst me, and madest much of me; would'st give me water with berries in't, and teach me how to name the bigger light, and how the less, that burn by day and night; and then i loved thee, and showed thee all the qualities of the isle, the fresh-springs, brine-pits, barren places, and fertile. cursed be i, that i did so! all the charms of sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on thee! for i am all the subjects that thou hast. i first was mine own lord; and here thou stayest me in this hard rock, while thou dost keep from me the rest o'the island. _prosp._ thou most lying slave, whom stripes may move, not kindness! i have used thee, filth as thou art! with human care; and lodged thee in mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate the honour of my children. _calib._ oh, ho! oh, ho! would it had been done! thou didst prevent me, i had peopled else this isle with calibans. _prosp._ abhorred slave! who ne'er wouldst any print of goodness take, being capable of all ill! i pitied thee, took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour one thing or other: when thou didst not, savage! know thy own meaning, but wouldst gabble like a thing most brutish, i endowed thy purposes with words, which made them known.--but thy wild race (though thou didst learn) had that in't, which good natures could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou deservedly pent up into this rock. _calib._ you taught me language; and my profit by it is, that i know to curse. the red botch rid you for learning me your language! _prosp._ hag-seed, hence! fetch us in fuel, and be quick to answer other business.--shrug'st thou, malice! if thou neglectest, or dost unwillingly what i command, i'll rack thee with old cramps; fill all thy bones with aches; make thee roar, that beasts shall tremble at thy din. _calib._ no, pr'ythee! i must obey. his art is of such power, it would controul my dam's god, setebos, and make a vassal of him. _prosp._ so, slave, hence! [_exeunt_ prosp. _and_ calib. _severally_. _enter_ dorinda. _dor._ oh, sister! what have i beheld! _mir._ what is it moves you so? _dor._ from yonder rock, as i my eyes cast down upon the seas, the whistling winds blew rudely on my face, and the waves roared; at first, i thought the war had been between themselves, but straight i spied a huge great creature. _mir._ o, you mean the ship? _dor._ is't not a creature then?--it seemed alive. _mir._ but what of it? _dor._ this floating ram did bear his horns above, all tied with ribbands, ruffling in the wind: sometimes he nodded down his head a-while, and then the waves did heave him to the moon, he clambering to the top of all the billows; and then again he curtsied down so low, i could not see him: till at last, all side-long, with a great crack, his belly burst in pieces. _mir._ there all had perished, had not my father's magic art relieved them.-- but, sister, i have stranger news to tell you: in this great creature there were other creatures; and shortly we may chance to see that thing, which you have heard my father call a man. _dor._ but, what is that? for yet he never told me. _mir._ i know no more than you:--but i have heard my father say, we women were made for him. _dor._ what, that he should eat us, sister? _mir._ no sure; you see my father is a man, and yet he does us good. i would he were not old. _dor._ methinks, indeed, it would be finer, if we two had two young fathers. _mir._ no, sister, no: if they were young, my father said, we must call them brothers. _dor._ but, pray, how does it come, that we two are not brothers then, and have not beards like him? _mir._ now i confess you pose me. _dor._ how did he come to be our father too? _mir._ i think he found us when we both were little, and grew within the ground. _dor._ why could he not find more of us? pray, sister, let you and i look up and down one day, to find some little ones for us to play with. _mir._ agreed; but now we must go in. this is the hour wherein my father's charm will work, which seizes all who are in open air: the effect of this great art i long to see, which will perform as much as magic can. _dor._ and i, methinks, more long to see a man. [_exeunt._ act ii. scene i. _the scene changes to the wilder part of the island. it is composed of divers sorts of trees and barren places, with a prospect of the sea at a great distance._ _enter_ stephano, mustacho, _and_ ventoso. _vent._ the runlet of brandy was a loving runlet, and floated after us out of pure pity. _must._ this kind bottle, like an old acquaintance, swam after it. and this scollop-shell is all our plate now. _vent._ 'tis well we have found something since we landed. i pr'ythee fill a sup, and let it go round.-- where hast thou laid the runlet? _must._ in the hollow of an old tree. _vent._ fill apace; we cannot live long in this barren island, and we may take a sup before death, as well as others drink at our funerals. _must._ this is prize brandy; we steal custom, and it costs nothing. let's have two rounds more. _vent._ master, what have you saved? _steph._ just nothing but myself. _vent._ this works comfortably on a cold stomach. _steph._ fill us another round. _vent._ look! mustacho weeps. hang losses, as long as we have brandy left!--pr'ythee leave weeping. _steph._ he sheds his brandy out of his eyes: he shall drink no more. _must._ this will be a doleful day with old bess. she gave me a gilt nutmeg at parting; that's lost too: but, as you say, hang losses! pr'ythee fill again. _vent._ beshrew thy heart, for putting me in mind of thy wife; i had not thought of mine else. nature will shew itself, i must melt. i pr'ythee fill again: my wife's a good old jade, and has but one eye left; but she will weep out that too, when she hears that i am dead. _steph._ 'would you were both hanged, for putting me in thought of mine! _vent._ but come, master, sorrow is dry: there's for you again. _steph._ a mariner had e'en as good be a fish as a man, but for the comfort we get ashore. o! for an old dry wench, now i am wet. _must._ poor heart, that would soon make you dry again. but all is barren in this isle: here we may lie at hull, till the wind blow nor' and by south, ere we can cry, a sail! a sail! a sight of a white apron: and, therefore, here's another sup to comfort us. _vent._ this isle's our own, that's our comfort; for the duke, the prince, and all their train, are perished. _must._ our ship is sunk, and we can never get home again: we must e'en turn savages, and the next that catches his fellow may eat him. _vent._ no, no, let us have a government; for if we live well and orderly, heaven will drive shipwrecks ashore to make us all rich: therefore let us carry good consciences, and not eat one another. _steph._ whoever eats any of my subjects, i'll break out his teeth with my sceptre; for i was master at sea, and will be duke on land: you, mustacho, have been my mate, and shall be my viceroy. _vent._ when you are duke, you may chuse your viceroy; but i am a free subject in a new plantation, and will have no duke without my voice: and so fill me the other sup. _steph._ [_whispering_.] ventoso, dost thou hear, i will advance thee; pr'ythee, give me thy voice. _vent._ i'll have no whisperings to corrupt the election; and, to show that i have no private ends, i declare aloud, that i will be viceroy, or i'll keep my voice for myself. _must._ stephano, hear me! i will speak for the people, because there are few, or rather none, in the isle, to speak for themselves. know, then, that to prevent the farther shedding of christian blood, we are all content ventoso shall be viceroy, upon condition i may be viceroy over him. speak, good people, are you well agreed? what, no man answer? well, you may take their silence for consent. _vent._ you speak for the people, mustacho! i'll speak for them, and declare generally with one voice, one and all, that there shall be no viceroy but the duke, unless i be he. _must._ you declare for the people, who never saw your face? cold iron shall decide it! [_both draw._ _steph._ hold, loving subjects! we will have no civil war during our reign. i do hereby appoint you both to be my viceroys over the whole island. _both._ agreed, agreed! _enter_ trincalo, _with a great bottle, half drunk_. _vent._ how! trincalo, our brave boatswain! _must._ he reels: can he be drunk with sea-water? _trinc._ [sings.] _i shall no more to sea, to sea, here i shall die ashore_. this is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's funeral; but here's my comfort. [_drinks._ sings. _the master, the swabber, the gunner, and i, the surgeon, and his mate, loved mall, meg, and marian, and margery, but none of us cared for kate. for she had a tongue with a twang, would cry to a sailor_, go hang!-- _she loved not the savour of tar, nor of pitch, yet a tailor might scratch her where'er she did itch._ this is a scurvy tune too; but here's my comfort again. [_drinks._ _steph._ we have got another subject now: welcome, welcome, into our dominions! _trinc._ what subject, or what dominions? here's old sack, boys; the king of good fellows can be no subject. i will be old simon the king. _must._ ha, old boy! how didst thou scape? _trinc._ upon a butt of sack, boys, which the sailors threw overboard.--but are you alive, hoa! for i will tipple with no ghosts, till i'm dead. thy hand, mustacho, and thine, ventoso; the storm has done its worst.--stephano alive too! give thy boatswain thy hand, master. _vent._ you must kiss it then; for i must tell you, we have chosen him duke, in a full assembly. _trinc._ a duke! where? what's he duke of? _must._ of this island, man. oh, trincalo, we are all made: the island's empty; all's our own, boy; and we will speak to his grace for thee, that thou mayest be as great as we are. _trinc._ you great! what the devil are you? _vent._ we two are viceroys over all the island; and, when we are weary of governing, thou shalt succeed us. _trinc._ do you hear, ventoso? i will succeed you in both places, before you enter into them. _steph._ trincalo, sleep, and be sober; and make no more uproars in my country. _trinc._ why, what are you, sir; what are you? _steph._ what i am, i am by free election; and you, trincalo, are not yourself: but we pardon your first fault, because it is the first day of our reign. _trinc._ umph, were matters carried so swimmingly against me, whilst i was swimming, and saving myself for the good of the people of this island! _must._ art thou mad, trincalo? wilt thou disturb a settled government, where thou art a mere stranger to the laws of the country? _trinc._ i'll have no laws. _vent._ then civil war begins. [vent. _and_ must. _draw_. _steph._ hold, hold! i'll have no bloodshed; my subjects are but few: let him make a rebellion by himself; and a rebel, i, duke stephano, declare him.--viceroys, come away. _trinc._ and duke trincalo declares, that he will make open war wherever he meets thee, or thy viceroys. [_exeunt_ steph. must. _and_ vent. _enter_ caliban, _with wood upon his back_. _trinc._ ha! who have we here? _calib._ all the infections, that the sun sucks up from fogs, fens, flats, on prospero fall, and make him by inch-meal a disease! his spirits hear me, and yet i needs must curse; but they'll not pinch, fright me with urchin shows, pitch me i'the mire, nor lead me in the dark out of my way, unless he bid them. but for every trifle he sets them on me: sometimes, like baboons, they mow and chatter at me, and often bite me; like hedge-hogs, then, they mount their prickles at me, tumbling before me in my barefoot way. sometimes i am all wound about with adders, who, with their cloven tongues, hiss me to madness.--ha! yonder stands one of his spirits, sent to torment me. _trinc._ what have we here, a man, or a fish? this is some monster of the isle. were i in england, as once i was, and had him painted, not a holiday fool there but would give me sixpence for the sight of him. well, if i could make him tame, he were a present for an emperor.--come hither, pretty monster; i'll do thee no harm: come hither! _calib._ torment me not; i'll bring the wood home faster. _trinc._ he talks none of the wisest; but i'll give him a dram o'the bottle, that will clear his understanding.--come on your ways, master monster, open your mouth: how now, you perverse moon-calf! what, i think you cannot tell who is your friend?--open your chops, i say. [_pours wine down his throat._ _calib._ this is a brave god, and bears celestial liquor: i'll kneel to him. _trinc._ he is a very hopeful monster.--monster, what say'st thou, art thou content to turn civil and sober, as i am? for then thou shalt be my subject. _calib._ i'll swear upon that bottle to be true; for the liquor is not earthly. did'st thou not drop from heaven? _trinc._ only out of the moon; i was the man in her, when time was.--by this light, a very shallow monster. _calib._ i'll shew thee every fertile inch in the isle, and kiss thy foot: i pr'ythee be my god, and let me drink. [_drinks again._ _trinc._ well drawn, monster, in good faith! _calib._ i'll shew thee the best springs; i'll pluck thee berries; i'll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough.--a curse upon the tyrant whom i serve! i'll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee. _trinc._ the poor monster is loving in his drink. _calib._ i pr'ythee let me bring thee where crabs grow; and i, with my long nails, will dig thee pig-nuts, shew thee a jay's nest, and instruct thee how to snare the marmozet: i'll bring thee to clustered filberts. wilt thou go with me? _trinc._ this monster comes of a good-natured race.--is there no more of thy kin in this island? _calib._ divine, here is but one besides myself; my lovely sister, beautiful and bright as the full moon! _trinc._ where is she? _calib._ i left her clambering up a hollow oak, and plucking thence the dropping honey-combs.--say, my king, shall i call her to thee? _trinc._ she shall swear upon the bottle too. if she proves handsome, she is mine.--here, monster, drink again for thy good news; thou shalt speak a good word for me. [_gives him the bottle._ _calib._ farewell, old master, farewell, farewell! sings. _no more dams i'll make for fish; nor fetch in firing, at requiring; nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish: ban, ban, ca-caliban, has a new master, get a new man._ hey-day! freedom, freedom! _trinc._ here's two subjects got already, the monster, and his sister: well, duke stephano, i say, and say again, wars will ensue, and so i drinks. [_drinks_.] from this worshipful monster, and mistress monster, his sister, i'll lay claim to this island by alliance.--monster, i say, thy sister shall be my spouse; come away, brother monster; i'll lead thee to my butt, and drink her health. [_exeunt._ scene ii.--_cypress trees and a cave._ _enter_ prospero _alone_. _prosp._ 'tis not yet fit to let my daughters know, i keep the infant duke of mantua so near them in this isle; whose father, dying, bequeathed him to my care; till my false brother (when he designed to usurp my dukedom from me) exposed him to that fate, he meant for me. by calculation of his birth, i saw death threat'ning him, if, till some time were past, he should behold the face of any woman: and now the danger's nigh.--hippolito! _enter_ hippolito. _hip._ sir, i attend your pleasure. _prosp._ how i have loved thee, from thy infancy, heaven knows, and thou thyself canst bear me witness; therefore accuse not me of thy restraint. _hip._ since i knew life, you've kept me in a rock; and you, this day, have hurried me from thence, only to change my prison, not to free me. i murmur not, but i may wonder at it. _prosp._ o, gentle youth! fate waits for thee abroad; a black star threatens thee; and death, unseen, stands ready to devour thee. _hip._ you taught me not to fear him in any of his shapes:-- let me meet death rather than be a prisoner. _prosp._ 'tis pity he should seize thy tender youth. _hip._ sir, i have often heard you say, no creature lived in this isle, but those which man was lord of. why, then, should i fear? _prosp._ but here are creatures which i named not to thee, who share man's sovereignty by nature's laws, and oft depose him from it. _hip._ what are those creatures, sir? _prosp._ those dangerous enemies of men, called women. _hip._ women! i never heard of them before.-- what are women like? _prosp._ imagine something between young men and angels; fatally beauteous, and have killing eyes; their voices charm beyond the nightingale's; they are all enchantment: those, who once behold them, are made their slaves for ever. _hip._ then i will wink, and fight with them. _prosp._ 'tis but in vain; they'll haunt you in your very sleep. _hip._ then i'll revenge it on them when i wake. _prosp._ you are without all possibility of revenge; they are so beautiful, that you can ne'er attempt, nor wish, to hurt them. _hip._ are they so beautiful? _prosp._ calm sleep is not so soft; nor winter suns, nor summer shades, so pleasant. _hip._ can they be fairer than the plumes of swans? or more delightful than the peacock's feathers? or than the gloss upon the necks of doves? or have more various beauty than the rainbow?-- these i have seen, and, without danger, wondered at. _prosp._ all these are far below them: nature made nothing but woman dangerous and fair. therefore if you should chance to see them, avoid them straight, i charge you. _hip._ well, since you say they are so dangerous, i'll so far shun them, as i may with safety of the unblemished honour, which you taugt me. but let them not provoke me, for i'm sure i shall not then forbear them. _prosp._ go in, and read the book i gave you last. to-morrow i may bring you better news. _hip._ i shall obey you, sir. [_exit_ hip. _prosp._ so, so; i hope this lesson has secured him, for i have been constrained to change his lodging from yonder rock, where first i bred him up, and here have brought him home to my own cell, because the shipwreck happened near his mansion. i hope he will not stir beyond his limits, for hitherto he hath been all obedience: the planets seem to smile on my designs, and yet there is one sullen cloud behind: i would it were dispersed! _enter_ miranda _and_ dorinda. how, my daughters! i thought i had instructed them enough: children! retire; why do you walk this way? _mir._ it is within our bounds, sir. _prosp._ but both take heed, that path is very dangerous; remember what i told you. _dor._ is the man that way, sir? _prosp._ all that you can imagine ill is there. the curled lion, and the rugged bear, are not so dreadful as that man. _mir._ oh me, why stay we here then? _dor._ i'll keep far enough from his den, i warrant him. _mir._ but you have told me, sir, you are a man; and yet you are not dreadful. _prosp._ ay, child; but i am a tame man; old men are tame by nature, but all the danger lies in a wild young man. _dor._ do they run wild about the woods? _prosp._ no, they are wild within doors, in chambers, and in closets. _dor._ but, father, i would stroak them, and make them gentle; then sure they would not hurt me. _prosp._ you must not trust them, child: no woman can come near them, but she feels a pain, full nine months. well, i must in; for new affairs require my presence: be you, miranda, your sister's guardian. [_exit_ pros. _dor._ come, sister, shall we walk the other way? the man will catch us else: we have but two legs, and he, perhaps, has four. _mir._ well, sister, though he have; yet look about you. _dor._ come back! that way is towards his den. _mir._ let me alone; i'll venture first, for sure he can devour but one of us at once. _dor._ how dare you venture? _mir._ we'll find him sitting like a hare in's form, and he shall not see us. _dor._ ay, but you know my father charged us both. _mir._ but who shall tell him on't? we'll keep each other's counsel. _dor._ i dare not, for the world. _mir._ but how shall we hereafter shun him, if we do not know him first? _dor._ nay, i confess i would fain see him too. i find it in my nature, because my father has forbidden me. _mir._ ay, there's it, sister; if he had said nothing, i had been quiet. go softly, and if you see him first, be quick, and beckon me away. _dor._ well, if he does catch me, i'll humble myself to him, and ask him pardon, as i do my father, when i have done a fault. _mir._ and if i can but escape with life, i had rather be in pain nine months, as my father threatened, than lose my longing. [_exeunt._ scene iii. _enter_ hippolito. _hip._ prospero has often said, that nature makes nothing in vain: why then are women made? are they to suck the poison of the earth, as gaudy coloured serpents are? i'll ask that question, when next i see him here. _enter_ miranda _and_ dorinda _peeping_. _dor._ o sister, there it is! it walks about like one of us. _mir._ ay, just so, and has legs as we have too. _hip._ it strangely puzzles me: yet 'tis most likely, women are somewhat between men and spirits. _dor._ hark! it talks:--sure this is not it my father meant, for this is just like one of us: methinks, i am not half so much afraid on't as i was; see, now it turns this way. _mir._ heaven! what a goodly thing it is! _dor._ i'll go nearer it. _mir._ o no, 'tis dangerous, sister! i'll go to it. i would not for the world that you should venture. my father charged me to secure you from it. _dor._ i warrant you this is a tame man; dear sister, he'll not hurt me, i see it by his looks. _mir._ indeed he will! but go back, and he shall eat me first: fie, are you not ashamed to be so inquisitive? _dor._ you chide me for it, and would give him yourself. _mir._ come back, or i will tell my father. observe how he begins to stare already! i'll meet the danger first, and then call you. _dor._ nay, sister, you shall never vanquish me in kindness. i'll venture you no more than you will me. _prosp._ [_within_.] miranda, child, where are you? _mir._ do you not hear my father call? go in. _dor._ 'twas you he named, not me; i will but say my prayers, and follow you immediately. _mir._ well, sister, you'll repent it. [_exit_ mir. _dor._ though i die for it, i must have the other peep. _hip._ what thing is that? [_seeing her_.] sure 'tis some infant of the sun, dressed in his father's gayest beams, and comes to play with birds: my sight is dazzled, and yet i find i'm loth to shut my eyes: i must go nearer it;--but stay a while; may it not be that beauteous murderer, woman, which i was charged to shun? speak, what art thou, thou shining vision! _dor._ alas, i know not; but i'm told i am a woman; do not hurt me, pray, fair thing. _hip._ i'd sooner tear my eyes out, than consent to do you any harm; though i was told, a woman was my enemy. _dor._ i never knew what 'twas to be an enemy, nor can i e'er prove so to that, which looks like you: for though i've been charged by him (whom yet i ne'er disobeyed,) to shun your presence, yet i'd rather die than lose it; therefore, i hope you will not have the heart to hurt me: though i fear you are a man, the dangerous thing of which i have been warned. pray, tell me what you are? _hip._ i must confess, i was informed i am a man; but if i fright you, i shall wish i were some other creature. i was bid to fear you too. _dor._ ah me! heaven grant we be not poison to each other! alas, can we not meet, but we must die? _hip._ i hope not so! for, when two poisonous creatures, both of the same kind, meet, yet neither dies. i've seen two serpents harmless to each other, though they have twined into a mutual knot: if we have any venom in us, sure, we cannot be more poisonous, when we meet, than serpents are. you have a hand like mine--may i not gently touch it? [_takes her hand._ _dor._ i've touched my father's and my sister's hands, and felt no pain; but now, alas! there's something, when i touch yours, which makes me sigh: just so i've seen two turtles mourning when they met: yet mine's a pleasing grief; and so, methought, was theirs: for still they mourned, and still they seemed to murmur too, and yet they often met. _hip._ oh heavens! i have the same sense too: your hand, methinks, goes through me; i feel it at my heart, and find it pleases, though it pains me. _prosp._ [_within_.] dorinda! _dor._ my father calls again; ah, i must leave you. _hip._ alas, i'm subject to the same command. _dor._ this is my first offence against my father, which he, by severing us, too cruelly does punish. _hip._ and this is my first trespass too: but he hath more offended truth, than we have him: he said our meeting would destructive be, but i no death, but in our parting, see. [_exeunt severally._ scene iv.--_a wild island._ _enter_ alonzo, antonio, _and_ gonzalo. _gonz._ 'beseech your grace, be merry: you have cause, so have we all, of joy, for our strange escape; then wisely, good sir, weigh our sorrow with our comfort. _alon._ pr'ythee peace; you cram these words into my ears, against my stomach; how can i rejoice, when my dear son, perhaps this very moment, is made a meal to some strange fish? _anto._ sir, he may live; i saw him beat the billows under him, and ride upon their backs; i do not doubt he came alive to land. _alon._ no, no, he's gone; and you and i, antonio, were those who caused his death. _anto._ how could we help it? _alon._ then, then we should have helped it, when thou betray'dst thy brother prospero, and mantua's infant sovereign, to my power: and when i, too ambitious, took by force another's right: then lost we ferdinand; then forfeited our navy to this tempest. _anto._ indeed we first broke truce with heaven; you to the waves an infant prince exposed, and on the waves have lost an only son. i did usurp my brother's fertile lands, and now am cast upon this desert-isle. _gonz._ these, sirs, 'tis true, were crimes of a black dye; but both of you have made amends to heaven, by your late voyage into portugal; where, in defence of christianity, your valour has repulsed the moors of spain. _alon._ o name it not, gonzalo; no act but penitence can expiate guilt! must we teach heaven what price to set on murder? what rate on lawless power and wild ambition? or dare we traffic with the powers above, and sell by weight a good deed for a bad? [_a flourish of music._ _gonz._ music! and in the air! sure we are shipwrecked on the dominions of some merry devil! _anto._ this isle's enchanted ground; for i have heard swift voices flying by my ear, and groans of lamenting ghosts. _alon._ i pulled a tree, and blood pursued my hand. heaven deliver me from this dire place, and all the after-actions of my life shall mark my penitence and my bounty. [_music again louder._ hark, the sounds approach us! [_the stage opens in several places._ _anto._ lo! the earth opens to devour us quick. these dreadful horrors, and the guilty sense of my foul treason, have unmanned me quite. _alon._ we on the brink of swift destruction stand; no means of our escape is left. [_another flourish of voices under the stage._ _anto._ ah! what amazing sounds are these we hear! _gonz._ what horrid masque will the dire fiends present? sung under the stage. dev. _where does the black fiend ambition reside, with the mischievous devil of pride?_ dev. _in the lowest and darkest caverns of hell, both pride and ambition do dwell._ dev. _who are the chief leaders of the damned host?_ dev. _proud monarchs, who tyrannize most._ dev. _damned princes there the worst of torments bear;_ dev. _who on earth all others in pleasures excel, must feel the worst torments of hell._ [_they rise singing this chorus._ _anto._ o heavens! what horrid vision's this? how they upbraid us with our crimes! _alon._ what fearful vengeance is in store for us! dev. _tyrants, by whom their subjects bleed, should in pains all others exceed;_ dev. _and barbarous monarchs, who their neighbours invade, and their crowns unjustly get; and such who their brothers to death have betrayed, in hell upon burning thrones shall be set._ dev. {--_in hell, in hell with flames they shall reign,_ chor. {_and for ever, for ever shall suffer the pain._ _anto._ o my soul! for ever, for ever shall suffer the pain! _alon._ has heaven, in all its infinite stock of mercy, no overflowings for us? poor, miserable, guilty men! _gonz._ nothing but horrors do encompass us! for ever, for ever must we suffer! _alon._ for ever we shall perish! o dismal words, for ever! dev. _who are the pillars of the tyrants court?_ dev. _rapine and murder his crown must support!_ dev. ----_his cruelty does tread on orphans' tender breasts, and brothers dead!_ dev. _can heaven permit such crimes should be attended with felicity?_ dev. _no; tyrants their sceptres uneasily bear, in the midst of their guards they their consciences fear._ dev. {_care their minds when they wake unquiet will keep;_ chor. {_and we with dire visions disturb all their sleep._ _anto._ oh horrid sight! how they stare upon us! the fiend will hurry us to the dark mansion. sweet heaven, have mercy on us! dev. _say, say, shall we bear these bold mortals from hence?_ dev. _no, no, let us shew their degrees of offence._ dev. _let's muster their crimes upon every side, and first let's discover their pride._ enter pride. pride. _lo here is pride, who first led them astray, and did to ambition their minds then betray._ enter fraud. fraud. _and fraud does next appear, their wandering steps who led; when they from virtue fled, they in my crooked paths their course did steer._ enter rapine. rapine. _from fraud to force they soon arrive, where rapine did their actions drive._ enter murder. murder. _there long they could not stay; down the steep hill they run; and to perfect the mischief which they had begun, to murder they bent all their way._ chorus of all. _around, around we pace, about this cursed place; while thus we compass in these mortals and their sin._ [devils vanish. _anto._ heaven has heard me, they are vanished! _alon._ but they have left me all unmanned; i feel my sinews slacken with the fright; and a cold sweat trills down o'er all my limbs, as if i were dissolving into water. oh prospero, my crimes against thee sit heavy on my heart! _anto._ and mine against him and young hippolito. _gonz._ heaven have mercy on the penitent! _anto._ lead from this cursed ground; the seas in all their rage are not so dreadful. this is the region of despair and death. _alon._ beware all fruit, but what the birds have pecked. the shadows of the trees are poisonous too: a secret venom slides from every branch. my conscience does distract me! o my son! why do i speak of eating or repose, before i know thy fortune? [_as they are going out, a devil rises just before them, at which they start, and are frighted._ _alon._ o heavens! yet more apparitions! devil sings. _arise, arise! ye subterranean winds, more to disturb their guilty minds: and all ye filthy damps and vapours rise, which use to infect the earth, and trouble all the skies; rise you, from whom devouring plagues have birth: you, that in the vast and hollow womb of earth engender earthquakes, make whole countries shake, and stately cities into deserts turn; and you, who feed the flames by which earth's entrails burn. ye raging winds, whose rapid force can make all but the fixed and solid centre shake, come drive these wretches to that part of the isle, where nature never yet did smile: cause fogs and storms, whirlwinds, and earthquakes there: there let them howl and languish in despair. rise and obey the powerful prince of the air._ [two winds rise, ten more enter and dance. at the end of the dance, three winds sink, the rest drive alonzo, antonio and gonzalo off. act iii. scene i.--_a wild island._ _enter_ ferdinand, ariel, _and_ milcha _invisible_. ariel. _come unto these yellow sands, and then take hands, curtsied when you have, and kissed; and wild waves whist. foot it featly here and there, and sweet sprites the burthen bear. hark! hark! bow waugh, the watch-dogs bark. bow waugh. hark! hark! i hear the strain of strutting chanticleer, cry, cock a doodle do._ _ferd._ where should this music be? in the air, or earth? it sounds no more, and sure it waits upon some god in the island: sitting on a bank, weeping against the duke my father's wreck, this music hovered on the waters, allaying both their fury, and my passion, with charming airs. thence i have followed it, (or it has drawn me rather) but 'tis gone: no, it begins again. milcha sings. _full fathom five thy father lies, of his bones is coral made: those are pearls that were his eyes; nothing of him, that does fade, but does suffer a sea change, into something rich and strange: sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell; hark! now i hear them, ding dong bell._ _ferd._ this mournful ditty mentions my drowned father. this is no mortal business, nor a sound which the earth owns----i hear it now before me; however, i will on, and follow it. [_exit_ ferd. _following_ ariel. scene ii.--_the cypress trees and cave._ _enter_ prospero _and_ miranda. _prosp._ excuse it not, miranda, for to you (the elder, and, i thought, the more discreet,) i gave the conduct of your sister's actions. _mir._ sir, when you called me thence, i did not fail to mind her of her duty to depart. _prosp._ how can i think you did remember hers, when you forgot your own? did you not see the man, whom i commanded you to shun? _mir._ i must confess i saw him at a distance. _prosp._ did not his eyes infect and poison you? what alteration found you in yourself? _mir._ i only wondered at a sight so new. _prosp._ but have you no desire once more to see him? come, tell me truly what you think of him. _mir._ as of the gayest thing i ever saw, so fine, that it appeared more fit to be beloved than feared, and seemed so near my kind, that i did think i might have called it sister. _prosp._ you do not love it? _mir._ how is it likely that i should, except the thing had first loved me? _prosp._ cherish those thoughts: you have a generous soul; and since i see your mind not apt to take the light impressions of a sudden love, i will unfold a secret to your knowledge. that creature, which you saw, is of a kind, which nature made a prop and guide to yours. _mir._ why did you then propose him as an object of terror to my mind? you never used to teach me any thing but god-like truths, and what you said, i did believe as sacred. _prosp._ i feared the pleasing form of this young man might unawares possess your tender breast, which for a nobler guest i had designed; for shortly, my miranda, you shall see another of this kind, the full blown flower, of which this youth was but the opening bud. go in, and send your sister to me. _mir._ heaven still preserve you, sir. [_exit_ mir. _prosp._ and make thee fortunate. _enter_ dorinda. oh, come hither: you have seen a man to-day, against my strict command. _dor._ who, i? indeed i saw him but a little, sir. _prosp._ come, come, be clear. your sister told me all. _dor._ did she? truly she would have seen him more than i, but that i would not let her. _prosp._ why so? _dor._ because, methought, he would have hurt me less, than he would her. but if i knew you'd not be angry with me, i could tell you, sir, that he was much to blame. _prosp._ ha! was he to blame? tell me, with that sincerity i taught you, how you became so bold to see the man? _dor._ i hope you will forgive me, sir, because i did not see him much, till he saw me. sir, he would needs come in my way, and stared, and stared upon my face, and so i thought i would be revenged of him, and, therefore, i gazed on him as long; but if i e'er come near a man again! _prosp._ i told you he was dangerous; but you would not be warned. _dor._ pray be not angry, sir, if i tell you, you are mistaken in him; for he did me no great hurt. _prosp._ but he may do you more harm hereafter. _dor._ no, sir, i'm as well as e'er i was in all my life, but that i cannot eat nor drink for thought of him. that dangerous man runs ever in my mind. _prosp._ the way to cure you is, no more to see him. _dor._ nay, pray, sir, say not so. i promised him to see him once again; and you know, sir, you charged me i should never break my promise. _prosp._ would you see him, who did you so much mischief? _dor._ i warrant you i did him as much harm as he did me; for when i left him, sir, he sighed so, as it grieved my heart to hear him. _prosp._ those sighs were poisonous, they infected you; you say, they grieved you to the heart. _dor._ 'tis true; but yet his looks and words were gentle. _prosp._ these are the day-dreams of a maid in love; but still i fear the worst. _dor._ o fear not him, sir. _prosp._ you speak of him with too much passion; tell me, (and on your duty tell me true, dorinda,) what passed betwixt you and that horrid creature? _dor._ how, horrid, sir? if any else but you should call it so, indeed, i should be angry. _prosp._ go to! you are a foolish girl; but answer to what i ask; what thought you when you saw it? _dor._ at first it stared upon me, and seemed wild, and then i trembled; yet it looked so lovely, that when i would have fled away, my feet seemed fastened to the ground, when it drew near, and with amazement asked to touch my hand; which, as a ransom for my life, i gave: but when he had it, with a furious gripe he put it to his mouth so eagerly, i was afraid he would have swallowed it. _prosp._ well, what was his behaviour afterwards? _dor._ he on a sudden grew so tame and gentle, that he became more kind to me than you are; then, sir, i grew i know not how, and, touching his hand again, my heart did beat so strong, as i lacked breath to answer what he asked. _prosp._ you've been too fond, and i should chide you for it. _dor._ then send me to that creature to be punished. _prosp._ poor child! thy passion, like a lazy ague, has seized thy blood; instead of striving, thou humourest and feed'st thy languishing disease: thou fight'st the battles of thy enemy, and 'tis one part of what i threatened thee, not to perceive thy danger. _dor._ danger, sir? if he would hurt me, yet he knows not how: he hath no claws, nor teeth, nor horns to hurt me, but looks about him like a callow-bird, just straggling from the nest: pray trust me, sir, to go to him again. _prosp._ since you will venture, i charge you bear yourself reservedly to him; let him not dare to touch your naked hand, but keep at distance from him. _dor._ this is hard! _prosp._ it is the way to make him love you more; he will despise you, if you grow too kind. _dor._ i'll struggle with my heart to follow this; but if i lose him by it, will you promise to bring him back again? _prosp._ fear not, dorinda; but use him ill, and he'll be yours for ever. _dor._ i hope you have not cozened me again. [_exit_ dor. _prosp._ now my designs are gathering to a head; my spirits are obedient to my charms. what, ariel! my servant ariel, where art thou? _enter_ ariel. _ariel._ what would my potent master? here i am. _prosp._ thou and thy meaner fellows your last service did worthily perform, and i must use you in such another work: how goes the day? _ariel._ on the fourth, my lord; and on the sixth, you said our work should cease. _prosp._ and so it shall; and thou shalt have the open air at freedom. _ariel._ thanks, my great lord. _prosp._ but tell me first, my spirit, how fares the duke, my brother, and their followers? _ariel._ confined together, as you gave me order, in the lime-grove, which weather-fends your cell; within that circuit up and down they wander, but cannot stir one step beyond their compass. _prosp._ how do they bear their sorrows? _ariel._ the two dukes appear like men distracted, their attendants, brim-full of sorrow, mourning over them; but chiefly he, you termed the good gonzalo: his tears run down his beard, like winter drops from eaves of reeds; your vision did so work them, that, if you now beheld them, your affections would become tender. _prosp._ dost thou think so, spirit? _ariel._ mine would, sir, were i human. _prosp._ and mine shall: hast thou, who art but air, a touch, a feeling of their afflictions, and shall not i (a man like them, one, who as sharply relish passions as they) be kindlier moved than thou art? though they have pierced me to the quick with injuries, yet with my nobler reason, 'gainst my fury, i will take part; the rarer action is in virtue, than in vengeance. go, my ariel, refresh with needful food their famished bodies, with shows and chearful musick comfort them. _ariel._ presently, master? _prosp._ with a twinkle, ariel.--but stay, my spirit; what is become of my slave, caliban, and sycorax, his sister? _ariel._ potent sir, they have cast off your service, and revolted to the wrecked mariners, who have already parcelled your island into governments. _prosp._ no matter, i have now no need of them. but, spirit, now i stay thee on the wing; haste to perform what i have given in charge: but see they keep within the bounds i set them. _ariel._ i'll keep them in with walls of adamant, invisible as air to mortal eyes, but yet unpassable. _prosp._ make haste then. [_exeunt severally._ scene iii.--_wild island._ _enter_ alonzo, antonio, _and_ gonzalo. _gonz._ i am weary, and can go no further, sir. _alon._ old lord, i cannot blame thee, who am myself seized with a weariness, to the dulling of my spirits: [_they sit._ even here i will put off my hope, and keep it no longer for my flatterers: he is drowned, whom thus we stray to find. i'm faint with hunger, and must despair of food. [_music without._ what! harmony again? my good friends, hark! _anto._ i fear some other horrid apparition. give us kind keepers, heaven, i beseech thee! _gonz._ 'tis chearful music this, unlike the first. ariel _and_ milcha _invisible, sing_. _dry those eyes which are o'erflowing, all your storms are overblowing: while you in this isle are biding, you shall feast without providing: every dainty you can think of, every wine which you would drink of, shall be yours; all want shall shun you, ceres' blessing so is on you._ _alon._ this voice speaks comfort to us. _anto._ would 'twere come; there is no music in a song to me, my stomach being empty. _gonz._ o for a heavenly vision of boiled, baked, and roasted! [_dance of fantastic spirits; after the dance, in by two a table furnished with meat and fruit is brought spirits._ _anto._ my lord, the duke, see yonder! a table, as i live, set out and furnished with all varieties of meats and fruits. _alon._ 'tis so indeed; but who dares taste this feast, which fiends provide, to poison us? _gonz._ why that dare i; if the black gentleman be so ill natured, he may do his pleasure. _anto._ 'tis certain we must either eat or famish: i will encounter it, and feed. _alon._ if both resolve, i will adventure too. _gonz._ the devil may fright me, yet he shall not starve me. [_two spirits descend, and fly away with the table._ _alon._ heaven! behold, it is as you suspected: 'tis vanished. shall we be always haunted with these fiends? _anto._ here we shall wander till we famish. _gonz._ certainly one of you was so wicked as to say grace; this comes on it, when men will be godly out of season. _anto._ yonder's another table, let's try that. [_exeunt._ _enter_ trincalo _and_ caliban. _trinc._ brother monster, welcome to my private palace. but where's thy sister? is she so brave a lass? _calib._ in all this isle there are but two more, the daughters of the tyrant prospero; and she is bigger than them both. o, here she comes! now thou mayest judge thyself, my lord. _enter_ sycorax. _trinc._ she's monstrous fair indeed. is this to be my spouse? well, she's heir of all this isle (for i will geld monster). the trincalos, like other wise men, have anciently used to marry for estate, more than for beauty. _syc._ i pr'ythee let me have the gay thing about thy neck, and that which dangles at thy wrist. [sycorax _points to his whistle and his bottle_. _trinc._ my dear blubber-lips! this--observe, my chuck--is a badge of my sea-office; my fair fuss, thou dost not know it. _syc._ no, my dread lord. _trinc._ it shall be a whistle for our first babe, and when the next shipwreck puts me again to swimming, i'll dive to get a coral to it. _syc._ i'll be thy pretty child, and wear it first. _trinc._ i pr'ythee, sweet baby, do not play the wanton, and cry for my goods ere i'm dead. when thou art my widow, thou shalt have the devil and all. _syc._ may i not have the other fine thing? _trinc._ this is a sucking-bottle for young trincalo. _calib._ shall she not taste of that immortal liquor? _trinc._ umph! that's another question: for if she be thus flippant in her water, what will she be in her wine? _enter_ ariel _(invisible) and changes the bottle which stands upon the ground._ _ariel._ there's water for your wine. [_exit_ ariel. _trinc._ well! since it must be so. [_gives her the bottle._ how do you like it now, my queen that must be? [_she drinks._ _syc._ is this your heav'nly liquor? i'll bring you to a river of the same. _trinc._ wilt thou so, madam monster? what a mighty prince shall i be then! i would not change my dukedom to be great turk trincalo. _syc._ this is the drink of frogs. _trinc._ nay, if the frogs of this island drink such, they are the merriest frogs in christendom. _calib._ she does not know the virtue of this liquor: i pr'ythee, let me drink for her. [caliban _drinks_. _trinc._ well said, subject monster! _calib._ my lord, this is mere water. _trinc._ 'tis thou hast changed the wine then, and drunk it up, like a debauched fish as thou art. let me see't, i'll taste it myself--element! mere element, as i live! it was a cold gulp, such as this, which killed my famous predecessor, old simon the king[f]. _calib._ how does thy honour? pr'ythee, be not angry, and i will lick thy shoe. _trinc._ i could find in my heart to turn thee out of my dominions, for a liquorish monster. _calib._ o, my lord, i have found it out; this must be done by one of prospero's spirits. _trinc._ there's nothing but malice in these devils; i would it had been holy-water for their sakes! _syc._ 'tis no matter, i will cleave to thee. _trinc._ lovingly said, in troth: now cannot i hold out against her. this wife-like virtue of her's has overcome me. _syc._ shall i have thee in my arms? _trinc._ thou shalt have duke trincalo in thy arms: but, pr'ythee, be not too boisterous with me at first; do not discourage a young beginner. [_they embrace_.] stand to your arms, my spouse, and subject monster,-- _enter_ stephano, mustacho, _and_ ventoso. the enemy is come to surprise us in our quarters. you shall know, rebels, that i am married to a witch, and we have a thousand spirits of our party. _steph._ hold! i ask a truce; i and my viceroys (finding no food, and but a small remainder of brandy,) are come to treat a peace betwixt us, which may be for the good of both armies; therefore, trincalo, disband. _trinc._ plain trincalo! methinks i might have been a duke in your mouth; i'll not accept of your embassy without my title. _steph._ a title shall break no squares betwixt us: viceroys, give him his style of duke, and treat with him whilst i walk by in state. [ventoso _and_ mustacho _bow, whilst_ trincalo _puts on his cap_. _must._ our lord and master, duke stephano, has sent us, in the first place, to demand of you, upon what ground you make war against him; having no right to govern here, as being elected only by your own voice. _trinc._ to this i answer, that, having in the face of the world espoused the lawful inheretrix of this island, queen blouze the first, and having homage done me by this hectoring spark her brother; from these two i claim a lawful title to this island. _must._ who, that monster? he a hector? _calib._ lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, my lord? _trinc._ viceroys! keep good tongues in your heads, i advise you, and proceed to your business. _must._ first and foremost, as to your claim, that you have answered. _vent._ but, second and foremost, we demand of you, that if we make a peace, the butt also may be comprehended in the treaty. _trinc._ i cannot treat with my honour, without your submission. _steph._ i understand, being present, from my ambassadors, what your resolution is, and ask an hour's time of deliberation, and so i take our leave; but first i desire to be entertained at your butt, as becomes a prince and his ambassadors. _trinc._ that i refuse, till acts of hostility be ceased. these rogues are rather spies than ambassadors. i must take heed of my butt. they come to pry into the secrets of my dukedom. _vent._ trincalo, you are a barbarous prince, and so farewell. [_exeunt_ steph. must. _and_ vent. _trinc._ subject-monster! stand you sentry before my cellar; my queen and i will enter, and feast ourselves within. [_exeunt._ scene iv. _enter_ ferdinand, _and_ ariel _and_ milcha _invisible_. _ferd._ how far will this invisible musician conduct my steps? he hovers still about me; whether for good or ill, i cannot tell, nor care i much; for i have been so long a slave to chance, that i'm as weary of her flatteries as her frowns; but here i am---- _ariel._ here i am. _ferd._ ha! art thou so? the spirit's turned an echo: this might seem pleasant, could the burden of my griefs accord with any thing but sighs; and my last words, like those of dying men, need no reply. fain i would go to shades, where few would wish to follow me. _ariel._ follow me. _ferd._ this evil spirit grows importunate, but i'll not take his counsel. _ariel._ take his counsel. _ferd._ it may be the devil's counsel, i'll never take it. _ariel._ take it. _ferd._ i will discourse no more with thee, nor follow one step further. _ariel._ one step further. _ferd._ this must have more importance than an echo; some spirit tempts me to a precipice. i'll try if it will answer when i sing my sorrows, to the murmur of this brook. he sings. _go thy way._ ariel. _go thy way._ ferd. _why shouldst thou stay?_ ariel. _why shouldst thou stay?_ ferd. _where the winds whistle, and where the streams creep, under yon willow-tree fain would i sleep. then let me alone, for 'tis time to be gone._ ariel. _for 'tis time to be gone._ ferd. _what cares or pleasures can be in this isle? within this desart place, there lives no human race; fate cannot frown here, nor kind fortune smile._ ariel. _kind fortune smiles, and she has yet in store for thee some strange felicity. follow me, follow me, and thou shalt see._ _ferd._ i'll take thy word for once; lead on, musician. [_exeunt and return._ scene v.--_the cypress-trees and caves._ _scene changes, and discovers_ prospero _and_ miranda. _prosp._ advance the fringed curtains of thine eyes, and say what thou seest yonder. _mir._ is it a spirit? lord, how it looks about! sir, i confess it carries a brave form. but 'tis a spirit. _prosp._ no, girl, it eats, and sleeps, and has such senses as we have. this young gallant, whom thou see'st, was in the wreck; were he not somewhat stained with grief, (beauty's worst canker) thou might'st call him a goodly person; he has lost his company, and strays about to find them. _mir._ i might call him a thing divine, for nothing natural i ever saw so noble. _prosp._ it goes on, as my soul prompts it: spirit, fine spirit, i'll free thee within two days for this. [_aside._ _ferd._ she's sure the mistress on whom these airs attend. fair excellence! if, as your form declares, you are divine, be pleased to instruct me how you will be worshipped; so bright a beauty cannot sure belong to human kind. _mir._ i am, like you, a mortal, if such you are. _ferd._ my language, too! o heavens! i am the best of them who speak this speech, when i'm in my own country. _prosp._ how, the best? what wert thou, if the duke of savoy heard thee? _ferd._ as i am now; who wonders to hear thee speak of savoy; he does hear me, and that he does, i weep. myself am savoy, whose fatal eyes (ne'er since at ebb) beheld the duke, my father, wrecked. _mir._ alack! for pity! _prosp._ at the first sight they have changed eyes. dear ariel, i'll set thee free for this.-- [_aside._ young sir, a word. with hazard of yourself you do me wrong. _mir._ why speaks my father so ungently? this is the third man that i ever saw, the first whom e'er i sighed for; sweet heaven, move my father to be inclined my way. _ferd._ o! if a virgin, and your affections not gone forth, i'll make you mistress of savoy. _prosp._ soft, sir, one word more.-- they're in each other's power; but this swift business i must uneasy make, lest too light winning make the prize light.--one word more. thou usurp'st the name not due to thee, hast put thyself upon this island as a spy, to get the government from me, the lord of it. _ferd._ no, as i'm a man. _mir._ there's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple: if the evil spirit hath so fair a house, good things will strive to dwell with it. _prosp._ no more. speak not for him, he is a traitor. come! thou art my prisoner, and shalt be in bonds. sea-water shalt thou drink, thy food shall be the fresh brook-muscles, withered roots and husks, wherein the acorn cradled;----follow. _ferd._ no, i will resist such entertainment, till my enemy has more power. [_he draws, and is charmed from moving._ _mir._ o dear father! make not too rash a trial of him; for he is gentle, and not fearful. _prosp._ my child my tutor! put thy sword up, traitor, who mak'st a show, but dar'st not strike: thy conscience is possessed with guilt. come from thy ward, for i can here disarm thee with this wand, and make thy weapon drop. _mir._ 'beseech you, father. _prosp._ hence: hang not on my garment. _mir._ sir, have pity! i'll be his surety! _prosp._ silence! one word more shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee: what! an advocate for an impostor? sure thou think'st there are no more such shapes as his; to the most of men this is a caliban, and they to him are angels. _mir._ my affections are then most humble; i have no ambition to see a goodlier man. _prosp._ come on, obey: thy nerves are in their infancy again, and have no vigour in them. _ferd._ so they are: my spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up: my father's loss, the weakness which i feel, the wreck of all my friends, and this man's threats, to whom i am subdued, would seem light to me, might i but once a day thorough my prison behold this maid: all corners else o' the earth let liberty make use of: i have space enough in such a prison. _prosp._ it works: come on: thou hast done well, fine ariel: follow me. hark what thou shalt do for me. [_whispers_ ariel. _mir._ be of comfort! my father's of a better nature, sir, than he appears by speech: this is unwonted, which now came from him. _prosp._ thou shalt be free as mountain winds: but then exactly do all points of my command. _ariel._ to a syllable. [_exit_ ariel. _prosp. to mir._ go in that way, speak not a word for him: i'll separate you. [_exit_ miranda. _ferd._ as soon thou may'st divide the waters, when thou strik'st 'em, which pursue thy bootless blow, and meet when it is past. _prosp._ go practise your philosophy within, and if you are the same you speak yourself, bear your afflictions like a prince.--that door shews you your lodging. _ferd._ 'tis in vain to strive, i must obey. [_exit_ ferd. _prosp._ this goes as i would wish it. now for my second care, hippolito. i shall not need to chide him for his fault, his passion is become his punishment. come forth, hippolito. _enter_ hippolito. _hip._ 'tis prospero's voice. _prosp._ hippolito, i know you now expect i should severely chide you: you have seen a woman, in contempt of my commands. _hip._ but, sir, you see i am come off unharmed; i told you, that you need not doubt my courage. _prosp._ you think you have received no hurt? _hip._ no, none, sir. try me again; whene'er you please i'm ready: i think i cannot fear an army of them. _prosp._ how much in vain it is to bridle nature! [_aside._ well, what was the success of your encounter? _hip._ sir, we had none, we yielded both at first; for i took her to mercy, and she me. _prosp._ but are you not much changed from what you were? _hip._ methinks, i wish, and wish!--for what i know not,-- but still i wish:--yet if i had that woman, she, i believe, could tell me what i wish for. _prosp._ what would you do to make that woman yours? _hip._ i'd quit the rest o'the world, that i might live alone with her; she never should be from me: we two would sit and look till our eyes ached. _prosp._ you'd soon be weary of her. _hip._ o, sir, never. _prosp._ but you'll grow old and wrinkled, as you see me now, and then you will not care for her. _hip._ you may do what you please; but, sir, we two can never possibly grow old. _prosp._ you must, hippolito. _hip._ whether we will or no, sir! who shall make us? _prosp._ nature, which made me so. _hip._ but you have told me, that her works are various: she made you old, but she has made us young. _prosp._ time will convince you.-- meanwhile, be sure you tread in honour's paths, that you may merit her: and that you may not want fit occasions to employ your virtue, in this next cave there is a stranger lodged, one of your kind, young, of a noble presence, and, as he says himself, of princely birth; he is my prisoner, and in deep affliction: visit, and comfort him; it will become you. _hip._ it is my duty, sir. [_exit_ hip. _prosp._ true, he has seen a woman, yet he lives!-- perhaps i took the moment of his birth amiss: perhaps my art itself is false.-- on what strange grounds we build our hopes and fears! man's life is all a mist! and, in the dark, our fortunes meet us. if fate be not, then what can we foresee? or how can we avoid it, if it be? if by free will in our own paths we move, how are we bounded by decrees above? whether we drive, or whether we are driven, if ill, 'tis ours: if good, the act of heaven. [_exit._ scene vi.--_a cave_. _enter_ hippolito _and_ ferdinand. _ferd._ your pity, noble youth, doth much oblige me. indeed, 'twas sad to lose a father so. _hip._ ay, and an only father too; for sure you said, you had but one. _ferd._ but one father! he's wondrous simple. [_aside._ _hip._ are such misfortunes frequent in your world, where many men live? _ferd._ such are we born to.-- but, gentle youth, as you have questioned me, so give me leave to ask you, what you are? _hip._ do not you know? _ferd._ how should i? _hip._ i well hoped i was a man, but, by your ignorance of what i am, i fear it is not so.-- well, prospero! this is now the second time you have deceived me. _ferd._ sir, there is no doubt you are a man: but i would know, of whence? _hip._ why, of this world; i never was in yours. _ferd._ have you a father? _hip._ i was told i had one, and that he was a man; yet i have been so much deceived, i dare not tell't you for a truth: but i have still been kept a prisoner, for fear of women. _ferd._ they, indeed, are dangerous; for, since i came, i have beheld one here, whose beauty pierced my heart. _hip._ how did she pierce? you seem not hurt. _ferd._ alas! the wound was made by her bright eyes, and festers by her absence. but, to speak plainer to you, sir, i love her. _hip._ now, i suspect that love's the very thing, that i feel too!--pray tell me truly, sir, are you not grown unquiet since you saw her? _ferd._ i take no rest. _hip._ just, just, my disease.-- do you not wish, you do not know for what? _ferd._ o, no! i know too well for what i wish. _hip._ there, i confess, i differ from you, sir: but you desire she may be always with you? _ferd._ i can have no felicity without her. _hip._ just my condition.--alas, gentle sir! i'll pity you, and you shall pity me. _ferd._ i love so much, that, if i have her not, i find i cannot live. _hip._ how! do you love her, and would you have her too? that must not be: for none but i must have her. _ferd._ but perhaps we do not love the same: all beauties are not pleasing alike to all. _hip._ why, are there more fair women, sir, besides that one i love? _ferd._ that's a strange question. there are many more, besides that beauty which you love. _hip._ i will have all of that kind, if there be a hundred of them. _ferd._ but, noble youth, you know not what you say. _hip._ sir, they are things i love, i cannot be without them!--o, how i rejoice!--more women! _ferd._ sir, if you love, you must be tied to one. _hip._ tied! how tied to her? _ferd._ to love none but her. _hip._ but, sir, i find it is against my nature. i must love where i like; and, i believe, i may like all,-- all that are fair. come, bring me to this woman, for i must have her. _ferd._ his simplicity is such, that i can scarce be angry with him.-- [_aside._ perhaps, sweet youth, when you behold her, you will find you do not love her. _hip._ i find already i love, because she is another woman. _ferd._ you cannot love two women both at once. _hip._ sure 'tis my duty to love all who do resemble her, whom i've already seen. i'll have as many as i can, that are so good, and angel-like, as she i love; and will have yours. _ferd._ pretty youth, you cannot. _hip._ i can do any thing for that i love. _ferd._ i may, perhaps, by force, restrain you from it. _hip._ why, do so, if you can. but either promise me to love no woman, or you must try your force. _ferd._ i cannot help it, i must love. _hip._ well, you may love; for prospero taught me friendship too. you shall love me, and other men, if you can find them; but all the angel women shall be mine. _ferd._ i must break off this conference, or he will urge me else beyond what i can bear.-- [_aside._ sweet youth, some other time we will speak farther concerning both our loves; at present i am indisposed with weariness and grief, and would, if you're so pleased, retire a while. _hip._ some other time be it; but, sir, remember, that i both seek and much entreat your friendship; for, next to women, i find i can love you. _ferd._ i thank you, sir, i will consider of it. [_exit_ ferd. _hip._ this stranger does insult, and comes into my world, to take those heavenly beauties from me, which, i believe, i am inspired to love.-- and yet he said, he did desire but one: he would be poor in love, but i'll be rich.-- i now perceive that prospero was cunning; for when he frightened me from womankind, those precious things he for himself designed. [_exit._ [footnote f: this personage, who has bequeathed his name to a well-known tune, is believed to have been simon wadloe, or wadlow, master of the devil tavern, when frequented by ben jonson.] act iv. scene i. _cypress trees and a cave._ _enter_ prospero _and_ miranda. _prosp._ your suit has pity in't, and has prevailed. within this cave he lies, and you may see him: but yet take heed; let prudence be your guide: you must not stay, your visit must be short.-- [_she's going._ one thing i had forgot; insinuate into his mind a kindness to that youth, whom first you saw; i would have friendship grow betwixt them. _mir._ you shall be obeyed in all things. _prosp._ be earnest to unite their very souls. _mir._ i shall endeavour it. _prosp._ this may secure hippolito from that dark danger, which my art forebodes; for friendship does provide a double strength to oppose the assaults of fortune. [_exit_ prosp. _enter_ ferdinand. _ferd._ to be a prisoner where i dearly love, is but a double tie, a link of fortune joined to the chain of love; but not to see her, and yet to be so near her, there's the hardship!-- i feel myself as on a rack, stretched out and nigh the ground, on which i might have ease, yet, cannot reach it. _mir._ sir!--my lord!--where are you? _ferd._ is it your voice, my love? or do i dream? _mir._ speak softly, it is i. _ferd._ o heavenly creature! ten times more gentle than your fathers cruel!-- how, on a sudden, all my griefs are vanished! _mir._ how do you bear your prison? _ferd._ 'tis my palace, while you are here, and love and silence wait upon our wishes; do but think we chuse it, and 'tis what we would chuse. _mir._ i'm sure what i would. but how can i be certain that you love me? look to't; for i will die when you are false. i've heard my father tell of maids, who died, and haunted their false lovers with their ghosts. _ferd._ your ghost must take another form to fright me, this shape will be too pleasing.--do i love you? o, heaven! o, earth! bear witness to this sound, if i prove false!-- _mir._ o, hold! you shall not swear, for heaven will hate you if you prove forsworn. _ferd._ did i not love, i could no more endure this undeserved captivity, than i could wish to gain my freedom, with the loss of you. _mir._ i am a fool, to weep at what i'm glad of: but i have a suit to you, and that, sir, shall be now the only trial of your love. _ferd._ you've said enough, never to be denied, were it my life; for you have far o'er-bid the price of all that human life is worth. _mir._ sir, 'tis to love one for my sake, who, for his own, deserves all the respect which you can ever pay him. _ferd._ you mean your father: do not think his usage can make me hate him; when he gave you being, he then did that, which cancelled all these wrongs. _mir._ i meant not him; for that was a request, which, if you love, i should not need to urge. _ferd._ is there another whom i ought to love; and love him for your sake? _mir._ yes, such a one, who, for his sweetness and his goodly shape, (if i, who am unskilled in forms, may judge) i think can scarce be equalled: 'tis a youth, a stranger, too, as you are. _ferd._ of such a graceful feature! and must i, for your sake, love him? _mir._ yes, sir: do you scruple to grant the first request i ever made? he's wholly unacquainted with the world, and wants your conversation. you should have compassion on so mere a stranger. _ferd._ those need compassion whom you discommend, not whom you praise. _mir._ come, you must love him for my sake:-- you shall! _ferd._ must i for yours, and cannot for my own? either you do not love, or think that i don't: but, when you bid me love him, i must hate him. _mir._ have i so far offended you already, that he offends you only for my sake?-- yet sure you would not hate him, if you saw him as i've done, so full of youth and beauty. _ferd._ o, poison to my hopes!-- when he did visit me, and i did mention this beauteous creature to him, he then did tell me, he would have her. [_aside._ _mir._ alas! what mean you? _ferd._ it is too plain: like most of her frail sex, she's false, but has not learned the art to hide it. nature has done her part, she loves variety:-- why did i think that any woman could be innocent, because she's young? no, no! their nurses teach them change, when, with two nipples, they do divide their liking. [_aside._ _mir._ i fear i have offended you, and yet i meant no harm: but, if you please to hear me,-- [_a noise within._ hark, sir! now i am sure my father comes, i know his steps: dear love! retire a while; i fear i've staid too long. _ferd._ too long indeed, and yet not long enough: oh, jealousy! oh, love! how you distract me! [_exit_ ferd. _mir._ he appears displeased with that young man, i know not why: but, 'till i find from whence his hate proceeds, i must conceal it from my father's knowledge; for he will think that guiltless i have caused it, and suffer me no more to see my love. _enter_ prospero. _prosp._ now i have been indulgent to your wish; you have seen the prisoner? _mir._ yes. _prosp._ and he spoke to you? _mir._ he spoke; but he received short answers from me. _prosp._ how like you his converse? _mir._ at second sight, a man does not appear so rare a creature. _prosp._ i find she loves him much, because she hides it. love teaches cunning even to innocence.-- [_aside._ well, go in. _mir._ forgive me, truth! for thus disguising thee. if i can make him think, i do not love the stranger much, he'll let me see him oftener. [_exit_ mir. _prosp._ stay, stay!----i had forgot to ask her, what she has said of young hippolito.-- oh, here he comes! and, with him, my dorinda: i'll not be seen; let their loves grow in secret. [_exit._ scene ii. _enter_ hippolito _and_ dorinda. _hip._ but why are you so sad? _dor._ but why are you so joyful? _hip._ i have within me all, all the various music of the woods. since last i saw you, i have heard brave news! i will tell you, and make you joyful for me. _dor._ sir, when i saw you first, i, through my eyes, drew something in, i know not what it is; but still it entertains me with such thoughts, as make me doubtful whether joy becomes me. _hip._ pray believe me, as i'm a man, i'll tell you blessed news: i've heard, there are more women in the world, as fair as you are too. _dor._ is this your news? you see it moves not me. _hip._ and i will have them all. _dor._ what will become of me then? _hip._ i'll have you too.-- but are not you acquainted with these women? _dor._ i never saw but one. _hip._ is there but one here?-- this is a base poor world, i'll go to the other; i've heard men have abundance of them there.-- but, pray, where's that one woman? _dor._ who, my sister? _hip._ is she your sister? i'm glad of that. you shall help me to her, and i will love you for it. [_offers to take her hand._ _dor._ away! i will not have you touch my hand.-- my father's counsel, which enjoined reservedness, was not in vain, i see. [_aside._ _hip._ what makes you shun me? _dor._ you need not care, you'll have my sister's hand. _hip._ why, must not he, who touches hers, touch yours? _dor._ you mean to love her too? _hip._ do not you love her? then why should i not do so? _dor._ she's my sister; and, therefore, i must love her: but you cannot love both of us. _hip._ i warrant you i can:-- oh, that you had more sisters! _dor._ you may love her, but then i'll not love you. _hip._ o, but you must; one is enough for you, but not for me. _dor._ my sister told me, she had seen another; a man like you, and she liked only him: therefore, if one must be enough for her, he is that one, and then you cannot have her. _hip._ if she like him, she may like both of us. _dor._ but how if i should change, and like that man: would you be willing to permit that change? _hip._ no, for you liked me first. _dor._ so you did me. _hip._ but i would never have you see that man; i cannot bear it. _dor._ i'll see neither of you. _hip._ yes, me you may, for we are now acquainted: but he's the man, of whom your father warned you; o, he's a terrible, huge, monstrous creature! i'm but a woman to him. _dor._ i will see him, except you'll promise not to see my sister. _hip._ yes, for your sake, i needs must see your sister. _dor._ but she's a terrible, huge creature too! if i were not her sister, she would eat me; therefore take heed. _hip._ i heard that she was fair, and like you. _dor._ no, indeed, she's like my father, with a great beard; 'twould fright you to look on her: therefore that man and she may go together, they are fit for nobody but one another. _hip._ [_looking in_.] yonder he comes with glaring eyes; fly! fly! before he sees you. _dor._ must we part so soon? _hip._ you're a lost woman if you see him. _dor._ i would not willingly be lost, for fear you should not find me. i'll avoid him. [_exit_ dor. _hip._ she fain would have deceived me, but i know her sister must be fair, for she's a woman; all of a kind, that i have seen, are like to one another: all the creatures of the rivers and the woods are so. _enter_ ferdinand. _ferd._ o, well encountered! you are the happy man! you've got the hearts of both the beauteous women. _hip._ how, sir! pray, are you sure on't? _ferd._ one of them charged me to love you for her sake. _hip._ then i must have her. _ferd._ no, not till i am dead. _hip._ how dead? what's that?--but whatsoe'er it be, i long to have her. _ferd._ time and my grief may make me die. _hip._ but, for a friend, you should make haste; i ne'er asked any thing of you before. _ferd._ i see your ignorance, and, therefore, will instruct you in my meaning. the woman, whom i love, saw you, and loved you; now, sir, if you love her, you'll cause my death. _hip._ be sure i'll do it then. _ferd._ but i am your friend; and i request you that you would not love her. _hip._ when friends request unreasonable things, sure they're to be denied. you say she's fair; and i must love all who are fair: for, to tell you a secret, sir, which i have lately found within myself, they're all made for me. _ferd._ that's but a fond conceit: you're made for one, and one for you. _hip._ you cannot tell me, sir; i know i'm made for twenty hundred women, (i mean, if there so many be i'the world,) so that, if i once see her, i shall love her. _ferd._ then do not see her. _hip._ yes, sir, i must see her: for i would fain have my heart beat again, just as it did when i first saw her sister. _ferd._ i find i must not let you see her then. _hip._ how will you hinder me? _ferd._ by force of arms. _hip._ by force of arms! my arms, perhaps, may be as strong as yours. _ferd._ he's still so ignorant, that i pity him, and fain would avoid force. [_aside_.]--pray do not see her, she was mine first; you have no right to her. _hip._ i have not yet considered what is right; but, sir, i know my inclinations are to love all women; and i have been taught, that to dissemble what i think is base. in honour, then, of truth, i must declare, that i do love, and i will see your woman. _ferd._ would you be willing i should see and love your woman, and endeavour to seduce her from that affection, which she vowed to you? _hip._ i would not you should do it, but if she should love you best, i cannot hinder her. but, sir, for fear she should, i will provide against the worst, and try to get your woman. _ferd._ but i pretend no claim at all to yours; besides, you are more beautiful than i, and fitter to allure unpractised hearts: therefore i once more beg you will not see her. _hip._ i'm glad you let me know i have such beauty; if that will get me women, they shall have it as far as ere 'twill go: i'll never want them. _ferd._ then, since you have refused this act of friendship, provide yourself a sword, for we must fight. _hip._ a sword! what's that? _ferd._ why such a thing as this. _hip._ what should i do with it? _ferd._ you must stand thus, and push against me, while i push at you, 'till one of us fall dead. _hip._ this is brave sport: but we have no swords growing in our world. _ferd._ what shall we do then to decide our quarrel? _hip._ we'll take the sword by turns, and fight with it. _ferd._ strange ignorance! [_aside_.]--you must defend your life, and so must i. but since you have no sword, take this: [_gives him his sword_.] for in a corner of my cave i found a rusty one; perhaps 'twas his, who keeps me pris'ner here: that i will fit: when next we meet, prepare yourself to fight. _hip._ make haste then, this shall ne'er be yours again. i mean to fight with all the men i meet, and, when they're dead, their women shall be mine. _ferd._ i see you are unskilful: i desire not to take your life, but, if you please, we'll fight on these conditions; he, who first draws blood, or who can take the other's weapon from him, shall be acknowledged as the conqueror, and both the women shall be his. _hip._ agreed, and every day i'll fight for two more with you. _ferd._ but win these first. _hip._ i'll warrant you i'll push you. [_exeunt severally._ scene iii.--_the wild island._ _enter_ trincalo, caliban, _and_ sycorax. _calib._ my lord, i see 'em coming yonder. _trinc._ whom? _calib._ the starved prince, and his two thirsty subjects, that would have our liquor. _trinc._ if thou wert a monster of parts, i would make thee my master of ceremonies, to conduct 'em in. the devil take all dunces! thou hast lost a brave employment, by not being a linguist, and for want of behaviour. _syc._ my lord, shall i go meet 'em? i'll be kind to all of 'em, just as i am to thee. _trinc._ no, that's against the fundamental laws of my dukedom: you are in a high place, spouse, and must give good example. here they come; we'll put on the gravity of statesmen, and be very dull, that we may be held wise. _enter_ stephano, ventoso, _and_ mustacho. _vent._ duke trincalo, we have considered. _trinc._ peace or war? _must._ peace, and the butt. _steph._ i come now as a private person, and promise to live peaceably under your government. _trinc._ you shall enjoy the benefits of peace; and the first fruits of it, amongst all civil nations, is to be drunk for joy: caliban, skink about. _steph._ i long to have a rouse to her grace's health, and to the _haunse in kelder_, or rather haddock in kelder, for i guess it will be half fish. [_aside._ _trinc._ subject stephano, here's to thee; and let old quarrels be drowned in this draught. [_drinks._ _steph._ great magistrate, here's thy sister's health to thee. [_drinks to_ calib. _syc._ he shall not drink of that immortal liquor; my lord, let him drink water. _trinc._ o sweetheart, you must not shame yourself to-day. gentlemen subjects, pray bear with her good huswifery: she wants a little breeding, but she's hearty. _must._ ventoso, here's to thee. is it not better to pierce the butt, than to quarrel and pierce one another's bellies? _vent._ let it come, boy. _trinc._ now would i lay greatness aside, and shake my heels, if i had but music. _calib._ o my lord! my mother left us in her will a hundred spirits to attend us, devils of all sorts, some great roaring devils, and some little singing spirits. _syc._ shall we call? and thou shalt hear them in the air. _trinc._ i accept the motion: let us have our mother-in-law's legacy immediately. caliban sings. _we want music, we want mirth. up, dam, and cleave the earth: we have no lords that wrong us, send thy merry spirits among us._ _trinc._ what a merry tyrant am i, to have my music, and pay nothing for't! _a table rises, and four spirits with wine and meat enter, placing it, as they dance, on the table: the dance ended, the bottles vanish, and the table sinks again._ _vent._ the bottle's drunk. _must._ then the bottle's a weak shallow fellow, if it be drunk first. _trinc._ stephano, give me thy hand: thou hast been a rebel, but here's to thee: [_drinks_.] pr'ythee, why should we quarrel? shall i swear two oaths? by bottle, and by butt, i love thee: in witness whereof i drink soundly. _steph._ your grace shall find there's no love lost, for i will pledge you soundly. _trinc._ thou hast been a false rebel, but that's all one; pledge my grace faithfully.--caliban, go to the butt, and tell me how it sounds. [_exit_ caliban.] peer stephano, dost thou love me? _steph._ i love your grace, and all your princely family. _trinc._ 'tis no matter, if thou lov'st me; hang my family: thou art my friend, pr'ythee tell me what thou think'st of my princess: _steph._ i look on her, as on a very noble princess. _trinc._ noble! indeed she had a witch to her mother; and the witches are of great families in lapland: but the devil was her father; and i have heard of the monsieur de villes in france: but look on her beauty,--is she a fit wife for duke trincalo? mark her behaviour too,--she's tippling yonder with the serving-men. _steph._ an't please your grace, she's somewhat homely, but that's no blemish in a princess. she is virtuous. _trinc._ umph! virtuous! i am loath to disparage her; but thou art my friend,--canst thou be close? _steph._ as a stopt bottle, an't please your grace. _enter_ caliban _again with a bottle_. _trinc._ why then i'll tell thee,--i found her an hour ago under an elder-tree, upon a sweet bed of nettles, singing tory rory, and rantum scantum, with her own natural brother. _steph._ o jew! make love in her own tribe? _trinc._ but 'tis no matter; to tell thee true, i married her to be a great man, and so forth: but make no words on't, for i care not who knows it, and so here's to thee again.--give me the bottle, caliban! did you knock the butt? how does it sound? _calib._ it sounds as though it had a noise within. _trinc._ i fear the butt begins to rattle in the throat, and is departing: give me the bottle. [_drinks._ _must._ a short life and a merry, i say. [steph. _whispers_ sycorax. _syc._ but did he tell you so? _steph._ he said you were as ugly as your mother, and that he married you only to get possession of the island. _syc._ my mother's devils fetch him for't! _steph._ and your father's too. hem! skink about his grace's health again. o if you will but cast an eye of pity upon me-- _syc._ i will cast two eyes of pity on thee; i love thee more than haws or blackberries. i have a hoard of wildings in the moss, my brother knows not of 'em; but i'll bring thee where they are. _steph._ trincalo was but my man, when time was. _syc._ wert thou his god, and didst thou give him liquor? _steph._ i gave him brandy, and drunk sack myself: wilt thou leave him, and thou shalt be my princess? _syc._ if thou canst make me glad with this liquor. _steph._ i'll warrant thee; we'll ride into the country where it grows. _syc._ how wilt thou carry me thither? _steph._ upon a hackney-devil of thy mother's. _trinc._ what's that you will do? ha! i hope you have not betrayed me? how does my pigsnye? [_to_ sycorax. _syc._ begone! thou shalt not be my lord; thou say'st i'm ugly. _trinc._ did you tell her so?--ha! he's a rogue, do not believe him, chuck. _steph._ the foul words were yours: i will not eat 'em for you. _trinc._ i see, if once a rebel, then ever a rebel. did i receive thee into grace for this? i will correct thee with my royal hand. [_strikes_ steph. _syc._ dost thou hurt my love? [_flies at_ trinc. _trinc._ where are our guards? treason! treason! [vent. must. calib. _run betwixt_. _vent._ who took up arms first, the prince or the people? _trinc._ this false traitor has corrupted the wife of my bosom. [_whispers_ mustacho _hastily_.] mustacho, strike on my side, and thou shalt be my viceroy. _must._ i am against rebels. ventoso, obey your viceroy. _vent._ you a viceroy? [_they two fight off from the rest._ _steph._ ha! hector monster! do you stand neuter? _calib._ thou would'st drink my liquor, i will not help thee. _syc._ 'twas his doing that i had such a husband, but i'll claw him. [syc. _and_ calib. _fight_, syc. _beating him off the stage_. _trinc._ the whole nation is up in arms, and shall i stand idle? [trinc. _beats off_ steph. _to the door. exit_ steph. i'll not pursue too far, for fear the enemy will rally again, and surprise my butt in the citadel. well, i must be rid of my lady trincalo, she will be in the fashion else; first, cuckold her husband, and then sue for a separation, to get alimony. [_exit._ scene iv.--_the cypress-trees and cave._ _enter_ ferdinand _and_ hippolito, _with their swords drawn_. _ferd._ come, sir, our cave affords no choice of place, but the ground's firm and even: are you ready? _hip._ as ready as yourself, sir. _ferd._ you remember on what conditions we must fight? who first receives a wound is to submit. _hip._ come, come, this loses time; now for the women, sir. [_they fight a little_, ferdinand _hurts him_. _ferd._ sir, you are wounded. _hip._ no. _ferd._ believe your blood. _hip._ i feel no hurt, no matter for my blood. _ferd._ remember our conditions. _hip._ i will not leave, till my sword hits you too. [hip. _presses on_, ferd. _retires and wards_. _ferd._ i'm loth to kill you; you are unskilful, sir. _hip._ you beat aside my sword, but let it come as near as yours, and you shall see my skill. _ferd._ you faint for loss of blood, i see you stagger; pray, sir, retire. _hip._ no! i will ne'er go back.-- methinks the cave turns round, i cannot find-- _ferd._ your eyes begin to dazzle. _hip._ why do you swim so, and dance about me? stand but still till i have made one thrust. [hip. _thrusts and falls._ _ferd._ o help, help, help! unhappy man! what have i done? _hip._ i'm going to a cold sleep, but when i wake, i'll fight again. pray stay for me. [_swoons._ _ferd._ he's gone! he's gone! o stay, sweet, lovely youth! help! help! _enter_ prospero. _prosp._ what dismal noise is that? _ferd._ o see, sir, see, what mischief my unhappy hand has wrought! _prosp._ alas! how much in vain doth feeble art endeavour to resist the will of heaven? [_rubs_ hip. he's gone for ever; o thou cruel son of an inhuman father! all my designs are ruined and unravelled by this blow. no pleasure now is left me but revenge. _ferd._ sir, if you knew my innocence-- _prosp._ peace, peace! can thy excuses give me back his life? what, ariel? sluggish spirit, where art thou? _enter_ ariel. _ariel._ here, at thy beck, my lord. _prosp._ ay, now thou comest, when fate is past, and not to be recalled. look there, and glut the malice of thy nature; for, as thou art thyself, thou canst not but be glad to see young virtue nipt i' the blossom. _ariel._ my lord, the being, high above, can witness, i am not glad; we airy spirits are not of a temper so malicious as the earthy, but of a nature more approaching good. for which we meet in swarms, and often combat betwixt the confines of the air and earth. _prosp._ why didst thou not prevent, at least foretel, this fatal action then? _ariel._ pardon, great sir, i meant to do it, but i was forbidden by the ill genius of hippolito, who came and threatened me, if i disclosed it, to bind me in the bottom of the sea, far from the lightsome regions of the air, (my native fields) above a hundred years. _prosp._ i'll chain thee in the north for thy neglect, within the burning bowels of mount hecla; i'll singe thy airy wings with sulph'rous flames, and choke thy tender nostrils with blue smoke; at ev'ry hickup of the belching mountain, thou shalt be lifted up to taste fresh air, and then fall down again. _ariel._ pardon, dread lord. _prosp._ no more of pardon than just heaven intends thee, shalt thou e'er find from me: hence! fly with speed, unbind the charms which hold this murderer's father, and bring him, with my brother, straight before me. _ariel._ mercy, my potent lord! and i'll outfly thy thought. [_exit_ ariel. _ferd._ o heavens! what words are these i heard, yet cannot see who spoke 'em? sure the woman whom i loved was like this, some airy vision. _prosp._ no, murderer! she's, like thee, of mortal mould, but much too pure to mix with thy black crimes; yet she has faults, and must be punished for them. miranda and dorinda! where are ye? the will of heaven's accomplished: i have now no more to fear, and nothing left to hope; now you may enter. _enter_ miranda _and_ dorinda. _mir._ my love! is it permitted me to see you once again? _prosp._ you come to look your last; i will for ever take him from your eyes. but, on my blessing, speak not, nor approach him. _dor._ pray, father, is not this my sister's man? he has a noble form; but yet he's not so excellent as my hippolito. _prosp._ alas, poor girl! thou hast no man: look yonder; there's all of him that's left. _dor._ why, was there ever any more of him? he lies asleep, sir; shall i waken him? [_she kneels by_ hippolito, _and jogs him_. _ferd._ alas! he's never to be waked again. _dor._ my love, my love! wilt thou not speak to me? i fear you have displeased him, sir, and now he will not answer me; he's dumb and cold too; but i'll run straight, and make a fire to warm him. [_exit_ dorinda, _running_. _enter_ alonzo, gonzalo, antonio; _and_ ariel _invisible_. _alon._ never were beasts so hunted into toils, as we have been pursued by dreadful shapes.-- but is not that my son? o ferdinand! if thou art not a ghost, let me embrace thee. _ferd._ my father! o sinister happiness! is it decreed i should recover you alive, just in that fatal hour, when this brave youth is lost in death, and by my hand? _ant._ heaven! what new wonder's this? _gonz._ this isle is full of nothing else. _prosp._ you stare upon me, as you ne'er had seen me; have fifteen years so lost me to your knowledge, that you retain no memory of prospero? _gonz._ the good old duke of milan! _prosp._ i wonder less, that thou, antonio, knowest me not, because thou didst long since forget i was thy brother else i had ne'er been here. _ant._ shame choaks my words. _alonz._ and wonder mine. _prosp._ for you, usurping prince, [_to_ alonz. know, by my art you were shipwrecked on this isle, where, after i a while had punished you, my vengeance would have ended; i designed to match that son of yours with this my daughter. _alonz._ pursue it still, i am most willing to it. _prosp._ so am not i. no marriages can prosper, which are with murderers made; look on that corpse. this, whilst he lived, was young hippolito; that infant duke of mantua, sir, whom you exposed with me; and here i bred him up, till that blood-thirsty man, that ferdinand---- but why do i exclaim on him, when justice calls to unsheath her sword against his guilt? _alonz._ what do you mean? _prosp._ to execute heaven's laws. here i am placed by heaven, here i am prince, though you have dispossessed me of my milan. blood calls for blood; your ferdinand shall die, and i, in bitterness, have sent for you, to have the sudden joy of seeing him alive, and then the greater grief to see him die. _alonz._ and think'st thou i, or these, will tamely stand, to view the execution? [_lays hand upon his sword._ _ferd._ hold, dear father! i cannot suffer you to attempt against his life, who gave her being, whom i love. _prosp._ nay, then appear my guards--i thought no more to use their aid; (i'm cursed because i used it.) [_he stamps, and many spirits appear._ but they are now the ministers of heaven, whilst i revenge this murder. _alonz._ have i for this found thee, my son, so soon again to lose thee? antonio, gonzalo, speak for pity. _ferd._ adieu, my fairest mistress. [_to_ mir. _mir._ now i can hold no longer; i must speak, though i am loth to disobey you, sir: be not so cruel to the man i love, or be so kind to let me suffer with him. _ferd._ recall that prayer, or i shall wish to live, though death be all the 'mends that i can make. _prosp._ this night i will allow you, ferdinand, to fit you for your death; that cave's your prison. _alonz._ ah, prospero! hear me speak. you are a father:-- look on my age, and look upon his youth. _prosp._ no more! all you can say is urged in vain, i have no room for pity left within me. do you refuse? help, ariel, with your fellows, to drive them in; alonzo and his son bestow in yonder cave, and here gonzalo shall with antonio lodge. [_spirits drive them in, as they are appointed._ _enter_ dorinda. _dor._ sir, i have made a fire; shall he be warmed? _prosp._ he's dead, and vital warmth will ne'er return. _dor._ dead, sir! what's that? _prosp._ his soul has left his body. _dor._ when will it come again? _prosp._ o never, never! he must be laid in earth, and there consume. _dor._ he shall not lie in earth; you do not know how well he loves me: indeed he'll come again. he told me he would go a little while, but promised me he would not tarry long. _prosp._ he's murdered by the man who loved your sister. now both of you may see what 'tis to break a father's precept; you would needs see man, and by that sight are made for ever wretched; hippolito is dead, and ferdinand must die for murdering him. _mir._ have you no pity? _prosp._ your disobedience has so much incensed me, that i this night can leave no blessing with you. help to convey the body to my couch, then leave me to mourn over it alone. [_they bear off the body of_ hip. _enter_ miranda _and_ dorinda _again_. ariel _behind them_. _ariel._ i've been so chid for my neglect by prospero, that i must now watch all, and be unseen. _mir._ sister, i say again, 'twas long of you, that all this mischief happened. _dor._ blame not me for your own fault; your curiosity brought me to see the man. _mir._ you safely might have seen him, and retired, but you would needs go near him, and converse; you may remember my father called me thence, and i called you. _dor._ that was your envy, sister, not your love; you called me thence, because you could not be alone with him yourself; but i am sure my man had never gone to heaven so soon, but that yours made him go. [_crying._ _mir._ sister, i could not wish that either of them should go to heaven without us; but it was his fortune, and you must be satisfied. _dor._ i'll not be satisfied: my father says he'll make your man as cold as mine is now; and when he is made cold, my father will not let you strive to make him warm again. _mir._ in spite of you, mine never shall be cold. _dor._ i'm sure 'twas he that made me miserable, and i will be revenged. perhaps you think 'tis nothing to lose a man. _mir._ yes, but there is some difference betwixt my ferdinand, and your hippolito. _dor._ ay, there's your judgment: your's is the oldest man i ever saw, except it were my father. _mir._ sister, no more; it is not comely in a daughter, when she says her father's old. _dor._ but why do i stay here, whilst my cold love perhaps may want me? i'll pray my father to make yours cold too. _mir._ sister, i'll never sleep with you again. _dor._ i'll never more meet in a bed with you, but lodge on the bare ground, and watch my love. _mir._ and at the entrance of that cave i'll lie, and echo to each blast of wind a sigh. [_exeunt severally, looking discontentedly on one another._ _ariel._ harsh discord reigns throughout this fatal isle, at which good angels mourn, ill spirits smile. old prospero, by his daughters robbed of rest, has in displeasure left them both unblest. unkindly they abjure each other's bed, to save the living, and revenge the dead. alonzo, and his son, are prisoners made, and good gonzalo does their crimes upbraid. antonio and gonzalo disagree, and would, though in one cave, at distance be. the seamen all that cursed wine have spent, which still renewed their thirst of government; and wanting subjects for the food of power, each would, to rule alone, the rest devour. the monsters, sycorax and caliban, more monstrous grow by passions learned from man. even i, not framed of warring elements, partake and suffer in these discontents. why should a mortal, by enchantments, hold in chains a spirit of etherial mould? accursed magic we ourselves have taught, and our own power has our subjections wrought! [_exit._ act v. scene i. _enter_ prospero _and_ miranda. _prosp._ you beg in vain; i cannot pardon him; he has offended heaven. _mir._ then let heaven punish him. _prosp._ it will, by me. _mir._ grant him, at least, some respite for my sake. _prosp._ i, by deferring justice, should incense the deity against myself and you. _mir._ yet i have heard you say, the powers above are slow in punishing; and should not you resemble them? _prosp._ the argument is weak. but i want time to let you see your errors; retire, and, if you love him, pray for him. [_he's going._ _mir._ and can you be his judge and executioner? _prosp._ i cannot force gonzalo or my brother, much less the father to destroy the son; it must be then the monster caliban, and he's not here; but ariel strait shall fetch him. _enter_ ariel. _ariel._ my potent lord, before thou callest i come, to serve thy will. _prosp._ then, spirit, fetch me here my savage slave. _ariel._ my lord, it does not need. _prosp._ art thou then prone to mischief, wilt thou be thyself the executioner? _ariel._ think better of thy airy minister, who, for thy sake, unbidden, this night has flown o'er almost all the habitable world. _prosp._ but to what purpose was all thy diligence? _ariel._ when i was chidden by my mighty lord, for my neglect of young hippolito, i went to view his body, and soon found his soul was but retired, not sallied out: then i collected the best of simples underneath the moon, the best of balms, and to the wound applied the healing juice of vulnerary herbs. his only danger was his loss of blood, but now he's waked, my lord, and just this hour he must be dressed again, as i have done it. anoint the sword which pierced him with this weapon-salve, and wrap it close from air, till i have time to visit him again. _prosp._ thou art my faithful servant; it shall be done: be it your task, miranda, because your sister is not present here; while i go visit your dear ferdinand, from whom i will a while conceal the news, that it may be more welcome. _mir._ i obey you, and with a double duty, sir: for now, you twice have given me life. _prosp._ my ariel, follow me. [_exeunt severally._ scene ii. hippolito _discovered on a couch_, dorinda _by him_. _dor._ how do you find yourself? _hip._ i'm somewhat cold; can you not draw me nearer to the sun? i am too weak to walk. _dor._ my love, i'll try. [_she draws the chair nearer to the audience._ i thought you never would have walked again; they told me you were gone to heaven; have you been there? _hip._ i know not where i was. _dor._ i will not leave you, till you promise me, you will not die again. _hip._ indeed, i will not. _dor._ you must not go to heaven, unless we go together; for i have heard my father say, that we must strive to be each other's guide, the way to it will else be difficult, especially to those who are so young; but i much wonder what it is to die. _hip._ sure 'tis to dream, a kind of breathless sleep, when once the soul's gone out. _dor._ what is the soul? _hip._ a small blue thing, that runs about within us. _dor._ then i have seen it in a frosty morning, run smoaking from my mouth. _hip._ but, dear dorinda, what is become of him who fought with me? _dor._ o! i can tell you joyful news of him; my father means to make him die to-day, for what he did to you. _hip._ that must not be, my dear dorinda; go, and beg your father, he may not die; it was my fault he hurt me, i urged him to it first. _dor._ but if he live, he'll never leave killing you. _hip._ o no! i just remember when i fell asleep, i heard him calling me a great way off, and crying over me as you would do; besides, we have no cause of quarrel now. _dor._ pray, how began your difference first? _hip._ i fought with him, for all the women in the world. _dor._ that hurt you had, was justly sent from heaven, for wishing to have any more but me. _hip._ indeed i think it was, but i repent it; the fault was only in my blood, for now 'tis gone, i find i do not love so many. _dor._ in confidence of this, i'll beg my father that he may live; i'm glad the naughty blood, that made you love so many, is gone out. _hip._ my dear, go quickly, lest you come too late. [_exit_ dor. _enter_ miranda _at the other door, with_ hippolito's _sword wrapt up_. _hip._ who's this, who looks so fair and beautiful, as nothing but dorinda can surpass her? o! i believe it is that angel woman, whom she calls sister. _mir._ sir, i am sent hither to dress your wound; how do you find your strength? _hip._ fair creature, i am faint with loss of blood. _mir._ i am sorry for it. _hip._ indeed, and so am i, for if i had that blood, i then should find a great delight in loving you. _mir._ but, sir, i am another's, and your love is given already to my sister. _hip._ yet i find, that, if you please, i can love still a little. _mir._ i cannot be inconstant, nor should you. _hip._ o my wound pains me. _mir._ i am come to ease you. [_she unwraps the sword._ _hip._ alas! i feel the cold air come to me; my wound shoots worse than ever. [_she wipes, and anoints the sword._ _mir._ does it still grieve you? _hip._ now methinks, there's something laid just upon it. _mir._ do you find no ease? _hip._ yes, yes, upon the sudden, all the pain is leaving me: sweet heaven, how i am eased! _enter_ ferdinand _and_ dorinda _to them_. _ferd._ [_to dor_.] madam, i must confess my life is yours, i owe it to your generosity. _dor._ i am overjoyed my father lets you live, and proud of my good fortune, that he gave your life to me. _mir._ how? gave his life to her! _hip._ alas! i think she said so, and he said, he owed it to her generosity. _ferd._ but is not that your sister with hippolito? _dor._ so kind already? _ferd._ i came to welcome life, and i have met the cruellest of deaths. _hip._ my dear dorinda with another man? _dor._ sister, what business have you here? _mir._ you see i dress hippolito. _dor._ you're very charitable to a stranger. _mir._ you are not much behind in charity, to beg a pardon for a man, whom you scarce ever saw before. _dor._ henceforward let your surgery alone, for i had rather he should die, than you should cure his wound. _mir._ and i wish ferdinand had died, before he owed his life to your entreaty. _ferd._ to _hip._ sir, i am glad you are so well recovered. you keep your humour still to have all women? _hip._ not all, sir; you except one of the number, your new love there, dorinda. _mir._ ah, ferdinand! can you become inconstant? if i must lose you, i had rather death should take you from me, than you take yourself. _ferd._ and if i might have chose, i would have wished that death from prospero, and not this from you. _dor._ ay, now i find why i was sent away, that you might have my sister's company. _hip._ dorinda, kill me not with your unkindness; this is too much, first to be false yourself, and then accuse me too. _ferd._ we all accuse each other, and each one denies their guilt: i should be glad it were a mutual error; and, therefore, first to clear myself from fault, madam, i beg your pardon, while i say, i only love your sister. [_to_ dor. _mir._ o, blest word! i'm sure i love no man but ferdinand, _dor._ nor i, heaven knows, but my hippolito. _hip._ i never knew i loved so much, before i feared dorinda's constancy; but now i am convinced, that i loved none but her; because none else can recompense her loss. _ferd._ 'twas happy, then, we had this little trial; but how we all so much mistook i know not. _mir._ i have only this to say in my defence; my father sent me hither, to attend the wounded stranger. _dor._ and hippolito sent me to beg the life of ferdinand. _ferd._ from such small errors, left at first unheeded, have often sprung sad accidents in love.-- but see, our fathers and our friends are come to mix their joys with ours. _enter_ prospero, alonzo, antonio, _and_ gonzalo. _alon._ to _prosp._ let it no more be thought of; your purpose, though it was severe, was just. in losing ferdinand, i should have mourned, but could not have complained. _pros._ sir, i am glad kind heaven decreed it otherwise. _dor._ o, wonder! how many goodly creatures are there here! how beauteous mankind is! _hip._ o, brave new world, that has such people in't! _alon._ to _ferd._ now all the blessings of a glad father compass thee about, and make thee happy in thy beauteous choice. _gonz._ i've inward wept, or should have spoken ere this.-- look down, sweet heaven! and on this couple drop a blessed crown; for it is you chalked out the way, which brought us hither. _anto._ though penitence, forced by necessity, can scarce seem real, yet, dearest brother, i have hope my blood may plead for pardon with you: i resign dominion, which, 'tis true, i could not keep, but heaven knows too, i would not. _prosp._ all past crimes i bury in the joy of this blessed day. _alon._ and, that i may not be behind in justice, to this young prince i render back his dukedom, and as the duke of mantua thus salute him. _hip._ what is it that you render back? methinks you give me nothing. _prosp._ you are to be lord of a great people, and o'er towns and cities. _hip._ and shall these people be all men and women? _gonz._ yes, and shall call you lord. _hip._ why, then, i'll live no longer in a prison, but have a whole cave to myself hereafter. _prosp._ and, that your happiness may be complete, i give you my dorinda for your wife: she shall be yours for ever, when the priest has made you one. _hip._ how can he make us one? shall i grow to her? _prosp._ by saying holy words, you shall be joined in marriage to each other. _dor._ i warrant you, those holy words are charms: my father means to conjure us together. _prosp._ my ariel told me, when last night you quarrelled, [_to his daughters._ you said you would for ever part your beds. but what you threatened in your anger, heaven has turned to prophecy; for you, miranda, must with ferdinand, and you, dorinda, with hippolito, lie in one bed hereafter. _alon._ and heaven make those beds still fruitful in producing children, to bless their parents' youth, and grandsires' age. _mir._ to _dor._ if children come by lying in a bed, i wonder you and i had none between us. _dor._ sister, it was our fault; we meant, like fools, to look 'em in the fields, and they, it seems, are only found in beds. _hip._ i am o'er-joyed, that i shall have dorinda in a bed; we'll lie all night and day together there, and never rise again. _ferd._ [_aside to him_.] hippolito! you yet are ignorant of your great happiness; but there is something, which, for your own and fair dorinda's sake, i must instruct you in. _hip._ pray teach me quickly, how men and women, in your world, make love; i shall soon learn, i warrant you. _enter_ ariel, _driving in_ stephano, trincalo, mustacho, ventoso, caliban _and_ sycorax. _prosp._ why that's my dainty ariel; i shall miss thee, but yet thou shalt have freedom. _gonz._ o look, sir, look! the master and the sailors-- the boatswain too--my prophecy is out, that if a gallows were on land, that man could ne'er be drowned. _alon._ now, blasphemy; what, not one oath ashore! hast thou no mouth by land? why starest thou so? [_to_ trincalo. _trinc._ what! more dukes yet? i must resign my dukedom; but 'tis no matter, i was almost starved in't. _must._ here's nothing but wild sallads, without oil, or vinegar. _steph._ the duke and prince alive! would i had now our gallant ship again, and were her master: i'd willingly give all my island for her. _vent._ and i my viceroyship. _trinc._ i shall need no hangman; for i shall even hang myself, now my friend butt has shed his last drop of life. poor butt is quite departed. _anto._ they talk like madmen. _prosp._ no matter, time will bring 'em to themselves, and now their wine is gone, they will not quarrel. your ship is safe and tight, and bravely rigged, as when you first set sail. _alon._ this news is wonderful. _ariel._ was it well done, my lord? _prosp._ rarely, my diligence. _gonz._ but pray, sir, what are those mis-shapen creatures? _prosp._ their mother was a witch; and one so strong, she would controul the moon, make flows and ebbs, and deal in her command without her power. _syc._ o setebos! these be brave spirits indeed. _prosp._ go, sirrah, to my cell, and, as you hope for pardon, trim it up. [_to_ calib. _calib._ most carefully. i will be wise hereafter. what a dull fool was i, to take those drunkards for gods, when such as these were in the world? _prosp._ sir, i invite your highness and your train to my poor cave this night; a part of which i will employ, in telling you my story. _alon._ no doubt it must be strangely taking, sir. _prosp._ when the morn draws, i'll bring you to your ship, and promise you calm seas, and happy gales. my ariel, that's thy charge: then to the elements be free, and fare thee well! _ariel._ i'll do it, master. _prosp._ now, to make amends for the rough treatment you have found to-day, i'll entertain you with my magic art; i'll, by my power, transform this place, and call up those, that shall make good my promise to you. scene ii.--_changes to the rocks, with the arch of rocks, and calm sea. music playing on the rocks._ _prosp._ neptune, and your fair amphitrite, rise; oceanus, with your tethys too, appear; all ye sea-gods, and goddesses, appear! come, all ye tritons; all ye nereids, come, and teach your saucy element to obey: for you have princes now to entertain, and unsoiled beauties, with fresh youthful lovers. neptune, amphitrite, oceanus _and_ tethys, _appear in a chariot drawn with sea-horses; on each side of the chariot, sea-gods, and goddesses, tritons, and nereids_. _alon._ this is prodigious! _anto._ ah! what amazing objects do we see? _gonz._ this art doth much exceed all human skill. song. amph. _my lord, great neptune, for my sake, of these bright beauties pity take; and to the rest allow your mercy too. let this enraged element be still, let Æolus obey my will: let him his boisterous prisoners safely keep in their dark caverns; and no more let them disturb the bosom of the deep, till these arrive upon their wished-for shore._ nept. _so much my amphitrite's love i prize, that no commands of her's i can despise. tethys no furrows now shall wear, oceanus no wrinkles on his brow, let your serenest looks appear! be calm and gentle now._ nept. and amph. { _be calm, ye great parents of the floods and the springs, { while each nereid and triton plays, revels, and sings._ ocean. _confine the roaring winds, and we will soon obey you cheerfully._ _chorus of_ trit. & ner. {_tie up the winds, and we'll obey;_ {_upon the floods we'll sing and play,_ {_and celebrate a halcyon day._ [here the dancers mingle with the singers, and perform a dance. nept. _great nephew, Æolus, make no noise, muzzle your roaring boys._ [Æolus _appears._ amph. _let 'em not bluster to disturb our ears, or strike these noble passengers with fears._ nept. _afford 'em only such an easy gale, as pleasantly may swell each sail._ amph. _while fell sea-monsters cause intestine jars, this empire you invade by foreign wars._ nept. _but you shall now be still, and shall obey my amphitrite's will._ Æolus _descends {_you i'll obey, who at one stroke can make,_ {_with your dread trident, the whole earth to quake._ _come down, my blusterers, swell no more, your stormy rage give o'er._ [winds from the four corners appear. _let all black tempests cease, and let the troubled ocean rest: let all the sea enjoy as calm a peace, as where the halcyon builds her quiet nest. to your prisons below, down, down you must go: you in the earth's entrails your revels may keep; but no more till i call shall you trouble the deep._ [winds fly down. _now they are gone, all stormy wars shall cease; then let your trumpeters proclaim a peace._ amph. _tritons, my sons, your trumpets sound, and let the noise from neighbouring shores rebound._ chorus.{ _sound a calm._ { _sound a calm._ { _sound a calm._ { _a calm._ { _sound a calm._ [here the tritons, at every repeat of _sound a calm_, changing their figure and postures, seem to sound their wreathed trumpets made of shells. a symphony of music, like trumpets, to which four tritons dance. nept. _see, see, the heavens smile; all your troubles are past, your joys, by black clouds, shall no more be o'ercast._ amph. _on this barren isle ye shall lose all your fears, leave behind all your sorrows, and banish your cares._ both. { _and your loves and your lives shall in safety enjoy;_ { _no influence of stars shall your quiet destroy._ chorus of all. { _and your loves, &c._ { _no influence, &c._ [here the dancers mingle with the singers. ocean. _we'll safely convey you to your own happy shore, and your's and your country's soft peace will restore._ tethys. _to treat you, blest lovers, as you sail on the deep, the tritons and sea-nymphs their revels shall keep._ both. { _on the swift dolphins' backs they shall sing and shall play;_ { _they shall guard you by night, and delight you by day._ chorus of all. { _on the swift, &c._ { _and shall guard, &c._ [here the dancers mingle with the singers. [a dance of twelve tritons. _mir._ what charming things are these? _dor._ what heavenly power is this? _prosp._ now, my ariel, be visible, and let the rest of your aërial train appear, and entertain them with a song, and then farewell, my long-loved ariel. scene iii.--_changes to the rising sun, and a number of aërial spirits in the air_; ariel _flying from the sun, advances towards the pit_. _alon._ heaven! what are these we see? _prosp._ they are spirits, with which the air abounds in swarms, but that they are not subject to poor feeble mortal eyes. _anto._ o wondrous skill! _gonz._ o power divine! ariel, _and the rest, sing the following song._ _where the bee sucks, there suck i; in a cowslip's bed i lie; there i couch when owls do cry. on the swallow's wings i fly, after summer merrily. merrily, merrily shall i live now, under the blossom that hangs on the bough._ _song ended_, ariel _speaks, hovering in the air_. _ariel._ my noble master! may theirs and your blest joys never impair! and for the freedom i enjoy in air. i will be still your ariel, and wait on airy accidents that work for fate. whatever shall your happiness concern, from your still faithful ariel you shall learn. _prosp._ thou hast been always diligent and kind. farewell, my long-loved ariel! thou shalt find i will preserve thee ever in my mind. henceforth this isle to the afflicted be a place of refuge, as it was to me: the promises of blooming spring live here, and all the blessings of the ripening year. on my retreat let heaven and nature smile, and ever flourish the enchanted isle. [_exeunt._ epilogue. gallants, by all good signs it does appear, that sixty-seven's a very damning year, for knaves abroad, and for ill poets here. among the muses there's a general rot, the rhiming monsieur, and the spanish plot: defy or court, all's one, they go to pot. the ghosts of poets walk within this place, and haunt us actors wheresoe'er we pass, in visions bloodier than king richard's was. for this poor wretch, he has not much to say, but quietly brings in his part o'th' play, and begs the favour to be damned to-day, he sends me only like a sheriff's man here, to let you know the malefactor's near, and that he means to die, _en cavalier_. for, if you should be gracious to his pen, the example will prove ill to other men, and you'll be troubled with them all again. an evening's love; or, the mock astrologer. a comedy. to his grace, william, duke of newcastle[g], one of his majesty's most honourable privy council, and of the most noble order of the garter, &c. * * * * * may it please your grace, amongst those few persons of wit and honour, whose favourable opinion i have desired, your own virtue, and my great obligations to your grace, have justly given you the precedence. for what could be more glorious to me, than to have acquired some part of your esteem, who are admired and honoured by all good men; who have been, for so many years together, the pattern and standard of honour to the nation; and whose whole life has been so great an example of heroic virtue, that we might wonder how it happened into an age so corrupt as ours, if it had not likewise been a part of the former. as you came into the world with all the advantages of a noble birth and education, so you have rendered both yet more conspicuous by your virtue. fortune, indeed, has perpetually crowned your undertakings with success, but she has only waited on your valour, not conducted it. she has ministered to your glory like a slave, and has been led in triumph by it; or, at most, while honour led you by the hand to greatness, fortune only followed to keep you from sliding back in the ascent. that, which plutarch accounted her favour to cymon and lucullus, was but her justice to your grace; and, never to have been overcome where you led in person, as it was more than hannibal could boast, so it was all that providence could do for that party, which it had resolved to ruin. thus, my lord, the last smiles of victory were on your arms; and, everywhere else declaring for the rebels, she seemed to suspend herself, and to doubt, before she took her flight, whether she were able wholly to abandon that cause, for which you fought[h]. but the greatest trials of your courage and constancy were yet to come: many had ventured their fortunes, and exposed their lives to the utmost dangers for their king and country, who ended their loyalty with the war; and, submitting to the iniquity of the times, chose rather to redeem their former plenty, by acknowledging an usurper, than to suffer with an unprofitable fidelity (as those meaner spirits called it) for their lawful sovereign. but, as i dare not accuse so many of our nobility, who were content to accept their patrimonies from the clemency of the conqueror, and to retain only a secret veneration for their prince, amidst the open worship which they were forced to pay to the usurper, who had dethroned him; so, i hope, i may have leave to extol that virtue which acted more generously; and which was not satisfied with an inward devotion to monarchy, but produced itself to view, and asserted the cause by open martyrdom. of these rare patterns of loyalty, your grace was chief: those examples you could not find, you made. some few cato's there were with you, whose invincible resolution could not be conquered by that usurping cæsar. your virtue opposed itself to his fortune, and overcame it, by not submitting to it. the last and most difficult enterprize he had to effect, when he had conquered three nations, was to subdue your spirit; and he died weary of that war, and unable to finish it. in the mean time, you lived more happily in your exile, than the other on his throne. your loyalty made you friends and servants amongst foreigners; and you lived plentifully without a fortune; for you lived on your own desert and reputation. the glorious name of the valiant and faithful newcastle, was a patrimony which could never be exhausted. thus, my lord, the morning of your life was clear and calm; and, though it was afterwards overcast, yet, in that general storm, you were never without a shelter. and now you are happily arrived to the evening of a day, as serene as the dawn of it was glorious; but such an evening as, i hope, and almost prophecy, is far from night: 'tis the evening of a summer's sun, which keeps the day-light long within the skies. the health of your body is maintained by the vigour of your mind: neither does the one shrink from the fatigue of exercise, nor the other bend under the pains of study. methinks, i behold in you another caius marius, who, in the extremity of his age, exercised himself almost every morning in the campus martius, amongst the youthful nobility of rome. and afterwards in your retirements, when you do honour to poetry, by employing part of your leisure in it, i regard you as another silius italicus, who, having passed over his consulship with applause, dismissed himself from business, and from the gown, and employed his age, amongst the shades, in the reading and imitation of virgil. in which, lest any thing should be wanting to your happiness, you have, by a rare effect of fortune, found, in the person of your excellent lady, not only a lover, but a partner of your studies; a lady whom our age may justly equal with the sappho of the greeks, or the sulpitia of the romans; who, by being taken into your bosom, seems to be inspired with your genius; and, by writing the history of your life[i], in so masculine a style, has already placed you in the number of the heroes. she has anticipated that great portion of fame, which envy often hinders a living virtue from possessing; which would, indeed, have been given to your ashes, but with a later payment; and of which you could have no present use, except it were by a secret presage of that which was to come, when you were no longer in a possibility of knowing it. so that if that were a praise, or satisfaction to the greatest of emperors, which the most judicious of poets gives him-- _præsenti tibi maturos largimur honores, &c._ that the adoration, which was not allowed to hercules and romulus till after death, was given to augustus living, then certainly it cannot be denied, but that your grace has received a double satisfaction: the one, to see yourself consecrated to immortality while you are yet alive; the other, to have your praises celebrated by so dear, so just, and so pious an historian. it is the consideration of this that stops my pen; though i am loth to leave so fair a subject, which gives me as much field as poetry could wish, and yet no more than truth can justify. but to attempt any thing of a panegyric, were to enterprize on your lady's right; and to seem to affect those praises, which none but the duchess of newcastle can deserve, when she writes the actions of her lord. i shall, therefore, leave that wider space, and contract myself to those narrow bounds, which best become my fortune and employment. i am obliged, my lord, to return you not only my own acknowledgments, but to thank you in the names of former poets; the names of jonson and d'avenant[j] seem to require it from me, that those favours, which you placed on them, and which they wanted opportunity to own in public, yet might not be lost to the knowledge of posterity, with a forgetfulness unbecoming of the muses, who are the daughters of memory. and give me leave, my lord, to avow so much of vanity, as to say, i am proud to be their remembrancer: for, by relating how gracious you have been to them, and are to me, i, in some measure, join my name with theirs: and the continued descent of your favours to me is the best title which i can plead for my succession. i only wish, that i had as great reason to be satisfied with myself, in the return of our common acknowledgments, as your grace may justly take in the conferring them: for i cannot but be very sensible, that the present of an ill comedy, which i here make you, is a very unsuitable way of giving thanks for them, who, themselves, have written so many better. this pretends to nothing more, than to be a foil to those scenes, which are composed by the most noble poet of our age and nation; and to be set as a water-mark of the lowest ebb, to which the wit of my predecessor has sunk, and run down in me. but, though all of them have surpassed me in the scene, there is one part of glory, in which i will not yield to any of them: i mean, my lord, that honour and veneration which they had for you in their lives; and which i preserve after them, more holily than the vestal fires were maintained from age to age; but with a greater degree of heat, and of devotion, than theirs, as being with more respect and passion than they ever were. your grace's most obliged, most humble, and most obedient servant, john dryden. [footnote g: william cavendish, duke of newcastle, distinguished himself in the civil wars of charles i. he might have possessed himself of hull, had the king more early resolved on an open rupture with the parliament. when the war broke out, he levied an army of men, secured the northern counties for the king, and raised the siege of york. the invasion of the scots prevented his farther success; but he defeated the parliamentary forces in several actions, and shewed all the talents of a great soldier. after the loss of the battle of marston moor, which prince rupert hazarded in opposition to his advice, he left england in disgust, and did not return till the restoration. he was much respected when abroad, and acquired the favour of many princes, and, amongst others, of don john of austria. his skill in the equestrian art was, perhaps, as great a recommendation, as his noble birth and unstained loyalty. during the wars, he had been raised from the rank of earl to that of marquis; and after the restoration he was created duke of newcastle. he wrote several plays, of which we know only the names; "the country captain," "variety," "the humourous lovers," and "the triumphant widow." he also translated moliere's "_l'etourdi,"_ which our author converted into "sir martin mar-all". but his most noted work is a splendid folio on horsemanship, with engravings; in which, after his grace has been represented in every possible attitude and dress, he is at length depicted mounted on pegasus, and in the act of ascending from a circle of houyhnhnms, kneeling around him in the act of adoration. his once celebrated duchess was margaret, daughter of sir charles lucas. she was his grace's second wife, and married to him during his exile. a most voluminous author; she wrote nineteen plays, besides philosophical essays, letters, and orations. for the former she has condescended to leave the following apology: the latin phrases i could never tell, but jonson could, which made him write so well. greek, latin poets i could never read, nor their historians, but our english speed. i could not steal their wit, nor plots out-take, all my plays plots my own poor brain did make. from plutarch's story i ne'er took a plot, nor from romances, nor from don quixote. her grace's assiduity was equal to her originality. she kept a bevy of maidens of honour, who were obliged, at all hours of the night, to attend the summons of her bell, with a light, and materials "to register her grace's conceptions," which, we beg the reader to understand, were all of a literary or philosophical nature. the good duchess's conceptions are now forgotten; but it should not be forgotten, that her kind solicitude soothed and supported her husband through a weary exile of eighteen years, when their fortunes were reduced to the lowest ebb. in gratitude, he appears to have encouraged her pursuits, and admired the productions of her muse. in the "sessions of poets" he is introduced as founding upon her literary pretensions, rather than his own. newcastle and's horse for entrance next strives, well-stuffed was his cloak-bag, and so was his breeches, and ---- ---- pulled out his wife's poems, plays, essays, and speeches. whoop! quoth apollo, what a devil have we here? put up thy wife's trumpery, good noble marquis, and home again, home again take thy career, to provide her fresh straw, and a chamber that dark is. such were the noble personages whom dryden deemed worthy of the fine strains of eulogy conveyed in this dedication.] [footnote h: this compliment is overstrained. but though charles gained many advantages after the earl of newcastle had left england, the north was irrecoverably lost to his cause.] [footnote i: the duchess wrote her husband's life, which was translated into latin. it is certainly the best of her grace's performances.] [footnote j: jonson and d'avenant were both protected by the duke of newcastle. jonson has addressed several verses to him, and composed a masque for the splendid entertainment which he gave to charles i., at his house at wellbeck, when the king was on his first northern journey.] an evening's love. our author acknowledges, that this play of "the mock astrologer" is founded on "_le feint astrologue_," by the younger corneille, which he, in his turn, had imitated from "_el astrologo fingido_" of calderon. but dryden has also laid moliere under contribution. most part of the quarrelling scene betwixt wildblood and jacintha, in the fourth act, is literally copied from that betwixt lucile eraste, marinette, and gros rené, in "_le depit amoureux_." the absurd loquacity of don alonzo, and his friend's mode of silencing him, by ringing a bell in his ears, is imitated from the scene betwixt albert and metaphraste, in the same play; and, it must be allowed, it is an expedient which might be more decently resorted to against an inundation of nonsense from a pedantic schoolmaster, as in moliere, than to stop the mouth of a noble old spaniard, the uncle of don lopez' mistress. the play itself is more lively than most of dryden's comedies. wildblood and jacintha are far more pleasant than their prototypes, celadon and florimel; and the spanish bustle of the plot is well calculated to keep up the attention. the character of aurelia was perhaps suggested by the "_precieuses ridicules_" of moliere, but cannot, with any justice, be said to be copied from them. the preface contains some excellent remarks on the old comedy. there is also an elaborate defence, the first our poet deigned to make, against the charge of plagiarism. on this point he quotes the words of charles ii., who had only desired, that they, who accused dryden of theft, would steal him such plays as dryden's: and he vindicates the right of an author to take his plot where he could best find it, in history or romance, providing that the conduct and disposition of the action, with the dialogue, character, and poetical ornaments, were original. our author's use of the terms and technical phrases of judicial astronomy intimate his acquaintance with that pretended science, in which he is known to have placed some confidence. the "mock astrologer" appears to have been acted and published in . the preface. * * * * * i had thought, reader, in this preface, to have written somewhat concerning the difference betwixt the plays of our age, and those of our predecessors, on the english stage: to have shewn in what parts of dramatic poesy we were excelled by ben jonson, i mean, humour, and contrivance of comedy; and in what we may justly claim precedence of shakespeare and fletcher, namely in heroic plays: but this design i have waved on second considerations; at least, deferred it till i publish the conquest of granada, where the discourse will be more proper. i had also prepared to treat of the improvement of our language since fletcher's and jonson's days, and consequently of our refining the courtship, raillery, and conversation of plays: but as i am willing to decline that envy which i should draw on myself from some old _opiniatre_ judges of the stage, so likewise i am prest in time so much that i have not leisure, at present, to go through with it. neither, indeed, do i value a reputation gained from comedy, so far as to concern myself about it, any more than i needs must in my own defence: for i think it, in its own nature, inferior to all sorts of dramatick writing. low comedy especially requires, on the writer's part, much of conversation with the vulgar, and much of ill nature in the observation of their follies. but let all men please themselves according to their several tastes: that which is not pleasant to me, may be to others who judge better: and, to prevent an accusation from my enemies, i am sometimes ready to imagine, that my disgust of low comedy proceeds not so much from my judgment as from my temper; which is the reason why i so seldom write it; and that when i succeed in it, (i mean so far as to please the audience) yet i am nothing satisfied with what i have done; but am often vexed to hear the people laugh, and clap, as they perpetually do, where intended them no jest; while they let pass the better things, without taking notice of them. yet even this confirms me in my opinion of slighting popular applause, and of contemning that approbation which those very people give, equally with me, to the zany of a mountebank; or to the appearance of an antick on the theatre, without wit on the poet's part, or any occasion of laughter from the actor, besides the ridiculousness of his habit and his grimaces. but i have descended, before i was aware, from comedy to farce; which consists principally of grimaces. that i admire not any comedy equally with tragedy, is, perhaps, from the sullenness of my humour; but that i detest those farces, which are now the most frequent entertainments of the stage, i am sure i have reason on my side. comedy consists, though of low persons, yet of natural actions and characters; i mean such humours, adventures, and designs, as are to be found and met with in the world. farce, on the other side, consists of forced humours, and unnatural events. comedy presents us with the imperfections of human nature: farce entertains us with what is monstrous and chimerical. the one causes laughter in those who can judge of men and manners, by the lively representation of their folly or corruption: the other produces the same effect in those who can judge of neither, and that only by its extravagances. the first works on the judgment and fancy; the latter on the fancy only: there is more of satisfaction in the former kind of laughter, and in the latter more of scorn. but, how it happens, that an impossible adventure should cause our mirth, i cannot so easily imagine. something there may be in the oddness of it, because on the stage it is the common effect of things unexpected, to surprise us into a delight: and that is to be ascribed to the strange appetite, as i may call it, of the fancy; which, like that of a longing woman, often runs out into the most extravagant desires; and is better satisfied sometimes with loam, or with the rinds of trees, than with the wholesome nourishments of life. in short, there is the same difference betwixt farce and comedy, as betwixt an empirick, and a true physician: both of them may attain their ends; but what the one performs by hazard, the other does by skill. and as the artist is often unsuccessful, while the mountebank succeeds; so farces more commonly take the people than comedies. for, to write unnatural things, is the most probable way of pleasing them, who understand not nature. and a true poet often misses of applause, because he cannot debase himself to write so ill as to please his audience. after all, it is to be acknowledged, that most of those comedies, which have been lately written, have been allied too much to farce: and this must of necessity fall out, till we forbear the translation of french plays: for their poets, wanting judgment to make or to maintain true characters, strive to cover their defects with ridiculous figures and grimaces. while i say this, i accuse myself as well as others: and this very play would rise up in judgment against me, if i would defend all things i have written to be natural: but i confess i have given too much to the people in it, and am ashamed for them as well as for myself, that i have pleased them at so cheap a rate. not that there is any thing here which i would not defend to an ill-natured judge; (for i despise their censures, who i am sure would write worse on the same subject:) but, because i love to deal clearly and plainly, and to speak of my own faults with more criticism, than i would of another poet's. yet i think it no vanity to say, that this comedy has as much of entertainment in it, as many others which have been lately written: and, if i find my own errors in it, i am able, at the same time, to arraign all my contemporaries for greater. as i pretend not that i can write humour, so none of them can reasonably pretend to have written it as they ought. jonson was the only man, of all ages and nations, who has performed it well; and that but in three or four of his comedies: the rest are but a _crambe bis cocta_; the same humours a little varied and written worse. neither was it more allowable in him, than it is in our present poets, to represent the follies of particular persons; of which many have accused him. _parcere personis, dicere de vitiis_, is the rule of plays. and horace tells you, that the old comedy amongst the grecians was silenced for the too great liberties of the poets: ----_in vitium libertas excidit et vim dignam lege regi: lex est accepta, chorusque turpiter obticuit, sublato jure nocendi._ of which he gives you the reason in another place: where, having given the precept, _neve immunda crepent, ignominiosaque dicta,_ he immediately subjoins, _offenduntur enim quibus est equus, et pater, et res._ but ben jonson is to be admired for many excellencies; and can be taxed with fewer failings than any english poet. i know i have been accused as an enemy of his writings; but without any other reason, than that i do not admire him blindly, and without looking into his imperfections. for why should he only be exempted from those frailties, from which homer and virgil are not free? or why should there be any _ipse dixit_ in our poetry, any more than there is in our philosophy? i admire and applaud him where i ought: those, who do more, do but value themselves in their admiration of him; and, by telling you they extol ben jonson's way, would insinuate to you that they can practise it. for my part, i declare that i want judgment to imitate him; and should think it a great impudence in myself to attempt it. to make men appear pleasantly ridiculous on the stage, was, as i have said, his talent; and in this he needed not the acumen of wit, but that of judgment. for the characters and representations of folly are only the effects of observation; and observation is an effect of judgment. some ingenious men, for whom i have a particular esteem, have thought i have much injured ben jonson, when i have not allowed his wit to be extraordinary: but they confound the notion of what is witty, with what is pleasant. that ben jonson's plays were pleasant, he must want reason who denies: but that pleasantness was not properly wit, or the sharpness of conceit; but the natural imitation of folly: which i confess to be excellent in its kind, but not to be of that kind which they pretend. yet if we will believe quintilian, in his chapter _de movendo risu_, he gives his opinion of both in these following words: _stulta reprehendere facillimum est; nam per se sunt ridicula, et à derisu non procul abest risus: sed rem urbanam facit aliqua ex nobis adjectio_. and some perhaps would be apt to say of jonson, as it was said of demosthenes,--_non displicuisse illi jocos, sed non contigisse_. i will not deny, but that i approve most the mixt way of comedy; that which is neither all wit, nor all humour, but the result of both. neither so little of humour as fletcher shews, nor so little of love and wit as jonson; neither all cheat, with which the best plays of the one are filled, nor all adventure, which is the common practice of the other. i would have the characters well chosen, and kept distant from interfering with each other; which is more than fletcher or shakespeare did: but i would have more of the _urbana, venusta, salsa, faceta_, and the rest which quintilian reckons up as the ornaments of wit; and these are extremely wanting in ben jonson. as for repartee, in particular; as it is the very soul of conversation, so it is the greatest grace of comedy, where it is proper to the characters. there may be much of acuteness in a thing well said; but there is more in a quick reply: _sunt enim longè venustiora omnia in respondendo quàm in provocando_. of one thing i am sure, that no man ever will decry wit, but he who despairs of it himself; and who has no other quarrel to it, but that which the fox had to the grapes. yet, as mr cowley (who had a greater portion of it than any man i know) tells us in his _character of wit_,--rather than all wit, let there be none. i think there is no folly so great in any poet of our age, as the superfluity and waste of wit was in some of our predecessors: particularly we may say of fletcher and of shakespeare, what was said of ovid, _in omni ejus ingenio, facilius quod rejici, quàm quod adjici potest, invenies:_ the contrary of which was true in virgil, and our incomparable jonson. some enemies of repartee have observed to us, that there is a great latitude in their characters, which are made to speak it: and that it is easier to write wit than humour; because, in the characters of humour, the poet is confined to make the person speak what is only proper to it; whereas, all kind of wit is proper in the character of a witty person. but, by their favour, there are as different characters in wit as in folly. neither is all kind of wit proper in the mouth of every ingenious person. a witty coward, and a witty brave, must speak differently. _falstaff_ and the _liar_ speak not like _don john_ in the "chances," and _valentine_ in "wit without money." and jonson's _truewit_ in the "silent woman," is a character different from all of them. yet it appears, that this one character of wit was more difficult to the author, than all his images of humour in the play: for those he could describe and manage from his observations of men; this he has taken, at least a part of it, from books; witness the speeches in the first act, translated _verbatim_ out of ovid, "_de arte amandi_." to omit what afterwards he borrowed from the sixth satire of juvenal against women. however, if i should grant, that there were a greater latitude in characters of wit, than in those of humour; yet that latitude would be of small advantage to such poets, who have too narrow an imagination to write it. and to entertain an audience perpetually with humour, is to carry them from the conversation of gentlemen, and treat them with the follies and extravagancies of bedlam. i find i have launched out farther than i intended in the beginning of this preface; and that, in the heat of writing, i have touched at something, which i thought to have avoided. it is time now to draw homeward; and to think rather of defending myself, than assaulting others. i have already acknowledged, that this play is far from perfect: but i do not think myself obliged to discover the imperfections of it to my adversaries, any more than a guilty person is bound to accuse himself before his judges. it is charged upon me that i make debauched persons (such as, they say, my astrologer and gamester are) my protagonists, or the chief persons of the drama; and that i make them happy in the conclusion of my play; against the law of comedy, which is to reward virtue, and punish vice. i answer, first, that i know no such law to have been constantly observed in comedy, either by the ancient or modern poets. _chærea_ is made happy in the "eunuch," after having deflowered a virgin; and terence generally does the same through all his plays, where you perpetually see, not only debauched young men enjoy their mistresses, but even the courtezans themselves rewarded and honoured in the catastrophe. the same may be observed in plautus almost everywhere. ben jonson himself, after whom i may be proud to err, has given me more than once the example of it. that in "the alchemist" is notorious, where _face_, after having contrived and carried on the great cozenage of the play, and continued in it without repentance to the last, is not only forgiven by his master, but enriched, by his consent, with the spoils of those whom he had cheated. and, which is more, his master himself, a grave man, and a widower, is introduced taking his man's counsel, debauching the widow first, in hope to marry her afterward. in the "silent woman," _dauphine_ (who, with the other two gentlemen, is of the same character with my _celadon_ in the "maiden queen," and with _wildblood_ in this) professes himself in love with all the collegiate ladies: and they likewise are all of the same character with each other, excepting only _madam otter_, who has something singular: yet this naughty _dauphine_ is crowned in the end with the possession of his uncle's estate, and with the hopes of enjoying all his mistresses; and his friend, _mr truewit_, (the best character of a gentleman which ben jonson ever made) is not ashamed to pimp for him. as for beaumont and fletcher, i need not allege examples out of them; for that were to quote almost all their comedies. but now it will be objected, that i patronise vice by the authority of former poets, and extenuate my own faults by recrimination. i answer, that as i defend myself by their example, so that example i defend by reason, and by the end of all dramatic poesy. in the first place, therefore, give me leave to shew you their mistake, who have accused me. they have not distinguished, as they ought, betwixt the rules of tragedy and comedy. in tragedy, where the actions and persons are great, and the crimes horrid, the laws of justice are more strictly observed; and examples of punishment to be made, to deter mankind from the pursuit of vice. faults of this kind have been rare amongst the ancient poets: for they have punished in _oedipus_, and in his posterity, the sin which he knew not he had committed. _medea_ is the only example i remember at present, who escapes from punishment after murder. thus tragedy fulfils one great part of its institution; which is, by example, to instruct. but in comedy it is not so; for the chief end of it is divertisement and delight: and that so much, that it is disputed, i think, by heinsius, before horace's "art of poetry," whether instruction be any part of its employment. at least i am sure it can be but its secondary end: for the business of the poet is to make you laugh: when he writes humour, he makes folly ridiculous; when wit, he moves you, if not always to laughter, yet to a pleasure that is more noble. and if he works a cure on folly, and the small imperfections in mankind, by exposing them to public view, that cure is not performed by an immediate operation: for it works first on the ill-nature of the audience; they are moved to laugh by the representation of deformity; and the shame of that laughter teaches us to amend what is ridiculous in our manners. this being then established, that the first end of comedy is delight, and instruction only the second; it may reasonably be inferred, that comedy is not so much obliged to the punishment of faults which it represents, as tragedy. for the persons in comedy are of a lower quality, the action is little, and the faults and vices are but the sallies of youth, and the frailties of human nature, and not premeditated crimes: such to which all men are obnoxious; not such as are attempted only by few, and those abandoned to all sense of virtue: such as move pity and commiseration; not detestation and horror: such, in short, as may be forgiven; not such as must of necessity be punished. but, lest any man should think that i write this to make libertinism amiable, or that i cared not to debase the end and institution of comedy, so i might thereby maintain my own errors, and those of better poets, i must further declare, both for them and for myself, that we make not vicious persons happy, but only as heaven makes sinners so; that is, by reclaiming them first from vice. for so it is to be supposed they are, when they resolve to marry; for then, enjoying what they desire in one, they cease to pursue the love of many. so _chærea_ is made happy by terence, in marrying her whom he had deflowered: and so are _wildblood_ and the _astrologer_ in this play. there is another crime with which i am charged, at which i am yet much less concerned, because it does not relate to my manners, as the former did, but only to my reputation as a poet: a name of which i assure the reader i am nothing proud; and therefore cannot be very solicitous to defend it. i am taxed with stealing all my plays, and that by some, who should be the last men from whom i would steal any part of them. there is one answer which i will not make; but it has been made for me, by him to whose grace and patronage i owe all things, _et spes et ratio studiorum in cæsare tantum_-- and without whose command they should no longer be troubled with any thing of mine;--that he only desired, that they, who accused me of theft, would always steal him plays like mine. but though i have reason to be proud of this defence, yet i should wave it, because i have a worse opinion of my own comedies than any of my enemies can have. it is true, that wherever i have liked any story in a romance, novel, or foreign play, i have made no difficulty, nor ever shall, to take the foundation of it, to build it up, and to make it proper for the english stage. and i will be so vain to say, it has lost nothing in my hands: but it always cost me so much trouble to heighten it for our theatre, (which is incomparably more curious in all the ornaments of dramatic poesy than the french or spanish,) that when i had finished my play, it was like the hulk of sir francis drake, so strangely altered, that there scarcely remained any plank of the timber which first built it. to witness this, i need go no farther than this play: it was first spanish, and called "el astrologo fingido;" then made french by the younger corneille; and is now translated into english, and in print, under the name of "the feigned astrologer." what i have performed in this will best appear by comparing it with those: you will see that i have rejected some adventures which i judged were not divertising; that i have heightened those which i have chosen; and that i have added others, which were neither in the french nor spanish. and, besides, you will easily discover, that the walk of the _astrologer_ is the least considerable in my play: for the design of it turns more on the parts of _wildblood_ and _jacinta_, who are the chief persons in it. i have farther to add, that i seldom use the wit and language of any romance or play, which i undertake to alter: because my own invention (as bad as it is) can furnish me with nothing so dull as what is there. those who have called virgil, terence, and tasso, plagiaries, (though they much injured them) had yet a better colour for their accusation; for virgil has evidently translated theocritus, hesiod, and homer, in many places; besides what he has taken from ennius in his own language. terence was not only known to translate menander, (which he avows also in his prologues) but was said also to be helped in those translations by scipio the african, and lælius. and tasso, the most excellent of modern poets, and whom i reverence next to virgil, has taken both from homer many admirable things, which were left untouched by virgil, and from virgil himself, where homer could not furnish him. yet the bodies of virgil's and tasso's poems were their own; and so are all the ornaments of language and elocution in them. the same (if there were any thing commendable in this play) i could say for it. but i will come nearer to our own countrymen. most of shakespeare's plays, i mean the stories of them, are to be found in the "hecatomithi," or "hundred novels" of cinthio. i have myself read in his italian, that of "romeo and juliet," the "moor of venice," and many others of them. beaumont and fletcher had most of theirs from spanish novels: witness "the chances," "the spanish curate," "rule a wife and have a wife," "the little french lawyer," and so many others of them as compose the greatest part of their volume in folio. ben jonson, indeed, has designed his plots himself; but no man has borrowed so much from the ancients as he has done: and he did well in it, for he has thereby beautified our language. but these little critics do not well consider what is the work of a poet, and what the graces of a poem: the story is the least part of either: i mean the foundation of it, before it is modelled by the art of him who writes it; who forms it with more care, by exposing only the beautiful parts of it to view, than a skilful lapidary sets a jewel. on this foundation of the story, the characters are raised: and, since no story can afford characters enough for the variety of the english stage, it follows, that it is to be altered and enlarged with new persons, accidents, and designs, which will almost make it new. when this is done, the forming it into acts and scenes, disposing of actions and passions into their proper places, and beautifying both with descriptions, similitudes, and propriety of language, is the principal employment of the poet; as being the largest field of fancy, which is the principal quality required in him: for so much the word [greek: poiêtês] implies. judgment, indeed, is necessary in him; but it is fancy that gives the life-touches, and the secret graces to it; especially in serious plays, which depend not much on observation. for, to write humour in comedy, (which is the theft of poets from mankind) little of fancy is required; the poet observes only what is ridiculous and pleasant folly, and by judging exactly what is so, he pleases in the representation of it. but, in general, the employment of a poet is like that of a curious gunsmith, or watchmaker: the iron or silver is not his own; but they are the least part of that which gives the value: the price lies wholly in the workmanship. and he who works dully on a story, without moving laughter in a comedy, or raising concernment in a serious play, is no more to be accounted a good poet, than a gunsmith of the minories is to be compared with the best workman of the town. but i have said more of this than i intended; and more, perhaps, than i needed to have done: i shall but laugh at them hereafter, who accuse me with so little reason; and withal contemn their dulness, who, if they could ruin that little reputation i have got, and which i value not, yet would want both wit and learning to establish their own; or to be remembered in after ages for any thing, but only that which makes them ridiculous in this. prologue. when first our poet set himself to write, like a young bridegroom on his wedding-night; he laid about him, and did so bestir him, his muse could never lie in quiet for him: but now his honey-moon is gone and past, yet the ungrateful drudgery must last: and he is bound, as civil husbands do, to strain himself, in complaisance to you: to write in pain, and counterfeit a bliss, like the faint smacking of an after-kiss. but you, like wives ill pleased, supply his want; each writing monsieur is a fresh gallant: and though, perhaps, 'twas done as well before, yet still there's something in a new amour. your several poets work with several tools, one gets you wits, another gets you fools: this pleases you with some by-stroke of wit, this finds some cranny that was never hit. but should these janty lovers daily come to do your work, like your good man at home, their fine small-timbered wits would soon decay; these are gallants but for a holiday. others you had, who oftner have appeared, whom, for mere impotence, you have cashiered: such as at first came on with pomp and glory, but, overstraining, soon fell flat before ye. their useless weight, with patience, long was born, but at the last you threw them off with scorn. as for the poet of this present night, } though now he claims in you a husband's right, } he will not hinder you of fresh delight. } he, like a seaman, seldom will appear; and means to trouble home but thrice a-year: that only time from your gallants he'll borrow; be kind to-day, and cuckold him to-morrow. dramatis personÆ. wildblood, } } _two young english gentlemen_. bellamy, } maskall, _their servant_. _don_ alonzo de ribera, _an old spanish gentleman_. _don_ lopez de gamboa, _a young noble spaniard_. _don_ melchor de guzman, _a gentleman of a great family; but of a decayed fortune_. _donna_ theodosia, } } _daughters to don_ alonzo. _donna_ jacintha, } _donna_ aurelia, _their cousi_. beatrix, _woman and confident to the two sisters_. camilla, _woman to_ aurelia. _servants to don_ lopez _and don_ alonzo. scene--_madrid, in the year _. _the time, the last evening of the carnival_. an evening's love; or, the mock astrologer. act i. scene i. _don_ lopez, _and a servant walking over the stage. enter another servant, and follows him_. _serv._ don lopez. _lop._ any new business? _serv._ my master had forgot this letter, which he conjures you, as you are his friend, to give aurelia from him. _lop._ tell don melchor, 'tis a hard task which he enjoins me: he knows i love her, and much more than he; for i love her alone, but he divides his passion betwixt two. did he consider how great a pain 'tis to dissemble love, he would never practise it. _serv._ he knows his fault, but cannot mend it. _lop._ to make the poor aurelia believe he's gone for flanders, whilst he lies concealed, and every night makes visits to her cousin-- when will he leave this strange extravagance? _serv._ when he can love one more, or t'other less. _lop._ before i loved myself, i promised him to serve him in his love; and i'll perform it, howe'er repugnant to my own concernments. _serv._ you are a noble cavalier. [_exit servant._ _enter_ bellamy, wildblood, _and_ maskall. _ serv._ sir, your guests, of the english ambassador's retinue. _lop._ cavaliers, will you please to command my coach to take the air this evening? _bel._ we have not yet resolved how to dispose of ourselves; but, however, we are highly acknowledging to you for your civility. _lop._ you cannot more oblige me, than by laying your commands on me. _wild._ we kiss your hand. [_exeunt_ lopez _and serv_. _bel._ give the don his due, he entertained us nobly this carnival. _wild._ give the devil the don, for any thing i liked in his entertainment. _bel._ i hope we had variety enough. _wild._ ay, it looked like variety, till we came to taste it; there were twenty several dishes to the eye, but in the palate, nothing but spices. i had a mind to eat of a pheasant, and as soon as i got it into my mouth, i found i was chewing a limb of cinnamon; then i went to cut a piece of kid, and no sooner it had touched my lips, but it turned to red pepper: at last i began to think myself another kind of midas, that every thing i touched should be turned to spice. _bel._ and, for my part, i imagined his catholic majesty had invited us to eat his indies. but pr'ythee, let's leave the discourse of it, and contrive together how we may spend the evening; for in this hot country, 'tis as in the creation, the evening and the morning make the day. _wild._ i have a little serious business. _bel._ put it off till a fitter season: for the truth is, business is then only tolerable, when the world and the flesh have no baits to set before us for the day. _wild._ but mine, perhaps, is public business. _bel._ why, is any business more public than drinking and wenching? look on those grave plodding fellows, that pass by us as though they were meditating the reconquest of flanders: fly them to a mark, and i'll undertake three parts of four are going to their courtezans. i tell thee, jack, the whisking of a silk gown, and the rush of a tabby petticoat, are as comfortable sounds to one of these rich citizens, as the chink of their pieces of eight. _wild._ this being granted to be the common design of human kind, it is more than probable it is yours; therefore i'll leave you to the prosecution of it. _bel._ nay, good jack, mine is but a mistress in embryo; the possession of her is at least some days off; and till that time, thy company will be pleasant, and may be profitable to carry on the work. i would use thee like an under kind of chemist, to blow coals; it will be time enough for me to be alone, when i come to projection. _wild._ you must excuse me, frank; i have made an appointment at the gaming-house. _bel._ what to do there, i pr'ythee? to mis-spend that money, which kind fortune intended for a mistress? or to learn new oaths and curses to carry into england? that is not it--i heard you were to marry when you left home: perhaps that may be still running in your head, and keep you virtuous. _wild._ marriage, quotha! what, dost thou think i have been bred in the deserts of africa, or among the savages of america? nay, if i had, i must needs have known better things than so; the light of nature would not have let me go so far astray. _bel._ well, what think you of the prado this evening? _wild._ pox upon't, 'tis worse than our contemplative hyde-park. _bel._ oh, but we must submit to the custom of the country for courtship: whatever the means are, we are sure the end is still the same in all places. but who are these? _enter_ don alonzo de ribera, _with his two daughters_, theodosia _and_ jacintha, _and_ beatrix, _their woman, passing by_. _theo._ do you see those strangers, sister, that eye us so earnestly? _jac._ yes, and i guess them to be feathers of the english ambassador's train; for i think i saw them at the grand audience--and have the strongest temptation in the world to talk to them: a mischief on this modesty! _beat._ a mischief of this father of yours, that haunts you so. _jac._ 'tis very true, beatrix; for though i am the younger sister, i should have the grace to lay modesty first aside: however, sister, let us pull up our veils, and give them an essay of our faces. [_they pull up their veils, and pull them down again._ _wild._ ah, bellamy! undone, undone! dost thou see those beauties? _bel._ pr'ythee, wildblood, hold thy tongue, and do not spoil my contemplation: i am undoing myself as fast as ever i can, too. _wild._ i must go to them. _bel._ hold, madman! dost thou not see their father? hast thou a mind to have our throats cut? _wild._ by a hector of fourscore? hang our throats: what! a lover, and cautious? [_is going towards them._ _alon._ come away, daughters; we shall be late else. _bel._ look you, they are on the wing already. _wild._ pr'ythee, dear frank, let's follow them: i long to know who they are. _mask._ let me alone, i'll dog them for you. _bel._ i am glad on't; for my shoes so pinch me, i can scarce go a step farther. _wild._ cross the way there lives a shoemaker: away quickly, that we may not spoil our design. [_exeunt_ bel. _and_ wild. _alon._ [_offers to go off_.] now, friend! what's your business to follow us? _mask._ noble don, 'tis only to recommend my service to you: a certain violent passion i have had for your worship, since the first moment that i saw you. _alon._ i never saw thee before, to my remembrance. _mask._ no matter, sir; true love never stands upon ceremon y. _alon._ pr'ythee be gone, my saucy companion, or i'll clap an alguazil upon thy heels: i tell thee i have no need of thy service. _mask._ having no servant of your own, i cannot, in good manners, leave you destitute. _alon._ i'll beat thee, if thou followest me. _mask._ i am your spaniel, sir; the more you beat me, the better i'll wait on you. _alon._ let me entreat thee to be gone; the boys will hoot at me to see me followed thus against my will. _mask._ shall you and i concern ourselves for what the boys do, sir? pray do you hear the news at court? _alon._ pr'ythee, what's the news to thee or me? _mask._ will you be at the next _juego de cannas_? _alon._ if i think good. _mask._ pray go on, sir; we can discourse as we walk together: and whither were you now a-going, sir? _alon._ to the devil, i think. _mask._ o, not this year or two, sir, by your age. _jac._ my father was never so matched for talking in all his life before; he who loves to hear nothing but himself: pr'ythee, beatrix, stay behind, and see what this impudent englishman would have. _beat._ sir, if you'll let my master go, i'll be his pawn. _mask._ well, sir, i kiss your hand, in hope to wait on you another time. _alon._ let us mend our pace, to get clear of him. _theo._ if you do not, he'll be with you again, like atalanta in the fable, and make you drop another of your golden apples. [_exeunt_ alon. theo. _and_ jacintha. [maskall _whispers_ beatrix _the while_. _beat._ how much good language is here thrown away, to make me betray my ladies? _mask._ if you will discover nothing of them, let me discourse with you a little. _beat._ as little as you please. _mask._ they are rich, i suppose? _beat._ now you are talking of them again: but they are as rich, as they are fair. _mask._ then they have the indies: well, but their names, my sweet mistress. _beat._ sweet servant, their names are---- _mask._ their names are--out with it boldly-- _beat._ a secret--not to be disclosed. _mask._ a secret, say you? nay, then, i conjure you, as you are a woman, tell it me. _beat._ not a syllable. _mask._ why, then, as you are a waiting-woman; as you are the sieve of all your lady's secrets, tell it me. _beat._ you lose your labour; nothing will strain through me. _mask._ are you so well stopped in the bottom? _beat._ it was enjoined me strictly as a secret. _mask._ was it enjoined thee strictly, and canst thou hold it? nay, then, thou art invincible: but, by that face, that more than ugly face, which i suspect to be under thy veil, disclose it to me. _beat._ by that face of thine, which is a natural visor, i will not tell thee. _mask._ by thy---- _beat._ no more swearing, i beseech you. _mask._ that woman's worth little, that is not worth an oath: well, get thee gone; now i think on't, thou shalt not tell me. _beat._ shall i not? who shall hinder me? they are don alonzo de ribera's daughters. _mask._ out, out: i'll stop my ears. _beat._ they live hard by, in the _calle maior_. _mask._ o, infernal tongue-- _beat._ and are going to the next chapel with their father. _mask._ wilt thou never have done tormenting me? in my conscience, anon thou wilt blab out their names too. _beat._ their names are theodosia and jacintha. _mask._ and where's your great secret now? _beat._ now, i think, i am revenged on you, for running down my poor old master. _mask._ thou art not fully revenged, till thou hast told me thy own name too. _beat._ 'tis beatrix, at your service, sir; pray remember i wait on them. _mask._ now i have enough, i must be going. _beat._ i perceive you are just like other men; when you have got your ends, you care not how soon you are going. farewell:--you'll be constant to me? _mask._ if thy face, when i see it, do not give me occasion to be otherwise. _beat._ you shall take a sample, that you may praise it, when you see it next. [_she pulls up her veil._ _enter_ wildblood _and_ bellamy. _wild._ look, there's your dog with a duck in's mouth.--oh, she's got loose, and dived again. [_exit_ beatrix. _beat._ well, maskall, what news of the ladies of the lake? _mask._ i have learned enough to embark you in an adventure. they are daughters to one don alonzo de ribera, in the _calle maior_, their names theodosia and jacintha, and they are going to their devotions in the next chapel. _wild._ away then, let us lose no time. i thank heaven, i never found myself better inclined to godliness, than at this present. [_exeunt._ scene ii.--_a chapel_. _enter_ alonzo, theodosia, jacintha, beatrix, _other ladies, and cavaliers at their devotions_. _alon._ by that time you have told your beads, i'll be again with you. [_exit._ _jac._ do you think the englishmen will come after us? _beat._ do you think they can stay from you? _jac._ for my part, i feel a certain qualm upon my heart, which makes me believe i am breeding love to one of them. _theo._ how, love, jacintha! in so short a time? cupid's arrow was well feathered, to reach you so suddenly. _jac._ faith, as good at first as at last, sister; 'tis a thing that must be done, and therefore 'tis best dispatching it out o'the way. _theo._ but you do not mean to tell him so, whom you love? _jac._ why should i keep myself and servant in pain, for that which may be cured at a day's warning? _beat._ my lady tells you true, madam; long tedious courtship may be proper for cold countries, where their frosts are long a thawing; but, heaven be praised, we live in a warm climate. _theo._ the truth is, in other countries they have opportunities of courtship, which we have not; they are not mewed up with double locks and grated windows; but may receive addresses at their leisure. _jac._ but our love here is like our grass; if it be not mowed quickly, 'tis burnt up. _enter_ bellamy, wildblood, and maskall: _they look about them_. _theo._ yonder are your gallants; send you comfort of them: i am for my devotions. _jac._ now for my heart can i think of no other prayer, but only that they may not mistake us. why, sister, sister, will you pray? what injury have i ever done you, that you should pray in my company? if your servant don melchor were here, we should have you mind heaven as little as the best of us. _beat._ they are at a loss, madam; shall i put up my veil, that they may take aim? _jac._ no, let them take their fortune in the dark: we shall see what archers these english are. _bel._ which are they, think'st thou? _wild._ there's no knowing them, they are all children of darkness. _bel._ i'll be sworn they have one sign of godliness among them, there's no distinction of persons here. _wild._ pox o'this blind-man's-buff; they may be ashamed to provoke a man thus, by their keeping themselves so close. _bel._ you are for the youngest, you say; 'tis the eldest has smitten me. and here i fix; if i am right, happy man be his dole. [_by_ theodosia. _wild._ i'll take my fortune here. [_by_ jacintha. madam, i hope a stranger may take the liberty, without offence, to offer his devotions by you? _jac._ that, sir, would interrupt mine, without being any advantage to your own. _wild._ my advantage, madam, is very evident; for the kind saint, to whom you pray, may, by the neighbourhood, mistake my devotions for yours. _jac._ o, sir! our saints can better distinguish between the prayers of a catholic and a lutheran. _wild._ i beseech you, madam, trouble not yourself for my religion; for, though i am a heretic to the men of your country, to your ladies i am a very zealous catholic; and for fornication and adultery, i assure you i hold with both churches. _theo. to bel._ sir, if you will not be more devout, be at least more civil; you see you are observed. _bel._ and pray, madam, what do you think the lookers on imagine i am employed about? _theo._ i will not trouble myself to guess. _bel._ why, by all circumstances, they must conclude that i am making love to you; and, methinks, it were scarce civil to give the opinion of so much good company the lie. _theo._ if this were true, you would have little reason to thank them for their divination. _bel._ meaning, i should not be loved again? _theo._ you have interpreted my riddle, and may take it for your pains. _enter_ alonzo, _and goes apart to his devotion_. _beat._ madam, your father is returned. _bel._ she has nettled me; would, i could be revenged on her! _wild._ do you see their father? let us make as though we talked to one another, that we may not be suspected. _beat._ you have lost your englishmen. _jac._ no, no, 'tis but design, i warrant you: you shall see these island cocks wheel about immediately. [_the english gather up close to them._ _beat._ perhaps they thought they were observed. _wild. to bel._ talk not of our country ladies: i declare myself for the spanish beauties. _bel._ pr'ythee, tell me what thou canst find to doat on in these castilians? _wild._ their wit and beauty. _theo._ now for our champion, st jago, for spain. _bel._ faith, i can speak no such miracles of either; for their beauty, 'tis much as the moors left it; not altogether so deep a black as the true ethiopian; a kind of beauty that is too civil to the lookers-on to do them any mischief. _jac._ this was your frowardness, that provoked him, sister. _theo._ but they shall not carry it off so. _bel._ as for their wit, you may judge it by their breeding, which is commonly in a nunnery; where the want of mankind, while they are there, makes them value the blessing ever after. _theo._ pr'ythee, dear jacintha, tell me, what kind of creatures were those we saw yesterday at the audience? those, i mean, that looked so like frenchmen in their habits, but only became their apishness so much worse. _jac._ englishmen, i think, they called them. _theo._ cry you mercy; they were of your wild english, indeed; that is, a kind of northern beast, that is taught its feats of activity in monsieurland; and, for doing them too lubberly, is laughed at all the world over. _bel._ wildblood, i perceive the women understand little of discourse; their gallants do not use them to it: they get upon their jennets, and prance before their ladies' windows; there the palfrey curvets and bounds, and, in short, entertains them for his master. _wild._ and this horseplay they call making love. _beat._ your father, madam---- _alon._ daughters! what cavaliers are those which were talking by you? _jac._ englishmen, i believe, sir, at their devotions.--cavalier, would you would try to pray a little better than you have rallied. [_aside to_ wild. _wild._ hang me if i put all my devotions out of order for you: i remember i prayed but on tuesday last, and my time comes not till tuesday next. _mask._ you had as good pray, sir: she will not stir till you have: say any thing. _wild._ fair lady, though i am not worthy of the least of your favours, yet give me the happiness this evening to see you at your father's door, that i may acquaint you with part of my sufferings. [_aside to_ jac. _alon._ come, daughters, have you done? _jac._ immediately, sir.--cavalier, i will not fail to be there at the time appointed, if it be but to teach you more wit, henceforward, than to engage your heart so lightly. [_aside to_ wild. _wild._ i have engaged my heart with so much zeal and true devotion to your divine beauty, that---- _alon._ what means this cavalier? _jac._ some zealous ejaculation. _alan._ may the saint hear him! _jac._ i'll answer for her. [_exeunt father and daughters._ _wild._ now, bellamy, what success? _bel._ i prayed to a more marble saint than that was in the shrine; but you, it seems, have been successful. _wild._ and so shalt thou; let me alone for both. _bel._ if you'll undertake it, i'll make bold to indulge my love, and within these two hours be a desperate inamorato. i feel i am coming apace to it. _wild._ faith, i can love at any time with a wish, at my rate: i give my heart according to the old law of pawns, to be returned me before sunset. _bel._ i love only that i may keep my heart warm; for a man's a pool, if love stir him not; and to bring it to that pass, i first resolve whom to love, and presently after imagine i am in love: for a strong imagination is required in a lover as much as in a witch. _wild._ and is this all your receipt? _bel._ these are my principal ingredients; as for piques, jealousies, duels, daggers, and halters, i let them alone to the vulgar. _wild._ pr'ythee, let's round the street a little; till maskall watches for their woman. _bel._ that's well thought on: he shall about it immediately. we will attempt the mistress by the maid: women by women still are best betrayed. [_exeunt._ act ii. scene i. _enter_ wildblood, bellamy, _and_ maskall. _wild._ did you speak with her woman? _mask._ yes, but she was in haste, and bid me wait her hereabouts when she returned. _bel._ then you have discovered nothing more? _mask._ only, in general, that donna theodosia is engaged elsewhere; so that all your courtship will be to no purpose--but for your mistress, sir, [_to_ wild.] she is waded out of her depth in love to you already. _wild._ that's very hard, when i am scarce knee-deep with her: 'tis true, i have given her hold of my heart; but, if she take not heed, it will slip through her fingers. _bel._ you are prince of the soil, sir, and may take your pleasure when you please; but i am the eve to your holiday, and must fast for being joined to you. _wild._ were i as thou art, i would content myself with having but one fair flight at her, without wearying myself on the wing for a retrieve; for, when all is done, the quarry is but a woman. _bel._ thank you, sir, you would fly them both yourself; and while i turn tail, we should have you come, gingling with your bells in the neck of my partridge. do you remember who encouraged me to love, and promised me his assistance? _wild._ ay, while there was hope, frank! while there was hope! but there's no contending with one's destiny. _bel._ nay, it may be i care as little for her as another man; but, while she flies before me, i must follow: i can love a woman first with ease; but if she begins to fly before me, i grow _opiniatre_ as the devil. _wild._ what a secret have you found out? why, 'tis the nature of all mankind: we love to get our mistresses, and purr over them, as cats do over mice, and let them go a little way; and all the pleasure is, to pat them back again: but yours, i take it, frank, is gone too far. pr'ythee, how long dost thou intend to love at this rate? _bel._ till the evil constellation be past over me: yet, i believe, it would hasten my recovery, if i knew whom she loved. _mask._ you shall not be long without that satisfaction. _wild._ 'st, the door opens; and two women are coming out. _bel._ by their stature, they should be thy gracious mistress and beatrix. _wild._ methinks you should know your cue then, and withdraw. _bel._ well, i'll leave you to your fortune; but, if you come to close fighting, i shall make bold to run in, and part you. [bellamy _and_ maskall, _withdrawing_. _wild._ yonder she comes, with full sails i'faith! i'll hail her amain, for england. _enter_ jacintha _and_ beatrix, _at the other end of the stage_. _beat._ you do love him then? _jac._ yes, most vehemently! _beat._ but set some bounds to your affection. _jac._ none but fools confine their pleasure: what usurer ever thought his coffers held too much? no, i'll give myself the swing, and love without reserve. if i keep a passion, i'll not starve it in my service. _beat._ but are you sure he will deserve this kindness? _jac._ i never trouble myself so long beforehand. jealousies and disquiets are the dregs of an amour; but i'll leave mine before i have drawn it off so low. when it once grows troubled, i'll give vent to a fresh draught. _beat._ yet it is but prudence to try him first; no pilot ventures on an unknown coast without sounding. _jac._ well, to satisfy thee, i am content; partly, too, because i find a kind of pleasure in laying baits for him. _beat._ the two great virtues of a lover are constancy and liberality; if he possess those two, you may be happy in him. _jac._ nay, if he be not lord and master of both those qualities, i disown him----but who goes there? _beat._ he, i warrant you, madam; for his servant told me he was waiting hereabout. _jac._ watch the door; give me notice, if any come. _beat._ i'll secure you, madam. [_exit_ beat. _jac._ [_to_ wild.] what, have you laid an ambush for me? _wild._ only to make a reprisal of my heart. _jac._ 'tis so wild, that the lady, who has it in her keeping, would be glad she were well rid on't, it does so flutter about the cage. 'tis a mere bajazet; and if it be not let out the sooner, will beat out its brains against the grates. _wild._ i am afraid the lady has not fed it, and 'tis wild for hunger. _jac._ or, perhaps it wants company; shall she put another to it? _wild._ ay; but then it were best to trust them out of the cage together; let them hop about at liberty. _jac._ but, if they should lose one another in the wide world! _wild._ they'll meet at night, i warrant them. _jac._ but is not your heart of the nature of those birds, that breed in one country, and go to winter in another? _wild._ suppose it does so; yet, i take my mate along with me. and now, to leave our parables, and speak in the language of the vulgar, what think you of a voyage to merry england? _jac._ just as Æsop's frog did, of leaping into a deep well in a drought: if he ventured the leap, there might be water; but, if there were no water, how should he get out again? _wild._ faith, we live in a good honest country, where we are content with our old vices; partly because we want wit to invent more new. a colony of spaniards, or spiritual italians, planted among us, would make us much more racy. 'tis, true, our variety is not much; but, to speak nobly of our way of living, 'tis like that of the sun, which rises, and looks upon the same thing he saw yesterday, and goes to bed again. _jac._ but i hear your women live most blessedly; there is no such thing as jealousy among the husbands; if any man has horns, he bears them as loftily as a stag, and as inoffensively. _wild._ all this, i hope, gives you no ill character of the country? _jac._ but what need we go into another climate? as our love was born here, so let it live and die here, and be honestly buried in its native country. _wild._ faith, agreed with all my heart. for i am none of those unreasonable lovers, that propose to themselves the loving to eternity. the truth is, a month is commonly my stint; but, in that month, i love so dreadfully, that it is after a twelve-month's rate of common love. _jac._ or, would not a fortnight serve our turn? for, in troth, a month looks somewhat dismally; 'tis a whole egyptian year. if a moon changes in my love, i shall think my cupid grown dull, or fallen into an apoplexy. _wild._ well, i pray heaven we both get off as clear as we imagine; for my part, i like your humour so damnably well, that i fear i am in for a week longer than i proposed: i am half afraid your spanish planet and my english one have been acquainted, and have found out some by-room or other in the twelve houses: i wish they have been honourable. _jac._ the best way for both were to take up in time; yet i am afraid our forces are engaged so far, that we must make a battle on't. what think you of disobliging one another from this day forward; and shewing all our ill humours at the first, which lovers use to keep as a reserve, till they are married? _wild._ or let us encourage one another to a breach, by the dangers of possession: i have a song to that purpose. _jac._ pray let me hear it: i hope it will go to the tune of one of our _passa-calles_. song. _you charmed me not with that fair face, though it was all divine; to be another's is the grace, that makes me wish you mine. the gods and fortune take their part, who, like young monarchs, fight, and boldly dare invade that heart, which is another's right. first, mad with hope, we undertake to pull up every bar; but, once possessed, we faintly make a dull defensive war. now, every friend is turned a foe, in hope to get our store: and passion make us cowards grow, which made us brave before._ _jac._ believe it, cavalier, you are a dangerous person: do you hold forth your gifts, in hopes to make me love you less? _wild._ they would signify little, if we were once married: those gaieties are all nipt and frost-bitten in the marriage-bed, i'faith. _jac._ i am sorry to hear 'tis so cold a place: but 'tis all one to us, who do not mean to trouble it. the truth is, your humour pleases me exceedingly; how long it will do so, i know not; but so long as it does, i am resolved to give myself the content of seeing you. for, if i should once constrain myself, i might fall in love in good earnest: but i have stayed too long with you, and would be loth to surfeit you at first. _wild._ surfeit me madam? why, you have but tantalized me all this while! _jac._ what would you have? _wild._ a hand, or lip, or any thing that you can spare; when you have conjured up a spirit, he must have some employment, or he'll tear you apieces. _jac._ well, here's my picture, to help your contemplation in my absence. _wild._ you have already the original of mine: but some revenge you must allow me: a locket of diamonds, or some such trifle, the next time i kiss your hand. _jac._ fie, fie! you do not think me mercenary? yet, now i think on't, i'll put you into our spanish mode of love: our ladies here use to be the bankers of their servants, and to have their gold in keeping. _wild._ this is the least trial you could have made of me: i have some three hundred pistoles by me; those i'll send by my servant. _jac._ confess freely, you mistrust me: but if you find the least qualm about your gold, pray keep it for a cordial. _wild._ the cordial must be applied to the heart, and mine's with you, madam. well; i say no more; but these are dangerous beginnings for holding on: i find my month will have more than one-and-thirty days in't. _enter_ beatrix, _running_. _beat._ madam, your father calls in haste for you, and is looking for you about the house. _jac._ adieu, servant; be a good manager of your stock of love, that it may hold out your month; i am afraid you'll waste so much of it before to-morrow night, that you'll shine but with a quarter moon upon me. _wild._ it shall be a crescent. [_exeunt_ wild. _and_ jac. _severally_. [beatrix _is going, and_ maskall _runs and stops her_. _mask._ pay your ransom; you are my prisoner. _beat._ what! do you fight after the french fashion; take towns before you declare a war? _mask._ i shall be glad to imitate them so far, to be in the middle of the country before you could resist me. _beat._ well, what composition, monsieur? _mask._ deliver up your lady's secret; what makes her so cruel to my master? _beat._ which of my ladies, and which of your masters? for, i suppose, we are factors for both of them. _mask._ your eldest lady, theodosia. _beat._ how dare you press your mistress to an inconvenience? _mask._ my mistress? i understand not that language; the fortune of the valet ever follows that of the master; and his is desperate: if his fate were altered for the better, i should not care if i ventured upon you for the worse. _beat._ i have told you already, donna theodosia loves another. _mask._ has he no name? _beat._ let it suffice, he is born noble, though without a fortune. his poverty makes him conceal his love from her father; but she sees him every night in private; and, to blind the world, about a fortnight ago he took a solemn leave of her, as if he were going into flanders: in the mean time, he lodges at the house of don lopez de gamboa; and is himself called don melchor de guzman. _mask._ don melchor de guzman! o heavens! _beat._ what amazes you? _theo._ [_within_.] why, beatrix, where are you? _beat._ you hear i am called.--adieu; and be sure you keep my counsel. _mask._ come, sir, you see the coast is clear. [_exit_ beat. _enter_ bellamy. _bel._ clear, dost thou say? no, 'tis full of rocks and quicksands: yet nothing vexes me so much, as that she is in love with such a poor rogue. _mask._ but that she should lodge privately in the same house with us! 'twas oddly contrived of fortune. _bel._ hang him, rogue! methinks i see him, perching, like an owl, by day, and not daring to flutter out till moonlight. the rascal invents love, and brews his compliments all day, and broaches them at night; just as some of our dry wits do their stories, before they come into company. well, if i could be revenged on either of them! _mask._ here she comes again, with beatrix; but, good sir, moderate your passion. _enter_ theodosia _and_ beatrix. _bel._ nay, madam; you are known; and must not pass till i have spoken with you. [bel. _lifts up_ theodosia's _veil_. _theo._ this rudeness to a person of my quality may cost you dear. pray, when did i give you encouragement for so much familiarity? _bel._ when you scorned me in the chapel. _theo._ the truth is, i denied you as heartily as i could, that i might not be twice troubled with you. _bel._ yet you have not this aversion for all the world: however, i was in hope, though the day frowned, the night might prove as propitious to me as it is to others. _theo._ i have now a quarrel both to the sun and moon, because i have seen you both by their lights. _bel._ spare the moon, i beseech you, madam; she is a very trusty planet to you. _beat._ o, maskall, you have ruined me! _mask._ dear sir, hold yet! _bel._ away! _theo._ pray, sir, expound your meaning; for, i confess, i am in the dark. _bel._ methinks you should discover it by moonlight. or, if you would have me speak clearer to you, give me leave to wait on you at a midnight assignation; and, that it may not be discovered, i'll feign a voyage beyond sea, as if i were going a captaining to flanders. _mask._ a pox on his memory! he has not forgot one syllable! _theo._ ah, beatrix! you have betrayed and sold me! _beat._ you have betrayed and sold yourself, madam, by your own rashness to confess it; heaven knows i have served you but too faithfully. _theo._ peace, impudence! and see my face no more! _mask._ do you know what work you have made, sir? _bel._ let her see what she has got by slighting me. _mask._ you had best let beatrix be turned away for me to keep: if you do, i know whose purse shall pay for't. _bel._ that's a curse i never thought on: cast about quickly, and save all yet. range, quest, and spring a lie immediately! _theo. [to_ beat.] never importune me farther; you shall go; there's no removing me. _beat._ well; this is ever the reward of innocence---- [_going._ _mask._ stay, guiltless virgin, stay; thou shalt not go! _theo._ why, who should hinder it? _mask._ that will i, in the name of truth,--if this hard-bound lie would but come from me. [_aside._ madam, i must tell you it lies in my power to appease this tempest with one word. _beat._ would it were come once! _mask._ nay, sir, 'tis all one to me, if you turn me away upon't; i can hold no longer. _theo._ what does the fellow mean? _mask._ for all your noddings, and your mathematical grimaces--in short, madam, my master has been conversing with the planets; and from them has had the knowledge of your affairs. _bel._ this rogue amazes me! _mask._ i care not, sir, i am for truth; that will shame you, and all your devils: in short, madam, this master of mine, that stands before you, without a word to say for himself, so like an oaf, as i might say, with reverence to him---- _bel._ the rascal makes me mad! _mask._ is the greatest astrologer in christendom. _theo._ your master an astrologer? _mask._ a most profound one. _bel._ why, you dog, you do not consider what an improbable lie this is; which, you know, i can never make good! disgorge it, you cormorant! or i'll pinch your throat out.---- [_takes him by the throat._ _mask._ 'tis all in vain, sir! you are, and shall be an astrologer, whatever i suffer; you know all things; see into all things; foretell all things; and if you pinch more truth out of me, i will confess you are a conjurer. _bel._ how, sirrah! a conjurer? _mask._ i mean, sir, the devil is in your fingers: own it--you had best, sir, and do not provoke me farther. [_while he is speaking_, bellamy _stops his mouth by fits_.] what! did not i see you an hour ago turning over a great folio, with strange figures in it, and then muttering to yourself, like any poet; and then naming theodosia, and then staring up in the sky, and then poring upon the ground; so that, betwixt god and the devil, madam, he came to know your love. _bel._ madam, if ever i knew the least term in astrology, i am the arrantest son of a whore breathing. _beat._ o, sir, for that matter, you shall excuse my lady: nay, hide your talents if you can, sir. _theo._ the more you pretend ignorance, the more we are resolved to believe you skilful. _bel._ you'll hold your tongue yet. [_to_ mask. _mask._ you shall never make me hold my tongue, except you conjure me to silence: what! did you not call me to look into a crystal, and there shewed me a fair garden, and a spaniard stalking in his narrow breeches, and walking underneath a window? i should know him again amongst a thousand. _beat._ don melchor, in my conscience, madam. _bel._ this rogue will invent more stories of me, than e'er were fathered upon lilly! _mask._ will you confess, then? do you think i'll stain my honour to swallow a lie for you? _bel._ well, a pox on you, i am an astrologer. _beat._ o, are you so, sir? _theo._ i hope then, learned sir, as you have been curious in enquiring into my secrets, you will be so much a cavalier as to conceal them. _bel._ you need not doubt me, madam; i am more in your power than you can be in mine: besides, if i were once known in town, the next thing, for aught i know, would be to bring me before the fathers of the inquisition. _beat._ well, madam, what do you think of me now? i have betrayed you, i have sold you! how can you ever make me amends for this imputation? i did not think you could have used me so---- [_cries, and claps her hands at her._ _theo._ nay, pr'ythee, beatrix, do not cry; i'll leave off my new gown to-morrow, and thou shalt have it. _beat._ no, i'll cry eternally! you have taken away my good name from me; and you can never make me recompence----except you give me your new gorget too. _theo._ no more words; thou shalt have it, girl. _beat._ o, madam, your father has surprised us! _enter_ don alonzo, _and frowns_. _bel._ then, i'll begone, to avoid suspicion. _theo._ by your favour, sir, you shall stay a little; the happiness of so rare an acquaintance ought to be cherished on my side by a longer conversation. _alon._ theodosia, what business have you with this cavalier? _theo._ that, sir, which will make you as ambitious of being known to him as i have been: under the habit of a gallant, he conceals the greatest astrologer this day living. _alon._ you amaze me, daughter! _theo._ for my own part, i have been consulting with him about some particulars of my fortunes past and future; both which he has resolved me with that admirable knowledge---- _bel._ yes, faith, sir, i was foretelling her of a disaster that severely threatened her: and--one thing i foresee already by my stars, that i must bear up boldly, or i am lost. [_aside._ _mask._ [_to_ bel.] never fear him, sir; he's an ignorant fellow, and credulous, i warrant him. _alon._ daughter, be not too confident in your belief; there's nothing more uncertain than the old prophecies of these nostradamusses; but of what nature was the question which you asked him? _theo._ what should be my fortune in marriage. _alon._ and, pray, what did you answer, sir? _bel._ i answered her the truth, that she is in danger of marrying a gentleman without a fortune. _theo._ and this, sir, has put me in such a fright-- _alon._ never trouble yourself about it, daughter; follow my advice, and i warrant you a rich husband. _bel._ but the stars say she shall not follow your advice: if it happens otherwise, i'll burn my folio volumes, and my manuscripts too, i assure you that, sir. _alon._ be not too confident, young man; i know somewhat in astrology myself; for, in my younger years, i studied it; and, though i say it, made some small proficiency in it. _bel._ marry, heaven forbid!---- [_aside._ _alon._ and i could only find it was no way demonstrative, but altogether fallacious. _mask._ on what a rock have we split ourselves! _bel._ now my ignorance will certainly come out! _beat._ sir, remember you are old and crazy, sir; and if the evening air should take you----beseech you, sir, retire. _alon._ knowledge is to be preferred before health; i must needs discuss a point with this learned cavalier, concerning a difficult question in that art, which almost gravels me. _mask._ how i sweat for him, beatrix, and myself too, who have brought him into this _præmunire_! _beat._ you must be impudent; for our old man will stick like a burr to you, now he's in a dispute. _alon._ what judgment may a man reasonably form from the trine aspect of the two infortunes in angular houses? _bel._ that's a matter of nothing, sir; i'll turn my man loose to you for such a question. [_puts_ maskall _forward_. _alon._ come on, sir. i am the quærent. _mask._ meaning me, sir! i vow to god, and your worship knows it, i never made that science my study in the least, sir. _bel._ the gleanings of mine are enough for that: why, you impudent rogue you, hold forth your gifts, or i'll--what a devil, must i be pestered with every trivial question, when there's not a master in town of any science, but has his usher for these mean offices? _theo._ try him in some deeper question, sir; you see he will not put himself forth for this. _alon._ then i'll be more abstruse with him: what think you, sir, of the taking hyleg? or of the best way of rectification for a nativity? have you been conversant in the centiloquium of trismegistus: what think you of mars in the tenth, when 'tis his own house, or of jupiter configurated with malevolent planets? _bel._ i thought what your skill was! to answer your question in two words, mars rules over the martial, and jupiter over the jovial; and so of the rest, sir. _alon._ this every school-boy could have told me. _bel._ why then you must not ask such school-boy's questions. but your carcase, sirrah, shall pay for this. [_aside to_ maskall. _alon._ you seem not to understand the terms, sir. _bel._ by your favour, sir, i know there are five of them; do not i know your michaelmas, your hillary, your easter, your trinity, and your long vocation term, sir? _alon._ i do not understand a word of this jargon. _bel._ it may be not, sir; i believe the terms are not the same in spain they are in england. _mask._ did one ever hear so impudent an ignorance? _alon._ the terms of art are the same every where. _bel._ tell me that! you are an old man, and they are altered since you studied them. _alon._ that may be, i must confess; however, if you please to discourse something of the art to me, you shall find me an apt scholar. _enter a servant to_ alonzo. _ser._ sir---- [_whispers._ _alon._ sir, i am sorry a business of importance calls me hence; but i'll wait on you some other time, to discourse more at large of astrology. _bel._ is your business very pressing? _alon._ it is, i assure you, sir. _bel._ i am very sorry, for i should have instructed you in such rare secrets! i have no fault, but that i am too communicative. _alon._ i'll dispatch my business, and return immediately; come away, daughter. [_exeunt_ alon. theo. beat. _and serv_. _bel._ a devil on his learning; he had brought me to my last legs; i was fighting as low as ever was 'squire widdrington. _mask._ who would have suspected it from that wicked elder? _bel._ suspected it? why 'twas palpable from his very physiognomy; he looks like haly, and the spirit fircue in the fortune-book. _enter_ wildblood. _wild._ how now, bellamy! in wrath! pr'ythee, what's the matter? _bel._ the story is too long to tell you; but this rogue here has made me pass for an arrant fortune-teller. _mask._ if i had not, i am sure he must have passed for an arrant mad man; he had discovered, in a rage, all that beatrix had confessed to me concerning her mistress's love; and i had no other way to bring him off, but to say he knew it by the planets. _wild._ and art thou such an oaf to be vexed at this? as the adventure may be managed, it may make the most pleasant one in all the carnival. _bel._ death! i shall have all madrid about me in these two days. _wild._ nay, all spain, i'faith, as fast as i can divulge thee: not a ship shall pass out from any port, but shall ask thee for a wind; thou shalt have all the trade of lapland within a month. _bel._ and do you think it reasonable for me to stand defendant to all the impertinent questions, that the town can ask me? _wild._ thou shalt do't, boy: pox on thee, thou dost not know thine own happiness; thou wilt have the ladies come to thee; and if thou dost not fit them with fortunes, thou art bewitched. _mask._ sir, 'tis the easiest thing in nature; you need but speak doubtfully, or keep yourself in general terms, and, for the most part, tell good rather than bad fortune. _wild._ and if at any time thou venturest at particulars, have an evasion ready like lilly; as thus,--it will infallibly happen, if our sins hinder not.--i would undertake, with one of his almanacks, to give very good content to all christendom, and what good luck fell not out in one kingdom, should in another. _mask._ the pleasure on't will be to see how all his customers will contribute to their own deceiving; and verily believe he told them that, which they told him. _bel._ umph! now i begin to taste it; i am like the drunken tinker in the play, a great prince, and never knew it. _wild._ a great prince! a great turk; we shall have thee, within these two days, do grace to the ladies, by throwing out a handkerchief; 'life, i could feast upon thy fragments. _bel._ if the women come, you shall be sure to help me to undergo the burden; for, though you make me an astronomer, i am no atlas, to bear all upon my back. but who are these? _enter musicians, with disguises; and some in their hands._ _wild._ you know the men, if their masking habits were off; they are the music of our ambassador's retinue. my project is to give our mistress a serenade, this being the last evening of the carnival; and, to prevent discovery, here are disguises for us too. _bel._ 'tis very well; come, maskall, help on with them, while they tune their instruments. _wild._ strike up, gentlemen; we'll entertain them with a song _a l'angloise_; pray, be ready with your chorus. song. _after the pangs of a desperate lover, when day and night i have sighed all in vain; ah, what a pleasure it is to discover in her eyes pity, who causes my pain! when, with unkindness, our love at a stand is, and both have punished ourselves with the pain; ah, what a pleasure the touch of her hand is! ah, what a pleasure to press it again! when the denial comes fainter and fainter, and her eyes give what her tongue does deny; ah, what a trembling i feel, when i venture! ah, what a trembling does usher my joy! when, with a sigh, she accords me the blessing, and her eyes twinkle 'twixt pleasure and pain; ah, what a joy 'tis, beyond all expressing! ah, what a joy to hear--shall we again!_ theodosia _and_ jacintha _above_. jacintha _throws down her handkerchief, with a favour tied to it_. _jac._ ill musicians must be rewarded: there, cavalier, 'tis to buy your silence. [_exeunt women from above._ _wild._ by this light, which at present is scarce an oath, an handkerchief, and a favour! [_music and guittars tuning on the other side of the stage._ _bel._ hark, wildblood! do you hear? there's more melody: on my life, some spaniards have taken up this post for the same design. _wild._ i'll be with their catguts immediately. _bel._ pr'ythee, be patient; we shall lose the sport else. _don_ lopez and _don_ melchor _disguised, with servants and musicians on the other side_. _wild._ 'tis some rival of yours or mine, bellamy; for he addresses to this window. _bel._ damn him, let's fall on then. [_the two spaniards and the english fight: the spaniards are beaten off the stage; the musicians on both sides, and servants, fall confusedly one over the other. they all get off, only_ maskall _remains upon the ground_. _mask._ [_rising_.] so all's past, and i am safe: a pox on these fighting masters of mine, to bring me into this danger, with their valours and magnanimities. when i go a-serenading again with them, i'll give them leave to make fiddle-strings of my small-guts. _to him don_ lopez. _lop._ who goes there? _mask._ 'tis don lopez, by his voice. _lop._ the same; and, by yours, you should belong to my two english guests. did you hear no tumult hereabouts? _mask._ i heard a clashing of swords, and men a fighting. _lop._ i had my share in't; but how came you here? _mask._ i came hither by my master's order, to see if you were in any danger. _lop._ but how could he imagine i was in any? _mask._ 'tis all one for that, sir; he knew it, by----heaven, what was i a going to say! i had like to have discovered all! _lop._ i find there is some secret in't, and you dare not trust me. _mask._ if you will swear on your honour to be very secret, i will tell you. _lop._ as i am a cavalier, and by my beard, i will. _mask._ then, in few words, he knew it by astrology, or magic. _lop._ you amaze me! is he conversant in the occult sciences? _mask._ most profoundly. _lop._ i always thought him an extraordinary person; but i could never imagine his head lay that way. _mask._ he shewed me yesterday, in a glass, a lady's maid at london, whom i well knew; and with whom i used to converse on a pallet in a drawing-room, while he was paying his devotions to her lady in the bed-chamber. _lop._ lord, what a treasure for a state were here! and how much might we save by this man, in foreign intelligence! _mask._ and just now he shewed me, how you were assaulted in the dark by foreigners. _lop._ could you guess what countrymen? _mask._ i imagined them to be italians. _lop._ not unlikely; for they played most furiously at our backsides. _mask._ i will return to my master with the good news of your safety; but once again be secret; or disclose it to none but friends.--so, there's one woodcock more in the springe.---- [_exit._ _lop._ yes, i will be very secret; for i will tell it only to one person; but she is a woman. i will to aurelia, and acquaint her with the skill of this rare artist: she is curious, as all women are; and, 'tis probable, will desire to look into the glass to see don melchor, whom she believes absent; so that by this means, without breaking my oath to him, he will be discovered to be in town. then his intrigue with theodosia will come to light too, for which aurelia will, i hope, discard him, and receive me. i will about it instantly: success, in love, on diligence depends; no lazy lover e'er attained his ends. [_exit._ act iii. scene i. _enter_ bellamy _and_ maskall. _bel._ then, they were certainly don lopez and don melchor, with whom we fought. _mask._ yes, sir. _bel._ and when you met lopez, he swallowed all you told him? _mask._ as greedily, as if it had been a new saint's miracle. _bel._ i see 'twill spread. _mask._ and the fame of it will be of use to you in your next amour; for the women, you know, run mad after fortune-tellers and preachers. _bel._ but for all my bragging, this amour is not yet worn off. i find constancy, and once a night, come naturally upon a man towards thirty; only we set a face on't, and call ourselves inconstant for our reputation. _mask._ but what say the stars, sir? _bel._ they move faster than you imagine; for i have got me an argol, and an english almanack, by help of which, in one half hour, i have learned to cant with an indifferent good grace: conjunction, opposition, trine, square, and sextile, are now no longer bugbears to me, i thank my stars for't. _enter_ wildblood. monsieur wildblood, in good time! what, you have been taking pains, too, to divulge my talent? _wild._ so successfully, that shortly there will be no talk in town, but of you only: another miracle or two, and a sharp sword, and you stand fair for a new prophet. _bel._ but where did you begin to blow the trumpet? _wild._ in the gaming-house, where i found most of the town-wits; the prose-wits playing, and the verse-wits rooking. _bel._ all sorts of gamesters are so superstitious, that i need not doubt of my reception there. _wild._ from thence i went to the latter end of a comedy, and there whispered it to the next man i knew, who had a woman by him. _mask._ nay, then, it went like a train of powder, if once they had it by the end. _wild._ like a squib upon a line, i'faith; it ran through one row, and came back upon me in the next. at my going out i met a knot of spaniards, who were formally listening to one, who was relating it; but he told the story so ridiculously, with his marginal notes upon it, that i was forced to contradict him. _bel._ 'twas discreetly done. _wild._ ay, for you, but not for me: what, says he, must such boracho's as you take upon you to vilify a man of science? i tell you, he's of my intimate acquaintance, and i have known him long for a prodigious person.--when i saw my don so fierce, i thought it not wisdom to quarrel for so slight a matter as your reputation, and so withdrew. _bel._ a pox of your success! now shall i have my chamber besieged to-morrow morning: there will be no stirring out for me; but i must be fain to take up their questions in a cleft-cane, or a begging-box, as they do charity in prisons. _wild._ faith, i cannot help what your learning has brought you to. go in and study; i foresee you will have but few holidays: in the mean time, i'll not fail to give the world an account of your endowments. farewell: i'll to the gaming-house. [_exit_ wild. _mask._ o, sir, here is the rarest adventure, and, which is more, come home to you! _bel._ what is it? _mask._ a fair lady, and her woman, wait in the outer room to speak with you. _bel._ but how know you she is fair? _mask._ her woman plucked up her veil when she spoke to me; so that having seen her this evening, i know her mistress to be donna aurelia, cousin to your mistress theodosia, and who lodges in the same house with her: she wants a star or two, i warrant you. _bel._ my whole constellation is at her service: but what is she for a woman? _mask._ fair enough, as beatrix has told me; but sufficiently impertinent. she is one of those ladies, who make ten visits in an afternoon; and entertain her they see, with speaking ill of the last, from whom they parted: in few words, she is one of the greatest coquettes in madrid; and to shew she is one, she cannot speak ten words without some affected phrase that is in fashion. _bel._ for my part, i can suffer any impertinence from a woman, provided she be handsome: my business is with her beauty, not with her morals; let her confessor look to them. _mask._ i wonder what she has to say to you? _bel._ i know not; but i sweat for fear i should be gravelled. _mask._ venture out of your depth, and plunge boldly, sir; i warrant you will swim. _bel._ do not leave me, i charge you; but when i look mournfully upon you, help me out. _enter_ aurelia _and_ camilla. _mask._ here they are already. [aur. _plucks up her veil._ _aur._ how am i dressed to-night, camilla? is nothing disordered in my head? _cam._ not the least hair, madam. _aur._ no! let me see: give me the counsellor of the graces. _cam._ the counsellor of the graces, madam! _aur._ my glass, i mean: what, will you never be so spiritual as to understand refined language? _cam._ madam! _aur._ madam me no madam, but learn to retrench your words; and say ma'am; as, yes ma'am, and no ma'am, as other ladies' women do. madam! 'tis a year in pronouncing. _cam._ pardon me, madam. _aur._ yet again, ignorance! par-don, madam! fie, fie, what a superfluity is there, and how much sweeter the cadence is--parn me, ma'am! and for your ladyship, your la'ship.--out upon't, what a furious indigence of ribbands is here upon my head! this dress is a libel to my beauty; a mere lampoon. would any one, that had the least revenue of common sense, have done this? _cam._ ma'am, the cavalier approaches your la'ship. _bel._ to _mask._ maskall, pump the woman; and see if you can discover any thing to save my credit. _aur._ out upon it! now i should speak, i want assurance. _bel._ madam, i was told you meant to honour me with your commands. _aur._ i believe, sir, you wonder at my confidence in this visit; but i may be excused for waving a little modesty, to know the only person of the age. _bel._ i wish my skill were more, to serve you, madam. _aur._ sir, you are an unfit judge of your own merits: for my own part, i confess, i have a furious inclination for the occult sciences; but at present, 'tis my misfortune---- [_sighs._ _bel._ but why that sigh, madam? _aur._ you might spare me the shame of telling you; since i am sure you can divine my thoughts: i will, therefore, tell you nothing. _bel._ what the devil will become of me now! [_aside._ _aur._ you may give me an essay of your science, by declaring to me the secret of my thoughts. _bel._ if i know your thoughts, madam, 'tis in vain for you to disguise them to me: therefore, as you tender your own satisfaction, lay them open without bashfulness. _aur._ i beseech you let us pass over that chapter; for i am shame-faced to the last point. since, therefore, i cannot put off my modesty, succour it, and tell me what i think. _bel._ madam, madam, that bashfulness must be laid aside: not but that i know your business perfectly; and will, if you please, unfold it to you all immediately. _aur._ favour me so far, i beseech you, sir; for i furiously desire it. _bel._ but then i must call up before you a most dreadful spirit, with head upon head, and horns upon horns: therefore, consider how you can endure it. _aur._ this is furiously furious; but rather than fail of my expectances, i'll try my assurance. _bel._ well then, i find you will force me to this unlawful, and abominable act of conjuration: remember the sin is yours too. _aur._ i espouse the crime also. _bel._ i see, when a woman has a mind to't, she'll never boggle at a sin. pox on her, what shall i do? [_aside_.]--well, i'll tell you your thoughts, madam; but after that expect no farther service from me; for 'tis your confidence must make my art successful.----well, you are obstinate, then; i must tell you your thoughts? _aur._ hold, hold, sir; i am content to pass over that chapter, rather than be deprived of your assistance. _bel._ 'tis very well; what need these circumstances between us two? confess freely; is not love your business? _aur._ you have touched me to the quick, sir. _bel._ look you there! you see i knew it; nay, i'll tell you more, 'tis a man you love. _aur._ o prodigious science! i confess i love a man most furiously, to the last point, sir. _bel._ now proceed, lady, your way is open; i am resolved, i'll not tell you a word farther. _aur._ well then, since i must acquaint you with what you know much better than myself, i will tell you. i loved a cavalier, who was noble, young, and handsome; this gentleman is since gone for flanders; now whether he has preserved his passion inviolate, or not, is that which causes my inquietude. _bel._ trouble not yourself, madam; he's as constant as a romance hero. _aur._ sir, your good news has ravished me most furiously; but that i may have a confirmation of it, i beg only, that you would lay your commands upon his genius, or idea, to appear to me this night, that i may have my sentence from his mouth. this, sir, i know is a slight effect of your science, and yet will infinitely oblige me. _bel._ what the devil does she call a slight effect! [_aside_.]--why, lady, do you consider what you say? you desire me to shew you a man, whom yourself confess to be in flanders. _aur._ to view him in a glass is nothing; i would speak with him in person, i mean his idea, sir. _bel._ ay, but, madam, there is a vast sea betwixt us and flanders; and water is an enemy to conjuration. a witch's horse, you know, when he enters into water, returns into a bottle of hay again. _aur._ but, sir, i am not so ill a geographer, or, to speak more properly, a chorographer, as not to know there is a passage by land from hence to flanders. _bel._ that's true, madam; but magic works in a direct line. why should you think the devil such an ass to go about? 'gad, he'll not stir a step out of his road for you, or any man. _aur._ yes, for a lady, sir; i hope he's a person that wants not that civility for a lady; especially a spirit that has the honour to belong to you, sir. _bel._ for that matter, he's your servant, madam; but his education has been in the fire, and he's naturally an enemy to water, i assure you. _aur._ i beg his pardon, for forgetting his antipathy; but it imports not much, sir; for i have lately received a letter from my servant, that he is yet in spain, and stays for a wind in st sebastian's. _bel._ now i am lost, past all redemption.--maskall, must you be smickering after wenches, while i am in calamity? [_aside._ _mask._ it must be he, i'll venture on't. [_aside_.]--alas, sir, i was complaining to myself of the condition of poor don melchor, who, you know, is wind-bound at st sebastian's. _bel._ why, you impudent villain, must you offer to name him publicly, when i have taken so much care to conceal him all this while? _aur._ mitigate your displeasure, i beseech you; and, without making farther testimony of it, gratify my expectances. _bel._ well, madam, since the sea hinders not, you shall have your desire. look upon me with a fixed eye----so----or a little more amorously, if you please----good. now favour me with your hand. _aur._ is it absolutely necessary you should press my hand thus? _bel._ furiously necessary, i assure you, madam; for now i take possession of it in the name of the idea of don melchor. now, madam, i am farther to desire of you, to write a note to his genius, wherein you desire him to appear, and this we men of art call a compact with the ideas. _aur._ i tremble furiously. _bel._ give me your hand, i'll guide it. [_they write._ _mask. to cam._ now, lady mine, what think you of my master? _cam._ i think, i would not serve him for the world: nay, if he can know our thoughts by looking on us, we women are hypocrites to little purpose. _mask._ he can do that and more; for, by casting his eyes but once upon them, he knows whether they are maids, better than a whole jury of mid-wives. _cam._ now heaven defend me from him! _mask._ he has a certain small familiar, which he carries still about him, that never fails to make discovery. _cam._ see, they have done writing; not a word more, for fear he knows my voice. _bel._ one thing i had forgot, madam; you must subscribe your name to it. _aur._ there 'tis; farewell, cavalier, keep your promise, for i expect it furiously. _cam._ if he sees me, i am undone. [_hiding her face._ _bel._ camilla! _cam._ [_starts and shrieks_.] ah, he has found me; i am ruined! _bel._ you hide your face in vain; for i see into your heart. _cam._ then, sweet sir, have pity on my frailty; for if my lady has the least inkling of what we did last night, the poor coachman will be turned away. [_exit after her lady._ _mask._ well, sir, how like you your new profession? _bel._ would i were well quit on't; i sweat all over. _mask._ but what faint-hearted devils yours are, that will not go by water! are they all lancashire devils, of the brood of tybert and grimalkin, that they dare not wet their feet? _bel._ mine are honest land devils, good plain foot-posts, that beat upon the hoof for me: but to save their labour, here take this, and in some disguise deliver it to don melchor. _mask._ i'll serve it upon him within this hour, when he sallies out to his assignation with theodosia: 'tis but counterfeiting my voice a little; for he cannot know me in the dark. but let me see, what are the words? reads.] _don melchor, if the magic of love have any power upon your spirit, i conjure you to appear this night before me: you may guess the greatness of my passion, since it has forced me to have recourse to art; but no shape which resembles you can fright_ aurelia. _bel._ well, i am glad there's one point gained; for, by this means, he will be hindered to-night from entertaining theodosia.--pox on him, is he here again? _enter don_ alonzo. _alon._ cavalier inglis, i have been seeking you: i have a present in my pocket for you; read it by your art, and take it. _bel._ that i could do easily: but, to shew you i am generous, i'll none of your present; do you think i am mercenary? _alon._ i know you will say now 'tis some astrological question; and so 'tis perhaps. _bel._ ay, 'tis the devil of a question, without dispute. _alon._ no, 'tis within dispute: 'tis a certain difficulty in the art; a problem, which you and i will discuss, with the arguments on both sides. _bel._ at this time i am not problematically given; i have a humour of complaisance upon me, and will contradict no man. _alon._ we'll but discuss a little. _bel._ by your favour, i'll not discuss; for i see by the stars, that, if i dispute to-day, i am infallibly threatened to be thought ignorant all my life after. _alon._ well then, we'll but cast an eye together upon my eldest daughter's nativity. _bel._ nativity!---- _alon._ i know what you would say now, that there wants the table of direction for the five hylegiacalls; the ascendant, _medium coeli_, sun, moon, and stars: but we'll take it as it is. _bel._ never tell me that, sir---- _alon._ i know what you would say again, sir---- _bel._ 'tis well you do, for i'll be sworn i do not.---- [_aside._ _alon._ you would say, sir---- _bel._ i say, sir, there is no doing without the sun and moon, and all that, sir; and so you may make use of your paper for your occasions. come to a man of art without the sun and moon, and all that, sir---- [_tears it._ _alon._ 'tis no matter; this shall break no squares betwixt us. [_gathers up the torn papers_.] i know what you would say now, that men of parts are always choleric; i know it by myself, sir. [_he goes to match the papers._ _enter don_ lopez. _lop._ don alonzo in my house! this is a most happy opportunity to put my other design in execution; for, if i can persuade him to bestow his daughter on don melchor, i shall serve my friend, though against his will; and, when aurelia sees she cannot be his, perhaps she will accept my love. _alon._ i warrant you, sir, 'tis all pieced right, both top, sides, and bottom; for, look you, sir, here was aldeboran, and there cor scorpii---- _lop._ don alonzo, i am happy to see you under my roof; and shall take it---- _alon._ i know what you would say, sir; that though i am your neighbour, this is the first time i have been here.--[_to_ bellamy.] but, come, sir, by don lopez' permission, let us return to our nativity. _bel._ would thou wert there, in thy mother's belly again! [_aside._ _lop._ but, sennor---- [_to_ alonzo. _alon._ it needs not, sennor; i'll suppose your compliment; you would say, that your house, and all things in it, are at my service.--but let us proceed, without this interruption. _bel._ by no means, sir; this cavalier is come on purpose to perform the civilities of his house to you. _alon._ but, good sir---- _bel._ i know what you would say, sir. [_exeunt_ bellamy _and_ maskall. _lop._ no matter, let him go, sir. i have long desired this opportunity, to move a suit to you in the behalf of a friend of mine, if you please to allow me the hearing of it. _alon._ with all my heart, sir. _lop._ he is a person of worth and virtue, and is infinitely ambitious of the honour---- _alon._ of being known to me; i understand you, sir. _lop._ if you will please to favour me with your patience, which i beg of you a second time. _alon._ i am dumb, sir. _lop._ this cavalier, of whom i was speaking, is in love---- _alon._ satisfy yourself, sir, i'll not interrupt you. _lop._ sir, i am satisfied of your promise. _alon._ if i speak one syllable more, the devil take me! speak when you please. _lop._ i am going, sir. _alon._ you need not speak twice to me to be silent: though i take it somewhat ill of you to be tutored. _lop._ this eternal old man will make me mad. [_aside._ _alon._ why, when do you begin, sir? how long must a man wait for you? pray make an end of what you have to say quickly, that i may speak in my turn too. _lop._ this cavalier is in love---- _alon._ you told me that before, sir; do you speak oracles, that you require this strict attention? either let me share the talk with you, or i am gone. _lop._ why, sir, i am almost mad to tell you, and you will not suffer me. _alon._ will you never have done, sir? i must tell you, sir, you have tattled long enough; and 'tis now good manners to hear me speak. here's a torrent of words indeed; a very _impetus dicendi_; will you never have done? _lop._ i will be heard in spite of you. [_this next speech of_ lopez, _and the next of_ alonzo's, _with both their replies, are to be spoken at one time, both raising their voices by little and little, till they bawl, and come up close to shoulder one another._ _lop._ there's one don melchor de guzman, a friend and acquaintance of mine, that is desperately in love with your eldest daughter donna theodosia. _alon._ [_at the same time_.] 'tis the sentence of a philosopher, _loquere ut te videam_; speak, that i may know thee; now, if you take away the power of speaking from me-- [_both pause a little; then speak together again._ _lop._ i'll try the language of the law; sure the devil cannot out-talk that gibberish.--for this don melchor, of madrid aforesaid, as premised, i request, move, and supplicate, that you would give, bestow, marry, and give in marriage, this your daughter aforesaid, to the cavalier aforesaid.--not yet, thou devil of a man! thou shalt be silent. [_exit_ lopez _running_. _alon._ [_at the same time with_ lopez's _last speech, and after_ lopez _is run out_.] oh, how i hate, abominate, detest, and abhor, these perpetual talkers, disputants, controverters, and duellers of the tongue! but, on the other side, if it be not permitted to prudent men to speak their minds, appositely, and to the purpose, and in few words; if, i say, the prudent must be tongue-tied, then let great nature be destroyed; let the order of all things be turned topsy-turvy; let the goose devour the fox; let the infants preach to their great-grandsires; let the tender lamb pursue the wolf, and the sick prescribe to the physician; let fishes live upon dry land, and the beasts of the earth inhabit in the water; let the fearful hare-- _enter_ lopez _with a bell, and rings it in his ears_. _alon._ help, help, murder, murder, murder! [_exit_ alonzo, _running_. _lop._ there was no way but this to be rid of him. _enter a servant._ _serv._ sir, there are some women without in masquerade, and, i believe, persons of quality, who are come to play here. _lop._ bring them in with all respect. _enter again the servant, after him_ jacintha, beatrix, _and other ladies and gentlemen: all masqued_. _lop._ cavaliers, and ladies, you are welcome: i wish i had more company to entertain you:--oh, here comes one sooner than i expected. _enter_ wildblood _and_ maskall. _wild._ i have swept your gaming house, i'faith; _ecce signum_. [_shows gold._ _lop._ well, here's more to be had of these ladies, if it be your fortune. _wild._ the first stakes i would play for, should be their veils and visor masks. _jac. to beat._ do you think he will not know us? _beat._ if you keep your design of passing for an african. _jac._ well, now i shall make an absolute trial of him; for, being thus _incognita_, i shall discover if he make love to any of you. as for the gallantry of his serenade, we will not be indebted to him, for we will make him another with our guitars. _beat._ i'll whisper your intention to the servant, who shall deliver it to don lopez. [beat. _whispers to the serv._ _serv. to lopez._ sir, the ladies have commanded me to tell you, that they are willing, before they play, to present you with a dance; and to give you an essay of their guitars. _lop._ they much honour me. a dance. _after the dance, the cavaliers take the ladies, and court them_. wildblood _takes_ jacintha. _wild._ while you have been singing, lady, i have been praying: i mean, that your face and wit may not prove equal to your dancing; for, if they be, there's a heart gone astray, to my knowledge. _jac._ if you pray against me before you have seen me, you'll curse me when you have looked on me. _wild._ i believe i shall have cause to do so, if your beauty be as killing as i imagine it. _jac._ 'tis true, i have been flattered in my own country, with an opinion of a little handsomeness; but how it will pass in spain is a question. _wild._ why, madam, are you not of spain? _jac._ no, sir, of morocco: i only came hither to see some of my relations, who are settled here, and turned christians, since the expulsion of my countrymen, the moors. _wild._ are you then a mahometan? _jac._ a mussulman, at your service. _wild._ a mussulwoman, say you? i protest, by your voice, i should have taken you for a christian lady of my acquaintance. _jac._ it seems you are in love then: if so, i have done with you. i dare not invade the dominions of another lady; especially in a country where my ancestors have been so unfortunate. _wild._ some little liking i might have, but that was only a morning-dew; 'tis drawn up by the sunshine of your beauty: i find your african cupid is a much surer archer than ours of europe. yet would i could see you; one look would secure your victory. _jac._ i'll reserve my face to gratify your imagination with it; make what head you please, and set it on my shoulders. _wild._ well, madam, an eye, a nose, or a lip shall break no squares: the face is but a span's breadth of beauty; and where there is so much besides, i'll never stand with you for that. _jac._ but, in earnest, do you love me? _wild._ ay, by alla, do i, most extremely: you have wit in abundance, you dance to a miracle, you sing like an angel, and, i believe, you look like a cherubim. _jac._ and can you be constant to me? _wild._ by mahomet, can i. _jac._ you swear like a turk, sir; but, take heed; for our prophet is a severe punisher of promise breakers. _wild._ your prophet's a cavalier. i honour your prophet and his law, for providing so well for us lovers in the other world, black eyes, and fresh maidenheads every day: go thy way, little mahomet; i'faith, thou shalt have my good word. but, by his favour, lady, give me leave to tell you, that we of the uncircumcised, in a civil way, as lovers, have somewhat the advantage of your mussulman. _jac._ the company are rejoined, and set to play; we must go to them. adieu; and when you have a thought to throw away, bestow it on your servant fatima. [_she goes to the company._ _wild._ this lady fatima pleases me most infinitely: now am i got among the hamets, the zegrys, and the bencerrages. hey, what work will the wildbloods make among the cids and the bens of the arabians? _beat. to jac._ false, or true, madam? _jac._ false as hell; but, by heaven, i'll fit him for't! have you the high-running dice about you? _beat._ i got them on purpose, madam. _jac._ you shall see me win all their money; and when i have done, i'll return in my own person, and ask him for the money which he promised me. _beat._ 'twill put him upon a strait to be surprised: but, let us to the table; the company stays for us. [_the company sit._ _wild._ what is the ladies' game, sir? _lop._ most commonly they use raffle; that is, to throw with three dice, till duplets, and a chance be thrown; and the highest duplet wins, except you throw in and in, which is called raffle; and that wins all. _wild._ i understand it: come, lady, 'tis no matter what i lose; the greatest stake, my heart, is gone already. [_to_ jacintha. [_they play; and the rest by couples._ _wild._ so, i have a good chance, two quarters and a sice. _jac._ two sixes and a trey wins it. [_sweeps the money._ _wild._ no matter; i'll try my fortune once again: what have i here, two sixes and a quarter?--an hundred pistoles on that throw. _jac._ i take you, sir.--beatrix, the high running dice. [_aside._ _beat._ here, madam. _jac._ three fives: i have won you, sir. _wild._ ay, the pox take me for't, you have won me: it would never have vext me to have lost my money to a christian; but to a pagan, an infidel-- _mask._ pray, sir, leave off while you have some money. _wild._ pox of this lady fatima! raffle thrice together! i am out of patience. _mask._ [_to him_.] sir, i beseech you, if you will lose, to lose _en cavalier_. _wild._ tol de ra, tol de ra--pox and curse--tol de ra. what the devil did i mean, to play with this brunette of afric? [_the ladies rise_.] will you be gone already, ladies? _lop._ you have won our money; but, however, we are acknowledging to you for the honour of your company. [jac. _makes a sign of farewell to_ wild. _wild._ farewell, lady fatima. [_exeunt all but_ wild. _and_ mask. _mask._ all the company took notice of your concernment. _wild._ 'tis no matter; i do not love to fret inwardly, as your silent losers do, and, in the mean time, be ready to choak for want of vent. _mask._ pray consider your condition a little; a younger brother, in a foreign country, living at a high rate, your money lost, and without hope of a supply. now curse, if you think good. _wild._ no, now i will laugh at myself most unmercifully; for my condition is so ridiculous, that 'tis past cursing. the pleasantest part of the adventure is, that i have promised three hundred pistoles to jacintha: but there is no remedy, they are now fair fatima's. _mask._ fatima! _wild._ ay, ay, a certain african lady of my acquaintance, whom you know not. _mask._ but who is here, sir? _enter_ jacintha _and_ beatrix, _in their own shapes_. _wild._ madam, what happy star has conducted you hither to night!--a thousand devils of this fortune. [_aside._ _jac._ i was told you had ladies here, and fiddles; so i came partly for the divertisement, and partly out of jealousy. _wild._ jealousy! why sure you do not think me a pagan, an infidel? but the company's broke up, you see. am i to wait upon you home, or will you be so kind to take a hard lodging with me to-night? _jac._ you shall have the honour to lead me to my father's. _wild._ no more words, then; let's away, to prevent discovery. _beat._ for my part, i think he has a mind to be rid of you. _wild._ no: but if your lady should want sleep, 'twould spoil the lustre of her eyes to-morrow. there were a conquest lost. _jac._ i am a peaceable princess, and content with my own; i mean your heart and purse; for the truth is, i have lost my money to-night in masquerade, and am come to claim your promise of supplying me. _wild._ you make me happy by commanding me: to-morrow morning my servant shall wait upon you with three hundred pistoles. _jac._ but i left my company, with promise to return to play. _wild._ play on tick, and lose the indies, i'll discharge it all to-morrow. _jac._ to-night, if you'll oblige me. _wild._ maskall, go and bring me three hundred pistoles immediately. _mask._ are you mad, sir? _wild._ do you expostulate, you rascal! how he stares; i'll be hanged if he have not lost my gold at play: if you have, confess; you had best, and perhaps i'll pardon you; but if you do not confess, i'll have no mercy. did you lose it? _mask._ sir, 'tis not for me to dispute with you. _wild._ why, then, let me tell you, you did lose it. _jac._ ay, as sure as e'er he had it, i dare swear for him: but commend me to you for a kind master, that can let your servant play off three hundred pistoles, without the least sign of anger to him. _beat._ 'tis a sign he has a greater bank in store, to comfort him. _wild._ well, madam, i must confess i have more than i will speak of at this time; but till you have given me satisfaction---- _jac._ satisfaction! why, are you offended, sir? _wild._ heaven! that you should not perceive it in me: i tell you, i am mortally offended with you. _jac._ sure, 'tis impossible. _wild._ you have done nothing, i warrant, to make a man jealous: going out a gaming in masquerade, at unseasonable hours, and losing your money at play; that loss, above all, provokes me. _beat._ i believe you; because she comes to you for more. [_aside._ _jac._ is this the quarrel? i'll clear it immediately. _wild._ 'tis impossible you should clear it: i'll stop my ears, if you but offer it. there's no satisfaction in the point. _jac._ you'll hear me?-- _wild._ to do this in the beginning of an amour, and to a jealous servant as i am! had i all the wealth of peru, i would not let go one maravedis to you. _jac._ to this i answer---- _wild._ answer nothing, for it will but inflame the quarrel betwixt us: i must come to myself by little and little; and when i am ready for satisfaction, i will take it: but at present it is not for my honour to be friends. _beat._ pray let us neighbour princes interpose a little. _wild._ when i have conquered, you may interpose; but at present the mediation of all christendom would be fruitless. _jac._ though christendom can do nothing with you, yet i hope an african may prevail. let me beg you, for the sake of the lady fatima. _wild._ i begin to suspect, that lady fatima is no better than she should be. if she be turned christian again, i am undone. _jac._ by alla, i am afraid on't too: by mahomet, i am. _wild._ well, well, madam, any man may be overtaken with an oath; but i never meant to perform it with her: you know, no oaths are to be kept with infidels. but---- _jac._ no; the love you made was certainly a design of charity you had to reconcile the two religions. there's scarce such another man in europe, to be sent apostle to convert the moor ladies. _wild._ faith, i would rather widen their breaches, than make them up. _jac._ i see there's no hope of a reconcilement with you; and therefore i give it over as desperate. _wild._ you have gained your point, you have my money; and i was only angry, because i did not know 'twas you, who had it. _jac._ this will not serve your turn, sir: what i have got, i have conquered from you. _wild._ indeed you use me like one that's conquered; for you have plundered me of all i had. _jac._ i only disarmed you, for fear you should rebel again; for if you had the sinews of war, i am sure you would be flying out. _wild._ dare but to stay without a new servant, till i am flush again; and i will love you, and treat you, and present you at that unreasonable rate, that i will make you an example to all unbelieving mistresses. _jac._ well, i will try you once more; but you must make haste then, that we may be within our time; methinks our love is drawn out so subtle already, that 'tis near breaking. _wild._ i will have more care of it on my part, than the kindred of an old pope have to preserve him. _jac._ adieu; for this time i wipe off your score, till you are caught tripping in some new amour. [_exeunt women._ _mask._ you have used me very kindly, sir; i thank you. _wild._ you deserved it for not having a lie ready for my occasions. a good servant should be no more without it, than a soldier without his arms. but, pr'ythee, advise me what's to be done to get jacintha. _mask._ you have lost her, or will lose her by your submitting: if we men could but learn to value ourselves, we should soon take down our mistresses from all their altitudes, and make them dance after our pipes, longer perhaps than we had a mind to't. but i must make haste, or i shall lose don melchor. _wild._ call bellamy, we'll both be present at thy enterprize: then i'll once more to the gaming-house with my small stock, for my last refuge: if i win, i have wherewithal to mollify jacintha. if i throw out, i'll bear it off with huffing, and snatch the money like a bully-ruffin. [_exeunt._ act iv. scene i. _enter_ bellamy, wildblood, maskall, _in a visor_. _bel._ here comes one, and in all probability it must be don melchor, going to theodosia. _mask._ stand close, and you shall see me serve the writ upon him. _enter don_ melchor. _wild._ now, maskall. _mask._ i stayed here, sir, by express order from the lady aurelia, to deliver you this note; and to desire you, from her, to meet her immediately in the garden. _mel._ do you hear, friend! _mask._ not a syllable more, sir; i have performed my orders. [mask. _retires to his masters_. _mel._ he's gone, and 'tis in vain for me to look after him. what envious devil has discovered to aurelia that i am in town? it must be don lopez, who, to advance his own pretensions to her, has endeavoured to ruin mine. _wild._ it works rarely. _mel._ but i am resolved to see aurelia; if it be but to defeat him. [_exit_ mel. _wild._ let's make haste after him; i long to see the end of this adventure. _mask._ sir, i think i see some women coming yonder. _bel._ well, i'll leave you to your adventures, while i prosecute my own. _wild._ i warrant you have made an assignation to instruct some lady in the mathematics. _bel._ i'll not tell you my design; because, if it does not succeed, you shall not laugh at me. [_exit bel._ _enter_ beatrix; _and_ jacintha, _in the habit of a mulatto_. _wild._ let us withdraw a little, and see if they will come this way. _beat._ we are right, madam; 'tis certainly your englishman, and his servant with him. but, why this second trial, when you engaged to break with him, if he failed in the first? _jac._ 'tis true, he has been a little inconstant, choleric, or so. _beat._ and it seems you are not contented with those vices, but are searching him for more. this is the folly of a bleeding gamester, who will obstinately pursue a losing hand. _jac._ on t'other side, you would have me throw up my cards, before the game be lost: let me make this one more trial, when he has money, whether he will give it me; and then, if he fails-- _beat._ you'll forgive him again. _jac._ he's already in purgatory; but the next offence shall put him in the pit, past all redemption; pr'ythee sing, to draw him nearer: sure he cannot know me in this disguise. _beat._ make haste, then; for i have more irons in the fire: when i have done with you, i have another assignation of my lady theodosia's to don melchor. song. _calm was the even, and clear was the sky, and the new-budding flowers did spring, when all alone went amyntas and i, to hear the sweet nightingale sing: i sate, and he laid him down by me, but scarcely his breath he could draw; for when, with a fear, he began to draw near, he was dashed with, a ha, ha, ha, ha! he blushed to himself, and lay still for a while, and his modesty curbed his desire; but strait i convinced all his fear with a smile, which added new flames to his fire. o sylvia, said he, you are cruel, to keep your poor lover in awe! then once more he prest with his hand to my breast, but was dashed with, a ha, ha, ha, ha! i knew 'twas his passion that caused all his fear, and therefore i pitied his case; i whispered him softly, there's nobody near, and laid my cheek close to his face: but as he grew bolder and bolder, a shepherd came by us and saw; and just as our bliss we began with a kiss, he laughed out with, a ha, ha, ha, ha!_ _wild._ if you dare be the sylvia, lady, i have brought you a more confident amyntas, than that bashful gentleman in your song. [_goes to lay hold of her._ _jac._ hold, hold, sir; i am only an ambassadress sent you from a lady: i hope you will not violate the laws of nations. _wild._ i was only searching for your letters of credence: but methinks, with that beauty, you look more like a herald that comes to denounce war to all mankind. _jac._ one of the ladies in the masque to-night has taken a liking to you; and sent you by me this purse of gold, in recompence of that she saw you lose. _wild._ and she expects in return of it, that i should wait on her: i'll do't,--where lives she? i am desperately in love with her. _jac._ why, can you love her unknown? _wild._ i have a bank of love, to supply every one's occasions; some for her, some for another, and some for you; charge what you will upon me, i pay all at sight, and without questioning who brought the bill. _jac._ hey-day! you dispatch your mistresses as fast, as if you meant to o'er-run all womankind: sure you aim at the universal-monarchy. _wild._ now i think on't, i have a foolish fancy to send the lady a taste of my love by thee. _jac._ 'tis impossible your love should be so humble, to descend to a mulatto. _wild._ one would think so, but i cannot help it. gad, i think the reason is, because there's something more of sin in thy colour than in ours. i know not what's the matter, but a turkey-cock is not more provoked at red, than i bristle at the sight of black. come, be kinder to me. young, and slip an opportunity? 'tis an evening lost out of your life. _jac._ these fine things you have said over a thousand times; your cold compliment's the cold pye of love, which you serve up to every guest whom you invite. _wild._ come; because thou art very moving, here's part of the gold, which thou brought'st to corrupt me for thy lady: truth is, i had promised a sum to a spanish lady; but thy eyes have allured it from me. _jac._ you'll repent it to-morrow. _wild._ let to-morrow starve, or provide for himself, as to-night has done: to-morrow is a cheat in love, and i will not trust it. _jac._ ay, but heaven, that sees all things---- _wild._ heaven, that sees all things, will say nothing: that is all eyes, and no tongue; _et la lune, et les estoiles_,--you know the song. _jac._ a poor slave, as i am---- _wild._ it has been always my humour to love downward. i love to stoop to my prey, and to have it in my power to souse at, when i please. when a man comes to a great lady, he is fain to approach her with fear and reverence; methinks there's something of godliness in't. _jac._ yet i cannot believe, but the meanness of my habit must needs scandalize you. _wild._ i tell thee, my friend, and so forth, that i exceedingly honour coarse linen; 'tis as proper sometimes in an under garment, as a coarse towel is to rub and scrub me. _jac._ now i am altogether of the other side; i can love no where but above me: methinks the rattling of a coach and six sounds more eloquently than the best harangue a wit could make me. _wild._ do you make no more esteem of a wit then? _jac._ his commendations serve only to make others have a mind to me; he does but say grace to me like a chaplain, and, like him, is the last that shall fall on. he ought to get no more by it, than a poor silk-weaver does by the ribband which he works, to make a gallant fine. _wild._ then what is a gentleman to hope from you? _jac._ to be admitted to pass my time with, while a better comes: to be the lowest step in my staircase, for a knight to mount upon him, and a lord upon him, and a marquis upon him, and a duke upon him, till i get as high as i can climb. _wild._ for aught i see, the great ladies have the appetites, which you slaves should have; and you slaves the pride, which ought to be in ladies. for, i observe, that all women of your condition are like women of the play-house, still picking at each other, who shall go the best dressed, and the richest habits; till you work up one another by your high flying, as the heron and jerfalcon do. if you cannot out-shine your fellow with one lover, you fetch her up with another: and, in short, all you get by it is only to put finery out of countenance; and to make the ladies of quality go plain, because they will avoid the scandal of your bravery. _beat._ [_running in_.] madam, come away; i hear company in the garden. _wild._ you are not going? _jac._ yes, to cry out a rape, if you follow me. _wild._ however, i am glad you have left your treasure behind you: farewell, fairy! _jac._ farewell, changeling!--come, beatrix. [_exeunt women._ _mask._ do you know how you came by this money, sir? you think, i warrant, that it came by fortune. _wild._ no, sirrah, i know it came by my own industry. did not i come out diligently to meet this gold, in the very way it was to come? what could fate do less for me? they are such thoughtless, and undesigning rogues as you, that make a drudge of poor providence, and set it a shifting for you. give me a brave fellow like myself, that, if you throw him down into the world, lights every where upon his legs, and helps himself without being beholden to fate, that is the hospital of fools. _mask._ but, after all your jollity, what think you if it was jacintha that gave it you in this disguise? i am sure i heard her call beatrix as she went away. _wild._ umh! thou awaken'st a most villainous apprehension in me! methought, indeed, i knew the voice: but the face was such an evidence against it! if it were so, she is lost for ever. _mask._ and so is beatrix. _wild._ now could i cut my throat for madness. _mask._ now could i break my neck for despair, if i could find a precipice absolutely to my liking. _wild._ 'tis in vain to consider on't. there's but one way; go you, maskall, and find her out, and invent some excuse for me, and be sure to beg leave i may come and wait upon her with the gold, before she sleeps. _mask._ in the mean time you'll be thinking at your lodging. _wild._ but make haste then to relieve me; for i think over all my thoughts in half an hour. [_exit_ mask. _wild._ [_solus_.] hang it! now i think on't, i shall be but melancholic at my lodging; i'll go pass my hour at the gaming-house, and make use of this money while i have tools, to win more to it. stay, let me see,--i have the box and throw. my don he sets me ten pistoles; i nick him: ten more, i sweep them too. now, in all reason, he is nettled, and sets me twenty: i win them too. now he kindles, and butters me with forty. they are all my own: in fine, he is vehement, and bleeds on to fourscore or an hundred; and i, not willing to tempt fortune, come away a moderate winner of two hundred pistoles. scene ii. _the_ scene _opens and discovers_ aurelia _and_ camilla: _behind them a table and lights set on it. the scene is a garden with an arbour in it._ the garden-door opens! how now, aurelia and camilla in expectation of don melchor at the garden door! i'll away, least i prevent the design, and within this half hour come sailing back with full pockets, as wantonly as a laden galleon from the indies. [_exit._ _aur._ but dost thou think the englishman can keep his promise? for, i confess, i furiously desire to see the idea of don melchor. _cam._ but, madam, if you should see him, it will not be he, but the devil in his likeness; and then why should you desire it? _aur._ in effect 'tis a very dark enigma; and one must be very spiritual to understand it. but be what it will, body or phantom, i am resolved to meet it. _cam._ can you do it without fear? _aur._ no; i must avow it, i am furiously fearful; but yet i am resolved to sacrifice all things to my love. therefore, let us pass over that chapter. [_don_ melchor, _without_. _cam._ do you hear, madam, there's one treading already; how if it be he? _aur._ if it be he! that is to say his spectre, that is to say his phantom, that is to say his idea, that is to say, he, and not he. _cam._ [_crying out_.] ah, madam, 'tis he himself; but he's as big again as he used to be, with eyes like saucers. i'll save myself. [_runs under the table._ _enter don_ melchor: _they both shriek_. _aur._ oh heaven! humanity is not able to support it. [_running._ _mel._ dear aurelia, what mean you? _aur._ the tempter has imitated his voice too; avoid, avoid, spectre. _cam._ if he should find me under the table now! _mel._ is it thus, my dear, that you treat your servant? _aur._ i am not thy dear; i renounce thee, spirit of darkness! _mel._ this spirit of darkness is come to see an angel of light by her command; and to assure her of his constancy, that he will be her's eternally. _aur._ away, infernal! 'tis not thee; 'tis the true don melchor that i would see. _mel._ hell and furies! _aur._ heaven and angels! ah---- [_runs out, shrieking._ _mel._ this is a riddle past my finding out, to send for me, and then to shun me; but here's one shall resolve it for me: camilla, what dost thou there? _cam._ help, help! i shall be carried away bodily. [_she rises up, overthrows the table and lights, and runs out. the scene shuts._ _mel._ [_alone_.] why, aurelia, camilla! they are both run out of hearing! this amazes me; what can the meaning of it be? sure she has heard of my unfaithfulness, and was resolved to punish me by this contrivance! to put an affront upon me by this abrupt departure, as i did on her by my seeming absence. _enter_ theodosia _and_ beatrix. _theo._ don melchor! is it you, my love, that have frighted aurelia so terribly? _mel._ alas, madam! i know not; but, coming hither by your appointment, and thinking myself secure in the night without disguise, perhaps it might work upon her fancy, because she thought me absent. _theo._ since 'tis so unluckily fallen out, that she knows you are at madrid, it can no longer be kept a secret; therefore, you must now pretend openly to me, and run the risk of a denial from my father. _mel._ o, madam, there's no question but he'll refuse me: for, alas! what is it he can see in me worthy of that honour? or, if he should be so partial to me, as some in the world are, to think me valiant, learned, and not altogether a fool, yet my want of fortune would weigh down all. _theo._ when he has refused you his consent, i may with justice dispose of myself; and that, while you are constant, shall never be to any but yourself: in witness of which, accept this diamond, as a pledge of my heart's firmness to you. _beat._ madam, your father is coming this way. _theo._ 'tis no matter; do not stir: since he must know you are returned, let him now see you. _enter don_ alonzo. _alon._ daughter, what make you here at this unseasonable hour? _theo._ sir---- _alon._ i know what you would say, that you heard a noise, and ran hither to see what it might be----bless us! who is this with you? _mel._ 'tis your servant, don melchor; just returned from st sebastians. _alon._ but, sir, i thought you had been upon the sea for flanders. _mel._ i had so designed it. _alon._ but, why came you back from st sebastians? _mel._ as for that, sir, 'tis not material. _theo._ an unexpected law-suit has called him back from st sebastians. _alon._ and how fares my son-in-law, that lives there? _mel._ in catholic health, sir. _alon._ have you brought no letters from him? _mel._ i had, sir, but i was set upon by the way, by picarons: and, in spite of my resistance, robbed, and my portmanteau taken from me. _theo._ and this was that which he was now desiring me to excuse to you. _alon._ if my credit, friends, or counsel, can do you any service in your suit, i hope you will command them freely. _mel._ when i have dispatched some private business, i shall not fail to trouble you; till then, humbly kisses your hands the most obliged of your servants. [_exit_ melchor. _alon._ daughter, now this cavalier is gone, what occasion brought you out so late?--i know what you would say, that it is melancholy; a tincture of the hypochondria you mean: but, what cause have you for this melancholy? give me your hand, and answer me without ambages, or ambiguities. _theo._ he will find out i have given away my ring--i must prevent him--sir, i am ashamed to confess it to you; but, in hope of your indulgence, i have lost the table diamond you gave me. _alon._ you would say, the fear of my displeasure has caused the perturbation in you; well, do not disquiet yourself too much; you say 'tis gone, i say so too. 'tis stolen; and that by some thief, i take it: but, i will go and consult the astrologer immediately. [_he is going._ _theo._ what have i done? to avoid one inconvenience, i have run into another: this devil of an astrologer will discover that don melchor has it. [_aside._ _alon._ when did you lose this diamond? the minute and second i should know; but the hour will serve for the degree ascending. _theo._ sir, the precise time i know not; but it was betwixt six and seven in the evening, as near as i can guess. _alon._ 'tis enough; by all the stars, i'll have it for you: therefore, go in, and suppose it on your finger. _beat._ i'll watch you at a distance, sir, that my englishman may have wherewithal to answer you. [_aside. exeunt_ theo. beat. _alon._ this melancholy, wherewith my daughter laboureth, is--a--i know what i would say, is a certain species of the hysterical disease; or a certain motion, caused by a certain appetite, which, at a certain time, heaveth in her, like a certain motion of an earthquake-- _enter_ bellamy. _bel._ this is the place, and very near the time that theodosia appoints her meeting with don melchor. he is this night otherwise disposed of with aurelia: 'tis but trying my fortune, to tell her of his infidelity, and my love. if she yields, she makes me happy; if not, i shall be sure don melchor has not planted the arms of spain in the fort before me. however, i'll push my fortune, as sure as i am an englishman. _alon._ sennor inglis, i know your voice, though i cannot perfectly discern you. _bel._ how the devil came he to cross me? _alon._ i was just coming to have asked another favour of you. _bel._ without ceremony, command me, sir. _alon._ my daughter theodosia has lost a fair diamond from her finger, the time betwixt six and seven this evening; now, i desire you, sir, to erect a scheme for it, and if it be lost, or stolen, to restore it to me. this is all, sir. _bel._ there is no end of this old fellow; thus will he bait me from day to day, till my ignorance be found out. [_aside._ _alon._ now is he casting a figure by the art of memory, and making a judgment of it to himself. this astrology is a very mysterious speculation. [_aside._ _bel._ 'tis a madness for me to hope i can deceive him longer. since then he must know i am no astrologer, i'll discover it myself to him, and blush once for all. [_aside._ _alon._ well, sir, and what do the stars hold forth? what says nimble master mercury to the matter? _bel._ sir, not to keep you longer in ignorance, i must ingenuously declare to you, that i am not the man for whom you take me. some smattering in astrology i have; which my friends, by their indiscretion, have blown abroad, beyond my intentions. but you are not a person to be imposed on like the vulgar: therefore, to satisfy you in one word, my skill goes not far enough to give you knowledge of what you desire from me. _alon._ you have said enough, sir, to persuade me of your science; if fame had not published it, yet this very humility of yours were enough to confirm me in the belief of it. _bel._ death, you make me mad, sir! will you have me swear? as i am a gentleman, a man of the town, one who wears good cloaths, eats, drinks, and wenches abundantly, i am a damned ignorant, and senseless fellow. _enter_ beatrix. _alon._ how now, gentlewoman?--what, are you going to relief by moonshine? _beat._ i was going on a very charitable office, to help a friend that was gravelled in a very doubtful business. _bel._ some good news, fortune, i beseech thee. _beat._ but now i have found this learned gentleman, i shall make bold to propound a question to him from a lady. _alon._ i will have my own question first resolved. _bel._ o, sir, 'tis from a lady. _beat._ if you please, sir, i'll tell it in your ear--my lady has given don melchor the ring; in whose company her father found her just now at the garden-door. [_in a whisper._ _bel._ [_aloud_.] come to me to-morrow, and you shall receive an answer. _beat._ your servant, sir. [_exit_ beatrix. _alon._ sir, i shall take it very unkindly if you satisfy any other, and leave me in this perplexity. _bel._ sir, if my knowledge were according-- _alon._ no more of that, sir, i beseech you. _bel._ perhaps i may know something by my art concerning it; but, for your quiet, i wish you would not press me. _alon._ do you think i am not master of my passions? _bel._ since you will needs know what i would willingly have concealed, the person, who has your diamond, is he whom you saw last in your daughter's company. _alon._ you would say 'tis don melchor de guzman. who the devil would have suspected him of such an action? but he is of a decayed family, and poverty, it seems, has enforced him to it. now i think on't better, he has e'en stolen it for a fee, to bribe his lawyer; to requite a lie with a theft. i'll seek him out, and tell him part of my mind before i sleep. [_exit_ alon. _bel._ so, once more i am at liberty: but this astrology is so troublesome a science--would i were well rid on't! _enter don_ lopez, _and a servant_. _lop._ astrology, does he say? o, cavalier, is it you? not finding you at home, i came on purpose to seek you out: i have a small request to the stars by your mediation. _bel._ sir, for pity let them shine in quiet a little; for what for ladies, and their servants, and younger brothers, they scarce get a holiday in a twelve-month. _lop._ pray, pardon me, if i am a little curious of my destiny, since all my happiness depends on your answer. _bel._ well, sir, what is it you expect? _lop._ to know whether my love to a lady will be successful. _bel._ 'tis aurelia, he means. [_aside_.]--sir, in one word i answer you, that your mistress loves another; one, who is your friend: but comfort yourself; the dragon's tail is between him and home, he never shall enjoy her. _lop._ but what hope for me? _bel._ the stars have partly assured me, you shall be happy, if you acquaint her with your passion, and with the double-dealing of your friend, who is false to her. _lop._ you speak like an oracle. but, i have engaged my promise to that friend, to serve him in his passion to my mistress. _bel._ we english seldom make such scruples; women are not comprised in our laws of friendship. they are _feræ naturæ_; our common game, like hare and partridge: every man has equal right to them, as he has to the sun and elements. _lop._ must i then betray my friend? _bel._ in that case my friend is a turk to me, if he will be so barbarous as to retain two women to his private use. i will be factious for all distressed damsels; who would much rather have their cause tried by a full jury, than a single judge. _lop._ well, sir, i will take your counsel; and if i err, the fault be on love and you. [_exit_ lop. _bel._ were it not for love, i would run out of the town, that's the short on't; for i have engaged myself in so many promises, for the sun and moon, and those little minced-meats of them, that i must hide before my day of payment comes. in the mean time i forget theodosia; but now i defy the devil to hinder me. _as he is going out, he meets_ aurelia, _and almost justles her down. with her_ camilla _enters_. _aur._ what rudeness is this? _bel._ madam aurelia, is it you? _aur._ monsieur bellamy! _bel._ the same, madam. _aur._ my uncle told me he left you here: and, indeed, i came hither to complain of you. for you have treated me so inhumanly, that i have some reason to resent it. _bel._ what occasion can i have given you for a complaint? _aur._ don melchor, as i am informed by my uncle, is effectively at madrid: so that it was not his idea, but himself in person, whom i saw. and since you knew this, why did you conceal it from me? _bel._ when i spoke with you, i knew it not: but i discovered it in the erecting of my figure. yet if, instead of his idea, i constrained himself to come, in spite of his resolution to remain concealed, i think i have shown a greater effect of my art than what i promised. _aur._ i render myself to so convincing an argument: but by over-hearing a discourse just now betwixt my cousin theodosia and her maid, i find that he has concealed himself upon her account, which has given me jealousy to the last point; for, to avow an incontestible truth, my cousin is furiously handsome. _bel._ madam, madam, trust not your ears too far; she talked on purpose, that you might hear her. but, i assure you, the true cause of don melchor's concealment was not love of her, but jealousy of you. he staid in private to observe your actions: build upon't, madam, he is inviolably yours. _aur._ then will he sacrifice my cousin to me? _bel._ 'tis furiously true, madam. _aur._ o most agreeable assurance! _cam._ albricias, madam, for my good news! don melchor is coming this way; i know him by his voice: but he is in company with another person. _aur._ it will not be convenient to give him any umbrage, by seeing me with another person; therefore, i will go before; do you stay here, and conduct him to my apartment. good-night, sir. [_exit._ _bel._ i have promised don lopez, he shall possess her; and i have promised her, she shall possess don melchor: 'tis a little difficult, i confess, as to the matrimonial part of it: but, if don melchor will be civil to her, and she be civil to don lopez, my credit is safe without the benefit of my clergy. but all this is nothing to theodosia. [_exit_ bel. _enter don_ alonzo _and don_ melchor. _cam._ don melchor, a word in private. _mel._ your pleasure, lady.--sir, i will wait on you immediately. _cam._ i am sent to you from a fair lady, who bears you no ill will. you may guess whom i mean. _mel._ not by my own merits, but by knowing whom you serve. but, i confess, i wonder at her late strange usage, when she fled from me. _cam._ that was only a mistake; but i have now, by her command, been in a thousand places in quest of you. _mel._ you overjoy me. _cam._ and where, amongst the rest, do you think i have been looking you? _mel._ pray refresh my memory. _cam._ in that same street, by the same shop--you know where, by a good token. _mel._ by what token? _cam._ just by that shop, where, out of your nobleness, you promised me a new silk gown. _mel._ o, now i understand you. _cam._ not that i press you to a performance-- _mel._ take this, and please yourself in the choice of it. [_gives her money._ _cam._ nay, dear sir, now you make me blush; in faith i--am ashamed--i swear, 'tis only because i would keep something for your sake;--but my lady expects you immediately in her apartment. _mel._ i'll wait on her, if i can possibly. [_exit_ cam.] but, if i can prevail with don alonzo for his daughter, then will i again consider, which of the ladies best deserves me. [_aside_.] sir, i beg your pardon for this rudeness in leaving you. [_to_ alon. _alon._ i cannot possibly resolve with myself to tell him openly he is a thief; but i'll gild the pill for him to swallow. [_aside._ _mel._ i believe he has discovered our amour: how he surveys me for a son-in-law! [_aside._ _alon._ sir, i am sorry for your sake, that true nobility is not always accompanied with riches to support it in its lustre. _mel._ you have a just exception against the capriciousness of destiny; yet, if i were owner of any noble qualities, (which i am not) i should not much esteem the goods of fortune. _alon._ but pray conceive me, sir; your father did not leave you flourishing in wealth. _mel._ only a very fair seat in andalusia, with all the pleasures imaginable about it: that alone, were my poor deserts according,--which, i confess, they are not,--were enough to make a woman happy in it. _alon._ but give me leave to come to the point, i beseech you, sir. i have lost a jewel, which i value infinitely, and i hear it is in your possession: but i accuse your wants, not you, for it. _mel._ your daughter is indeed a jewel; but she were not lost, were she in possession of a man of parts. _alon._ a precious diamond, sir---- _mel._ but a man of honour, sir---- _alon._ i know what you would say, sir,--that a man of honour is not capable of an unworthy action; and, therefore, i do not accuse you of the theft: i suppose the jewel was only put into your hands. _mel._ by honourable ways, i assure you, sir. _alon._ sir, sir, will you restore my jewel? _mel._ will you please, sir, to give me leave to be the unworthy possessor of her? i know how to use her with that respect---- _alon._ i know what you would say, sir; but if it belong to our family? otherwise, i assure you, it were at your service. _mel._ as it belongs to your family, i covet it; not that i plead my own deserts, sir. _alon._ sir, i know your deserts; but, i protest, i cannot part with it: for, i must tell you, this diamond ring was originally my great-grandfather's. _mel._ a diamond ring, sir, do you mean?---- _alon._ by your patience, sir; when i have done, you may speak your pleasure. i only lent it to my daughter; but, how she lost it, and how it came upon your finger, i am yet _in tenebris_. _mel._ sir---- _alon._ i know it, sir; but spare yourself the trouble, i'll speak for you; you would say you had it from some other hand; i believe it, sir. _mel._ but, sir---- _alon._ i warrant you, sir, i'll bring you off without your speaking;--from another hand you had it; and now, sir, as you say, sir, and as i am saying for you, sir, you are loth to part with it. _mel._ good sir,----let me---- _alon._ i understand you already, sir,--that you have taken a fancy to it, and would buy it; but, to that i answer, as i did before, that it is a relick of my family: now, sir, if you can urge aught farther, you have liberty to speak without interruption. _mel._ this diamond you speak of, i confess---- _alon._ but what need you confess, sir, before you are accused? _mel._ you promised you would hear me in my turn, sir, but---- _alon._ but, as you were saying, it is needless, because i have already spoken for you. _mel._ the truth is, sir, i was too presumptuous to take this pledge from theodosia without your knowledge; but you will pardon the invincible necessity, when i tell you---- _alon._ you need not tell me; i know your necessity was the reason of it, and that place and opportunity have caused your error. _mel._ this is the goodest old man i ever knew; he prevents me in my motion for his daughter. [_aside._ since, sir, you know the cause of my errors, and are pleased to lay part of the blame upon youth and opportunity, i beseech you, favour me so far to accept me, as fair theodosia already has---- _alon._ i conceive you, sir,--that i would accept of your excuse: why, restore the diamond, and 'tis done. _mel._ more joyfully than i received it: and, with it, i beg the honour to be received by you as your son-in-law. _alon._ my son-in-law! this is the most pleasant proposition i ever heard. _mel._ i am proud you think it so; but, i protest, i think not i deserve this honour. _alon._ nor i, i assure you, sir; marry my daughter--ha, ha, ha! _mel._ but, sir---- _alon._ i know what you would say, sir--that there is too much hazard in the profession of a thief, and therefore you would marry my daughter to become rich, without venturing your neck for't. i beseech you, sir, steal on, be apprehended, and, if you please, be hanged, it shall make no breach betwixt us. for my part, i'll keep your counsel, and so, good night, sir. [_exit_ alon. _mel._ is the devil in this old man, first to give me occasion to confess my love, and, when he knew it, to promise he would keep my counsel? but who are these? i'll not be seen; but to my old appointment with theodosia, and desire her to unriddle it. [_exit_ mel. scene iii. _enter_ maskall, jacintha, _and_ beatrix. _mask._ but, madam, do you take me for a man of honour? _jac._ no. _mask._ why there's it! if you had, i would have sworn that my master has neither done nor intended you any injury. i suppose you'll grant he knew you in your disguise? _beat._ nay, to know her, and use her so, is an aggravation of his crime. _mask._ unconscionable beatrix! would you two have all the carnival to yourselves? he knew you, madam, and was resolved to countermine you in all your plots. but, when he saw you so much piqued, he was too good natured to let you sleep in wrath, and sent me to you to disabuse you: for, if the business had gone on till to-morrow, when lent begins, you would have grown so peevish (as all good catholics are with fasting) that the quarrel would never have been ended. _jac._ well; this mollifies a little: i am content he shall see me. _mask._ but that you may be sure he knew you, he will bring the certificate of the purse along with him. _jac._ i shall be glad to find him innocent. _enter_ wildblood, _at the other end of the stage_. _wild._ no mortal man ever threw out so often. it could not be me, it must be the devil that did it: he took all the chances, and changed them after i had thrown them. but, i'll be even with him; for, i'll never throw one of his dice more. _mask._ madam, 'tis certainly my master; and he is so zealous to make his peace, that he could not stay till i called him to you.----sir. _wild._ sirrah, i'll teach you more manners than to leave me another time: you rogue, you have lost me two hundred pistoles, you and the devil your accomplice; you, by leaving me to myself, and he, by tempting me to play it off. _mask._ is the wind in that door? here's like to be fine doings. _wild._ o mischief! am i fallen into her ambush? i must face it out with another quarrel. [_aside._ _jac._ your man has been treating your accommodation; 'tis half made already. _wild._ ay, on your part it may be. _jac._ he says you knew me. _wild._ yes; i do know you so well, that my poor heart aches for't. i was going to bed without telling you my mind; but, upon consideration, i am come---- _jac._ to bring the money with you. _wild._ to declare my grievances, which are great and many. _mask._ well, for impudence, let thee alone. _wild._ as, in the first place---- _jac._ i'll hear no grievances; where's the money? _beat._ ay, keep to that, madam. _wild._ do you think me a person to be so used? _jac._ we will not quarrel; where's the money? _wild._ by your favour we will quarrel. _beat._ money, money!---- _wild._ i am angry, and can hear nothing. _beat._ money, money, money, money! _wild._ do you think it a reasonable thing to put on two disguises in a night, to tempt a man? (help me, maskall, for i want arguments abominably.) i thank heaven i was never so barbarously used in all my life. _jac._ he begins to anger me in good earnest. _mask._ a thing so much against the rules of modesty! so indecent a thing! _wild._ ay so indecent a thing: nay, now i do not wonder at myself for being angry. and then to wonder i should love her in those disguises! to quarrel at the natural desires of human kind, assaulted by powerful temptations; i am enraged at that. _jac._ heyday! you had best quarrel too for my bringing you the money. _wild._ i have a grudging to you for't: (maskall, the money, maskall! now help, or we are gone.) _mask._ would she offer to bring money to you? first, to affront your poverty---- _wild._ ay, to affront my poverty: but that's no great matter; and then---- _mask._ and then to bring you money, sir. (i stick fast, sir.) _wild._ (forward, you dog, and invent, or i'll cut your throat.) and then, as i was saying, to bring me money---- _mask._ which is the greatest and most sweet of all temptations; and to think you could resist it: being also aggravated by her handsomeness, who brought it. _wild._ resist it? no; i would she would understand it; i know better what belongs to flesh and blood than so. _beat._ to _jac._ this is plain confederacy: i smoke it; he came on purpose to quarrel with you; break first with him, and prevent it. _jac._ if it be come to that once, the devil take the hindmost! i'll not be last in love, for that will be a dishonour to my sex. _wild._ and then---- _jac._ hold, sir, there needs no more; you shall fall out, and i'll gratify you with a new occasion: i only tried you in hope you would be false; and, rather than fail of my design, brought gold to bribe you to't. _beat._ as people, when they have an ill bargain, are content to lose by it, that they may get it off their hands. _mask._ beatrix, while our principals are engaged, i hold it not for our honour to stand idle. _beat._ with all my heart: please you let us draw off to some other ground. _mask._ i dare meet you on any spot, but one. _wild._ i think we shall do well to put it to an issue: this is the last time you shall ever be troubled with my addresses. _jac._ the favour had been greater to have spared this too. _mask._ beatrix, let us dispatch; or they'll break off before us. _beat._ break as fast as thou wilt; i am as brittle as thou art, for thy heart. _wild._ because i will absolutely break off with you, i will keep nothing that belongs to you; therefore take back your picture, and your handkerchief. _jac._ i have nothing of yours to keep; therefore take back your liberal promises. take them in imagination. _wild._ not to be behindhand with you in your frumps, i give you back your purse of gold: take you that--in imagination. _jac._ to conclude with you, take back your oaths and protestations; they are never the worse for the wearing, i assure you: therefore take them, spick and span new, for the use of your next mistress. _mask._ beatrix, follow your leader; here's the six-penny whittle you gave me, with the mutton haft: i can spare it, for knives are of little use in spain. _beat._ there's your scissars with the stinking brass chain to them: 'tis well there was no love betwixt us; for they had been too dull to cut it. _mask._ there's the dandriff comb you lent me. _beat._ there's your ferret-ribbanding for garters. _mask._ i would never have come so near as to have taken them from you. _beat._ for your letter, i have it not about me; but upon reputation i'll burn it. _mask._ and for yours, i have already put it to a fitting employment.--courage, sir; how goes the battle on your wing? _wild._ just drawing off on both sides. adieu, spain. _jac._ farewell, old england. _beat._ come away in triumph; the day's your own, madam. _mask._ i'll bear you off upon my shoulders, sir; we have broke their hearts. _wild._ let her go first then; i'll stay, and keep the honour of the field. _jac._ i'll not retreat, if you stay till midnight. _wild._ are you sure then we have done loving? _jac._ yes, very sure; i think so. _wild._ 'tis well you are so; for otherwise i feel my stomach a little maukish. i should have doubted another fit of love were coming up. _jac._ no, no; your inconstancy secures you enough for that. _wild._ that's it which makes me fear my own returning: nothing vexes me, but that you should part with me so slightly, as though i were not worth your keeping. well, 'tis a sign you never loved me. _jac._ 'tis the least of your care whether i did or did not: it may be it had been more for the quiet of myself, if i--but 'tis no matter, i'll not give you that satisfaction. _wild._ but what's the reason you will not give it me? _jac._ for the reason that we are quite broke off. _wild._ why, are we quite, quite broke off? _jac._ why, are we not? _wild._ well, since 'tis past, 'tis past; but a pox of all foolish quarrelling, for my part. _jac._ and a mischief of all foolish disguisements, for my part. _wild._ but if it were to do again with another mistress, i would even plainly confess i had lost my money. _jac._ and if i had to deal with another servant, i would learn more wit than to tempt him in disguises: for that's to throw a venice-glass to the ground, to try if it would not break. _wild._ if it were not to please you, i see no necessity of our parting. _jac._ i protest, i do it only out of complaisance to you. _wild._ but if i should play the fool, and ask your pardon, you would refuse it. _jac._ no, never submit; for i should spoil you again with pardoning you. _mask._ do you hear this, beatrix! they are just upon the point of accommodation; we must make haste, or they'll make a peace by themselves, and exclude us from the treaty. _beat._ declare yourself the aggressor then, and i'll take you into mercy. _wild._ the worst that you can say of me is, that i have loved you thrice over. _jac._ the prime articles between spain and england are sealed; for the rest, concerning a more strict alliance, if you please, we'll dispute them in the garden. _wild._ but, in the first place, let us agree on the article of navigation, i beseech you. _beat._ these leagues, offensive and defensive, will be too strict for us, maskall: a treaty of commerce will serve our turn. _mask._ with all my heart; and when our loves are veering, we'll make no words, but fall to privateering. [_exeunt, the men leading the women._ act v. scene i. _enter_ lopez, aurelia, _and_ camilla. _lop._ 'tis true, if he had continued constant to you, i should have thought myself obliged in honour to be his friend; but i could no longer suffer him to abuse a person of your worth and beauty, with a feigned affection. _aur._ but is it possible don melchor should be false to love? i'll be sworn i did not imagine such a treachery could have been in nature; especially to a lady who had so obliged him. _lop._ 'twas this, madam, which gave me the confidence to wait upon you at an hour, which would be otherwise unseasonable. _aur._ you are the most obliging person in the world. _lop._ but to clear it to you that he is false, he is, at this very minute, at an assignation with your cousin in the garden; i am sure he was endeavouring it not an hour ago. _aur._ i swear this evening's air begins to incommode me extremely with a cold: but yet, in hope of detecting this perjured man, i am content to stay abroad. _lop._ but withal, you must permit me to tell you, madam, that it is but just i should have some share in a heart, which i endeavour to redeem: in the law of arms, you know that they, who pay the ransom, have right to dispose of the prisoner. _aur._ the prize is so very inconsiderable, that 'tis not worth the claiming. _lop._ if i thought the boon were small, i would not importune my princess with the asking it: but since my life depends upon the grant-- _cam._ ma'am, i must needs tell your la'ship, that don lopez has deserved you, for he has acted all along like a cavalier, and more for your interest than his own. besides, ma'am, don melchor is as poor as he is false: for my part, i shall never endure to call him master. _aur._ don lopez, go along with me. i can promise nothing, but i swear i will do my best to disengage my heart from this furious tender, which i have for him. _cam._ if i had been a man, i could never have forsaken you: ah those languishing casts, ma'am; and that pouting lip of your la'ship, like a cherry-bough, weighed down with the weight of fruit! _aur._ and that sigh too, i think, is not altogether disagreeable; but something _charmante_ and _mignonne_. _cam._ well, don lopez, you'll be but too happy. _lop._ if i were once possessor-- _enter_ bellamy _and_ theodosia. _theo._ o we are surprised. _bel._ fear nothing, madam; i think, i know them: don lopez? _lop._ our famous astrologer, how come you here? _bel._ i am infinitely happy to have met you with donna aurelia, that you may do me the favour to satisfy this lady of a truth, which i can scarce persuade her to believe. _lop._ i am glad our concernments are so equal; for i have the like favour to ask from donna theodosia. _theo._ don lopez is too noble to be refused any thing within my power; and i am ready to do him any service, after i have asked my cousin, if ever don melchor pretended to her? _aur._ 'tis the very question which i was furiously resolved to have asked of you. _theo._ i must confess he has made some professions to me: and withal, i will acknowledge my own weakness so far as to tell you, i have given way he should often visit me, when the world believed him absent. _aur._ o cavalier astrologer, how have you betrayed me! did you not assure me, that don melchor's tender and inclination was for me only? _bel._ i had it from his star, madam, i do assure you; and if that twinkled false, i cannot help it. the truth is, there's no trusting the planet of an inconstant man; he was moving to you when i looked on it, and if since it has changed the course, i am not to be blamed for it. _lop._ now, madam, the truth is evident. and for this cavalier, he might easily be deceived in melchor; for i dare affirm it to you both, he never knew to which of you he was most inclined: for he visited one, and writ letters to the other. _bel._ to _theo._ then, madam, i must claim your promise, (since i have discovered to you that don melchor is unworthy of your favours) that you would make me happy, who, amongst my many imperfections, can never be guilty of such a falsehood. _theo._ if i have been deceived in melchor, whom i have known so long, you cannot reasonably expect, i should trust you at a day's acquaintance. _bel._ for that, madam, you may know as much of me in a day, as you can in all your life: all my humours circulate like my blood, at farthest within twenty-four hours. i am plain and true, like all my countrymen; you see to the bottom of me as easily, as you do to the gravel of a clear stream in autumn. _lop._ you plead so well, sir, that i desire you would speak for me too: my cause is the same with yours, only it has not so good an advocate. _aur._ since i cannot make myself happy, i will have the glory to felicitate another: and, therefore, i declare, i will reward the fidelity of don lopez. _theo._ all that i can say at present is, that i will never be don melchor's: the rest, time and your service must make out. _bel._ i have all i can expect, to be admitted as eldest servant; as preferment falls, i hope you will remember my seniority. _cam._ ma'am, don melchor. _aur._ cavaliers, retire a little; we shall see to which of us he will make his court. [_the men withdraw._ _enter_ don melchor. don melchor, i thought you had been a-bed before this time. _mel._ fair aurelia, this is a blessing beyond expectation, to see you again so soon. _aur._ what important business brought you hither? _mel._ only to make my peace with you before i slept. you know you are the saint to whom i pay my devotions. _aur._ and yet it was beyond your expectances to meet me? this is furiously incongruous. _theo._ [_advancing_.] don melchor, whither were you bound so late? _mel._ what shall i say? i am so confounded, that i know not to which of them i should excuse myself. [_aside._ _theo._ pray answer me truly to one question: did you ever make any addresses to my cousin? _mel._ fie, fie, madam, there's a question indeed. _aur._ how, monster of ingratitude! can you deny the declaration of your passion to me? _mel._ i say nothing, madam. _theo._ which of us is it, for whom you are concerned? _mel._ for that, madam, you must excuse me; i have more discretion than to boast a lady's favour. _aur._ did you counterfeit an address to me? _mel._ still i say nothing, madam; but i will satisfy either of you in private; for these matters are too tender for public discourse. _enter_ lopez _and_ bellamy _hastily, with their swords drawn_. bellamy and lopez! this is strange! _lop._ ladies, we would not have disturbed you, but as we were walking to the garden door, it opened suddenly against us, and we confusedly saw, by moonlight, some persons entering, but who they were we know not. _bel._ you had best retire into the garden-house, and leave us to take our fortunes, without prejudice to your reputations. _enter_ wildblood, maskall, jacintha, _and_ beatrix. _wild._ [_to jacintha entering_.] do not fear, madam, i think i heard my friend's voice. _bel._ marry hang you, is it you that have given us this hot alarm? _wild._ there's more in it than you imagine; the whole house is up: for seeing you two, and not knowing you, after i had entered the garden-door, i made too much haste to get out again, and have left the key broken in it. with the noise, one of the servants came running in, whom i forced back; and, doubtless, he is gone for company, for you may see lights running through every chamber. _theo. jac._ what will become of us? _bel._ we must have recourse to our former resolution. let the ladies retire into the garden-house. and, now i think on it, you gentlemen shall go in with them, and leave me and maskall to bear the brunt of it. _mask._ me, sir! i beseech you let me go in with the ladies too; dear beatrix, speak a good word for me! i protest 'tis more out of love to thy company than for any fear i have. _bel._ you dog, i have need of your wit and counsel. we have no time to deliberate. will you stay, sir? [_to_ maskall. _mask._ no, sir, 'tis not for my safety. _bel._ will you in, sir? [_to_ melchor. _mel._ no, sir, 'tis not for my honour, to be assisting to you: i'll to don alonzo, and help to revenge the injury you are doing him. _bel._ then we are lost, i can do nothing. _wild._ nay, an you talk of honour, by your leave, sir. i hate your spanish honour, ever since it spoiled our english plays, with faces about and t'other side. [_falls upon him and throws him down._ _mel._ what do you mean, you will not murder me? must valour be oppressed by multitudes? _wild._ come yarely, my mates, every man to his share of the burden. come, yarely, hay. [_the four men take him each by a limb, and carry him out, he crying murder._ _theo._ if this englishman save us now, i shall admire his wit. _beat._ good wits never think themselves admired till they are well rewarded: you must pay him in specie, madam; give him love for his wit. _enter the men again._ _bel._ ladies, fear nothing, but enter into the garden-house with these cavaliers. _mask._ o that i were a cavalier too! [_is going with them._ _bel._ come you back, sirrah. [_stops him_.] think yourselves as safe as in a sanctuary; only keep quiet, whatever happens. _jac._ come away then, they are upon us. [_exeunt all but_ bel. _and_ mask. _mask._ hark, i hear the foe coming: methinks they threaten too, sir; pray let me go in for a guard to the ladies and poor beatrix. i can fight much better, when there is a wall betwixt me and danger. _bel._ peace, i have occasion for your wit to help me to lie. _mask._ sir, upon the faith of a sinner, you have had my last lie already; i have not one more to do me credit, as i hope to be saved, sir. bel. _victoire, victoire!_ knock under, you rogue, and confess me conqueror, and you shall see i'll bring all off. _enter_ don alonzo, _and six servants; with lights, and swords drawn._ _alon._ search about there. _bel._ fear nothing, do but vouch what i shall say. _mask._ for a passive lie i can yet do something. _alon._ stand: who goes there? _bel._ friends. _alon._ friends! who are you? _bel._ noble don alonzo, such as are watching for your good. _alon._ is it you, sennor inglis? why all this noise and tumult? where are my daughters and my niece? but, in the first place, though last named, how came you hither, sir? _bel._ i came hither--by astrology, sir. _mask._ my master's in; heavens send him good shipping with his lie, and all kind devils stand his friends! _alon._ how! by astrology, sir? meaning, you came hither by art magic. _bel._ i say by pure astrology, sir; i foresaw by my art, a little after i had left you, that your niece and daughters would this night run a risque of being carried away from this very garden. _alon._ o the wonders of this speculation! _bel._ thereupon i called immediately for my sword, and came in all haste to advertise you; but i see there's no resisting destiny; for just as i was entering the garden door, i met the women with their gallants all under sail, and outward bound. _mask._ thereupon what does me he, but draws, by my advice-- _bel._ how now, mr rascal? are you itching to be in? [_aside._ _mask._ pray, sir, let me go snip with you in this lie, and be not too covetous of honour. you know i never stood with you; now my courage is come to me, i cannot resist the temptation. [_aside._ _bel._ content; tell on. _mask._ so, in short, sir, we drew, first i, and then my master; but, being overpowered, they have escaped us, so that i think you may go to bed, and trouble yourself no further, for gone they are. _bel._ you tell a lie! you have curtailed my invention: you are not fit to invent a lie for a bawd, when she would wheedle a young squire. [_aside._ _alon._ call up the officers of justice, i'll have the town searched immediately. _bel._ 'tis in vain, sir; i know, by my art, you'll never recover them: besides, 'tis an affront to my friends, the stars, who have otherwise disposed of them. _enter a servant._ _ser._ sir, the key is broken in the garden-door, and the door locked, so that of necessity they must be in the garden yet. _alon._ disperse yourselves, some into the wilderness, some into the alleys, and some into the parterre: you, diego, go try to get out the key, and run to the corrigidor for his assistance: in the mean time, i'll search the garden-house myself. [_exeunt all the servants but one._ _mask._ i'll be unbetted again, if you please, sir, and leave you all the honour of it. [_to_ bellamy _aside_. _alon._ come, cavalier, let us in together. _bel._ [_holding him_.] hold, sir, for the love of heaven! you are not mad? _alon._ we must leave no place unsearched. a light there. _bel._ hold, i say! do you know what you are undertaking? and have you armed yourself with resolution for such an adventure? _alon._ what adventure? _bel._ a word in private--the place you would go into is full of enchantments; there are at this time, for aught i know, a legion of spirits in it. _alon._ you confound me with wonder, sir! _bel._ i have been making there my magical operations, to know the event of your daughters' flight; and, to perform it rightly, have been forced to call up spirits of several orders: and there they are humming like a swarm of bees, some stalking about upon the ground, some flying, and some sticking upon the walls like rear-mice. _mask._ the devil's in him, he's got off again. _alon._ now, sir, i shall try the truth of your friendship to me. to confess the secret of my soul to you, i have all my life been curious to see a devil; and to that purpose have conned agrippa through and through, and made experiment of all his rules, _pari die et incremento lunæ_, and yet could never compass the sight of one of these _dæmoniums_: if you will ever oblige me, let it be on this occasion. _mask._ there's another storm arising. _bel._ you shall pardon me, sir; i'll not expose you to that peril for the world, without due preparations of ceremony. _alon._ for that, sir, i always carry a talisman about me, that will secure me: and therefore i will venture in, a god's name, and defy them all at once. [_going in._ _mask._ how the pox will he get off from this? _bel._ well, sir, since you are so resolved, send off your servant, that there may be no noise made on't, and we'll take our venture. _alon._ pedro, leave your light, and help the fellows to search the garden. [_exit servant._ _mask._ what does my incomprehensible master mean? _bel._ now, i must tell you, sir, you will see that, which will very much astonish you, if my art fail me not. [_goes to the door_.] you spirits and intelligences, that are within there, stand close, and silent, at your peril, and fear nothing, but appear in your own shapes, boldly.--maskall, open the door. [maskall _goes to one side of the scene, which draws, and discovers_ theo. jac. aur. beat. cam. lop. wild., _standing all without motion in a rank_. now, sir, what think you? _alon._ they are here, they are here: we need search no farther. ah you ungracious baggages! [_going toward them._ _bel._ stay, or you'll be torn in pieces: these are the very shapes i conjured up, and truly represent to you in what company your niece and daughters are, this very moment. _alon._ why, are they not they? i durst have sworn that some of them had been my own flesh and blood.--look; one of them is just like that rogue, your comrade. [wild. _shakes his head, and frowns at him._ _bel._ do you see how you have provoked that english devil? take heed of him; if he gets you once into his clutches-- [wild. _embracing_ jac. _alon._ he seems to have got possession of the spirit of my jacintha, by his hugging her. _bel._ nay, i imagined as much: do but look upon his physiognomy--you have read baptista porta? has he not the leer of a very lewd, debauched spirit? _alon._ he has indeed: then there's my niece aurelia, with the spirit of don lopez; but that's well enough; and my daughter theodosia all alone: pray how comes that about? _bel._ she's provided for with a familiar too: one that is in this very room with you, and by your elbow; but i'll shew you him some other time. _alon._ and that baggage beatrix, how i would swinge her, if i had her here: i'll lay my life she was in the plot for the flight of her mistresses. [beat. _claps her hands at him._ _bel._ sir, you do ill to provoke her; for being the spirit of a woman, she is naturally mischievous: you see she can scarce hold her hands from you already. _mask._ let me alone to revenge your quarrel upon beatrix: if e'er she come to light, i'll take a course with her, i warrant you, sir. _bel._ now come away, sir, you have seen enough; the spirits are in pain whilst we are here: we keep them too long condensed in bodies; if we were gone, they would rarify into air immediately.--maskall, shut the door. [mask. _goes to the scene, and it closes._ alon. _monstrum hominis!_ o prodigy of science! _enter two servants with don_ melchor. _bel._ now help me with a lie, maskall, or we are lost. _mask._ sir, i could never lie with man or woman in a fright. _serv._ sir, we found this gentleman bound and gagged, and he desired us to bring him to you with all haste imaginable. _mel._ o, sir, sir! your two daughters and your niece---- _bel._ they are gone; he knows it:--but are you mad, sir, to set this pernicious wretch at liberty? _mel._ i endeavoured all that i was able---- _mask._ now, sir, i have it for you. [_aside to his master_.]--he was endeavouring, indeed, to have got away with them; for your daughter theodosia was his prize. but we prevented him, and left him in the condition in which you see him. _alon._ i thought somewhat was the matter, that theodosia had not a spirit by her, as her sister had. _bel._ this was he i meant to shew you. _mel._ do you believe him, sir? _bel._ no, no, believe him, sir: you know his truth, ever since he stole your daughter's diamond. _mel._ i swear to you, by my honour-- _alon._ nay, a thief i knew him; and yet, after that, he had the impudence to ask me for my daughter. _bel._ was he so impudent? the case is plain, sir; put him quickly into custody. _mel._ hear me but one word, sir, and i'll discover all to you. _bel._ hear him not, sir; for my art assures me, if he speaks one syllable more, he will cause great mischief. _alon._ will he so? i'll stop my ears; away with him. _mel._ your daughters are yet in the garden, hidden by this fellow and his accomplices. _alon._ [_at the same time, drowning him_.] i'll stop my ears, i'll stop my ears. _bel. mask._ [_at the same time also_.] a thief, a thief! away with him. [_servants carry_ melchor _off struggling_. _alon._ he thought to have borne us down with his confidence. _enter another servant._ _serv._ sir, with much ado we have got out the key, and opened the door. _alon._ then, as i told you, run quickly to the corrigidor, and desire him to come hither in person to examine a malefactor. [wildblood _sneezes within_.] hark! what noise is that within? i think one sneezes. _bel._ one of the devils, i warrant you, has got a cold, with being so long out of the fire. _alon._ bless his devilship, as i may say. [wildblood _sneezes again._ _serv._ [_to don_ alonzo.] this is a man's voice; do not suffer yourself to be deceived so grossly, sir. _mask._ a man's voice! that's a good one indeed, that you should live to these years, and yet be so silly as not to know a man from a devil. _alon._ there's more in't than i imagined: hold up your torch, and go in first, pedro, and i'll follow you. _mask._ no, let me have the honour to be your usher. [_takes the torch and goes in._ _mask._ [_within_.] help, help, help! _alon._ what's the matter? _bel._ stir not upon your life, sir. _enter_ maskall _again, without the torch_. _mask._ i was no sooner entered, but a huge giant seized my torch, and felled me along, with the very whiff of his breath, as he passed by me. _alon._ bless us! _bel._ [_at the door to them within_.] pass out now, while you have time, in the dark: the officers of justice will be here immediately; the garden-door is open for you. _alon._ what are you muttering there, sir? _bel._ only dismissing these spirits of darkness, that they may trouble you no further.--go out, i say. [_they all come out upon the stage, groping their way_. wildblood _falls into_ alonzo's _hands_. _alon._ i have caught somebody: are these your spirits? another light quickly, pedro. _mask._ [_slipping between_ alon. _and_ wild.] 'tis maskall you have caught, sir; do you mean to strangle me, that you press me so hard between your arms? _alon._ [_letting_ wild. _go_.] is it thee, maskall? i durst have sworn it had been another. _bel._ make haste now, before the candle comes. [aurelia _falls into_ alonzo's _arms_. _alon._ now i have another. _aur._ 'tis maskall you have caught, sir. _alon._ no, i thank you, niece, this artifice is too gross: i know your voice a little better. what ho, bring lights there! _bel._ her impertinence has ruined all. _enter servants with lights, and swords drawn._ _serv._ sir, the corrigidor is coming, according to your desire: in the mean time, we have secured the garden doors. _alon._ i'm glad on't: i'll make some of them severe examples. _wild._ nay, then, as we have lived merrily, so let us die together: but we'll shew the don some sport first. _theo._ what will become of us! _jac._ we'll die for company: nothing vexes me, but that i am not a man, to have one thrust at that malicious old father of mine before i go. _lop._ let us break our way through the corrigidor's band. _jac._ a match, i'faith. we'll venture our bodies with you: you shall put the baggage in the middle. _wild._ he that pierces thee, i say no more, but i shall be somewhat angry with him.--[_to_ alon.] in the mean time, i arrest you, sir, in the behalf of this good company. as the corrigidor uses us, so we'll use you. _alon._ you do not mean to murder me! _bel._ you murder yourself, if you force us to it. _wild._ give me a razor there, that i may scrape his weeson, that the bristles may not hinder me, when i come to cut it. _bel._ what need you bring matters to that extremity? you have your ransom in your hand: here are three men, and there are three women; you understand me. _jac._ if not, here's a sword, and there's a throat; you understand me. _alon._ this is very hard! _theo._ the propositions are good, and marriage is as honourable as it used to be. _beat._ you had best let your daughters live branded with the name of strumpets; for whatever befals the men, that will be sure to be their share. _alon._ i can put them into a nunnery. _all the women._ a nunnery! _jac._ i would have thee to know, thou graceless old man, that i defy a nunnery: name a nunnery once more, and i disown thee for my father. _lop._ you know the custom of the country, in this case, sir: 'tis either death or marriage. the business will certainly be public; and if they die, they have sworn you shall bear them company. _alon._ since it must be so, run, pedro, and stop the corrigidor: tell him it was only a carnival merriment, which i mistook for a rape and robbery. _jac._ why now you are a dutiful father again, and i receive you into grace. _bel._ among the rest of your mistakes, sir, i must desire you to let my astrology pass for one: my mathematics, and art magic, were only a carnival device; and now that's ending, i have more mind to deal with the flesh, than with the devil. _alon._ no astrologer! 'tis impossible! _mask._ i have known him, sir, these seven years, and dare take my oath, he has been always an utter stranger to the stars; and indeed to any thing that belongs to heaven. _lop._ then i have been cozened among the rest. _theo._ and i; but i forgive him. _beat._ i hope you will forgive me, madam, who have been the cause on't; but what he wants in astrology, he shall make up to you some other way, i'll pass my word for him. _alon._ i hope you are both gentlemen? _bel._ as good as the cid himself, sir. _alon._ and for your religion, right romans---- _wild._ as ever was mark anthony. _alon._ for your fortunes and courages---- _mask._ they are both desperate, sir; especially their fortunes. _theo._ [_to_ bel.] you should not have had my consent so soon, but only to revenge myself upon the falseness of don melchor. _aur._ i must avow, that gratitude for don lopez is as prevalent with me, as revenge against don melchor. _alon._ lent, you know, begins to-morrow; when that's over, marriage will be proper. _jac._ if i stay till after lent, i shall be to marry when i have no love left: i'll not bate you an ace of to-night, father; i mean to bury this man ere lent be done, and get me another before easter. _alon._ well, make a night on't then. [_giving his daughters._ _wild._ jacintha wildblood, welcome to me: since our stars have doomed it so, we cannot help it; but 'twas a mere trick of fate, to catch us thus at unawares; to draw us in, with a what do you lack, as we passed by: had we once separated to-night, we should have had more wit, than ever to have met again to-morrow. _jac._ 'tis true, we shot each other flying: we were both upon the wing, i find; and, had we passed this critical minute, i should have gone for the indies, and you for greenland, ere we had met in a bed, upon consideration. _mask._ you have quarrelled twice to-night without bloodshed; beware the third time. jac. _apropos!_ i have been retrieving an old song of a lover, that was ever quarrelling with his mistress: i think it will fit our amour so well, that, if you please, i'll give it you for an epithalamium; and you shall sing it. [_gives him a paper._ _wild._ i never sung in all my life; nor ever durst try, when i was alone, for fear of braying. _jac._ just me, up and down; but for a frolic, let's sing together; for i am sure, if we cannot sing now, we shall never have cause when we are married. _wild._ begin then; give me my key, and i'll set my voice to't. _jac._ fa la, fa la, fa la. _wild._ fala, fala, fala. is this your best, upon the faith of a virgin? _jac._ ay, by the muses, i am at my pitch. _wild._ then do your worst; and let the company be judge who sings worst. _jac._ upon condition the best singer shall wear the breeches. prepare to strip, sir; i shall put you into your drawers presently. _wild._ i shall be revenged, with putting you into your smock anon; st george for me. _jac._ st james for me: come, start, sir. song. damon. _celimena, of my heart none shall e'er bereave you: if, with your good leave, i may quarrel with you once a day, i will never leave you._ celimena. _passion's but an empty name, where respect is wanting: damon, you mistake your aim; hang your heart, and burn your flame, if you must be ranting._ damon. _love as dull and muddy is, as decaying liquor: anger sets it on the lees, and refines it by degrees, till it works the quicker._ celimena. _love by quarrels to beget wisely you endeavour; with a grave physician's wit, who, to cure an ague fit, put me in a fever._ damon. _anger rouses love to fight, and his only bait is, 'tis the spur to dull delight, and is but an eager bite, when desire at height is._ celimena. _if such drops of heat can fall in our wooing weather; if such drops of heat can fall, we shall have the devil and all when we come together._ _wild._ your judgment, gentlemen; a man, or a maid? _bel._ an you make no better harmony after you are married, than you have before, you are the miserablest couple in christendom. _wild._ 'tis no great matter; if i had had a good voice, she would have spoiled it before to-morrow. _bel._ when maskall has married beatrix, you may learn of her. _mask._ you shall put her life into a lease, then. _wild._ upon condition, that when i drop into your house from hunting, i may set my slippers at your door, as a turk does at a jew's, that you may not enter. _theo._ and while you refresh yourself within, he shall wind the horn without. _mask._ i'll throw up my lease first. _bel._ why, thou wouldst not be so impudent, to marry beatrix for thyself only? _beat._ for all his ranting and tearing now, i'll pass my word, he shall degenerate into as tame and peaceable a husband, as a civil woman would wish to have. _enter don_ melchor, _with a servant_. _mel._ sir---- _alon._ i know what you would say, but your discovery comes too late now. _mel._ why, the ladies are found. _aur._ but their inclinations are lost, i can assure you. _jac._ look you, sir, there goes the game: your plate-fleet is divided; half for spain, and half for england. _theo._ you are justly punished for loving two. _mel._ yet i have the comfort of a cast lover: i will think well of myself, and despise my mistresses. [_exit._ dance. _bel._ enough, enough; let's end the carnival abed. _wild._ and for these gentlemen, whene'er they try, may they all speed as soon, and well as i. [_exeunt._ epilogue. my part being small, i have had time to-day, to mark your various censures of our play. first, looking for a judgment or a wit, like jews, i saw them scattered through the pit; and where a knot of smilers lent an ear to one that talked, i knew the foe was there. the club of jests went round; he, who had none, borrowed o'the next, and told it for his own. among the rest, they kept a fearful stir, in whispering that he stole the astrologer; and said, betwixt a french and english plot, he eased his half-tired muse, on pace and trot. up starts a monsieur, new come o'er, and warm in the french stoop, and the pull-back o'the arm; _morbleu, dit il_, and cocks, i am a rogue, but he has quite spoiled the feigned _astrologue_. 'pox, says another, here's so great a stir with a son of a whore farce that's regular, a rule, where nothing must decorum shock! damme, 'tis as dull, as dining by the clock. an evening! why the devil should we be vext, whether he gets the wench this night or next? when i heard this, i to the poet went, } told him the house was full of discontent, } and asked him what excuse he could invent. } he neither swore or stormed, as poets do, but, most unlike an author, vowed 'twas true; yet said, he used the french like enemies, and did not steal their plots, but made them prize. but should he all the pains and charges count of taking them, the bill so high would mount, that, like prize-goods, which through the office come, he could have had them much more cheap at home. he still must write; and, banquier-like, each day accept new bills, and he must break, or pay. when through his hands such sums must yearly run, you cannot think the stock is all his own. his haste his other errors might excuse, but there's no mercy for a guilty muse; for, like a mistress, she must stand or fall, and please you to a height, or not at all. tyrannic love; or, the royal martyr. a tragedy. tyrannic love. the "royal martyr" is one of dryden's most characteristic productions. the character of maximin, in particular, is drawn on his boldest plan, and only equalled by that of almanzor, in the "conquest of granada." indeed, although, in action, the latter exhibits a larger proportion of that extravagant achievement peculiar to the heroic drama, it may be questioned, whether the language of maximin does not abound more with the flights of fancy, which hover betwixt the confines of the grand and the bombast, and which our author himself has aptly termed the dalilahs of the theatre. certainly, in some of those rants which occasionally burst from the emperor, our poet appears shorn of his locks; as for example, look to it, gods; for you the aggressors are: keep you your rain and sunshine in your skies, and i'll keep back my flame and sacrifice; your trade of heaven will soon be at a stand, and all your goods lie dead upon your hand. indeed, dryden himself acknowledged, in the dedication to the "spanish friar," that some verses of maximin and almanzor cry vengeance upon him for their extravagance, and heartily wishes them in the same fire with statius and chapman. but he pleads in apology, that he knew they were bad enough to please, even when he wrote them, although he is now resolved no longer to seek credit from the approbation of fools. johnson has doubted, with apparent reason, whether this confession be sufficiently ample; and whether the poet did not really give his love to those enticing seducers of his imagination, although he contemned them in his more sober judgment. in the prologue, he has boldly stated and justified his determination to rush forwards, and hazard the disgrace of a fall, rather than the loss of the race. certainly a genius, which dared so greatly as that of dryden, cannot always be expected to check its flight upon the verge of propriety; and we are often hurried along with it into the extravagant and bombast, when we can seldom discover the error till a second reading of the passage. take, for example, the often quoted account of the death of charinus; with a fierce haste he led our troops the way; while fiery showers of sulphur on him rained; nor left he, till the battlements he gained: there with a forest of their darts he strove, and stood, like capaneus defying jove. with his broad sword the boldest beating down, while fate grew pale, lest he should win the town, and turned the iron leaves of its dark book, to make new dooms, or mend what it mistook: till sought by many deaths, he sunk, though late, and by his fall asserted doubtful fate. although this passage, upon examination, will be found to contain much tumid bombast, yet, like others in the same tone, it conveys, at first, a dark impression of grandeur and sublimity, which only vanishes on a critical examination. such passages, pronounced with due emphasis on the stage, will always meet with popular applause. they are like the fanciful shapes into which a mist is often wreathed; it requires a near approach, and an attentive consideration, to discover their emptiness and vanity. on the other hand, we meet with many passages in maximin, where the impression of sublimity becomes more deep, in proportion to the attention we bestow on them. such is the speech of st catharine to her mother: could we live always, life were worth our cost; but now we keep with care what must be lost. here we stand shivering on the bank, and cry, when we should plunge into eternity. one moment ends our pain; and yet the shock of death we dare not stand, by thought scarce measured, and too swift for sand: 'tis but because the living death ne'er knew, they fear to prove it, as a thing that's new. let me the experiment before you try, i'll show you first how easy 'tis to die. in the same scene occurs an instance of a different kind of beauty, less commonly found in dryden. the tender description given by felicia of her attachment to her child, in infancy, is exquisitely beautiful. the introduction of magic, and of the astral spirits, who have little to do with the catastrophe, was perhaps contrived for the sake of music and scenery. the supernatural has, however, been fashionable at all periods; and we learn, from a passage in the dedication to "prince arthur," that the duchess of monmouth, whom dryden calls his first and best patroness, was pleased with the parts of airy and earthy spirits, and with that fairy kind of writing, which depends upon the force of imagination. it is probable, therefore, that, in a play inscribed to her husband, that style of composition was judiciously intermingled, to which our poet knew the duchess was partial. there is much fine description in the first account of the wizard; but the lyrical dialogue of the spirits is rather puerile, and is ridiculed, with great severity, in the "rehearsal." mr malone has fixed the first acting of this play to the end of , or beginning of . it was printed in , and a revised edition came forth in . to the most illustrious prince, james, duke of monmouth and buccleugh, one of his majesty's most honourable privy-council; and knight of the most noble order of the garter, &c.[k] sir, the favourable reception which your excellent lady afforded to one of my former plays[l], has encouraged me to double my presumption, in addressing this to your grace's patronage. so dangerous a thing it is to admit a poet into your family, that you can never afterwards be free from the chiming of ill verses, perpetually sounding in your ears, and more troublesome than the neighbourhood of steeples. i have been favourable to myself in this expression; a zealous fanatick would have gone farther, and have called me the serpent, who first presented the fruit of my poetry to the wife, and so gained the opportunity to seduce the husband. yet, i am ready to avow a crime so advantageous to me; but the world, which will condemn my boldness, i am sure will justify and applaud my choice. all men will join with me in the adoration which i pay you; they would wish only i had brought you a more noble sacrifice. instead of an heroick play, you might justly expect an heroick poem, filled with the past glories of your ancestors, and the future certainties of your own. heaven has already taken care to form you for an hero. you have all the advantages of mind and body, and an illustrious birth, conspiring to render you an extraordinary person. the achilles and the rinaldo are present in you, even above their originals; you only want a homer, or a tasso, to make you equal to them. youth, beauty, and courage (all which you possess in the height of their perfection) are the most desirable gifts of heaven: and heaven is never prodigal of such treasures, but to some uncommon purpose. so goodly a fabric was never framed by an almighty architect for a vulgar guest. he shewed the value which he set upon your mind, when he took care to have it so nobly, and so beautifully lodged. to a graceful fashion and deportment of body, you have joined a winning conversation, and an easy greatness, derived to you from the best, and best-beloved of princes. and with a great power of obliging, the world has observed in you a desire to oblige, even beyond your power. this, and all that i can say on so excellent and large a subject, is only history, in which fiction has no part; i can employ nothing of poetry in it, any more than i do in that humble protestation which i make, to continue ever your grace's most obedient and most devoted servant, john dryden. [footnote k: for some account of the duke of monmouth, we refer our readers to the poem of absalom and achitophel, in which dryden has described that unfortunate young nobleman under the character of absalom]. [footnote l: see the dedication to the "indian emperor."] preface. i was moved to write this play by many reasons: amongst others, the commands of some persons of honour, for whom i have a most particular respect, were daily sounding in my ears, that it would be of good example to undertake a poem of this nature. neither were my own inclinations wanting to second their desires. i considered that pleasure was not the only end of poesy; and that even the instructions of morality were not so wholly the business of a poet, as that the precepts and examples of piety were to be omitted. for, to leave that employment altogether to the clergy, were to forget that religion was first taught in verse, which the laziness, or dulness, of succeeding priesthood, turned afterwards into prose; and it were also to grant (which i never shall) that representations of this kind may not as well be conducing to holiness, as to good manners. yet far be it from me to compare the use of dramatick poesy with that of divinity: i only maintain, against the enemies of the stage, that patterns of piety, decently represented, and equally removed from the extremes of superstition and profaneness, may be of excellent use to second the precepts of our religion. by the harmony of words we elevate the mind to a sense of devotion, as our solemn musick, which is inarticulate poesy, does in churches; and by the lively images of piety, adorned by action, through the senses allure the soul; which while it is charmed in a silent joy of what it sees and hears, is struck, at the same time, with a secret veneration of things celestial: and is wound up insensibly into the practice of that which it admires. now if, instead of this, we sometimes see on our theatres the examples of vice rewarded, or, at least, unpunished; yet it ought not to be an argument against the art, any more than the extravagances and impieties of the pulpit, in the late times of rebellion, can be against the office and dignity of the clergy. but many times it happens, that poets are wrongfully accused; as it is my own case in this very play; where i am charged by some ignorant or malicious persons, with no less crimes than profaneness and irreligion. the part of _maximin_, against which these holy critics so much declaim, was designed by me to set off the character of _st catharine_. and those, who have read the roman history, may easily remember, that maximin was not only a bloody tyrant, _vastus corpore, animo ferus_, as herodian describes him; but also a persecutor of the church, against which he raised the sixth persecution. so that whatsoever he speaks or acts in this tragedy, is no more than a record of his life and manners; a picture, as near as i could take it, from the original. if, with much pains, and some success, i have drawn a deformed piece, there is as much of art, and as near an imitation of nature, in a lazar, as in a venus. maximin was an heathen, and what he speaks against religion, is in contempt of that which he professed. he defies the gods of rome, which is no more than st catharine might with decency have done. if it be urged, that a person of such principles, who scoffs at any religion, ought not to be presented on the stage; why then are the lives and sayings of so many wicked and profane persons, recorded in the holy scriptures? i know it will be answered, that a due use may be made of them; that they are remembered with a brand of infamy fixed upon them; and set as sea-marks for those who behold them to avoid. and what other use have i made of maximin? have i proposed him as a pattern to be imitated, whom, even for his impiety to his false gods, i have so severely punished? nay, as if i had foreseen this objection, i purposely removed the scene of the play, which ought to have been at alexandria in egypt, where st catharine suffered, and laid it under the walls of aquileia in italy, where maximin was slain; that the punishment of his crime might immediately succeed its execution. this, reader, is what i owed to my just defence, and the due reverence of that religion which i profess, to which all men, who desire to be esteemed good, or honest, are obliged. i have neither leisure nor occasion to write more largely on this subject, because i am already justified by the sentence of the best and most discerning prince in the world, by the suffrage of all unbiassed judges, and, above all, by the witness of my own conscience, which abhors the thought of such a crime; to which i ask leave to add my outward conversation, which shall never be justly taxed with the note of atheism or profaneness. in what else concerns the play, i shall be brief: for the faults of the writing and contrivance, i leave them to the mercy of the reader. for i am as little apt to defend my own errors, as to find those of other poets. only, i observe, that the great censors of wit and poetry, either produce nothing of their own, or what is more ridiculous than any thing they reprehend. much of ill nature, and a very little judgment, go far in finding the mistakes of writers. i pretend not that any thing of mine can be correct: this poem, especially, which was contrived, and written in seven weeks, though afterwards hindered by many accidents from a speedy representation, which would have been its just excuse. yet the scenes are every where unbroken, and the unities of place and time more exactly kept, than perhaps is requisite in a tragedy; or, at least, than i have since preserved them in the "conquest of granada." i have not everywhere observed the equality of numbers, in my verse; partly by reason of my haste; but more especially, because i would not have my sense a slave to syllables. it is easy to discover, that i have been very bold in my alteration of the story, which of itself was too barren for a play; and that i have taken from the church two martyrs, in the persons of porphyrius, and the empress, who suffered for the christian faith, under the tyranny of maximin. i have seen a french play, called the "martyrdom of st catharine:" but those, who have read it, will soon clear me from stealing out of so dull an author. i have only borrowed a mistake from him, of one maximin for another; for finding him in the french poet, called the son of a thracian herdsman, and an alane woman, i too easily believed him to have been the same maximin mentioned in herodian. till afterwards, consulting eusebius and metaphrastes, i found the frenchman had betrayed me into an error, when it was too late to alter it, by mistaking that first maximin for a second, the contemporary of constantine the great, and one of the usurpers of the eastern empire. but neither was the other name of my play more fortunate; for, as some, who had heard of a tragedy of st catharine, imagined i had taken my plot from thence; so others, who had heard of another play, called "l'amour tyrannique," with the same ignorance, accused me to have borrowed my design from it, because i have accidentally given my play the same title; not having to this day seen it, and knowing only by report that such a comedy is extant in french, under the name of "monsieur scudery." as for what i have said of astral or aërial spirits, it is no invention of mine, but taken from those who have written on that subject. whether there are such beings or not, it concerns not me; it is sufficient for my purpose, that many have believed the affirmative; and that these heroic representations, which are of the same nature with the epic, are not limited, but with the extremest bounds of what is credible. for the little critics, who pleased themselves with thinking they have found a flaw in that line of the prologue, and he, who servilely creeps after sense, is safe, &c.[m], as if i patronized my own nonsense, i may reasonably suppose they have never read horace. _serpit humi tutus_, &c. are his words: he, who creeps after plain, dull, common sense, is safe from committing absurdities; but can never reach any height, or excellence of wit; and sure i could not mean, that any excellence were to be found in nonsense. with the same ignorance, or malice, they would accuse me for using--_empty arms_, when i write of a ghost, or shadow; which has only the appearance of a body or limbs, and is empty, or void, of flesh and blood; and _vacuis amplectitur ulnis_, was an expression of ovid's on the same subject. some fool before them had charged me in "the indian emperor" with nonsense in these words, and follow fate, which does too fast pursue; which was borrowed from virgil, in the eleventh of his Æneids, _eludit gyro interior, sequiturque sequentem_[n]. i quote not these to prove, that i never writ nonsense; but only to shew, that they are so unfortunate as not to have found it. vale. [footnote m: see the prologue to this play.] [footnote n: we may be allowed to suspect that this resemblance was discovered _ex post facto_.] prologue. self-love, which, never rightly understood, makes poets still conclude their plays are good, and malice, in all critics, reigns so high, that for small errors, they whole plays decry; so that to see this fondness, and that spite, you'd think that none but madmen judge or write. therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit t' impose upon you what he writes for wit; so hopes, that, leaving you your censures free, } you equal judges of the whole will be: } they judge but half, who only faults will see. } poets, like lovers, should be bold and dare, they spoil their business with an over-care; and he, who servilely creeps after sense, is safe, but ne'er will reach an excellence. hence 'tis, our poet, in his conjuring, allowed his fancy the full scope and swing. but when a tyrant for his theme he had, he loosed the reins, and bid his muse run mad: and though he stumbles in a full career, yet rashness is a better fault than fear. he saw his way; but in so swift a pace, to chuse the ground might be to lose the race. they then, who of each trip the advantage take, find but those faults, which they want wit to make. dramatis personÆ maximin, _tyrant of rome_. porphyrius, _captain of the prætorian bands_. charinus, _the emperor's son_. placidius, _a great officer_. valerius, } } _tribunes of the army_. albinus, } nigrinus, _a tribune and conjurer_. amariel, _guardian-angel to st_ catharine. apollonius, _a heathen philosopher_. berenice, _wife to_ maximin. valeria, _daughter to_ maximin. _st_ catherine, _princess of alexandria_. felicia, _her mother_. erotion, } } _attendants_. cydnon, } scene--_the camp of maximin, under the walls of aquileia_. tyrannic love, or, the royal martyr. act i. scene i.--_a camp, or pavilion royal_. _enter_ maximin, charinus, placidius, albinus, valerius, apollonius, _and guards_. _max._ thus far my arms have with success been crowned, and found no stop, or vanquished what they found. the german lakes my legions have o'erpast, with all the bars which art or nature cast: my foes, in watery fastnesses inclosed, i fought alone, to their whole war exposed; did first the depth of trembling marshes sound, and fixed my eagles in unfaithful ground; by force submitted to the roman sway fierce nations, and unknowing to obey; and now, for my reward, ungrateful rome, for which i fought abroad, rebels at home. _alb._ yet 'tis their fear which does this war maintain; they cannot brook a martial monarch's reign: your valour would their sloth too much accuse; and therefore, like themselves they princes chuse. _plac._ two tame gown'd princes, who at ease debate, in lazy chairs, the business of the state; who reign but while the people they can please, and only know the little arts of peace. _char._ in fields they dare not fight, where honour calls; but breathe a faint defiance from their walls. the very noise of war their souls does wound; they quake, but hearing their own trumpets sound. _val._ an easy summons but for form they wait, and to your fame will open wide the gate. _plac._ i wish our fame that swift success may find; but conquests, sir, are easily designed. however soft within themselves they are, to you they will be valiant by despair: for, having once been guilty, well they know, to a revengeful prince they still are so. _alb._ 'tis true, that, since the senate's succours came, they grow more bold. _max._ that senate's but a name: or they are pageant princes which they make; that power they give away, they would partake. two equal powers two different ways will draw, while each may check, and give the other law. true, they secure propriety and peace; but are not fit an empire to increase. when they should aid their prince, the slaves dispute; and fear success should make him absolute. they let foes conquer, to secure the state, and lend a sword, whose edge themselves rebate. _char._ when to increase the gods you late are gone, i'll swiftly chuse to die, or reign alone: but these half kings our courage cannot fright; the thrifty state will bargain ere they fight: give just so much for every victory, and rather lose a fight than overbuy. _max._ since all delays are dangerous in war, your men, albinus, for assault prepare; crispinus and meniphilus, i hear, two consulars, these aquileians cheer; by whom they may, if we protract the time, be taught the courage to defend their crime. _plac._ put off the assault but only for this day: no loss can come by such a small delay. _char._ we are not sure to-morrow will be ours: wars have, like love, their favourable hours. let us use all; for if we lose one day, that white one, in the crowd, may slip away. _max._ fate's dark recesses we can never find; but fortune, at some hours, to all is kind: the lucky have whole days, which still they chuse; the unlucky have but hours, and those they lose. _plac._ i have consulted one, who reads heaven's doom, and sees, as present, things which are to come. 'tis that nigrinus, made by your command a tribune in the new pannonian band. him have i seen (on ister's banks he stood, where last we wintered), bind the headlong flood in sudden ice; and, where most swift it flows, in crystal nets the wond'ring fishes close. then, with a moment's thaw, the streams enlarge, and from the mesh the twinkling guests discharge. in a deep vale, or near some ruined wall, he would the ghosts of slaughtered soldiers call; who slow to wounded bodies did repair, and, loth to enter, shivered in the air; these his dread wand did to short life compel, and forced the fates of battles to foretel. _max._ 'tis wonderous strange! but, good placidius, say, what prophecies nigrinus of this day? _plac._ in a lone tent, all hung with black, i saw, where in a square he did a circle draw; four angles, made by that circumference, bore holy words inscribed, of mystic sense. when first a hollow wind began to blow, the sky grew black, and bellied down more low; around the fields did nimble lightning play, which offered us by fits, and snatched the day. 'midst this was heard the shrill and tender cry of well-pleased ghosts, which in the storm did fly; danced to and fro, and skimmed along the ground, till to the magic circle they were bound. they coursing it, while we were fenced within, we saw this dreadful scene of fate begin. _char._ speak without fear; what did the vision shew? _plac._ a curtain, drawn, presented to our view a town besieged; and on the neighbouring plain lay heaps of visionary soldiers slain. a rising mist obscured the gloomy head of one, who, in imperial robes, lay dead. near this, in fetters, stood a virgin crowned, whom many cupids strove in vain to wound: a voice,--_to-morrow_, still _to-morrow_ rung; another,--_lo, lo pæan_ sung. _char._ visions and oracles still doubtful are, and ne'er expounded till the event of war. the gods' foreknowledge on our swords will wait: if we fight well, they must foreshow good fate. _to them a centurion._ _cent._ a rising dust, which troubles all the air, and this way travels, shews some army near. _char._ i hear the sound of trumpets from afar. [_exit_ albinus. _max._ it seems the voice of triumph, not of war. _to them_ albinus _again_. _alb._ health and success our emperor attends; the forces, marching on the plain, are friends. porphyrius, whom you egypt's prætor made, is come from alexandria to your aid. _max._ it well becomes the conduct and the care of one so famed and fortunate in war. you must resign, placidius, your command; to him i promised the prætorian band. your duty in your swift compliance show; i will provide some other charge for you. _plac._ may cæsar's pleasure ever be obeyed, with that submission, which by me is paid. now all the curses envy ever knew, or could invent, porphyrius pursue! [_aside._ _alb._ placidius does too tamely bear his loss; [_to_ charinus. this new pretender will all power engross: all things must now by his direction move, and you, sir, must resign your father's love. _char._ yes; every name to his repute must bow; there grow no bays for any other brow. he blasts my early honour in the bud, like some tall tree, the monster of the wood; o'ershading all which under him would grow, he sheds his venom on the plants below. _alb._ you must some noble action undertake, equal with his your own renown to make. _char._ i am not for a slothful envy born; i'll do't this day, in the dire vision's scorn. he comes: we two like the twin stars appear; never to shine together in one sphere. [_exeunt_ char. _and_ albinus. _enter_ porphyrius _attended_. _max._ porphyrius, welcome; welcome as the light to cheerful birds, or as to lovers night; welcome as what thou bring'st me, victory. _por._ that waits, sir, on your arms, and not on me. you left a conquest more than half achieved, and for whose easiness i almost grieved. yours only the egyptian laurels are; i bring you but the reliques of your war. the christian princess, to receive your doom, is from her conquered alexandria come; her mother, in another vessel sent, a storm surprised, nor know i the event: both from your bounty must receive their state, or must on your triumphant chariot wait. _max._ from me they can expect no grace, whose minds an execrable superstition blinds. _apol._ the gods, who raised you to the world's command, require these victims from your grateful hand. _por._ to minds resolved, the threats of death are vain; they run to fires, and there enjoy their pain; not mucius made more haste his hand to expose to greedy flames, than their whole bodies those. _max._ how to their own destruction they are blind! zeal is the pious madness of the mind. _por._ they all our famed philosophers defy, and would our faith by force of reason try. _apol._ i beg it, sir, by all the powers divine. that in their right this combat may be mine. _max._ it shall; and fifty doctors of our laws be added to you, to maintain the cause. _enter_ berenice, _the empress_; valeria, _daughter to the emperor, and_ erotion. _plac._ the empress and your daughter, sir, are here. _por._ what dangers in those charming eyes appear! [_looking on the empress._ how my old wounds are opened at this view, and in my murderer's presence bleed anew! _max._ i did expect your coming, to partake [_to the ladies._ the general gladness which my triumphs make. you did porphyrius as a courtier know; but as a conqueror behold him now. _ber._ you know (i read it in your blushing face), [_to_ por. to merit, better than receive a grace: and i know better silently to own, than with vain words to pay your service done. _por._ princes, like gods, reward ere we deserve; [_kneeling to kiss her hand._ and pay us, in permitting us to serve. o might i still grow here, and never move! [_lower._ _ber._ how dangerous are these ecstacies of love! he shews his passion to a thousand eyes; he cannot stir, nor can i bid him rise. that word my heart refuses to my tongue! [_aside._ _max._ madam, you let the general kneel too long. _por._ too long! as if eternity were so. [_aside._ _ber._ rise, good porphyrius--since it must be so. [_aside._ _por._ like hermits from a vision i retire, [_rising._ with eyes too weak to see what i admire. [_aside._ _val._ the empress knows your worth; but, sir, there be [_to_ porphyrius, _who kisses her hand_. those who can value it as high as she. and 'tis but just (since in my father's cause you fought) your valour should have my applause. _plac._ o jealousy, how art thou eagle-eyed! she loves; and would her love in praises hide: how am i bound this rival to pursue, who ravishes my love and fortune too! [_aside._ [_a dead march within, and trumpets._ _max._ somewhat of mournful, sure, my ears does wound; like the hoarse murmurs of a trumpet's sound, and drums unbraced, with soldiers' broken cries. _enter_ albinus. albinus, whence proceeds this dismal noise? _alb._ too soon you'll know what i want words to tell. _max._ how fares my son? is my charinus well? not answer me! oh my prophetic fear! _alb._ how can i speak, or how, sir, can you hear? imagine that which you would most deplore, and that, which i would speak, is it, or more. _max._ thy mournful message in thy looks i read: is he (oh that i live to ask it!) dead? _alb._ sir-- _max._ stay; if thou speak'st that word, thou speak'st thy last: some god now, if he dares, relate what's past: say but he's dead, that god shall mortal be. _alb._ then, what i dare not speak, look back and see. [charinus _borne in dead by soldiers_. _max._ see nothing, eyes, henceforth, but death and woe; you've done me the worst office you can do. you've shewn me destiny's preposterous crime; an unripe fate, disclosed ere nature's time. _plac._ assuage, great prince, your passion, lest you shew there's somewhat in your soul which fate can bow. _por._ fortune should by your greatness be controuled: arm your great mind, and let her take no hold. _max._ to tame philosophers teach constancy; there is no farther use of it in me. gods!--but why name i you! all that was worth a prayer to you is gone;-- i ask not back my virtue, but my son. _alb._ his too great thirst of fame his ruin brought; though, sir, beyond all human force he fought. _plac._ this was my vision of this fatal day! _alb._ with a fierce haste he led our troops the way, while fiery showers of sulphur on him rained; nor left he, till the battlements he gained: there with a forest of their darts he strove, and stood, like capaneus defying jove; with his broad sword the boldest beating down, while fate grew pale lest he should win the town; and turned the iron leaves of its dark book, to make new dooms, or mend what it mistook; till, sought by many deaths, he sunk, though late, and by his fall asserted doubtful fate. _val._ oh my dear brother! whom heaven let us see, and would not longer suffer him to be! _max._ and didst not thou a death with honour chuse, [_to_ alb. but impudently liv'st to bring this news? after his loss how did'st thou dare to breathe? but thy base ghost shall follow him in death. a decimation i will strictly make of all, who my charinus did forsake; and of each legion, each centurion shall die:--placidius, see my pleasure done. _por._ sir, you will lose, by this severity, your soldiers' hearts. _max._ why, they take pay to die. _por._ then spare albinus only. _max._ i consent to leave his life to be his punishment. discharged from trust, branded with infamy, let him live on, till he ask leave to die. _ber._ let me petition for him. _max._ i have said; and will not be intreated, but obeyed. but, empress, whence does your compassion grow? _ber._ you need not ask it, since my birth you know. the race of antonines was named the good: i draw my pity from my royal blood. _max._ still must i be upbraided with your line? i know you speak it in contempt of mine. but your late brother did not prize me less, because i could not boast of images; and the gods own me more, when they decreed, a thracian shepherd should your line succeed. _ber._ the gods! o do not name the powers divine, they never mingled their decrees with thine. my brother gave me to thee for a wife, and for my dowry thou didst take his life. _max._ the gods by many victories have shewn, that they my merits and his death did own. _ber._ yes, they have owned it; witness this just day, when they begin thy mischiefs to repay. see the reward of all thy wicked care before thee; thy succession ended there. yet, but in part my brother's ghost is pleased; restless till all the groaning world be eased. for me, no other happiness i own, than to have borne no issue to thy throne. _max._ provoke my rage no farther, lest i be revenged at once upon the gods and thee. _por._ what horrid tortures seize my labouring mind, o, only excellent of all thy kind, to hear thee threatened, while i idle stand! heaven! was i born to fear a tyrant's hand? [_aside._ _max._ [_to ber_.] hence from my sight!--thy blood, if thou dost stay---- _ber._ tyrant! too well to that thou knowest the way. [_going._ _por._ let baser souls from falling fortunes fly: i'll pay my duty to her, though i die. [_exit, leading her._ _max._ what made porphyrius so officious be? the action looked as done in scorn of me. _val._ it did, indeed, some little freedom shew; but somewhat to his services you owe. _max._ yet if i thought it his presumption were-- _plac._ perhaps he did not your displeasure hear. _max._ my anger was too loud, not to be heard. _plac._ i'm loth to think he did it not regard. _max._ how, not regard! _val._ placidius, you foment, on too light grounds, my father's discontent. but when an action does two faces wear, 'tis justice to believe what is most fair. i think, that, knowing what respect there rests for her late brother in the soldiers' breasts, he went to serve the emperor; and designed only to calm the tempest in her mind, lest some sedition in the camp should rise. _max._ i ever thought him loyal as he's wise. since therefore all the gods their spite have shewn to rob my age of a successive throne; and you who now remain, the only issue of my former bed, in empire cannot, by your sex, succeed; to bind porphyrius firmly to the state, i will this day my cæsar him create: and, daughter, i will give him you for wife. _val._ o day, the best and happiest of my life! _plac._ o day, the most accurst i ever knew! [_aside._ _max._ see to my son performed each funeral due: then to the toils of war we will return, and make our enemies our losses mourn. [_exeunt._ act ii. scene i.--_the royal camp_. _enter_ berenice _and_ porphyrius. _ber._ porphyrius, you too far did tempt your fate, in owning her, the emperor does hate. 'tis true, your duty to me it became; but, praising that, i must your conduct blame. _por._ not to have owned my zeal at such a time, were to sin higher than your tyrant's crime. _ber._ 'twas too much, my disgrace to accompany; a silent wish had been enough for me. _por._ wishes are aids faint servants may supply, who ask heaven for you what themselves deny. could i do less than my respect to pay, where i before had given my heart away? _ber._ you fail in that respect you seem to bear, when you speak words unfit for me to hear. _por._ yet you did once accept those vows i paid. _ber._ those vows were then to berenice made; but cannot now be heard without a sin, when offered to the wife of maximin. _por._ has, then, the change of fortune changed your will? ah! why are you not berenice still? to maximin you once declared your hate; your marriage was a sacrifice to th' state: your brother made it to secure his throne, which this man made a step to mount it on. _ber._ whatever maximin has been, or is, i am to bear, since heaven has made me his; for wives, who must themselves of power divest, when they love blindly, for their peace love best. _por._ if mutual love be vowed when faith you plight, then he, who forfeits first, has lost his right. _ber._ husbands a forfeiture of love may make; but what avails the forfeit none can take? as, in a general wreck, the pirate sinks with his ill-gotten gains, and nothing to another's use remains, so, by his loss, no gain to you can fall: the sea, and vast destruction swallows all. _por._ yet he, who from the shore the wreck descries, may lawfully enrich him with the prize. _ber._ who sees the wreck, can yet no title plead, till he be sure the owner first is dead. _por._ if that be all the claim i want to love, this pirate of your heart i'll soon remove, and, at one stroke, the world and you set free. _ber._ leave to the care of heaven that world and me. _por._ heaven as its instrument my courage sends. _ber._ heaven ne'er sent those who fight for private ends. we both are bound by trust, and must be true; i to his bed, and to his empire you. for he who to the bad betrays his trust, though he does good, becomes himself unjust. _por._ when brutus did from cæsar rome redeem, the act was good. _ber._ but was not good in him. you see the gods adjudged it parricide, by dooming the event on cæsar's side. 'tis virtue not to be obliged at all; or not conspire our benefactor's fall. _por._ you doom me then to suffer all this ill, and yet i doom myself to love you still. _ber._ dare not porphyrius suffer then with me, since what for him, i for myself decree? _por._ how can i bear those griefs you disapprove? _ber._ to ease them, i'll permit you still to love. _por._ that will but haste my death, if you think fit not to reward, but barely to permit. love without hope does like a torture wound, which makes me reach in pain, to touch the ground. _ber._ if hope, then, to your life so needful be, hope still. _por._ blest news! _ber._ but hope in heaven, not me. _por._ love is too noble such deceits to use: referring me to heaven, your gift i lose. so princes cheaply may our wants supply, when they give that, their treasurers deny. _ber._ love blinds my virtue:--if i longer stay it will grow dark, and i shall lose my way. _por._ one kiss from this fair hand can be no sin;-- ask not that you gave to maximin. in full reward of all the pains i've past, give me but one. _ber._ then let it be your last. _por._ 'tis gone! like soldiers prodigal of their arrears, one minute spends the pay of many years. let but one more be added to the sum, and pay at once for all my pains to come. _ber._ unthrifts will starve, if we beforehand give: [_pulling back her hand._ i'll see you shall have just enough to live. _enter_ erotion. _ero._ madam, the emperor is drawing near; and comes, they say, to seek porphyrius here. _ber._ alas! _por._ i will not ask what he intends; my life, or death, alone on you depends. _ber._ i must withdraw; but must not let him know [_aside._ how hard the precepts of my virtue grow! but whate'er fortune is for me designed, sweet heaven, be still to brave porphyrius kind! [_exit with_ erotion. _por._ she's gone unkindly, and refused to cast one glance to feed me for so long a fast. _enter_ maximin, placidius, _and guards_. _max._ porphyrius, since the gods have ravished one, i come in you to seek another son. succeed him then in my imperial states; succeed in all, but his untimely fate. if i adopt you with no better grace, pardon a father's tears upon my face, and give them to charinus' memory: may they not prove as ominous to thee! _por._ with what misfortunes heaven torments me still! why must i be obliged to one so ill? [_aside._ _max._ those offers which i made you, sir, were such, no private man should need to balance much. _por._ who durst his thoughts to such ambition lift? [_kneeling._ the greatness of it made me doubt the gift. the distance was so vast, that to my view it made the object seem at first untrue; and now 'tis near, the sudden excellence strikes through, and flashes on my tender sense. _max._ yet heaven and earth, which so remote appear, [_raising him._ are by the air, which flows betwixt them, near; and 'twixt us two my daughter be the chain, one end with me, and one with you remain. _por._ you press me down with such a glorious fate, [_kneeling again._ i cannot rise against the mighty weight. permit i may retire some little space, and gather strength to bear so great a grace. [_exit bowing._ _plac._ how love and fortune lavishly contend, which should porphyrius' wishes most befriend! the mid-streams his; i, creeping by the side, am shouldered off by his impetuous tide. [_aside._ _enter_ valerius _hastily_. _val._ i hope my business may my haste excuse; for, sir, i bring you most surprising news. the christian princess in her tent confers with fifty of our learned philosophers; whom with such eloquence she does persuade, that they are captives to her reasons made. i left them yielding up their vanquished cause, and all the soldiers shouting her applause; even apollonius does but faintly speak, whose voice the murmurs of the assistants break. _max._ conduct this captive christian to my tent; she shall be brought to speedy punishment. i must in time some remedy provide, [_exit_ val. lest this contagious error spread too wide. _plac._ to infected zeal you must no mercy shew; for, from religion all rebellions grow. _max._ the silly crowd, by factious teachers brought to think that faith untrue, their youth was taught, run on in new opinions, blindly bold, neglect, contemn, and then assault the old. the infectious madness seizes every part, and from the head distils upon the heart. and first they think their prince's faith not true, and then proceed to offer him a new; which if refused, all duty from them cast, to their new faith they make new kings at last. _plac._ those ills by mal-contents are often wrought, that by their prince their duty may be bought. they head those holy factions which they hate, to sell their duty at a dearer rate. but, sir, the tribune is already here, with your fair captive. _max._ bid them both appear. _enter st_ catherine, valerius, apollonius, _and guards_. see where she comes, with that high air and mein, which marks, in bonds, the greatness of a queen. what pity 'tis!--but i no charms must see in her, who to our gods is enemy.---- fair foe of heaven, whence comes this haughty pride, [_to her._ or, is it frenzy does your mind misguide to scorn our worship, and new gods to find? _s. cath._ nor pride, nor frenzy, but a settled mind, enlightened from above, my way does mark. _max._ though heaven be clear, the way to it is dark. _s. cath._ but where our reason with our faith does go, we're both above enlightened, and below. but reason with your fond religion fights, for many gods are many infinites: this to the first philosophers was known, who, under various names, adored but one; though your vain poets, after, did mistake, who every attribute a god did make; and so obscene their ceremonies be, as good men loath, and cato blushed to see. _max._ war is my province!--priest, why stand you mute? you gain by heaven, and, therefore, should dispute. _apol._ in all religions, as in ours, there are some solid truths, and some things popular. the popular in pleasing fables lie; the truths, in precepts of morality. and these to human life are of that use, that no religion can such rules produce. _s. cath._ then let the whole dispute concluded be betwixt these rules, and christianity. _apol._ and what more noble can your doctrine preach, than virtue, which philosophy does teach? to keep the passions in severest awe, to live to reason, nature's greatest law; to follow virtue, as its own reward; and good and ill, as things without regard. _s. cath._ yet few could follow those strict rules they gave; for human life will human frailties have; and love of virtue is but barren praise, airy as fame; nor strong enough to raise the actions of the soul above the sense. virtue grows cold without a recompence. we virtuous acts as duty do regard; yet are permitted to expect reward. _apol._ by how much more your faith reward assures, so much more frank our virtue is than yours. _s. cath._ blind men! you seek e'en those rewards you blame: but ours are solid; yours an empty name. either to open praise your acts you guide, or else reward yourselves with secret pride. _apol._ yet still our moral virtues you obey; ours are the precepts, though applied your way. _s. cath._ 'tis true, your virtues are the same we teach; but in our practice they much higher reach. you but forbid to take another's due, but we forbid even to desire it too: revenge of injuries you virtue call; but we forgiveness of our wrongs extol: immodest deeds you hinder to be wrought, but we proscribe the least immodest thought. so much your virtues are in ours refined, that yours but reach the actions, ours the mind. _max._ answer, in short, to what you heard her speak. [_to_ apol. _apol._ where truth prevails, all arguments are weak. to that convincing power i must give place; and with that truth that faith i will embrace. _max._ o traitor to our gods--but more to me! dar'st thou of any faith but of thy prince's be? but sure thou rav'st; thy foolish error find: cast up the poison that infects thy mind, and shun the torments thou art sure to feel. _apol._ nor fire, nor torture, nor revenging steel can on my soul the least impression make: how gladly, truth, i suffer for thy sake! once i was ignorant of what was so; but never can abandon truth i know. my martyrdom i to thy crown prefer; truth is a cause for a philosopher. _s. cath._ lose not that courage which heaven does inspire; [_to_ apol. but fearless go to be baptised in fire. think 'tis a triumph, not a danger near: give him your blood; but give him not a tear. go, and prepare my seat; and hovering be near that bright space, which is reserved for me. _max._ hence with the traitor; bear him to his fate. _apol._ tyrant, i fear thy pity, not thy hate: a life eternal i by death obtain. _max._ go, carry him, where he that life may gain. [_exeunt_ apol. val. _and guards_. _plac._ from this enchantress all these ills are come: you are not safe till you pronounce her doom. each hour she lives a legion sweeps away; she'll make your army martyrs in a day. _max._ 'tis just: this christian sorceress shall die. would i had never proved her sorcery! not that her charming tongue this change has bred; i fear 'tis something that her eyes have said. i love; and am ashamed it should be seen. [_aside._ _plac._ sir, shall she die? _max._ consider, she's a queen. _plac._ those claims in cleopatra ended were. _max._ how many cleopatra's live in her! [_aside._ _plac._ when you condemned her, sir, she was a queen. _max._ no, slave! she only was a captive then. _s. cath._ my joyful sentence you defer too long. _max._ i never knew that life was such a wrong. but if you needs will die,--it shall be so. --yet think it does from your perverseness flow. men say, indeed, that i in blood delight; but you shall find--haste, take her from my sight! --for maximin i have too much confest; and, for a lover, not enough exprest. absent, i may her martyrdom decree; but one look more will make that martyr me. [_exit st_ catharine, _guarded_. _plac._ what is it, sir, that shakes your mighty mind? _max._ somewhat i am ashamed that thou shouldst find. _plac._ if it be love, which does your soul possess---- _max._ are you my rival, that so soon you guess? _plac._ far, mighty prince, be such a crime from me; [_kneeling._ which, with the pride, includes impiety. could you forgive it, yet the gods above would never pardon me a christian love. _max._ thou liest:--there's not a god inhabits there, but for this christian would all heaven forswear. even jove would try more shapes her love to win, } and in new birds, and unknown beasts, would sin: } at least, if jove could love like maximin. } _plac._ a captive, sir, who would a martyr die? _max._ she courts not death, but shuns captivity. great gifts, and greater promises i'll make: and what religion is't, but they can shake? she shall live high;--devotion in distress is born, but vanishes in happiness. [_exit_ max. _plac._ [_solus_.] his son forgot, his empress unappeased-- how soon the tyrant with new love is seized! love various minds does variously inspire: he stirs, in gentle natures, gentle fire, like that of incense on the altars laid; but raging flames tempestuous souls invade; a fire, which every windy passion blows; with pride it mounts, and with revenge it glows. but i accursed, who servilely must move, and sooth his passion, for his daughters love! small hope, 'tis true, attends my mighty care; but of all passions love does last despair. [_exit._ act iii. scene i.--_the royal pavilion_. _enter_ maximin, placidius, _guards, and attendants_. _max._ this love, that never could my youth engage, peeps out his coward head to dare my age. where hast thou been thus long, thou sleeping form, that wak'st, like drowsy seamen, in a storm? a sullen hour thou chusest for thy birth: my love shoots up in tempests, as the earth is stirred and loosened in a blust'ring wind, whose blasts to waiting flowers her womb unbind. _plac._ forgive me, if i say your passions are so rough, as if in love you would make war. but love is soft-- and with soft beauty tenderly complies; in lips it laughs, and languishes in eyes. _max._ there, let it laugh; or, like an infant, weep: i cannot such a supple passion keep. mine, stiff with age, and stubborn as my arms, walks upright; stoops not to, but meets her charms. _plac._ yet fierceness suits not with her gentle kind; they brave assaults, but may be undermined. _max._ till i in those mean arts am better read, court thou, and fawn, and flatter in my stead. _enter st_ catharine. she comes; and now, methinks, i could obey; her form glides through me, and my heart gives way: this iron heart, which no impression took from wars, melts down, and runs, if she but look. [_exit_ maximin. _plac._ madam, i from the emperor am come, to applaud your virtue, and reverse your doom. he thinks, whatever your religion be, this palm is owing to your constancy. _s. cath._ my constancy from him seeks no renown; heaven, that proposed the course, will give the crown. _plac._ but monarchs are the gods' vicegerents here; heaven gives rewards; but what it gives they bear: from heaven to you the egyptian crown is sent, yet 'tis a prince who does the gift present. _s. cath._ the deity i serve, had he thought fit, could have preserved my crown unconquered yet: but when his secret providence designed to level that, he levelled too my mind; which, by contracting its desires, is taught the humble quiet of possessing nought. _plac._ to stoicks leave a happiness so mean: your virtue does deserve a nobler scene. you are not for obscurity designed, but, like the sun, must cheer all human kind. _s. cath._ no happiness can be, where is no rest: th' unknown, untalked of man is only blest. he, as in some safe cliff, his cell does keep, from whence he views the labours of the deep: the gold-fraught vessel, which mad tempests beat, he sees now vainly make to his retreat; and when, from far, the tenth wave does appear, shrinks up in silent joy, that he's not there. _plac._ you have a pilot who your ship secures; the monarch both of earth and seas is yours; he, who so freely gives a crown away, yet asks no tribute but what you may pay. one smile on him a greater wealth bestows, than egypt yields, when nilus overflows. _s. cath._ i cannot wholly innocent appear, since i have lived such words as these to hear. o heaven, which dost of chastity take care-- _plac._ why do you lose an unregarded prayer? if happiness, as you believe, be rest, that quiet sure is by the gods possest:-- 'tis greatness to neglect, or not to know, the little business of the world below. _s. cath._ this doctrine well befitted him, who thought a casual world was from wild atoms wrought: but such an order in each chance we see, (chained to its cause, as that to its decree,) that none can think a workmanship so rare was built, or kept, without a workman's care. _to them_ maximin, _attendants, and guards_. _max._ madam, you from placidius may have heard some news, which will your happiness regard; for what a greater happiness can be, than to be courted and be loved by me? the egyptian crown i to your hands remit; and, with it, take his heart, who offers it. [_she turns aside._ do you my person and my gift contemn? _s. cath._ my hopes pursue a brighter diadem. _max._ can any brighter than the roman be? i find my proffered love has cheapen'd me: since you neglect to answer my desires, know, princess, you shall burn in other fires. ----why should you urge me to so black a deed? think all my anger did from love proceed. _s. cath._ nor threats nor promises my mind can move; your furious anger, nor your impious love. _max._ the love of you can never impious be; you are so pure---- that in the act 'twould change the impiety. heaven would unmake it sin!---- _s. cath._ i take myself from that detested sight: to my respect thou hast no longer right: such power in bonds true piety can have, that i command, and thou art but a slave. [_exit st_ cath. _max._ to what a height of arrogance she swells! pride, or ill-nature, still with virtue dwells. her death shall set me free this very hour; ----but is her death within a lover's power? wild with my rage, more wild with my desire, like meeting tides--but mine are tides of fire. what petty promise was't that caused this frown? _plac._ you heard: no less than the egyptian crown. _max._ throw egypt's by, and offer, in the stead, offer----the crown on berenice's head. i am resolved to double till i win; about it straight, and send porphyrius in. [_exit_ plac. we look like eagles towering in the sky; while her high flight still raises mine more high. _to him_ porphyrius. _por._ i come, sir, to expect your great commands. _max._ my happiness lies only in thy hands; and, since i have adopted thee my son, i'll keep no secret from thy breast unknown. led by the interest of my rising fate, i did espouse this empress, whom i hate; and, therefore, with less shame i may declare, that i the fetters of thy captive wear. _por._ sir, you amaze me with so strange a love. _max._ pity, my son, those flames you disapprove. the cause of love can never be assigned; 'tis in no face, but in the lover's mind. _por._ yet there are beauties which attract all hearts, and all mankind lies open to their darts; whose sovereignty, without dispute, we grant; such graces, sure, your empress does not want. _max._ beauty has bounds---- and can no more to every heart be so, than any coin through every land can go. some secret grace, which is but so to me, though not so great, may yet more powerful be. all guard themselves when stronger foes invade; } yet, by the weak, surprises may be made: } but you, my son, are not to judge, but aid. } _por._ what is it, sir, you can require of me? _max._ i would from berenice's bonds be free; this yoke of marriage from us both remove, where two are bound to draw, though neither love. _por._ neither the gods nor man will give consent to put in practice your unjust intent. _max._ both must consent to that which i decree. _por._ the soldiers love her brother's memory; and for her sake some mutiny will stir. _max._ our parting, therefore, shall be sought by her. go, bid her sue for a divorce, or die; i'll cut the knot, if she will not untie: haste to prepare her, and thyself return; thy hymen's torch this day with mine shall burn. [_exit._ _por._ rather my funeral-torch; for, though i know valeria's fair, and that she loves me too, 'gainst her my soul is armed on every part: yet there are secret rivets to my heart, where berenice's charms have found the way; subtle as lightnings, but more fierce than they. how shall i this avoid, or gain that love! so near the rock, i to the port must move. _to him_ valeria _attended_. _val._ porphyrius, now my joy i may express, nor longer hide the love i must possess. should i have staid till marriage made us one, you might have thought it was by duty done; but of my heart i now a present make; and give it you, ere it be yours to take. accept it as when early fruit we send; and let the rareness the small gift commend. _por._ great monarchs, like your father, often give what is above a subject to receive. but faithful officers should countermand and stop the gift, that passes through their hand; and to their prince that mass of wealth restore, which, lavished thus, would make whole nations poor. _val._ but to this gift a double right you have: my father gives but what before i gave. _por._ in vain you such unequal presents make, which i still want capacity to take. such fatal bounty once the gauls did show; they threw their rings, but threw their targets too. bounty, so placed, does more like ruin look; you pour the ocean on a narrow brook. _val._ yet, if your love before prepares a boat, the stream so poured, drowns not, but makes it float. _por._ but when the vessel is on quicksands cast, the flowing tide does more the sinking haste. _val._ and on what quicksands can your heart be thrown? can you a love besides valeria's own? _por._ if he who at your feet his heart would lay, be met with first, and robbed upon the way, you may indeed the robber's strength accuse, but pardon him, who did the present lose. _val._ who is this thief, that does my right possess? name her, and then we of her strength may guess.-- from whence does your unwonted silence come? _por._ she bound and gagged me, and has left me dumb. _val._ but of my wrongs i will aloud complain. false man, thou wouldst excuse thyself in vain; for thee i did a maiden's blush forsake; and owned a love thou hast refused to take. _por._ refused it!--like a miser, midst his store, who grasps and grasps, till he can hold no more; and when his strength is wanting to his mind, looks back, and sighs on what he left behind. _val._ no, i resume that heart thou didst possess; my father shall my injuries redress: with me thou losest his imperial crown, and speedy death attends upon his frown. _por._ you may revenge your wrongs a nobler way; command my death, and i will soon obey. _val._ no, live! for, on thy life my cure depends: in debtors' deaths all obligation ends: 'twill be some ease ungrateful thee to call; and, bankrupt-like, say, trusting him lost all. _por._ upbraided thus, what generous man would live! but fortune will revenge what you forgive. when i refuse, (as in few hours i must) this offered grace, your father will be just. _val._ be just! say rather he will cruel prove, to kill that only person i can love. yet so it is!---- your interest in the army is so high, that he must make you his, or you must die. it is resolved! whoe'er my rival be, [_aside, after a pause._ i'll show that i deserve him more than she; and if, at last, he does ungrateful prove, my constancy itself rewards my love. [_exit._ _por._ she's gone, and, gazing round about, i see nothing but death, or glorious misery; here empire stands, if i could love displace; there, hopeless love, with more imperial grace; thus, as a sinking hero, compassed round. beckons his bravest foe for his last wound, and him into his part of fame does call, i'll turn my face to love, and there i'll fall. _to him_ berenice, _and_ erotion. _ber._ i come, porphyrius, to congratulate this happy change of your exalted fate: you to the empire are, i hear, designed; and fair valeria must the alliance bind. _por._ would heaven had my succession so decreed, that i in all might maximin succeed! he offers me the imperial crown, 'tis true: i would succeed him, but it is in you. _ber._ in me! i never did accept your love: but you, i see, would handsomely remove; and i can give you leave, without a frown: i always thought you merited a crown. _por._ i never sought that crown but on your brow; but you with such indifference would allow my change, that you have killed me with that breath; i feel your scorn cold as the hand of death. _ber._ you'll come to life in your valeria's arms. 'tis true, i cannot boast of equal charms; or, if i could, i never did admit your love to me, but only suffered it. i am a wife, and can make no return; and 'twere but vain in hopeless fires to burn. _por._ unkind! can you, whom only i adore, set open to your slave the prison-door? you use my heart just as you would afford a fatal freedom to some harmless bird, whom, breeding, you ne'er taught to seek its food; and now let fly to perish in the wood. _ber._ then, if you will love on, and disobey, and lose an empire for my sake, you may. will a kind look from me pay all this score, for you well know you must expect no more? _por._ all i deserve it will, not all i wish: but i will brave the tyrant's rage for this. if i refuse, my death must needs ensue; but you shall see that i dare die for you. _ber._ would you, for me, a beauty, and an empire too deny? i love you now so well--that you shall die. die mine! 'tis all i can, with honour, give: nor should you die, if after, i would live. but when your marriage and your death i view, that, makes you false, but this will keep you true. _por._ unbind thy brows, and look abroad to see, o mighty love, thy mightiest victory! _ber._ and yet----is there no other way to try? 'tis hard to say i love, and let you die. _por._ yes, there remains some help which you might give, if you, as i would die for love, would live. _ber._ if death for love be sweet, sure life is more: teach me the means your safety to restore. _por._ your tyrant the egyptian princess loves; and to that height his swelling passion moves, that, fearing in your death the soldiers' force, he from your bed does study a divorce. _ber._ the egyptian princess i disputing heard, and as a miracle her mind regard. but yet i wish that this divorce be true. [_gives her hand._ _por._ 'tis, madam, but it must be sought by you. by this he will all mutinies prevent; and this as well secures your own content. _ber._ i hate this tyrant, and his bed i loath; but, once submitting, i am tied to both: tied to that honour, which all women owe, though not their husband's person, yet their vow. something so sacred in that bond there is, that none should think there could be aught amiss: and if there be, we should in silence hide those faults, which blame our choice, when they are spied. _por._ but, since to all the world his crimes are known. and by himself the civil war's begun, would you the advantage of the fight delay, if, striking first, you were to win the day? _ber._ i would, like jews upon their sabbath, fall; and, rather than strike first, not strike at all. _por._ against yourself you sadly prophecy: you either this divorce must seek, or die. _ber._ then death from all my griefs shall set me free. _por._ and would you rather chuse your death, than me? _ber._ my earthly part---- which is my tyrant's right, death will remove; i'll come all soul and spirit to your love. with silent steps i'll follow you all day, or else before you, in the sun beams, play: i'll lead you thence to melancholy groves, and there repeat the scenes of our past loves: at night, i will within your curtains peep; with empty arms embrace you while you sleep: in gentle dreams i often will be by, and sweep along before your closing eye: all dangers from your bed i will remove; but guard it most from any future love: and when, at last, in pity, you will die, i'll watch your birth of immortality: then, turtle-like, i'll to my mate repair, and teach you your first flight in open air. [_exit_ berenice _and_ eration. _por._ she has but done what honour did require; nor can i blame that love, which i admire. but then her death! i'll stand betwixt, it first shall pierce my heart: we will be stuck together on his dart. but yet the danger not so high does grow: i'll charge death first, perhaps repulse him too. but if, o'erpowered, i must be overcome, forced back, i'll fight each inch into my tomb. [_exit._ act iv. scene i.--_an indian cave_. _enter_ placidius _and_ nigrinus. nigrinus, _with two drawn swords, held upward in his hands_. _plac._ all other means have failed to move her heart; our last resource is, therefore, to your art. _nig._ of wars, and bloodshed, and of dire events, of fates, and fighting kings, their instruments, i could with greater certainty foretell; love only does in doubts and darkness dwell. for, like a wind, it in no quarter stays, but points and veers each hour a thousand ways. on women love depends, and they on will; chance turns their orb, while destiny sits still. _plac._ leave nothing unattempted in your power: remember you oblige an emperor. _nig._ an earthy fiend by compact me obeys; but him to light intents i must not raise. some astral forms i must invoke by prayer, framed all of purest atoms of the air; not in their natures simply good or ill; but most subservient to bad spirits' will, nakar of these does lead the mighty band, for eighty legions move at his command: gentle to all, but, far above the rest, mild nakar loves his soft damilcar best. in airy chariots they together ride, and sip the dew as through the clouds they glide: these are the spirits, which in love have power. _plac._ haste, and invoke them in a happy hour. _nig._ and so it proves: for, counting seven from noon, 'tis venus' hour, and in the waxing moon, with chalk i first describe a circle here, where these etherial spirits must appear. come in, come in; for here they will be strait: around, around, the place i fumigate: my fumigation is to venus just: the souls of roses, and red coral's dust; a lump of sperma ceti; and to these the stalks and chips of lignum aloes; and, last, to make my fumigation good, 'tis mixt with sparrows' brains, and pigeons' blood. [nigrinus _takes up the swords._ they come, they come, they come! i hear them now. _plac._ a death-like damp sits cold upon my brow, and misty vapours swim before my sight. _nig._ they come not in a shape to cause your fright. nakar and damilcar descend in clouds, and sing, nakar. _hark, my damilcar, we are called below!_ dam. _let us go, let us go! go to relieve the care of longing lovers in despair!_ nakar. _merry, merry, merry, we sail from the east, half tippled at a rainbow feast._ dam. _in the bright moonshine while winds whistle loud, tivy, tivy, tivy, we mount and we fly, all racking along in a downy white cloud: and lest our leap from the sky should prove too far, we slide on the back of a new-falling star._ nakar. _and drop from above in a jelly of love!_ dam. _but now the sun's down, and the element's red, the spirits of fire against us make head!_ nakar. _they muster, they muster, like gnats in the air: alas! i must leave thee, my fair; and to my light horse-men repair._ dam. _o stay, for you need not to fear them to-night; the wind is for us, and blows full in their sight: and o'er the wide ocean we fight! like leaves in the autumn our foes will fall down; and hiss in the water._ both. _and hiss in the water, and drown!_ nakar. _but their men lie securely intrenched in a cloud, and a trumpeter-hornet to battle sounds loud._ dam. _now mortals that spy how we tilt in the sky, with wonder will gaze; and fear such events as will ne'er come to pass._ nakar. _stay you to perform what the men will have done._ dam. _then call me again when the battle is won._ both. _so ready and quick is a spirit of air to pity the lover, and succour the fair, that, silent and swift, the little soft god is here with a wish, and is gone with a nod._ [the clouds part, nakar flies up, and damilcar down. _nig._ i charge thee, spirit, stay; and by the power [_to_ damilcar. of nakar's love, and of this holy wand, on the north quarter of my circle stand, (seven foot around for my defence i take.) to all my questions faithful answers make! so mayest thou live thy thousand years in peace, and see thy airy progeny increase: so mayest thou still continue young and fair, fed by the blast of pure ætherial air, and, thy full term expired, without all pain, dissolve into thy astral source again. _dam._ name not my hated rival gemory, and i'll speak true whate'er thy questions be. _nig._ thy rival's hated name i will refrain: speak, shall the emperor his love obtain? _dam._ few hours shall pass before your emperor shall be possessed of that he loves, or from that love be free. _plac._ shall i enjoy that beauty i adore? _dam._ she, suppliant-like, ere long, thy succour shall implore: and thou with her thou lovest in happiness may'st live, if she not dies before, who all thy joys can give. _nig._ say, what does the egyptian princess now? _dam._ a gentle slumber sits upon her brow. _nig._ go, stand before her in a golden dream: set all the pleasures of the world to shew, and in vain joys let her loose spirit flow. _dam._ twice fifty tents remove her from your sight, but i'll cut through them all with rays of light; and covering other objects to your eyes, shew where entranced in silent sleep she lies. damilcar _stamps, and the bed arises with st_ catharine _in it_. damilcar singing. _you pleasing dreams of love and sweet delight, appear before this slumbering virgins sight: soft visions set her free from mournful piety. let her sad thoughts from heaven retire; and let the melancholy love of those remoter joys above give place to your more sprightly fire. let purling streams be in her fancy seen; and flowery meads, and vales of chearful green: and in the midst of deathless groves soft sighing wishes lie, and smiling hopes fast by, and just beyond them ever-laughing loves._ _a_ scene _of a paradise is discovered_. _plac._ some pleasing objects do her mind employ; for on her face i read a wandering joy. song. dam. _ah how sweet it is to love! ah how gay is young desire! and what pleasing pains we prove when we first approach love's fire! pains of love be sweeter far than all other pleasures are._ _sighs, which are from lovers blown, do but gently heave the heart: even the tears they shed alone, cure, like trickling balm, their smart. lovers when they lose their breath, bleed away in easy death._ _love and time with reverence use, treat them like a parting friend: nor the golden gifts refuse, which in youth sincere they send: for each year their price is more, and they less simple than before._ _love, like spring-tides full and high, swells in every youthful vein; but each tide does less supply, till they quite shrink in again: if a flow in age appear, 'tis but rain, and runs not clear._ _at the end of the song a dance of spirits. after which_ amariel, _the guardian-angel of st_ catharine, _descends to soft music, with a flaming sword. the spirits crawl off the stage amazedly, and_ damilcar _runs to a corner of it_. _amar._ from the bright empire of eternal day, where waiting minds for heaven's commission stay, amariel flies: a darted mandate came from that great will which moves this mighty frame; bid me to thee, my royal charge, repair, to guard thee from the dæmons of the air; my flaming sword above them to display, (all keen, and ground upon the edge of day;) the flat to sweep the visions from thy mind, the edge to cut them through that stay behind. vain spirits, you, that, shunning heaven's high noon, swarm here beneath the concave of the moon, what folly, or what rage, your duty blinds, to violate the sleep of holy minds? hence, to the task assigned you here below! upon the ocean make loud tempests blow; into the wombs of hollow clouds repair, and crush out thunder from the bladdered air; from pointed sun-beams take the mists they drew, and scatter them again in pearly dew; and of the bigger drops they drain below, some mould in hail, and others stamp in snow. _dam._ mercy, bright spirit! i already feel the piercing edge of thy immortal steel: thou, prince of day, from elements art free; and i all body when compared to thee. thou tread'st the abyss of light, and where it streams with open eyes canst go: we wander in the fields of air below, changelings and fools of heaven; and thence shut out, wildly we roam in discontent about: gross heavy-fed, next man in ignorance and sin, and spotted all without, and dusky all within. without thy sword i perish by thy sight; i reel, and stagger, and am drunk with light. _amar._ if e'er again thou on this place art found, full fifty years i'll chain thee under ground; the damps of earth shall be thy daily food, all swoln and bloated like a dungeon toad: and when thou shalt be freed, yet thou shalt lie gasping upon the ground, too faint to fly, and lag below thy fellows in the sky. _dam._ o pardon, pardon this accursed deed, and i no more on magic fumes will feed, which drew me hither by their powerful steams. _amar._ go expiate thy guilt in holy dreams. [_exit_ dam. but thou, sweet saint, henceforth disturb no more [_to_ s. cath. with dreams not thine, thy thoughts to heaven restore. [_the angel ascends, and the scene shuts._ _nig._ some holy being does invade this place, and from their duty does my spirits chase. i dare no longer near it make abode: no charms prevail against the christians' god. [_exit._ _plac._ how doubtfully these spectres fate foretell! in double sense, and twilight truth they dwell: like fawning courtiers for success they wait, and then come smiling, and declare for fate. _enter_ maximin _and_ porphyrius, _attended by_ valerius _and guards_. but see, the tyrant and my rival come: i, like the fiends, will flatter in his doom: none but a fool distasteful truth will tell, so it be new and please, 'tis full as well. [plac. _whispers with the emperor, who seems pleased._ _max._ you charm me with your news, which i'll reward; by hopes we are for coming joys prepared: possess her love, or from that love be free;-- heaven speaks me fair: if she as kind can prove, i shall possess, but never quit my love. go, tell me when she wakes. [_exit_ plac. [porphyrius _seems to beg something of him._ --porphyrius, no; she has refused, and i will keep my vow. _por._ for your own sake your cruel vow defer; the time's unsafe, your enemies are near, and to displease your men when they should fight-- _max._ my looks alone my enemies will fright; and o'er my men i'll set my careful spies, to watch rebellion in their very eyes. no more, i cannot bear the least reply. _por._ yet, tyrant, thou shalt perish ere she die. [_aside._ _enter_ valeria. valeria here! how fortune treats me still with various harms, magnificently ill! _max._ valeria, i was sending to your tent, [_to_ val. but my commands your presence does prevent. this is the hour, wherein the priest shall join your holy loves, and make porphyrius mine. _val._ now hold, my heart! and venus i implore, be judge if she he loves deserves him more. [_aside._ _por._ past hope! and all in vain i would preserve my life, not for myself, but her i serve. [_aside._ _val._ i come, great sir, your justice to demand. [_to the emperor._ _max._ you cannot doubt it from a father's hand. _por._ sir, i confess, before her suit be known; and by myself condemned, my crime i own. i have refused. _val._ peace, peace, while i confess i have refused thee for unworthiness. _por._ i am amazed. _max._ what riddles do you use? dare either of you my commands refuse? _val._ yes, i dare own, howe'er 'twas wisely done to adopt so mean a person for your son, so low you should not for your daughter chuse; and, therefore, sir, this marriage i refuse. _max._ you liked the choice when first i thought, it fit. _val._ i had not then enough considered it. _max._ and you have now considered it too much: secrets of empire are not safe to touch. _por._ let not your mighty anger rise too high; 'tis not valeria merits it, but i: my own unworthiness so well i knew, that from her love i consciously withdrew. _val._ thus rather than endure the little shame to be refused, you blast a virgin's name. you to refuse, and i to be denied! learn more discretion, or be taught less pride. _por._ o heaven, in what a labyrinth am i led! i could get out, but she detains the thread. now must i wander on, till i can see, whether her pity or revenge it be. [_aside._ _max._ with what child's anger do you think you play? i'll punish both, if either disobey. _val._ since all the fault was mine, i am content, porphyrius should not share the punishment. _por._ blind that i was till now, that could not see 'twas all the effect of generosity! she loves me, even to suffer for my sake; and on herself would my refusal take. [_aside._ _max._ children to serve their parents int'rest live; take heed what doom against yourself you give. [_to_ val. _por._ since she must suffer, if i do not speak, 'tis time the laws of decency to break. she told me, sir, that she your choice approved, and (though i blush to own it) said she loved; loved me desertless, who, with shame, confest another flame had seized upon my breast; which when, too late, the generous princess knew, and feared your justice would my crime pursue, upon herself she makes the tempest fall, and my refusal her contempt would call. _val._ he raves, sir, and, to cover my disdain, unhandsomely would his denial feign: and, all means failing him, at last would try to usurp the credit of a scorn, and die. but, let him live: his punishment shall be the grief his pride will bring for losing me. _max._ you both obnoxious to my justice are; and, daughter, you have not deserved my care. 'tis my command you strictly guarded be, till your fantastic quarrel you agree. _por._ sir-- _max._ i'll not hear you speak, her crime is plain; she owns her pride, which you perhaps may feign. she shall be prisoner till she bend her mind to that, which is for both of you designed. _val._ you'll find it hard my free-born will to bound. _max._ i'll find that power o'er wills, which heaven ne'er found. free-will's a cheat in any one but me; in all but kings, 'tis willing slavery; an unseen fate which forces the desire; the will of puppets danced upon a wire. a monarch is the spirit of the world in every mind; he may match wolves to lambs, and make it kind. mine is the business of your little fates; and though you war, like petty wrangling states, you're in my hand; and, when i bid you cease, you shall be crushed together into peace. _val._ thus by the world my courage will be prized; [_aside._ seeming to scorn, who am, alas, despised: dying for love's, fulfilling honour's laws; a secret martyr, while i own no cause. [_exit_ val. _max._ porphyrius, stay; there's some thing i would hear: you said you loved, and you must tell me where. _por._ all heaven is to my sole destruction bent. [_aside._ _max._ you would, it seems, have leisure to invent. _por._ her name in pity, sir, i must forbear, lest my offences you revenge on her. _max._ my promise for her life i do engage. _por._ will that, sir, be remembered in your rage? _max._ speak, or your silence more my rage will move; 'twill argue that you rival me in love. _por._ can you believe that my ambitious flame should mount so high as berenice's name? _max._ your guilt dares not approach what it would hide; but draws me off, and (lapwing-like) flies wide. 'tis not my wife, but mistress, you adore: though that affront, yet this offends me more. who courts my wife, does to my honour more injurious prove; but he, who courts my mistress, wrongs my love. _por._ the egyptian princess ne'er could move my heart. _max._ you could not perish by a nobler dart. _por._ sir, i presume not beauties to compare; but in my eyes my princess is as fair. _max._ your princess! then it seems, though you deny her name you love, you own her quality. _por._ though not by birth or title so, yet she, who rules my heart, a princess is to me. _max._ no, no; 'tis plain that word you unawares did use, and told a truth which now you would excuse. besides my wife and mistress, here are none, who can the title of a princess own. _por._ there is one more, your daughter, sir: let that your doubt remove. _max._ but she is not that princess whom you love. _por._ i named not love, though it might doubtful seem: she's fair, and is that princess i esteem. _max._ go, and to passion your esteem improve, while i command her to receive your love. [_exit_ por. _enter_ st catharine. _s. cath._ i come not now, as captive to your power, to beg; but as high heaven's ambassador, the laws of my religion to fulfil: heaven sends me to return you good for ill. your empress to your love i would restore, and to your mind the peace it had before. _max._ while in another's name you peace declare, princess, you in your own proclaim a war. your too great power does your design oppose; you make those breaches which you strive to close. _s. cath._ that little beauty, which too much you prize, seeks not to move your heart, or draw your eyes: your love to berenice is due alone; love, like that power which i adore, is one. when fixed to one, it safe at anchor rides, and dares the fury of the winds and tides; but losing once that hold, to the wide ocean borne. it drives away at will, to every wave a scorn. _max._ if to new persons i my love apply, the stars and nature are in fault, not i: my loves are like my old prætorian bands, whose arbitrary power their prince commands: i can no more make passion come or go, than you can bid your nilus ebb or flow. 'tis lawless, and will love, and where it list; and that's no sin, which no man can resist: those who impute it to me as a crime, would make a god of me before my time. _s. cath._ a god indeed, after the roman stile, an eagle mounting from a kindled pile: but you may make yourself a god below; for kings, who rule their own desires, are so. you roam about, and never are at rest, by new desires, that is, new torments, still possest; qualmish and loathing all you had before, yet with a sickly appetite to more: as in a feverish dream you still drink on, and wonder why your thirst is never gone; love, like a ghostly vision, haunts your mind, 'tis still before you what you left behind. _max._ how can i help those faults which nature made? my appetite is sickly and decayed, and you forbid me change, the sick man's ease! who cannot cure, must humour his disease. _s. cath._ your mind should first the remedy begin; you seek without the cure that is within. the vain experiments you make each day, to find content, still finding it decay, without attempting more, should let you see, that you have sought it where it ne'er could be. but when you place your joys on things above, you fix the wandering planet of your love: thence you may see poor human kind, all dazed in open day, err after bliss, and blindly miss their way: the greatest happiness a prince can know, is to love heaven above, do good below. _to them_ berenice _and attendants_. _ber._ that happiness may berenice find, leaving these empty joys of earth behind; and this frail being, where so short a while the unfortunate lament, and prosperous smile. yet a few days, and those which now appear in youth and beauty like the blooming year, in life's swift scene shall change; and cares shall come, and heavy age, and death's relentless doom. _s. cath._ yet man, by pleasures, seeks that fate which he would shun; and, sucked in by the stream, does to the whirlpool run. _max._ how, madam, are you to new ways inclined? i fear the christian sect perverts your mind. [_to_ ber. _ber._ yes, tyrant, know, that i their faith embrace, and own it in the midst of my disgrace; that faith, which, abject as it seems to thee, is nobler than thy purple pageantry; a faith, which still with nature is at strife, and looks beyond it to a future life; a faith, which vicious souls abhor and fear, because it shows eternity too near: and therefore every one, with seeming scorn of it the rest deceives; all joining not to own what each believes. _s. cath._ o happy queen! whom power leads not astray, nor youth's more powerful blandishments betray. _ber._ your arguments my reason first inclined, and then your bright example fixed my mind. _max._ with what a holy empress am i blest! what scorn of earth dwells in her heavenly breast! my crown's too mean; but he, whom you adore, has one more bright, of martyrdom, in store. she dies, and i am from the envy freed: [_aside._ she has, i thank her, her own death decreed. no soldier now will in her rescue stir; her death is but in complaisance to her. i'll haste to gratify her holy will;-- heaven grant her zeal may but continue still! tribune, a guard to seize the empress strait; [_to_ val. secure her person prisoner to the state. [_exit_ max. _val._ [_going to her_.] madam, believe 'tis with regret i come, to execute my angry prince's doom. _enter_ porphyrius. _por._ what is it i behold! tribune, from whence proceeds this more than barbarous insolence? _val._ sir, i perform the emperor's commands. _por._ villain, hold off thy sacrilegious hands, or, by the gods--retire without reply; and, if he asks who bid thee, say 'twas i. [val. _retires to a distance._ _ber._ too generously your safety you expose, to save one moment her, whom you must lose. _por._ 'twixt you and death ten thousand lives there stand; have courage, madam; the prætorian band will all oppose your tyrant's cruelty. _s. cath._ and i have heaven implored she may not die: as some to witness truth heaven's call obey, so some on earth must, to confirm it, stay. _por._ what faith, what witness, is it that you name? _ber._ knowing what she believes, my faith's the same. _por._ how am i crossed, what way soe'er i go! to the unlucky every thing is so. now, fortune, thou hast shown thy utmost spite; the soldiers will not for a christian fight: and, madam, all that i can promise now, is but to die, before death reaches you. _ber._ now death draws near, a strange perplexity creeps coldly on me, like a fear to die: courage uncertain dangers may abate; but who can bear the approach of certain fate? _s. cath._ the wisest and the best some fear may show, and wish to stay, though they resolve to go. _ber._ as some faint pilgrim, standing on the shore, first views the torrent he would venture o'er; and then his inn upon the farther ground, loth to wade through, and lother to go round; then dipping in his staff, does trial make how deep it is, and, sighing, pulls it back; sometimes resolved to fetch his leap, and then runs to the bank, but there stops short again; so i at once both heavenly faith and human fear obey, and feel before me in an unknown way. for this blest voyage i with joy prepare, yet am ashamed to be a stranger there. _s. cath._ you are not yet enough prepared to die; earth hangs too heavy for your soul to fly. _por._ one way (and heaven, i hope, inspires my mind) i for your safety in this strait can find; but this fair queen must further my intent. _s. cath._ name any way your reason can invent. _por._ to _ber._ though your religion (which i cannot blame, because my secret soul avows the same) has made your life a forfeit to the laws, the tyrant's new-born passion is the cause. were this bright princess once removed away, wanting the food, the flame would soon decay; and i'll prepare a faithful guard this night to attend her person, and secure her flight. _ber._ to _s. cath._ by this way i shall both from death be freed, and you unforced to any wicked deed. _s. cath._ madam, my thoughts are with themselves at strife, and heaven can witness how i prize your life; but 'tis a doubtful conflict i must try, betwixt my pity and my piety: staying, your precious life i must expose; going, my crown of martyrdom i lose. _por._ your equal choice when heaven does thus divide, you should, like heaven, still lean on mercy's side. _s. cath._ the will of heaven, judged by a private breast, is often what's our private interest; and therefore those, who would that will obey, without their interest must their duty weigh. as for myself, i do not life despise, but as the greatest gift of nature prize. my sex is weak, my fears of death are strong, and whate'er is, its being would prolong. were there no sting in death, for me to die, would not be conquest, but stupidity; but if vain honour can confirm the soul, and sense of shame the fear of death controul; how much more then should faith uphold the mind, which, showing death, shows future life behind? _ber._ of death's contempt heroic proofs you give; but, madam, let my weaker virtue live. your faith may bid you your own life resign; but not when yours must be involved with mine. since then you do not think me fit to die, ah, how can you that life i beg deny! _s. cath._ heaven does in this my greatest trial make, when i, for it, the care of you forsake; but i am placed, as on a theatre, where all my acts to all mankind appear, to imitate my constancy or fear: then, madam, judge what course i should pursue, when i must either heaven forsake, or you. _por._ were saving berenice's life a sin, heaven had shut up your flight from maximin. _s. cath._ thus with short plummets heaven's deep will we sound, that vast abyss where human wit is drowned! in our small skiff we must not launch too far; we here but coasters, not discoverers, are. faith's necessary rules are plain and few; we many, and those needless, rules pursue: faith from our hearts into our heads we drive, and make religion all contemplative. you on heaven's will may witty glosses feign; but that which i must practise here is plain: if the all-great decree her life to spare, he will the means, without my crime, prepare. [_exit st_ cath. _por._ yet there is one way left! it is decreed, to save your life, that maximin shall bleed; 'midst all his guards i will his death pursue, or fall a sacrifice to love and you. _ber._ so great a fear of death i have not shown, that i would shed his blood to save my own; my fear is but from human frailty brought, and never mingled with a wicked thought. _por._ 'tis not a crime, since one of you must die, or is excused by the necessity. _ber._ i cannot to a husband's death consent, but, by revealing, will your crime prevent. the horror of this deed against the fear of death has armed my mind, and now less guilt in him than you i find. if i a tyrant did detest before, i hate a rebel, and a traitor more: ungrateful man, remember whose successor thou art made, and then thy benefactor's life invade. guards, to your charge i give your prisoner back, and will from none but heaven my safety take. [_exit with_ valerius _and guards_. _por._ [_solus._] 'tis true, what she has often urged before, he's both my father, and my emperor! o honour, how can'st thou invent a way to save my queen, and not my trust betray! unhappy i, that e'er he trusted me! as well his guardian-angel may his murderer be. and yet----let honour, faith, and virtue fly, but let not love in berenice die. she lives!---- that's put beyond dispute, as firm as fate; honour and faith let argument debate. _enter_ maximin _and_ valerius _talking, and guards_. _max._ 'tis said, but i am loth to think it true, [_to_ por. that my late orders were contemned by you: that berenice from her guards you freed. _por._ i did it, and i glory in the deed. _max._ how, glory my commands to disobey! _por._ when those commands would your renown betray. _max._ who should be judge of that renown you name, but i? _por._ yes, i, and all who love your fame. _max._ porphyrius, your replies are insolent. _por._ sir, they are just, and for your service meant. if for religion you our lives will take, you do not the offenders find, but make. all faiths are to their own believers just; for none believe, because they will, but must. faith is a force from which there's no defence; because the reason it does first convince: and reason conscience into fetters brings; and conscience is without the power of kings. _max._ then conscience is a greater prince than i, at whose each erring call a king may die! who conscience leaves to its own free command, puts the worst weapon in a rebel's hand. _por._ its empire, therefore, sir, should bounded be, and, but in acts of its religion, free: those who ask civil power and conscience too, their monarch to his own destruction woo. with needful arms let him secure his peace; then, that wild beast he safely may release. _max._ i can forgive these liberties you take, while but my counsellor yourself you make: but you first act your sense, and then advise; that is, at my expence you will be wise. my wife i for religion do not kill; but she shall die--because it is my will. _por._ sir, i acknowledge i too much have done, and therefore merit not to be your son: i render back the honours which you gave; my liberty's the only gift i crave. _max._ you take too much----but, ere you lay it down, consider what you part with in a crown: monarchs of cares in policy complain, because they would be pitied, while they reign; for still the greater troubles they confess, they know their pleasures will be envied less. _por._ those joys i neither envy nor admire; but beg i from the troubles may retire. _max._ what soul is this which empire cannot stir! supine and tame as a philosopher! know then, thou wert adopted to a throne, not for thy sake so much as for my own. my thoughts were once about thy death at strife; and thy succession's thy reprieve for life. _por._ my life and death are still within your power; but your succession i renounce this hour. upon a bloody throne i will not sit, nor share the guilt of crimes which you commit. _max._ if you are not my cæsar, you must die. _por._ i take it as the nobler destiny. _max._ i pity thee, and would thy faults forgive; but, thus presuming on, thou canst not live. _por._ sir, with your throne your pity i restore; i am your foe, nor will i use it more. now all my debts of gratitude are paid, i cannot trusted be, nor you betrayed. [_is going._ _max._ stay, stay! in threatening me to be my foe, you give me warning to conclude you so. thou to succeed a monarch in his seat! _enter_ placidius. no, fool, thou art too honest to be great! placidius, on your life this prisoner keep: our enmity shall end before i sleep. _plac._ i still am ready, sir, whene'er you please, [_to_ por. to do you such small services as these. _max._ the sight, with which my eyes shall first be fed, must be my empress' and this traitor's head. _por._ where'er thou stand'st, i'll level at that place my gushing blood, and spout it at thy face. thus, not by marriage, we our blood will join; nay more, my arms shall throw my head at thine. [_exit guarded._ _max._ there, go, adoption: i have now decreed, that maximin shall maximin succeed: old as i am, in pleasures i will try to waste an empire yet before i die: since life is fugitive, and will not stay, i'll make it fly more pleasantly away. [_exit._ act v. scene i. _enter_ valeria _and_ placidius. _val._ if, as you say, you silently have been so long my lover, let my power be seen: one hour's discourse before porphyrius die, is all i ask, and you too may be by. _plac._ i must not break the order, which the emperor did sign. _val._ has then his hand more power with you than mine? _plac._ this hand, if given, would far more powerful be than all the monarchs of the world to me: but 'tis a bait which would my heart betray; and, when i'm fast, will soon be snatched away. _val._ o say not so; for i shall ever be obliged to him, who once obliges me. _plac._ madam, i'll wink, and favour the deceit; but know, fair cozener, that i know the cheat: though to these eyes i nothing can refuse, i'll not the merit of my ruin lose: it is enough i see the hook, and bite; but first i'll pay my death with my delight. [_kisses her hand, and exit._ _val._ what can i hope from this sad interview? and yet my brave design i will pursue. by many signs i have my rival found; but fortune him, as deep as me, does wound. for, if he loves the empress, his sad fate more moves my pity, than his scorn my hate. _to her_ placidius, _with_ porphyrius. _plac._ i am, perhaps, the first, who, forced by fate, and in his own despite, brought a loved rival to his mistress' sight. _val._ but, in revenge, let this your comfort be, that you have brought a man who loves not me. however, lay your causeless envy by; he is a rival, who must quickly die. _por._ and yet i could, with less concernment, bear that death of which you speak, than see you here. so much of guilt in my refusal lies, that, debtor-like, i dare not meet your eyes. _val._ i do not blame you, if you love elsewhere: and would to heaven i could your sufferings bear! or once again could some new way invent, to take upon myself your punishment: i sent for you, to let you know, that still, though now i want the power, i have the will. _plac._ can all this ocean of your kindness be poured upon him, and not one drop on me? _val._ 'tis poured; but falls from this ungrateful man, like drops of water from a rising swan. upon his breast no sign of wet remains; he bears his love more proudly than his chains. _por._ this thankless man his death will soon remove, and quickly end so undeserved a love. _val._ unthankful as you are, i know not why, but still i love too well, to see you die. placidius, can you love, and see my grief, and for my sake not offer some relief? _plac._ not all the gods his ruin shall prevent; your kindness does but urge his punishment. besides, what can i for his safety do? he has declared himself your father's foe. _val._ give out he has escaped, and set him free; and, if you please, lay all the fault on me. _por._ o, do not on those terms my freedom name! freed by your danger, i should die with shame. _plac._ i must not farther by your prayers be won: all i could do, i have already done. [_to her._ _val._ to bring porphyrius only to my sight, was not to show your pity, but your spite: would you but half oblige her you adore? you should not have done this, or should do more. _plac._ alas! what hope can there be left for me, when i must sink into the mine i see? my heart will fall before you, if i stay; each word you speak saps part of it away. ----yet all my fortune on his death is set; and he may love her, though he loves not yet. he must--and yet she says he must not die.-- o, if i could but wink, i could deny! _to them_ albinus. _alb._ the emperor expects your prisoner strait; and with impatience for his death does wait. _plac._ nay, then it is too late my love to weigh; your pardon, madam, if i must obey. [_exit_ albinus. _por._ i am prepared; he shall not long attend. _val._ then here my prayers and my submissions end. placidius, know, that hour in which he dies, my death (so well i love) shall wait on his. _plac._ o, madam, do not fright me with your death! _val._ my life depends alone upon his breath. but, if i live in him, you do not know how far my gratitude to you may go. i do not promise--but it so may prove, that gratitude, in time, may turn to love. try me-- _plac._ now i consider it, i will: [_musing a little._ 'tis in your power to save him, or to kill. i'll run the hazard to preserve his life, if, after that, you vow to be my wife. _val._ nay, good placidius, now you are too hard: would you do nothing but for mere reward? like usurers to men in want you prove, when you would take extortion for my love. _plac._ you have concluded then that he must die? [_going with_ porphyrius. _val._ o stay! if no price else his life can buy, my love a ransom for his life i give: let my porphyrius for another live. [_holding her handkerchief before her face._ _por._ you too much value the small merchandise: my life's o'er-rated, when your love's the price. _enter_ albinus. _alb._ i long have listened to your generous strife, as much concerned for brave porphyrius' life. for mine i to his favour owed this day; which with my future service i will pay. _plac._ lest any your intended flight prevent, i'll lead you first the back-way to my tent; thence, in disguise, you may the city gain, while some excuse for your escape i feign. _val._ farewell! i must not see you when you part: [_turning her face away._ for that last look would break my tender heart. yet--let it break--i must have one look more: [_looking on him._ nay, now i'm less contented than before; for that last look draws on another too; which sure i need not, to remember you. for ever--yet i must one glance repeat; but quick and short as starving people eat. so much humanity dwell in your breast, sometimes to think on her who loves you best. [_going--he takes her hand and kisses it._ _por._ my wandering steps wherever fortune bear, your memory i in my breast will wear; which, as a precious amulet, i still will carry, my defence and guard from ill. though to my former vows i must be true, i'll ever keep one love entire for you; that love, which brothers with chaste sisters make: and by this holy kiss, which now i take from your fair hand-- this common sun, which absent both shall see, shall ne'er behold a breach of faith in me. _val._ go, go! my death will your short vows restore; you've said enough, and i can hear no more. [_exeunt_ val. _one way, and_ por. _and_ alb. _another_. _plac._ love and good nature, how do you betray! misleading those who see and know their way! i, whom deep arts of state could ne'er beguile, have sold myself to ruin for a smile. nay, i am driven so low, that i must take that smile, as alms, given for my rival's sake. _enter_ maximin, _talking with_ valerius. _max._ and why was i not told of this before? _val._ sir, she this evening landed on the shore; for with her daughter being prisoner made, she in another vessel was conveyed. _max._ bring hither the egyptian princess strait. [_to_ plac. and you, valerius, on her mother wait. [_exit_ val. _plac._ the mother of the egyptian princess here! _max._ porphyrius' death i will a while defer, and this new opportunity improve, to make my last effort upon her love-- [_exit_ plac. those, who have youth, may long endure to court; but he must swiftly catch, whose race is short. i in my autumn do my siege begin; and must make haste, ere winter comes, to win. this hour--no longer shall my pains endure: her love shall ease me, or her death shall cure. _enter at one door_ felicia _and_ valerius, _at the other st_ catharine _and_ placidius. _s. cath._ o, my dear mother! _fel._ with what joy i see my dearest daughter from the tempest free! _s. cath._ dearer than all the joys vain empire yields, or than to youthful monarchs conquered fields! before you came--my soul, all filled with heaven, did earthly joys disdain: but you pull back some part of me again. _plac._ you see, sir, she can own a joy below. _max._ it much imports me that this truth i know. _fel._ how dreadful death does on the waves appear, where seas we only see, and tempests hear! such frightful images did then pursue my trembling soul, that scarce i thought of you. _plac._ all circumstances to your wish combine: her fear of death advances your design. [_to_ max. _fel._ but to that only power we serve i prayed, till he, who bid it rise, the tempest laid. _max._ you are a christian then! [_to_ felicia. for death this very hour you must prepare: i have decreed no christian's life to spare. _fel._ for death! i hope you but my courage try: whatever i believe, i dare not die. heaven does not, sure, that seal of faith require; or, if it did, would firmer thoughts inspire. a woman's witness can no credit give to truths divine, and therefore i would live. _max._ i cannot give the life which you demand: but that and mine are in your daughter's hand: ask her, if she will yet her love deny, and bid a monarch, and her mother, die. _fel._ now, mighty prince, you cancel all my fear: my life is safe, when it depends on her. how can you let me languish thus in pain! [_to st_ cath. make haste to cure those doubts which yet remain. speak quickly, speak, and ease me of my fear. _s. cath._ alas, i doubt it is not you i hear! some wicked fiend assumes your voice and face, to make frail nature triumph over grace. it cannot be-- that she, who taught my childhood piety, should bid my riper age my faith deny; that she, who bid my hopes this crown pursue, should snatch it from me when 'tis just in view. _fel._ peace, peace! too much my age's shame you show: how easy 'tis to teach! how hard to do! my labouring thoughts are with themselves at strife: i dare not die, nor bid you save my life. _max._ you must do one, and that without delay; too long already for your death i stay. i cannot with your small concerns dispense; for deaths of more importance call me hence. prepare to execute your office strait. [_to his guards._ _fel._ o stay, and let them but one minute wait! such quick commands for death you would not give, if you but knew how sweet it were to live. _max._ then bid her love. _fel._ is duty grown so weak, [_to st_ catharine. that love's a harder word than death to speak? _s. cath._ oh! _fel._ mistake me not; i never can approve a thing so wicked as the tyrant's love. i ask you would but some false promise give, only to gain me so much time to live. [_privately to st_ catharine. _s. cath._ that promise is a step to greater sin: the hold, once lost, we seldom take again. each bound to heaven we fainter essays make, still losing somewhat, till we quite go back. _max._ away! i grant no longer a reprieve. _fel._ o do but beg my life, and i may live. [_to st_ cath. have you not so much pity in your breast? he stays to have you make it your request. _s. cath._ to beg your life---- is not to ask a grace of maximin: it is a silent bargain for a sin. could we live always, life were worth our cost; but now we keep with care what must be lost. here we stand shivering on the bank, and cry, when we should plunge into eternity. one moment ends our pain; and yet the shock of death we dare not stand, by thought scarce measured, and too swift for sand: 'tis but because the living death ne'er knew, they fear to prove it as a thing that's new. let me the experiment before you try, i'll show you first how easy 'tis to die. _max._ draw then that curtain, and let death appear, and let both see how easy 'twill be there. _the_ scene _opens, and shews the wheel_. _fel._ alas, what torments i already feel! _max._ go, bind her hand and foot beneath that wheel: four of you turn the dreadful engine round; four others hold her fastened to the ground; that, by degrees, her tender breasts may feel, first, the rough razings of the pointed steel; her paps then let the bearded tenters stake, and on each hook a gory gobbet take; till the upper flesh, by piece-meal torn away, her beating heart shall to the sun display. _fel._ my dearest daughter, at your feet i fall; [_kneeling._ hear, oh yet hear your wretched mother's call! think, at, your birth, ah think what pains i bore, and can your eyes behold me suffer more? you were the child, which from your infancy i still loved best, and then you best loved me. about my neck your little arms you spread, nor could you sleep without me in the bed; but sought my bosom when you went to rest, and all night long would lie across my breast. nor without cause did you that fondness show: you may remember when our nile did flow, while on the bank you innocently stood, and with a wand made circles in the flood, that rose, and just was hurrying you to death, when i, from far, all pale and out of breath, ran and rushed in---- and from the waves my floating pledge did bear, so much my love was stronger than my fear. but you---- _max._ woman, for these long tales your life's too short; go, bind her quickly, and begin the sport. _fel._ no, in her arms my sanctuary's placed; thus i will cling for ever to her waist. [_running to her daughter._ _max._ what, must my will by women be controuled? haste, draw your weapons, and cut off her hold! _s. cath._ thus my last duty to you let me pay: [_kissing her mother._ yet, tyrant, i to thee will never pray. tho' hers to save i my own life would give, yet by my sin my mother shall not live. to thy foul lust i never can consent; why dost thou then defer my punishment? i scorn those gods thou vainly dost adore; contemn thy empire, but thy bed abhor. if thou would'st yet a bloodier tyrant be, i will instruct thy rage; begin with me. _max._ i thank thee that thou dost my anger move; it is a tempest that will wreck my love. i'll pull thee hence, close hidden as thou art, [_claps his hand to his breast._ and stand with my drawn sword before my heart. yes, you shall be obeyed, though i am loth;-- go, and while i can bid you, bind them both; go, bind them ere my fit of love return; fire shall quench fire, and anger love shall burn. thus i prevent those follies i should do; and 'tis the nobler fever of the two. _fel._ torn piece by piece! alas, what horrid pains! _s. cath._ heaven is all mercy, who that death ordains; and that, which heaven thinks best, is surely so: but bare, and naked, shame to undergo, 'tis somewhat more than death! exposed to lawless eyes i dare not be; my modesty is sacred, heaven, to thee! let not my body be the tyrant's spoil; nor hands nor eyes thy purity defile. [ameriel _descends swiftly with a flaming sword, and strikes at the wheel, which breaks in pieces; then he ascends again._ _max._ is this the effect of all your boasted skill? these brittle toys to execute my will? a puppet-shew of death i only find, where i a strong and sinewy pain designed. by what weak infant was this engine wrought? _val._ from bilbilis the tempered steel was brought; metal more tough the anvil ne'er did beat, nor, from the forge, did hissing waters heat. _plac._ i saw a youth descend all heavenly fair, who in his hand a flaming sword did bear, and, whirlwind-like, around him drove the air. at his raised arm the rigid iron shook, and, bending backwards, fled before the stroke. _max._ what! miracles, the tricks of heaven to me? i'll try if she be wholly iron free. if not by sword, then she shall die by fire; and one by one her miracles i'll tire. if proof against all kind of death she be; my love's immortal, and she's fit for me. _s. cath._ no, heaven has shewn its power, and now thinks fit thee to thy former fury to remit. had providence my longer life decreed, thou from thy passion hadst not yet been freed. but heaven, which suffered that, my faith to prove, now to itself does vindicate my love. a power controuls thee, which thou dost not see; and that's a miracle it works in thee. _max._ the truth of this new miracle we'll try; to prove it, you must take the pains to die. bring me their heads. _fel._ that mercy, tyrant, thou deny'st to me, at thy last breath may heaven refuse to thee! my fears are going, and i death can view: i see, i see him there thy steps pursue, and, with a lifted arm, and silent pace, stalk after thee, just aiming in his chace. _s. cath._ no more, dear mother; ill in death it shews your peace of mind by rage to discompose: no streak of blood (the relics of the earth) shall stain my soul in her immortal birth; but she shall mount all pure, a white and virgin mind, and full of all that peace, which there she goes to find. [_exeunt st_ catharine _and_ felicia, _with_ valerius, _and guards. the scene shuts_. _max._ she's gone, and pulled my heart-strings as she went. were penitence no shame, i could repent. yet, 'tis of bad example she should live; for i might get the ill habit to forgive. thou soft seducer of my heart, away---- who ling'ring would'st about its confines stay, to watch when some rebellion would begin, and ready at each sigh to enter in. in vain; for thou dost on the outside of the body play, and, when drawn nearest, shalt be whirl'd away. what ails me, that i cannot lose thy thought!---- command the empress hither to be brought; [_to_ plac. i in her death shall some diversion find, and rid my thoughts at once of womankind. _plac._ 'tis well he thinks not of porphyrius yet. [_aside, exit._ _max._ how hard it is this beauty to forget! my stormy rage has only shook my will: she crept down lower, but she sticks there still. fool that i am to struggle thus with love! why should i that, which pleases me, remove? true, she should die, were she concerned alone; but i love, not for her sake, but my own. our gods are gods, 'cause they have power and will; who can do all things, can do nothing ill. ill is rebellion 'gainst some higher power: the world may sin, but not its emperor. my empress then shall die, my princess live; if this be sin, i do myself forgive. _to him_, valerius. _val._ your will's obeyed; for, mighty emperor, the princess and her mother are no more. _max._ she is not dead! _val._ great sir, your will was so. _max._ that was my will of half an hour ago. but now 'tis altered; i have changed her fate, she shall not die. _val._ your pity comes too late. betwixt her guards she seemed by bride-men led, her checks with chearful blushes were o'erspread; when, smiling, to the axe she bowed her head, just, at the stroke, Ætherial music did her death prepare, like joyful sounds of spousals in the air; a radiant light did her crown'd temples gild, and all the place with fragrant scents was filled; the balmy mist came thickening to the ground, and sacred silence covered all around. but when (its work performed) the cloud withdrew, and day restored us to each other's view, i sought her head, to bring it on my spear; in vain i sought it, for it was not there; no part remained; but, from afar, our sight discovered in the air long tracts of light; of charming notes we heard the last rebounds, and music dying in remoter sounds. _max._ and dost thou think this lame account fit for a love-sick king? go, from the other world a better bring. [_kills him, then sets his foot on him, and speaks on._ when in my breast two mighty passions strove, thou had'st erred better in obeying love. 'tis true, that way thy death had followed too, but i had then been less displeased than now. now i must live unquiet for thy sake; and this poor recompence is all i take. [_spurns the body._ _here the scene opens, and discovers_ berenice _on a scaffold, the guards by her, and amongst them_ porphyrius _and_ albinus, _like moors, as all the guards are_. placidius _enters, and whispers the emperor whilst_ porphyrius _speaks_. _por._ from berenice i cannot go away, but, like a ghost, must near my treasure stay. _alb._ night and this shape secure them from their eyes. _por._ have courage then for our bold enterprize. duty and faith no tie on me can have, since i renounced those honours which he gave. _max._ the time is come we did so long attend, [_to_ ber. which must these discords of our marriage end. yet berenice, remember you have been an empress, and the wife of maximin. _ber._ i will remember i have been your wife; and therefore, dying, beg from heaven your life: be all the discords of our bed forgot, which, virtue witness, i did never spot. what errors i have made, though while i live you cannot pardon, to the dead forgive. _max._ how much she is to piety inclined! behead her, while she's in so good a mind. _por._ stand firm, albinus; now the time is come to free the empress. _alb._ and deliver rome. _por._ within i feel my hot blood swell my heart, and generous trembling in each outward part. 'tis done, tyrant, this is thy latest hour. [porphyrius _and_ albinus _draw, and are making at the emperor_. _ber._ look to yourself, my lord the emperor! treason, help, help, my lord! [maximin _turns and defends himself, the guards set on_ porphyrius _and_ albinus. _max._ disarm them, but their lives i charge you spare. [_after they are disarmed._ unmask them, and discover who they are.-- good gods, is it porphyrius whom i see! _plac._ i wonder how he gained his liberty. _max._ traitor! _por._ know, tyrant, i can hear that name, rather than son, and bear it with less shame. traitor's a name, which, were my arm yet free, the roman senate would bestow on thee. ah, madam, you have ruined my design, [_to_ ber. and lost your life; for i regard not mine. too ill a mistress, and too good a wife. _ber._ it was my duty to preserve his life. _max._ now i perceive [_to_ por. in what close walk your mind so long did move: you scorned my throne, aspiring to her love. _ber._ in death i'll own a love to him so pure, as will the test of heaven itself endure; a love so chaste, as conscience could not chide; but cherish it, and keep it by its side. a love, which never knew a hot desire, but flamed as harmless as a lambent fire; a love, which pure from soul to soul might pass, as light transmitted through a crystal glass; which gave porphyrius all without a sin, yet kept entire the right of maximin. _max._ the best return that i to both can make, shall be to suffer for each other's sake. _por._ barbarian, do not dare, her blood to shed, who from my vengeance saved thy cursed head; a flight, no honour ever reached before, and which succeeding ages will adore. _ber._ porphyrius, i must die! that common debt to nature paid must be; but i have left a debt unpaid to thee. to maximin i have performed the duty of a wife; but, saving his, i cast away thy life. ah, what ill stars upon our loves did shine, that i am more thy murd'rer, than he mine! _max._ make haste. _por._ so hasty none in execution are, but they allow the dying time for prayer. farewell, sweet saint! my prayer shall be to you: my love has been unhappy, but 'twas true. remember me!--alas, what have i said? you must die too! but yet remember me when you are dead. _ber._ if i die first, i will stop short of heaven, and wait you in a cloud; for fear we lose each other in the crowd. _por._ love is the only coin in heaven will go: then take all with you, and leave none below. _ber._ 'tis want of knowledge, not of love, i fear; lest we mistake when bodies are not there. o, as a mark, that i could wear a scroll, with this inscription,--berenice's soul. _por._ that needs not, sure, for none will be so bright, so pure, or with so small allays of light. _max._ from my full eyes fond tears begin to start:---- dispatch,--they practise treason on my heart. _por._ adieu: this farewell sigh i as my last bequeath; catch it,--'tis love expiring in a breath. _ber._ this sigh of mine shall meet it half the way, as pledges given that each for other stay. _enter_ valeria _and_ cydon. _val._ what dismal scene of death is here prepar'd! _max._ now strike. _val._ they shall not strike till i am heard. _max._ from whence does this new impudence proceed, that you dare alter that which i decreed? _val._ ah, sir, to what strange courses do you fly, to make yourself abhorred for cruelty! the empire groans under your bloody reign, and its vast body bleeds in every vein. gasping and pale, and fearing more, it lies; and now you stab it in the very eyes: your cæsar and the partner of your bed! ah, who can wish to live when they are dead? if ever gentle pity touch'd your breast---- i cannot speak--my tears shall speak the rest. [_weeping and sobbing._ _por._ she adds new grief to what i felt before, and fate has now no room to put in more. _max._ away, thou shame and slander of my blood! [_to_ valeria. who taught thee to be pitiful or good? _val._ what hope have i, the name of virtue should prevail with him, who thinks even it, for which i plead, a crime?-- yet nature, sure, some argument may be; if them you cannot pity, pity me. _max._ i will, and all the world shall judge it so: i will the excess of pity to you shew. you ask to save a dangerous rebel, and disloyal wife; and i in mercy--will not take your life. _val._ you more than kill me by this cruelty, and in their persons bid your daughter die. i honour berenice's virtue much; but for porphyrius my love is such, i cannot, will not live, when he is gone. _max._ i'll do that cure for you, which on myself is done. you must, like me, your lover's life remove; cut off your hope, and you destroy your love. if it were hard, i would not bid you try the medicine; but 'tis but to let him die. yet since you are so soft, (which you call good,) and are not yet confirmed enough in blood, to see his death; your frailty shall be favoured with this grace, that they shall suffer in another place. if, after they are dead, their memory by any chance into your mind be brought, laugh, and divert it with some other thought. away with them. [_exeunt_ berenice, porphyrius, _and_ albinus, _carried off by guards_. _val._ since prayers nor tears can bend his cruel mind, [_looking after_ por. farewell, the best and bravest of mankind! how i have loved, heaven knows; but there's a fate, which hinders me from being fortunate. my father's crimes hang heavy on my head, and like a gloomy cloud about me spread. i would in vain be pious; that's a grace, which heaven permits not to a tyrant's race. _max._ hence to her tent the foolish girl convey. _val._ let me be just before i go away.-- placidius, i have vowed to be your wife; take then my hand, 'tis yours while i have life.-- one moment here i must another's be; but this, porphyrius, gives me back to thee. [_stabs herself twice, and then_ placidius _wrests the dagger from her_. _plac._ help, help the princess, help! _max._ what rage has urged this act, which thou hast done? _val._ thou, tyrant, and thy crimes, have pulled it on. thou, who canst death with such a pleasure see, now take thy fill, and glut thy sight in me. but--i'll the occasion of my death forget; save him i love, and be my father yet: i can no more--porphyrius, my dear-- _cyd._ alas, she raves, and thinks porphyrius here. _val._ have i not yet deserved thee, now i die? is berenice still more fair than i? porphyrius, do not swim before my sight; stand still, and let me, let me aim aright! stand still, but while thy poor valeria dies, and sighs her soul into her lover's eyes. [_dies._ _plac._ she's gone from earth, and with her went away all of the tyrant that deserved to stay: i've lost in her all joys that life can give; and only to revenge her death would live. [_aside._ _cyd._ the gods have claimed her, and we must resign. _max._ what had the gods to do with me or mine? did i molest your heaven? why should you then make maximin your foe who paid you tribute, which he need not do? your altars i with smoke of gums did crown, for which you leaned your hungry nostrils down, all daily gaping for my incense there, more than your sun could draw you in a year. and you for this these plagues on me have sent! but by the gods, (by maximin, i meant,) henceforth i, and my world, hostility with you, and yours, declare. look to it, gods; for you the aggressors are. keep you your rain and sunshine in your skies, and i'll keep back my flame and sacrifice. your trade of heaven shall soon be at a stand, and all your goods lie dead upon your hand. _plac._ thus, tyrant, since the gods the aggressors are, [_stabbing him._ thus by this stroke they have begun the war. [maximin _struggles with him, and gets the dagger from him._ _max._ thus i return the strokes which they have given; [_stabbing_ placidius. thus, traitor, thus, and thus i would to heaven. [placidius _falls, and the emperor staggers after him, and sits down upon him; the guards come to help the emperor._ _max._ stand off, and let me, ere my strength be gone, take my last pleasure of revenge, alone. _enter a centurion._ _cent._ arm, arm, the camp is in a mutiny: for rome and liberty the soldiers cry. porphyrius moved their pity, as he went to rescue berenice from punishment; and now he heads their new attempted crime. _max._ now i am down, the gods have watch'd their time. you think to save your credit, feeble deities; but i will give myself the strength to rise. [_he strives to get up, and, being up, staggers._ it wonnot be---- my body has not power my mind to bear.---- i must return again--and conquer here. [_sits down upon the body._ my coward body does my will controul; farewell, thou base deserter of my soul! i'll shake this carcase off, and be obeyed; reign an imperial ghost without its aid. go, soldiers, take my ensigns with you; fight, and vanquish rebels in your sovereign's right: before i die---- bring me porphyrius and my empress dead:-- i would brave heaven, in my each hand a head. _plac._ do not regard a dying tyrant's breath, he can but look revenge on you in death. [_to the soldiers._ _max._ vanquished, and dar'st thou yet a rebel be? thus, i can more than look revenge on thee. [_stabs him again._ _plac._ oh, i am gone! [_dies._ _max._ and after thee i go, revenging still, and following ev'n to the other world my blow; [_stabs him again._ and shoving back this earth on which i sit, i'll mount, and scatter all the gods i hit. [_dies._ _enter_ porphyrius, berenice, albinus, _soldiers_. porphyrius _looks on the bodies entering, and speaks_. _por._ tis done before, (this mighty work of fate!) and i am glad your swords are come too late. he was my prince, and though a bloody one, i should have conquered, and have mercy shewn. sheath all your swords, and cease your enmity; they are not foes, but romans, whom you see. _ber._ he was my tyrant, but my husband too; and therefore duty will some tears allow. _por._ placidius here! and fair valeria, new deprived of breath! who can unriddle this dumb-show of death? _cyd._ when, sir, her father did your life deny, she killed herself, that she with you might die. placidius made the emperor's death his crime; who, dying, did revenge his death on him. [porphyrius _kneels, and takes_ valeria's _hand_. _por._ for thy dear sake, i vow, each week i live, one day to fasting and just grief i'll give: and what hard fate did to thy life deny, my gratitude shall pay thy memory. _cent._ meantime to you belongs the imperial power: we, with one voice, salute you emperor. _sold._ long life, porphyrius, emperor of the romans! _por._ too much, my countrymen; your love you shew, that you have thought me worthy to be so; but, to requite that love, i must take care, not to engage you in a civil war. two emperors at rome the senate chose, and whom they chuse, no roman should oppose. in peace or war, let monarchs hope or fear; all my ambition shall be bounded here. [_kissing_ berenice's _hand_. _ber._ i have too lately been a prince's wife, and fear the unlucky omen of the life. like a rich vessel, beat by storms to shore, 'twere madness should i venture out once more. of glorious trouble i will take no part, and in no empire reign, but of your heart. _por._ let to the winds your golden eagles fly; [_to the soldiers._ your trumpets sound a bloodless victory: our arms no more let aquileia fear, but to her gates our peaceful ensigns bear; while i mix cypress with my myrtle wreath,-- joy for your life, and mourn valeria's death. [_exeunt._ epilogue spoken by mrs ellen[o], when she was to be carried off dead by the bearers. to the bearer. hold; are you mad? you damn'd confounded dog! i am to rise, and speak the epilogue. to the audience. i come, kind gentlemen, strange news to tell ye; i am the ghost of poor departed nelly. sweet ladies, be not frighted; i'll be civil, i'm what i was, a little harmless devil. for, after death, we spirits have just such natures, we had, for all the world, when human creatures; and, therefore, i, that was an actress here, play all my tricks in hell, a goblin there. gallants, look to't, you say there are no sprites; but i'll come dance about your beds at nights. and faith you'll be in a sweet kind of taking, when i surprise you between sleep and waking. to tell you true, i walk, because i die out of my calling, in a tragedy. o poet, damn'd dull poet, who could prove so senseless, to make nelly die for love! nay, what's yet worse, to kill me in the prime of easter-term, in tart and cheese-cake time! i'll fit the fop; for i'll not one word say, to excuse his godly out-of-fashion play; a play, which, if you dare but twice sit out, you'll all be slandered, and be thought devout. but, farewell, gentlemen, make haste to me, i'm sure e'er long to have your company. as for my epitaph when i am gone, i'll trust no poet, but will write my own:-- here nelly lies, who, though she lived a slattern, yet died a princess, acting in st catharine. [footnote o: the celebrated mrs nell gwyn.] _end of the third volume._ edinburgh, printed by james ballantyne & co. ------------------------------------------------------------------- note: tags that surround the word =g. p.= indicate bold. tags that surround the word _hartford courant._ indicate italics. transcribers notes: p. original reads 'brigh'" changed to bright. p. original reads 'manes'" changed to names. p. original reads 'he'" changed to be. p. original reads 'guittars'" changed to guitars. p. . original reads 'wishout'" changed to without. also actioned: word 'scander-bag' taken out hyphen. word 'sun-shine', taken out hyphen. word 'sweet-heart', taken out hyphen. word 'rain-bow', taken out hyphen. added hyphen to 'to-night'. taken out hyphen for 'woman-kind', majority are 'womankind'. taken out hyphen for 'moon-light', 'moonlight' present. taken out hyphen for 'moon-shine', 'moonshine' present. taken out hyphen for 'cap-storm', majority are 'capstorm'. taken out hyphen for .before-hand', majority are 'beforehand'. ------------------------------------------------------------------- the works of john dryden, now first collected _in eighteen volumes._ illustrated with notes, historical, critical, and explanatory, and a life of the author, by walter scott, esq. vol. v. london: printed for william miller, albemarle street, by james ballantyne and co. edinburgh. . * * * * * contents of volume fifth. amboyna; or the cruelties of the dutch to the english merchants, a tragedy epistle dedicatory to lord clifford of chudleigh the state of innocence, and fall of man, an opera epistle dedicatory to her royal highness the duchess preface.--the author's apology for heroic poetry, and poetic licence aureng-zebe, a tragedy epistle dedicatory to the earl of mulgrave all for love, or the world well lost, a tragedy epistle dedicatory to the earl of danby preface * * * * * amboyna: or, the cruelties of the dutch to the _english merchants._ a tragedy. --_manet altâ mente repostum._ amboyna. the tragedy of amboyna, as it was justly termed by the english of the seventeenth century, was of itself too dreadful to be heightened by the mimic horrors of the stage. the reader may be reminded, that by three several treaties in the years , , and , it was agreed betwixt england and holland, that the english should enjoy one-third of the trade of the spice islands. for this purpose, factories were established on behalf of the english east india company at the molucca islands, at banda, and at amboyna. at the latter island the dutch had a castle, with a garrison, both of europeans and natives. it has been always remarked, that the dutchman, in his eastern settlements, loses the mercantile probity of his european character, while he retains its cold-blooded phlegm and avaricious selfishness. of this the amboyna government gave a notable proof. about the th of feb. , old stile, under pretence of a plot laid between the english of the factory and some japanese soldiers to seize the castle, the former were arrested by the dutch, and subjected to the most horrible tortures, to extort confession of their pretended guilt. upon some they poured water into a cloth previously secured round their necks and shoulders, until suffocation ensued; others were tortured with lighted matches, and torches applied to the most tender and sensible parts of the body. but i will not pollute my page with this monstrous and disgusting detail. upon confessions, inconsistent with each other, with common sense and ordinary probability, extorted also by torments of the mind or body, or both, captain gabriel towerson, and nine other english merchants of consideration, were executed; and, to add insult to atrocity, the bloody cloth, on which towerson kneeled at his death, was put down to the account of the english company. the reader may find the whole history in the second volume of purchas's "pilgrim." the news of this horrible massacre reached king james, while he was negociating with the dutch concerning the assistance which they then implored against the spaniards; and the affairs of his son-in-law, the elector palatine, appeared to render an union with holland so peremptorily necessary, that the massacre of amboyna was allowed to remain unrevenged. but the dutch war, which was declared in , the object of which seems to have been the annihilation of the united provinces as an independent state, a century sooner than providence had decreed that calamitous event, met with great opposition in england, and every engine was put to work to satisfy the people of the truth of the lord chancellor shaftesbury's averment, that the "states of holland were england's eternal enemies, both by interest and inclination." dryden, with the avowed intention of exasperating the nation against the dutch, assumed from choice, or by command, the unpromising subject of the amboyna massacre as the foundation of the following play. exclusive of the horrible nature of the subject, the colours are laid on too thick to produce the desired effect. the monstrous caricatures, which are exhibited as just paintings of the dutch character, unrelieved even by the grandeur of wickedness, and degraded into actual brutality, must have produced disgust, instead of an animated hatred and detestation. for the horrible spectacle of tortures and mangled limbs exhibited on the stage, the author might plead the custom of his age. a stage direction in ravenscroft's alteration of "titus andronicus," bears, "a curtain drawn, discovers the heads and hands of demetrius and chiron hanging up against the wall; their bodies in chairs, in bloody linen." and in an interlude, called the "cruelty of the spaniards in peru," written by d'avenant, "a doleful pavin is played to prepare the change of the scene, which represents a dark prison at a great distance; and farther to the view are discerned racks and other engines of torment, with which the spaniards are tormenting the natives and english mariners, who may be supposed to be lately landed there to discover the coast. two spaniards are likewise discovered sitting in their cloaks, and appearing more solemn in ruffs, with rapiers and daggers by their sides; the one turning a spit, while the other is basting an indian prince, who is roasted at an artificial fire[ ]." the rape of isabinda is stated by langbaine to have been borrowed from a novel in the decamerone of cinthio giraldi. this play is beneath criticism; and i can hardly hesitate to term it the worst production dryden ever wrote. it was acted and printed in . footnote: . this extraordinary kitchen scene did not escape the ridicule of the wits of that merry age. o greater cruelty yet, like a pig upon a spit; here lies one there, another boiled to jelly; just as the people stare at an ox in the fair, roasted whole, with a pudding in's belly. a little further in, hung a third by his chin, and a fourth cut all in quarters. o that fox had now been living, they had been sure of heaven, or, at the least, been some of his martyrs. to the right honourable the lord clifford of chudleigh[ ]. my lord, after so many favours, and those so great, conferred on me by your lordship these many years,--which i may call more properly one continued act of your generosity and goodness,--i know not whether i should appear either more ungrateful in my silence, or more extravagantly vain in my endeavours to acknowledge them: for, since all acknowledgements bear a face of payment, it may be thought, that i have flattered myself into an opinion of being able to return some part of my obligements to you;--the just despair of which attempt, and the due veneration i have for his person, to whom i must address, have almost driven me to receive only with a profound submission the effects of that virtue, which is never to be comprehended but by admiration; and the greatest note of admiration is silence. it is that noble passion, to which poets raise their audience in highest subjects, and they have then gained over them the greatest victory, when they are ravished into a pleasure which is not to be expressed by words. to this pitch, my lord, the sense of my gratitude had almost raised me: to receive your favours, as the jews of old received their law, with a mute wonder; to think, that the loudness of acclamation was only the praise of men to men, and that the secret homage of the soul was a greater mark of reverence, than an outward ceremonious joy, which might be counterfeit, and must be irreverent in its tumult. neither, my lord, have i a particular right to pay you my acknowledgements: you have been a good so universal, that almost every man in the three nations may think me injurious to his propriety, that i invade your praises, in undertaking to celebrate them alone; and that i have assumed to myself a patron, who was no more to be circumscribed than the sun and elements, which are of public benefit to human kind. as it was much in your power to oblige all who could pretend to merit from the public, so it was more in your nature and inclination. if any went ill-satisfied from the treasury, while it was in your lordship's management, it proclaimed the want of desert, and not of friends: you distributed your master's favour with so equal hands, that justice herself could not have held the scales more even; but with that natural propensity to do good, that had that treasure been your own, your inclination to bounty must have ruined you. no man attended to be denied: no man bribed for expedition: want and desert were pleas sufficient. by your own integrity, and your prudent choice of those whom you employed, the king gave all that he intended; and gratuities to his officers made not vain his bounty. this, my lord, you were in your public capacity of high treasurer, to which you ascended by such degrees, that your royal master saw your virtues still growing to his favours, faster than they could rise to you. both at home and abroad, with your sword and with your counsel, you have served him with unbiassed honour, and unshaken resolution; making his greatness, and the true interest of your country, the standard and measure of your actions. fortune may desert the wise and brave, but true virtue never will forsake itself[ ]. it is the interest of the world, that virtuous men should attain to greatness, because it gives them the power of doing good: but when, by the iniquity of the times, they are brought to that extremity, that they must either quit their virtue or their fortune, they owe themselves so much, as to retire to the private exercise of their honour;--to be great within, and by the constancy of their resolutions, to teach the inferior world how they ought to judge of such principles, which are asserted with so generous and so unconstrained a trial. but this voluntary neglect of honours has been of rare example in the world[ ]: few men have frowned first upon fortune, and precipitated themselves from the top of her wheel, before they felt at least the declination of it. we read not of many emperors like dioclesian and charles the fifth, who have preferred a garden and a cloister before a crowd of followers, and the troublesome glory of an active life, which robs the possessor of his rest and quiet, to secure the safety and happiness of others. seneca, with the help of his philosophy, could never attain to that pitch of virtue: he only endeavoured to prevent his fall by descending first, and offered to resign that wealth which he knew he could no longer hold; he would only have made a present to his master of what he foresaw would become his prey; he strove to avoid the jealousy of a tyrant,--you dismissed yourself from the attendance and privacy of a gracious king. our age has afforded us many examples of a contrary nature; but your lordship is the only one of this. it is easy to discover in all governments, those who wait so close on fortune, that they are never to be shaken off at any turn: such who seem to have taken up a resolution of being great; to continue their stations on the theatre of business; to change with the scene, and shift the vizard for another part--these men condemn in their discourses that virtue which they dare not practise: but the sober part of this present age, and impartial posterity, will do right, both to your lordship and to them: and, when they read on what accounts, and with how much magnanimity, you quitted those honours, to which the highest ambition of an english subject could aspire, will apply to you, with much more reason, what the historian said of a roman emperor, "_multi diutius imperium tenuerunt; nemo fortius reliquit._" to this retirement of your lordship, i wish i could bring a better entertainment than this play; which, though it succeeded on the stage, will scarcely bear a serious perusal; it being contrived and written in a month, the subject barren, the persons low, and the writing not heightened with many laboured scenes. the consideration of these defects ought to have prescribed more modesty to the author, than to have presented it to that person in the world for whom he has the greatest honour, and of whose patronage the best of his endeavours had been unworthy: but i had not satisfied myself in staying longer, and could never have paid the debt with a much better play. as it is, the meanness of it will shew; at least, that i pretend not by it to make any manner of return for your favours; and that i only give you a new occasion of exercising your goodness to me, in pardoning the failings and imperfections of, my lord, your lordship's most humble, most obliged, most obedient servant, john dryden. footnotes: . sir thomas clifford, just then created lord clifford of chudleigh, and appointed lord high treasurer, was one of the six ministers, the initials of whose names furnished the word _cabal_, by which their junto was distinguished. he was the most virtuous and honest of the junto, but a catholic; and, what was then synonymous, a warm advocate for arbitrary power. he is said to have won his promotion by advising the desperate measure of shutting the exchequer in , the hint of which he is said to have stolen from shaftesbury. this piece may have been undertaken by his command; for, even at the very time of the triple alliance, he is reported to have said, "for all this, we must have another dutch war." upon the defection of lord shaftesbury from the court party, and the passing of the test act, lord clifford resigned his office, retired to the country, and died in september , shortly after receiving this dedication. . in this case, dryden's praise, which did not always occur, survived the temporary occasion. even in a little satirical effusion, he tells us, clifford was fierce and brave. clifford had been comptroller and treasurer of the household, and one of the commissioners of the treasury; he had served in the dutch wars. . alluding to lord clifford's resignation of an office he could not hold without a change of religion. prologue. _this poem was written as far back as , and was then termed a satire against the dutch._ as needy gallants in the scriveners' hands, court the rich knave that gripes their mortgaged lands, the first fat buck of all the season's sent, and keeper takes no fee in compliment: the dotage of some englishmen is such to fawn on those who ruin them--the dutch. they shall have all, rather than make a war with those who of the same religion are. the straits, the guinea trade, the herrings too, nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you. some are resolved not to find out the cheat, but, cuckold like, love him who does the feat: what injuries soe'er upon us fall, yet, still, the same religion, answers all: religion wheedled you to civil war, drew english blood, and dutchmen's now would spare: be gulled no longer, for you'll find it true, they have no more religion, faith--than you; interest's the god they worship in their state; and you, i take it, have not much of that. well, monarchies may own religion's name, but states are atheists in their very frame. they share a sin, and such proportions fall, that, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all. how they love england, you shall see this day; no map shews holland truer than our play: their pictures and inscriptions well we know[ ]; we may be bold one medal sure to show. view then their falsehoods, rapine, cruelty; and think what once they were, they still would be: but hope not either language, plot, or art; 'twas writ in haste, but with an english heart: and least hope wit; in dutchmen that would be as much improper, as would honesty. footnote . amongst the pretexts for making war on the states of holland were alleged their striking certain satirical medals, and engraving prints in ridicule of charles ii. see his proclamation of war in - . dramatis personÆ. _captain_ gabriel towerson. _mr_ beamont, } _english merchants, his friends._ _mr_ collins, } _captain_ middleton, _an english sea captain._ perez, _a spanish captain._ harman _senior, governor of amboyna._ _the fiscal._ harman _junior, son to the governor._ van herring, _a dutch merchant._ isabinda, _betrothed to_ towerson, _an indian lady._ julia, _wife to_ perez. _an english woman._ _page to_ towerson. _a skipper._ _two dutch merchants._ scene--_amboyna._ amboyna. act i. scene i.--_a castle on the sea._ _enter_ harman _senior, the governor, the fiscal, and_ van herring: _guards._ _fisc._ a happy day to our noble governor. _har._ morrow, fiscal. _van her._ did the last ships, which came from holland to these parts, bring us no news of moment? _fisc._ yes, the best that ever came into amboyna, since we set footing here; i mean as to our interest. _har._ i wonder much my letters then gave me so short accounts; they only said the orange party was grown strong again, since barnevelt had suffered. _van her._ mine inform me farther, the price of pepper, and of other spices, was raised of late in europe. _har._ i wish that news may hold; but much suspect it, while the english maintain their factories among us in amboyna, or in the neighbouring plantations of seran. _fisc._ still i have news that tickles me within; ha, ha, ha! i'faith it does, and will do you, and all our countrymen. _har._ pr'ythee do not torture us, but tell it. _van her._ whence comes this news? _fisc._ from england. _har._ is their east india fleet bound outward for these parts, or cast away, or met at sea by pirates? _fisc._ better, much better yet; ha, ha, ha! _har._ now am i famished for my part of the laughter. _fisc._ then, my brave governor, if you're a true dutchman, i'll make your fat sides heave with the conceit on't, 'till you're blown like a pair of large smith's bellows; here, look upon this paper. _har._ [_reading._] _you may remember we did endamage the english east-india company the value of five hundred thousand pounds, all in one year; a treaty is now signed, in which the business is ta'en up for fourscore thousand._--this is news indeed: would i were upon the castle-wall, that i might throw my cap into the sea, and my gold chain after it! this is golden news, boys. _van her._ this is news would kindle a thousand bonfires, and make us piss them out again in rhenish wine. _har._ send presently to all our factories, acquaint them with these blessed tidings: if we can 'scape so cheap, 'twill be no matter what villanies henceforth we put in practice. _fisc._ hum! why this now gives encouragement to a certain plot, which i have been long brewing, against these skellum english. i almost have it here in pericranio, and 'tis a sound one, 'faith; no less than to cut all their throats, and seize all their effects within this island. i warrant you we may compound again. _van her._ seizing their factories i like well enough, it has some savour in't; but for this whoreson cutting of throats, it goes a little against the grain, because 'tis so notoriously known in christendom, that they have preserved ours from being cut by the spaniards. _har._ hang them, base english starts, let them e'en take their part of their own old proverb--save a thief from the gallows; they would needs protect us rebels, and see what comes to themselves. _fisc._ you're i'the right on't, noble harman; their assistance, which was a mercy and a providence to us, shall be a judgment upon them. _van her._ a little favour would do well; though not that i would stop the current of your wit, or any other plot, to do them mischief; but they were first discoverers of this isle, first traded hither, and showed us the way. _fisc._ i grant you that; nay more, that, by composition made after many long and tedious quarrels, they were to have a third part of the traffic, we to build forts, and they to contribute to the charge. _har._ which we have so increased each year upon them, we being in power, and therefore judges of the cost, that we exact whatever we please, still more than half the charge; and on pretence of their non-payment, or the least delay, do often stop their ships, detain their goods, and drag them into prisons, while our commodities go on before, and still forestall their markets. _fisc._ these, i confess, are pretty tricks, but will not do our business; we must ourselves be ruined at long run, if they have any trade here; i know our charge at length will eat us out: i would not let these english from this isle have cloves enough to stick an orange with, not one to throw into their bottle-ale. _har._ but to bring this about now, there's the cunning. _fisc._ let me alone awhile; i have it, as i told you, here; mean time we must put on a seeming kindness, call them our benefactors and dear brethren, pipe them within the danger of our net, and then we'll draw it o'er them: when they're in, no mercy, that's my maxim. _van her._ nay, brother, i am not too obstinate for saving englishmen, 'twas but a qualm of conscience, which profit will dispel: i have as true a dutch antipathy to england, as the proudest _he_ in amsterdam; that's a bold word now. _har._ we are secure of our superiors there. well, they may give the king of great britain a verbal satisfaction, and with submissive fawning promises, make shew to punish us; but interest is their god as well as ours. to that almighty, they will sacrifice a thousand english lives, and break a hundred thousand oaths, ere they will punish those that make them rich, and pull their rivals down. [_guns go off within._ _van her._ heard you those guns? _har._ most plainly. _fisc._ the sound comes from the port; some ship arrived salutes the castle, and i hope brings more good news from holland. [_guns again._ _har._ now they answer them from the fortress. _enter_ beamont _and_ collins. _van her._ beamont and collins, english merchants both; perhaps they'll certify us. _beam._ captain harman van spelt, good day to you. _har._ dear, kind mr beamont, a thousand and a thousand good days to you, and all our friends the english. _fisc._ came you from the port, gentlemen? _col._ we did; and saw arrive, our honest, and our gallant countryman, brave captain gabriel towerson. _beam._ sent to these parts from our employers of the east india company in england, as general of the voyage. _fisc._ is the brave towerson returned? _col._ the same, sir. _har._ he shall be nobly welcome. he has already spent twelve years upon, or near, these rich molucca isles, and home returned with honour and great wealth. _fisc._ the devil give him joy of both, or i will for him. [_aside._ _beam._ he's my particular friend; i lived with him, both at tencrate, tydore, and at seran. _van her._ did he not leave a mistress in these parts, a native of this island of amboyna? _col._ he did; i think they call her isabinda, who received baptism for his sake, before he hence departed. _har._ 'tis much against the will of all her friends, she loves your countryman, but they are not disposers of her person; she's beauteous, rich, and young, and towerson well deserves her. _beam._ i think, without flattery to my friend, he does. were i to chuse, of all mankind, a man, on whom i would rely for faith and counsel, or more, whose personal aid i would invite, in any worthy cause, to second me, it should be only gabriel towerson; daring he is, and thereto fortunate; yet soft, and apt to pity the distressed, and liberal to relieve them: i have seen him not alone to pardon foes, but by his bounty win them to his love: if he has any fault, 'tis only that to which great minds can only subject be--he thinks all honest, 'cause himself is so, and therefore none suspects. _fisc._ i like him well for that; this fault of his great mind, as beamont calls it, may give him cause to wish he was more wary, when it shall be too late. [_aside._ _har._ i was in some small hope, this ship had been of our own country, and brought back my son; for much about this season i expect him. good-morrow, gentlemen; i go to fill a brendice to my noble captain's health, pray tell him so; the youth of our amboyna i'll send before, to welcome him. _col._ we'll stay, and meet him here. [_exeunt_ harman, fiscal, _and_ van herring. _beam._ i do not like these fleering dutchmen, they overact their kindness. _col._ i know not what to think of them; that old fat governor, harman van spelt, i have known long; they say he was a cooper in his country, and took the measure of his hoops for tuns by his own belly: i love him not, he makes a jest of men in misery; the first fat merry fool i ever knew, that was ill-natured. _beam._ he's absolutely governed by this fiscal, who was, as i have heard, an ignorant advocate in rotterdam, such as in england we call a petty-fogging rogue; one that knows nothing, but the worst part of the law, its tricks and snares: i fear he hates us english mortally. pray heaven we feel not the effects on't. _col._ neither he, nor harman, will dare to shew their malice to us, now towerson is come. for though, 'tis true, we have no castle here, he has an awe upon them in his worth, which they both fear and reverence. _beam._ i wish it so may prove; my mind is a bad prophet to me, and what it does forbode of ill, it seldom fails to pay me. here he comes. _col._ and in his company young harman, son to our dutch governor. i wonder how they met. _enter_ towerson, harman _junior, and a skipper._ _tow._ [_entering, to the skipper._] these letters see conveyed with speed to our plantation. this to cambello, and to hitto this, this other to loho. tell them, their friends in england greet them well; and when i left them, were in perfect health. _skip._ sir, you shall be obeyed. [_exit skipper._ _beam._ i heartily rejoice that our employers have chose you for this place: a better choice they never could have made, or for themselves, or me. _col._ this i am sure of, that our english factories in all these parts have wished you long the man, and none could be so welcome to their hearts. _har. jun._ and let me speak for my countrymen, the dutch; i have heard my father say, he's your sworn brother: and this late accident at sea, when you relieved me from the pirates, and brought my ship in safety off, i hope will well secure you of our gratitude. _tow._ you over-rate a little courtesy: in your deliverance i did no more, than what i had myself from you expected: the common ties of our religion, and those, yet more particular, of peace and strict commerce betwixt us and your nation, exacted all i did, or could have done. [_to_ beamont.] for you, my friend, let me ne'er breathe our english air again, but i more joy to see you, than myself to have escaped the storm that tossed me long, doubling the cape, and all the sultry heats, in passing twice the line: for now i have you here, methinks this happiness should not be bought at a less price. _har. jun._ i'll leave you with your friends; my duty binds me to hasten to receive a father's blessing. [_exit_ harman _junior._ _beam._ you are so much a friend, that i must tax you for being a slack lover. you have not yet enquired of isabinda. _tow._ no; i durst not, friend, i durst not. i love too well, and fear to know my doom; there's hope in doubt; but yet i fixed my eyes on yours, i looked with earnestness, and asked with them: if aught of ill had happened, sure i had met it there; and since, methinks, i did not, i have now recovered courage, and resolve to urge it from you. _beam._ your isabinda then-- _tow._ you have said all in that, my isabinda, if she still be so. _beam._ enjoys as much of health, as fear for you, and sorrow for your absence, would permit. [_music within._ _col._ hark, music i think approaching. _beam._ 'tis from our factory; some sudden entertainment i believe, designed for your return. _enter amboyners, men and women, with timbrels before them. a dance._ _after the dance,_ _enter_ harman _senior,_ harman _junior,_ fiscal, _and_ van herring. _har. sen._ [_embracing_ towerson.] o my sworn brother, my dear captain towerson! the man whom i love better than a stiff gale, when i am becalmed at sea; to whom i have received the sacrament, never to be false-hearted. _tow._ you ne'er shall have occasion on my part: the like i promise for our factories, while i continue here: this isle yields spice enough for both; and europe, ports, and chapmen, where to vend them. _har. sen._ it does, it does; we have enough, if we can be contented. _tow._ and, sir, why should we not? what mean these endless jars of trading nations? 'tis true, the world was never large enough for avarice or ambition; but those who can be pleased with moderate gain, may have the ends of nature, not to want: nay, even its luxuries may be supplied from her o'erflowing bounties in these parts; from whence she yearly sends spices and gums, the food of heaven in sacrifice: and, besides these, her gems of the richest value, for ornament, more than necessity. _har. sen._ you are i'the right; we must be very friends, i'faith we must; i have an old dutch heart, as true and trusty as your english oak. _fisc._ we can never forget the patronage of your elizabeth, of famous memory; when from the yoke of spain, and alva's pride, her potent succours, and her well-timed bounty, freed us, and gave us credit in the world. _tow._ for this we only ask a fair commerce, and friendliness of conversation here: and what our several treaties bind us to, you shall, while towerson lives, see so performed, as fits a subject to an english king. _har. sen._ now, by my faith, you ask too little, friend; we must have more than bare commerce betwixt us: receive me to your bosom; by this beard, i will never deceive you. _beam._ i do not like his oath, there's treachery in that judas-coloured beard. [_aside._ _fisc._ pray use me as your servant. _van her._ and me too, captain. _tow._ i receive you both as jewels, which i'll wear in either ear, and never part with you. _har. sen._ i cannot do enough for him, to whom i owe my son. _har. jun._ nor i, till fortune send me such another brave occasion of fighting so for you. _har. sen._ captain, very shortly we must use your head in a certain business; ha, ha, ha, my dear captain. _fisc._ we must use your head, indeed, sir. _tow._ sir, command me, and take it as a debt i owe your love. _har. sen._ talk not of debt, for i must have your heart. _van her._ your heart, indeed, good captain. _har. sen._ you are weary now, i know, sea-beat and weary; 'tis time we respite further ceremony; besides, i see one coming, whom i know you long to embrace, and i should be unkind to keep you from her arms. _enter_ isabinda _and_ julia. _isab._ do i hold my love, do i embrace him after a tedious absence of three years? are you indeed returned, are you the same? do you still love your isabinda? speak before i ask you twenty questions more: for i have so much love, and so much joy, that if you don't love as well as i, i shall appear distracted. _tow._ we meet then both out of ourselves, for i am nothing else but love and joy; and to take care of my discretion now, would make me much unworthy of that passion, to which you set no bounds. _isab._ how could you be so long away? _tow._ how can you think i was? i still was here, still with you, never absent in my mind. _har. jun._ she is a most charming creature; i wish i had not seen her. [_aside._ _isab._ now i shall love your god, because i see that he takes care of lovers: but, my dear englishman, i pr'ythee let it be our last of absence; i cannot bear another parting from thee, nor promise thee to live three other years, if thou again goest hence. _tow._ i never will without you. _har. sen._ i said before, we should but trouble ye. _tow._ you make me blush; but if you ever were a lover, sir, you will forgive a folly, which is sweet, though, i confess, 'ts much extravagant. _har. jun._ he has but too much cause for this excess of joy; oh happy, happy englishman! but i unfortunate! [_aside._ _tow._ now, when you please, lead on. _har. sen._ this day you shall be feasted at the castle, where our great guns shall loudly speak your welcome. all signs of joy shall through the isle be shewn, whilst in full rummers we our friendship crown. [_exeunt._ act ii. scene i. _enter_ isabinda, _and_ harman _junior._ _isab._ this to me, from you, against your friend! _har. jun._ have i not eyes? are you not fair? why does it seem so strange? _isab._ come, it is a plot betwixt you: my englishman is jealous, and has sent you to try my faith: he might have spared the experiment, after a three years absence; that was a proof sufficient of my constancy. _har. jun._ i heard him say he never had returned, but that his masters of the east india company preferred him large conditions. _isab._ you do bely him basely. _har. jun._ as much as i do you, in saying you are fair; or as i do myself, when i declare i die for you. _isab._ if this be earnest, you have done a most unmanly and ungrateful part, to court the intended wife of him, to whom you are most obliged. _har. jun._ leave me to answer that: assure yourself i love you violently, and, if you are wise, you will make some difference betwixt towerson and me. _isab._ yes, i shall make a difference, but not to your advantage. _har. jun._ you must, or falsify your knowledge; an englishman, part captain, and part merchant; his nation of declining interest here: consider this, and weigh against that fellow, not me, but any, the least and meanest dutchman in this isle. _isab._ i do not weigh by bulk: i know your countrymen have the advantage there. _har. jun._ hold back your hand, from firming of your faith; you will thank me in a little time, for staying you so kindly from embarking in his ruin. _isab._ his fortune is not so contemptible as you would make it seem. _har. jun._ wait but one month for the event. _isab._ i will not wait one day, though i were sure to sink with him the next: so well i love my towerson, i will not lose another sun, for fear he should not rise to-morrow. for yourself, pray rest assured, of all mankind, you should not be my choice, after an act of such ingratitude. _har. jun._ you may repent your scorn at leisure. _isab._ never, unless i married you. _enter_ towerson. _tow._ now, my dear isabinda, i dare pronounce myself most happy: since i have gained your kindred, all difficulties cease. _isab._ i wish we find it so. _tow._ why, is aught happened since i saw you last? methinks a sadness dwells upon your brow, like that i saw before my last long absence. you do not speak: my friend dumb too? nay then, i fear some more than ordinary cause produces this. _har. jun._ you have no reason, towerson, to be sad; you are the happy man. _tow._ if i have any, you must needs have some. _har. jun._ no, you are loved, and i am bid despair. _tow._ time and your services will perhaps make you as happy, as i am in my isabinda's love. _har. jun._ i thought i spoke so plain, i might be understood; but since i did not, i must tell you, towerson, i wear the title of your friend no longer, because i am your rival. _tow._ is this true, isabinda? _isab._ i should not, i confess, have told you first, because i would not give you that disquiet; but since he has, it is too sad a truth. _tow._ leave us, my dear, a little to ourselves. _isab._ i fear you will quarrel, for he seemed incensed, and threatened you with ruin. [_to him aside._ _tow._ 'tis to prevent an ill, which may be fatal to us both, that i would speak with him. _isab._ swear to me, by your love, you will not fight. _tow._ fear not, my isabinda; things are not grown to that extremity. _isab._ i leave you, but i doubt the consequence. [_exit_ isab. _tow._ i want a name to call you by; friend, you declare you are not, and to rival, i am not yet enough accustomed. _har. jun._ now i consider on it, it shall be yet in your free choice, to call me one or other; for, towerson, i do not decline your friendship, but then yield isabinda to me. _tow._ yield isabinda to you? _har. jun._ yes, and preserve the blessing of my friendship; i'll make my father yours; your factories shall be no more oppressed, but thrive in all advantages with ours; your gain shall be beyond what you could hope for from the treaty: in all the traffic of these eastern parts, ye shall-- _tow._ hold! you mistake me, harman, i never gave you just occasion to think i would make merchandize of love; isabinda, you know, is mine, contracted to me ere i went for england, and must be so till death. _har. jun._ she must not, towerson; you know you are not strongest in these parts, and it will be ill contesting with your masters. _tow._ our masters? harman, you durst not once have named that word, in any part of europe. _har. jun._ here i both dare and will; you have no castles in amboyna. _tow._ though we have not, we yet have english hearts, and courages not to endure affronts. _har. jun._ they may be tried. _tow._ your father sure will not maintain you in this insolence; i know he is too honest. _har. jun._ assure yourself he will espouse my quarrel. _tow._ we would complain to england. _har. jun._ your countrymen have tried that course so often, methinks they should grow wiser, and desist: but now there is no need of troubling any others but ourselves; the sum of all is this, you either must resign me isabinda, or instantly resolve to clear your title to her by your sword. _tow._ i will do neither now. _har. jun._ then i'll believe you dare not fight me fairly. _tow._ you know i durst have fought, though i am not vain enough to boast it, nor would upbraid you with remembrance of it. _har. jun._ you destroy your benefit with rehearsal of it; but that was in a ship, backed by your men; single duel is a fairer trial of your courage. _tow._ i'm not to be provoked out of my temper: here i am a public person, entrusted by my king and my employers, and should i kill you, harman-- _har. jun._ oh never think you can, sir. _tow._ i should betray my countrymen to suffer, not only worse indignities than those they have already borne, but, for aught i know, might give them up to general imprisonment, perhaps betray them to a massacre. _har. jun._ these are but pitiful and weak excuses; i'll force you to confess you dare not fight; you shall have provocations. _tow._ i will not stay to take them. only this before i go; if you are truly gallant, insult not where you have power, but keep your quarrel secret; we may have time and place out of this island: meanwhile, i go to marry isabinda, that you shall see i dare.--no more, follow me not an inch beyond this place, no not an inch. adieu. [_exit_ towerson. _har. jun._ thou goest to thy grave, or i to mine. [_is going after him._ _enter_ fiscal. _fisc._ whither so fast, mynheer? _har. jun._ after that english dog, whom i believe you saw. _fisc._ whom, towerson? _har. jun._ yes, let me go, i'll have his blood. _fisc._ let me advise you first; you young men are so violently hot. _har. jun._ i say i'll have his blood. _fisc._ to have his blood is not amiss, so far i go with you; but take me with you further for the means: first, what's the injury? _har. jun._ not to detain you with a tedious story, i love his mistress, courted her, was slighted; into the heat of this he came; i offered him the best advantages he could or to himself propose, or to his nation, would he quit her love. _fisc._ so far you are prudent, for she is exceeding rich. _har. jun._ he refused all; then i threatened him with my father's power. _fisc._ that was unwisely done; your father, underhand, may do a mischief, but it is too gross aboveboard. _har. jun._ at last, nought else prevailing, i defied him to single duel; this he refused, and i believe it was fear. _fisc._ no, no, mistake him not, it is a stout whoreson. you did ill to press him, it will not sound well in europe; he being here a public minister, having no means of 'scaping should he kill you, besides exposing all his countrymen to a revenge. _har. jun._ that's all one; i'm resolved i will pursue my course, and fight him. _fisc._ pursue your end, that's to enjoy the woman and her wealth; i would, like you, have towerson despatched,--for, as i am a true dutchman, i do hate him,--but i would convey him smoothly out of the world, and without noise; they will say we are ungrateful else in england, and barbarously cruel; now i could swallow down the _thing_ ingratitude and the _thing_ murder, but the names are odious. _har. jun._ what would you have me do then? _fisc._ let him enjoy his love a little while, it will break no squares in the long run of a man's life; you shall have enough of her, and in convenient time. _har. jun._ i cannot bear he should enjoy her first; no, it is determined; i will kill him bravely. _fisc._ ay, a right young man's bravery, that's folly: let me alone, something i'll put in practice, to rid you of this rival ere he marries, without your once appearing in it. _har. jun._ if i durst trust you now? _fisc._ if you believe that i have wit, or love you. _har. jun._ well, sir, you have prevailed; be speedy, for once i will rely on you. farewell. [_exit_ harman. _fisc._ this hopeful business will be quickly spoiled, if i not take exceeding care of it.--stay,--towerson to be killed, and privately, that must be laid down as the groundwork, for stronger reasons than a young man's passion; but who shall do it? no englishman will, and much i fear, no dutchman dares attempt it. _enter_ perez. well said, in faith, old devil! let thee alone, when once a man is plotting villany, to find him a fit instrument. this spanish captain, who commands our slaves, is bold enough, and is beside in want, and proud enough to think he merits wealth. _per._ this fiscal loves my wife; i am jealous of him, and yet must speak him fair to get my pay; o, there is the devil for a castilian, to stoop to one of his own master's rebels, who has, or who designs to cuckold him.--[_aside._]--[_to_ fiscal.] i come to kiss your hand again, sir; six months i am in arrear; i must not starve, and spaniards cannot beg. _fisc._ i have been a better friend to you, than perhaps you think, captain. _per._ i fear you have indeed. [_aside._ _fisc._ and faithfully solicited your business; send but your wife to-morrow morning early, the money shall be ready. _per._ what if i come myself? _fisc._ why ye may have it, if you come yourself, captain; but in case your occasions should call you any other way, you dare trust her to receive it. _per._ she has no skill in money. _fisc._ it shall be told into her hand, or given her upon honour, in a lump: but, captain, you were saying you did want; now i should think three hundred doubloons would do you no great harm; they will serve to make you merry on the watch. _per._ must they be told into my wife's hand, too? _fisc._ no, those you may receive yourself, if you dare merit them. _per._ i am a spaniard, sir; that implies honour: i dare all that is possible. _fisc._ then you dare kill a man. _per._ so it be fairly. _fisc._ but what if he will not be so civil to be killed that way? he is a sturdy fellow, i know you stout, and do not question your valour; but i would make sure work, and not endanger you, who are my friend. _per._ i fear the governor will execute me. _fisc._ the governor will thank you; 'tis he shall be your pay-master; you shall have your pardon drawn up beforehand; and remember, no transitory sum, three hundred quadruples in your own country gold. _per._ well, name your man. _enter_ julia. _fisc._ your wife comes, take it in whisper. [_they whisper._ _jul._ yonder is my master, and my dutch servant; how lovingly they talk in private! if i did not know my don's temper to be monstrously jealous, i should think, they were driving a secret bargain for my body; but _cuerpo_ is not to be digested by my castilian. _mi moher_, my wife, and my mistress! he lays the emphasis on me, as if to cuckold him were a worse sin, than breaking the commandment. if my english lover, beamont, my dutch love, the fiscal, and my spanish husband, were painted in a piece, with me amongst them, they would make a pretty emblem of the two nations that cuckold his catholic majesty in his indies. _fisc._ you will undertake it then? _per._ i have served under towerson as his lieutenant, served him well, and, though i say it, bravely; yet never have been rewarded, though he promised largely; 'tis resolved, i'll do it. _fisc._ and swear secresy? _per._ by this beard. _fisc._ go wait upon the governor from me, confer with him about it in my name, this seal will give you credit. [_gives him his seal._ _per._ i go. [_goes a step or two, while the other approaches his wife._] what shall i be, before i come again? [_exit._ _fisc._ now, my fair mistress, we shall have the opportunity which i have long desired. [_to_ julia. _per._ the governor is now a-sleeping; this is his hour of afternoon's repose, i'll go when he is awake. [_returning._ _fisc._ he slept early this afternoon; i left him newly waked. _per._ well, i go then, but with an aching heart. [_exit._ _fisc._ so, at length he's gone. _jul._ but you may find he was jealous, by his delay. _fisc._ if i were as you, i would give evident proofs, should cure him of that disease for ever after. _enter_ perez _again._ _per._ i have considered on't, and if you would go along with me to the governor, it would do much better. _fisc._ no, no, that would make the matter more suspicious. the devil take thee for an impertinent cuckold! [_aside._ _per._ well, i must go then. [_exit_ perez. _jul._ nay, there was never the like of him; but it shall not serve his turn, we'll cuckold him most furiously. _enter_ perez _again._ _per._ i had forgot one thing; dear sweet-heart, go home quickly, and oversee our business; it won't go forward without one of us. _fisc._ i warrant you, take no care of your business; leave it to me, i'll put it forward in your absence: go, go, you'll lose your opportunity; i'll be at home before you, and sup with you to-night. _per._ you shall be welcome, but-- _fisc._ three hundred quadruples. _per._ that's true, but-- _fisc._ but three hundred quadruples. _per._ the devil take the quadruples! _enter_ beamont. _beam._ there's my cuckold that must be, and my fellow swaggerer, the dutchman, with my mistress: my nose is wiped to-day; i must retire, for the spaniard is jealous of me. _per._ oh, mr beamont, i'm to ask a favour of you. _beam._ this is unusual; pray command it, signior. _per._ i am going upon urgent business; pray sup with me to-night, and, in the meantime, bear my worthy friend here company. _beam._ with all my heart. _per._ so, now i am secure; though i dare not trust her with one of them, i may with both; they'll hinder one another, and preserve my honour into the bargain. [_exit._ _beam._ now, mr fiscal, you are the happy man with the ladies, and have got the precedence of traffic here too; you've the indies in your arms, yet i hope a poor englishman may come in for a third part of the merchandise. _fisc._ oh, sir, in these commodities, here's enough for both; here's mace for you, and nutmeg for me, in the same fruit, and yet the owner has to spare for other friends too. _jul._ my husband's plantation is like to thrive well betwixt you. _beam._ horn him; he deserves not so much happiness as he enjoys in you; he's jealous. _jul._ 'tis no wonder if a spaniard looks yellow. _beam._ betwixt you and me, 'tis a little kind of venture that we make, in doing this don's drudgery for him; for the whole nation of them is generally so pocky, that 'tis no longer a disease, but a second nature in them. _fisc._ i have heard indeed, that 'tis incorporated among them, as deeply as the moors and jews are; there's scarce a family, but 'tis crept into their blood, like the new christians. _jul._ come, i'll have no whispering betwixt you; i know you were talking of my husband, because my nose itches. _beam._ faith, madam, i was speaking in favour of your nation: what pleasant lives i have known spaniards to live in england. _jul._ if you love me, let me hear a little. _beam._ we observed them to have much of the nature of our flies; they buzzed abroad a month or two in the summer, would venture about dog-days to take the air in the park, but all the winter slept like dormice; and, if they ever appeared in public after michaelmas, their faces shewed the difference betwixt their country and ours, for they look in spain as if they were roasted, and in england as if they were sodden. _jul._ i'll not believe your description. _fisc._ yet our observations of them in holland are not much unlike it. i've known a great don at the hague, with the gentleman of his horse, his major domo, and two secretaries, all dine at four tables, on the quarters of a single pullet: the victuals of the under servants were weighed out in ounces, by the don himself; with so much garlic in the other scale: a thin slice of bacon went through the family a week together; for it was daily put into the pot for pottage; was served in the midst of the dish at dinners, and taken out and weighed by the steward, at the end of every meal, to see how much it lost; till, at length, looking at it against the sun, it appeared transparent, and then he would have whipped it up, as his own fees, at a morsel; but that his lord barred the dice, and reckoned it to him for a part of his board wages. _beam._ in few words, madam, the general notion we had of them, was, that they were very frugal of their spanish coin, and very liberal of their neapolitan. _jul._ i see, gentlemen, you are in the way of rallying; therefore let me be no hinderance to your sport; do as much for one another as you have done for our nation. pray, mynheer fiscal, what think you of the english? _fisc._ oh, i have an honour for the country. _beam._ i beseech you, leave your ceremony; we can hear of our faults without choler; therefore speak of us with a true amsterdam spirit, and do not spare us. _fisc._ since you command me, sir, 'tis said of you, i know not how truly, that for your fishery at home, you're like dogs in the manger, you will neither manage it yourselves, nor permit your neighbours; so that for your sovereignty of the narrow seas, if the inhabitants of them, the herrings, were capable of being judges, they would certainly award it to the english, because they were then sure to live undisturbed, and quiet under you. _beam._ very good; proceed, sir. _fisc._ 'tis true, you gave us aid in our time of need, but you paid yourselves with our cautionary towns: and, that you have since delivered them up, we can never give sufficient commendation, either to your honesty, or to your wit; for both which qualities you have purchased such an immortal fame, that all nations are instructed how to deal with you another time. _beam._ a most grateful acknowledgment; sweet sir, go on. _fisc._ for your trade abroad, if you should obtain it, you are so horribly expensive, that you would undo yourselves and all christendom; for you would sink under your very profit, and the gains of the universal world would beggar you: you devour a voyage to the indies, by the multitude of mouths with which you man your vessels: providence has contrived it well, that the indies are managed by us, an industrious and frugal people, who distribute its merchandise to the rest of europe, and suffer it not to be consumed in england, that the other members might be starved, while you of great britain, as you call it, like a rickety head, would only swell and grow bigger by it. _jul._ i have heard enough of england; have you nothing to return upon the netherlands? _beam._ faith, very little to any purpose; he has been beforehand with us, as his countrymen are in their trade, and taken up so many vices for the use of england, that he has left almost none for the low countries. _jul._ come, a word, however. _beam._ in the first place, you shewed your ambition when you began to be a state: for not being gentlemen, you have stolen the arms of the best families of europe; and wanting a name, you made bold with the first of the divine attributes, and called yourselves the high and mighty: though, let me tell you, that, besides the blasphemy, the title is ridiculous; for high is no more proper for the netherlands, than mighty is for seven little rascally provinces, no bigger in all than a shire in england. for my main theme, your ingratitude, you have in part acknowledged it, by your laughing at our easy delivery of your cautionary towns: the best is, we are used by you as well as your own princes of the house of orange: we and they have set you up, and you undermine their power, and circumvent our trade. _fisc._ and good reason, if our interest requires it. _beam._ that leads me to your religion, which is only made up of interest: at home, you tolerate all worships in them who can pay for it; and abroad, you were lately so civil to the emperor of pegu, as to do open sacrifice to his idols. _fisc._ yes, and by the same token, you english were such precise fools as to refuse it. _beam._ for frugality in trading, we confess we cannot compare with you; for our merchants live like noblemen; your gentlemen, if you have any, live like boors. you traffic for all the rarities of the world, and dare use none of them yourselves; so that, in effect, you are the mill-horses of mankind, that labour only for the wretched provender you eat: a pot of butter and a pickled herring is all your riches; and, in short, you have a good title to cheat all europe, because, in the first place, you cozen your own backs and bellies. _fisc._ we may enjoy more whenever we please. _beam._ your liberty is a grosser cheat than any of the rest; for you are ten times more taxed than any people in christendom: you never keep any league with foreign princes; you flatter our kings, and ruin their subjects; you never denied us satisfaction at home for injuries, nor ever gave it us abroad. _fisc._ you must make yourselves more feared, when you expect it. _beam._ and i prophecy that time will come, when some generous monarch of our island will undertake our quarrel, reassume the fishery of our seas, and make them as considerable to the english, as the indies are to you. _fisc._ before that comes to pass, you may repent your over-lavish tongue. _beam._ i was no more in earnest than you were. _jul._ pray let this go no further; my husband has invited both to supper. _beam._ if you please, i'll fall to before he comes; or, at least, while he is conferring in private with the fiscal. [_aside to her._ _jul._ their private businesses let them agree; the dutch for him, the englishman for me. [_exeunt._ act iii. scene i. _enter_ perez. _per._ true, the reward proposed is great enough, i want it too; besides, this englishman has never paid me since, as his lieutenant, i served him once against the turk at sea; yet he confessed i did my duty well, when twice i cleared our decks; he has long promised me, but what are promises to starving men? this is his house, he may walk out this morning. _enter a page, and another servant, walking by, not seeing him._ these belong to him; i'll hide till they are past. _serv._ he sleeps soundly for a man who is to be married when he wakes. _page._ he does well to take his time; for he does not know, when he's married, whether ever he shall have a sound sleep again. _serv._ he bid we should not wake him; but some of us, in good manners, should have staid, and not have left him quite alone. _page._ in good manners, i should indeed; but i'll venture a master's anger at any time for a mistress, and that's my case at present. _serv._ i'll tempt as great a danger as that comes to, for good old english fellowship; i am invited to a morning's draught. _page._ good-morrow, brother, good-morrow; by that time you have filled your belly, and i have emptied mine, it will be time to meet at home again. [_exeunt severally._ _per._ so, this makes well for my design; he's left alone, unguarded, and asleep: satan, thou art a bounteous friend, and liberal of occasions to do mischief; my pardon i have ready, if i am taken, my money half beforehand: up, perez, rouse thy spanish courage up; if he should wake, i think i dare attempt him; then my revenge is nobler, and revenge, to injured men, is full as sweet as profit. [_exit._ scene ii. _the_ scene _drawn, discovers_ towerson _asleep on a couch in his night-gown. a table by him; pen, ink, and paper on it._ _re-enter_ perez _with a dagger._ _per._ asleep, as i imagined, and as fast as all the plummets of eternal night were hung upon his temples. oh that some courteous dæmon, in the other world, would let him know, 'twas perez sent him thither! a paper by him too! he little thinks it is his testament; the last he e'er shall make: i'll read it first. [_takes it up._] oh, by the inscription, 'tis a memorial of what he means to do this day: what's here? my name in the first line! i'll read it. [_reads._] _memorandum, that my first action this morning shall be, to find out my true and valiant lieutenant, captain perez; and, as a testimony of my gratitude for his honourable services, to bestow on him five hundred english pounds, making my just excuse, i had it not before within my power to reward him._ [_lays down the paper._] and was it then for this i sought his life? oh base, degenerate spaniard! hadst thou done it, thou hadst been worse than damned: heaven took more care of me, than i of him, to expose this paper to my timely view. sleep on, thou honourable englishman; i'll sooner now pierce my own breast than thine: see, he smiles too in his slumber, as if his guardian angel, in a dream, told him, he was secure: i'll give him warning though, to prevent danger from another hand. [_writes on_ towerson's _paper, then sticks his dagger in it._ stick there, that when he wakens, he may know, to his own virtue he his life does owe. [_exit_ perez. towerson _awakens._ _tow._ i have o'erslept my hour this morning, if to enjoy a pleasing dream can be to sleep too long. methought my dear isabinda and myself were lying in an arbour, wreathed about with myrtle and with cypress; my rival harman, reconciled again to his friendship, strewed us with flowers, and put on each a crimson-coloured garment, in which we straightway mounted to the skies; and with us, many of my english friends, all clad in the same robes. if dreams have any meaning, sure this portends some good.--what's that i see! a dagger stuck into the paper of my memorials, and writ below--_thy virtue saved thy life!_ it seems some one has been within my chamber whilst i slept: something of consequence hangs upon this accident. what, ho! who waits without? none answer me? are ye all dead? what, ho! _enter_ beamont. _beam._ how is it, friend? i thought, entering your house, i heard you call. _tow._ i did, but as it seems without effect; none of my servants are within reach of my voice. _beam._ you seem amazed at somewhat? _tow._ a little discomposed: read that, and see if i have no occasion; that dagger was stuck there, by him who writ it. _beam._ i must confess you have too just a cause: i am myself surprised at an event so strange. _tow._ i know not who can be my enemy within this island, except my rival harman; and for him, i truly did relate what passed betwixt us yesterday. _beam._ you bore yourself in that as it became you, as one who was a witness to himself of his own courage; and while, by necessary care of others, you were forced to decline fighting, shewed how much you did despise the man who sought the quarrel: 'twas base in him, so backed as he is here, to offer it, much more to press you to it. _tow._ i may find a foot of ground in europe to tell the insulting youth, he better had provoked some other man; but sure i cannot think 'twas he who left that dagger there. _beam._ no, for it seems too great a nobleness of spirit, for one like him to practise: 'twas certainly an enemy, who came to take your sleeping life; but thus to leave unfinished the design, proclaims the act no dutchman's. _tow_ that time will best discover; i'll think no further of it. _beam._ i confess you have more pleasing thoughts to employ your mind at present; i left your bride just ready for the temple, and came to call you to her. _tow._ i'll straight attend you thither. _enter_ harman _sen._ fiscal, _and_ van herring. _fisc._ remember, sir, what i advised you; you must seemingly make up the business. [_to_ har. _sen._ _har. sen._ i warrant you.--what, my brave bonny bridegroom, not yet dressed? you are a lazy lover; i must chide you. [_to_ towerson. _tow._ i was just preparing. _har. sen._ i must prevent part of the ceremony: you thought to go to her; she is by this time at the castle, where she is invited with our common friends; for you shall give me leave, if you so please, to entertain you both. _tow._ i have some reasons, why i must refuse the honour you intend me. _har. sen._ you must have none: what! my old friend steal a wedding from me? in troth, you wrong our friendship. _beam._ [_to him aside._] sir, go not to the castle; you cannot, in honour, accept an invitation from the father, after an affront from the son. _tow._ once more i beg your pardon, sir. _har. sen._ come, come, i know your reason of refusal, but it must not prevail: my son has been to blame; i'll not maintain him in the least neglect, which he should show to any englishman, much less to you, the best and most esteemed of all my friends. _tow._ i should be willing, sir, to think it was a young man's rashness, or perhaps the rage of a successless rival; yet he might have spared some words. _har. sen._ friend, he shall ask your pardon, or i'll no longer own him; what, ungrateful to a man, whose valour has preserved him? he shall do it, he shall indeed; i'll make you friends upon your own conditions; he's at the door, pray let him be admitted; this is a day of general jubilee. _tow._ you command here, you know, sir. _fisc._ i'll call him in; i am sure he will be proud, at any rate, to redeem your kind opinion of him. [_exit._ fiscal _re-enters,_ with harman _junior._ _har. jun._ sir, my father, i hope, has in part satisfied you, that what i spoke was only an effect of sudden passion, of which i am now ashamed; and desire it may be no longer lodged in your remembrance, than it is now in my intention to do you any injury. _tow._ your father may command me to more difficult employments, than to receive the friendship of a man, of whom i did not willingly embrace an ill opinion. _har. jun._ nothing henceforward shall have power to take from me that happiness, in which you are so generously pleased to reinstate me. _har. sen._ why this is as it should be; trust me, i weep for joy. _beam._ towerson is easy, and too credulous. i fear 'tis all dissembled on their parts. [_aside._ _har. sen._ now set we forward to the castle; the bride is there before us. _tow._ sir, i wait you. [_exeunt_ harman _sen._ towerson, beamont, _and_ van herring. _enter captain_ perez. _fisc._ now, captain, when perform you what you promised, concerning towerson's death? _per._ never.--there, judas, take your hire of blood again. [_throws him a purse._ _har. jun._ your reason for this sudden change? _per._ i cannot own the name of man, and do it. _har. jun._ your head shall answer the neglect of what you were commanded. _per._ if it must, i cannot shun my destiny. _fisc._ harman, you are too rash; pray hear his reasons first. _per._ i have them to myself, i'll give you none. _fisc._ none? that's hard; well, you can be secret, captain, for your own sake, i hope? _per._ that i have sworn already, my oath binds me. _fisc._ that's enough: we have now chang'd our minds, and do not wish his death,--at least as you shall know. [_aside._ _per._ i am glad on't, for he's a brave and worthy gentleman; i would not for the wealth of both the indies have had his blood upon my soul to answer. _fisc._ [_aside to_ harman.] i shall find a time to take back our secret from him, at the price of his life, when he least dreams of it; meantime 'tis fit we speak him fair. [_to_ perez.] captain, a reward attends you, greater than you could hope; we only meant to try your honesty. i am more than satisfied of your reasons. _per._ i still shall labour to deserve your kindness in any honourable way. [_exit_ perez. _har. jun._ i told you that this spaniard had not courage enough for such an enterprise. _fisc._ he rather had too much of honesty. _har. jun._ oh, you have ruined me; you promised me this day the death of towerson, and now, instead of that, i see him happy! i'll go and fight him yet; i swear he never shall enjoy her. _fisc._ he shall not, that i swear with you; but you are too rash, the business can never be done your way. _har. jun._ i'll trust no other arm but my own with it. _fisc._ yes, mine you shall, i'll help you. this evening, as he goes from the castle, we'll find some way to meet him in the dark, and then make sure of him for getting maidenheads to-night; to-morrow i'll bestow a pill upon my spanish don, lest he discover what he knows. _har. jun._ give me your hand, you'll help me. _fisc._ by all my hopes i will: in the mean time, with a feigned mirth 'tis fit we gild our faces; the truth is, that we may smile in earnest, when we look upon the englishman, and think how we will use him. _har. jun._ agreed; come to the castle. [_exeunt._ scene iii.--_the castle._ _enter_ harman _senior,_ towerson, _and_ isabinda, beamont, collins, van herring. _they seat themselves._ epithalamium. _the day is come, i see it rise, betwixt the bride and bridegroom's eyes; that golden day they wished so long, love picked it out amidst the throng; he destined to himself this sun, and took the reins, and drove him on; in his own beams he drest him bright, yet bid him bring a better night._ _the day you wished arrived at last, you wish as much that it were past; one minute more, and night will hide the bridegroom and the blushing bride. the virgin now to bed does go-- take care, oh youth, she rise not so-- she pants and trembles at her doom, and fears and wishes thou wouldst come._ _the bridegroom comes, he comes apace, with love and fury in his face; she shrinks away, he close pursues, and prayers and threats at once does use. she, softly sighing, begs delay, and with her hand puts his away; now out aloud for help she cries, and now despairing shuts her eyes._ _har. sen._ i like this song, 'twas sprightly; it would restore me twenty years of youth, had i but such a bride. _a dance._ _after the dance, enter_ harman _junior, and_ fiscal. _beam._ come, let me have the sea-fight; i like that better than a thousand of your wanton epithalamiums. _har. jun._ he means that fight, in which he freed me from the pirates. _tow._ pr'ythee, friend, oblige me, and call not for that song; 'twill breed ill blood. [_to_ beamont. _beam._ pr'ythee be not scrupulous, ye fought it bravely. young harman is ungrateful, if he does not acknowledge it. i say, sing me the sea-fight. the sea-fight. _who ever saw a noble sight, that never viewed a brave sea-fight! hang up your bloody colours in the air, up with your fights, and your nettings prepare; your merry mates cheer, with a lusty bold spright, now each man his brindice, and then to the fight. st george, st george, we cry, the shouting turks reply: oh now it begins, and the gun-room grows hot, ply it with culverin and with small shot; hark, does it not thunder? no, 'tis the guns roar, the neighbouring billows are turned into gore; now each man must resolve, to die, for here the coward cannot fly. drums and trumpets toll the knell, and culverins the passing bell. now, now they grapple, and now board amain; blow up the hatches, they're off all again: give them a broadside, the dice run at all, down comes the mast and yard, and tacklings fall; she grows giddy now, like blind fortune's wheel, she sinks there, she sinks, she turns up her keel. who ever beheld so noble a sight, as this so brave, so bloody sea-fight!_ _har. jun._ see the insolence of these english; they cannot do a brave action in an age, but presently they must put it into metre, to upbraid us with their benefits. _fisc._ let them laugh, that win at last. _enter captain_ middleton, _and a woman with him, all pale and weakly, and in tattered garments._ _tow._ captain middleton, you are arrived in a good hour, to be partaker of my happiness, which is as great this day, as love and expectation can make it. [_rising up to salute_ middleton. _mid._ and may it long continue so! _tow._ but how happens it, that, setting out with us from england, you came not sooner hither. _mid._ it seems the winds favoured you with a quicker passage; you know i lost you in a storm on the other side of the cape, with which disabled, i was forced to put into st helen's isle; there 'twas my fortune to preserve the life of this our countrywoman; the rest let her relate. _isab._ alas, she seems half-starved, unfit to make relations. _van her._ how the devil came she off? i know her but too well, and fear she knows me too. _tow._ pray, countrywoman, speak. _eng wom._ then thus in brief; in my dear husband's company, i parted from our sweet native isle: we to lantore were bound, with letters from the states of holland, gained for reparation of great damages sustained by us; when, by the insulting dutch, our countrymen, against all show of right, were dispossessed, and naked sent away from that rich island, and from poleroon. _har. sen._ woman, you speak with too much spleen; i must not hear my countrymen affronted. _eng. wom.._ i wish they did not merit much worse of me, than i can say of them.--well, we sailed forward with a merry gale, till near st helen's isle we were overtaken, or rather waylaid, by a holland vessel; the captain of which ship, whom here i see, the man who quitted us of all we had in those rich parts before, now fearing to restore his ill-got goods, first hailed, and then invited us on board, keeping himself concealed; his base lieutenant plied all our english mariners with wine, and when in dead of night they lay secure in silent sleep, most barbarously commanded they should be thrown overboard. _fisc._ sir, do not hear it out. _har. sen._ this is all false and scandalous. _tow._ pray, sir, attend the story. _eng. wom._ the vessel rifled, and the rich hold rummaged, they sink it down to rights; but first i should have told you, (grief, alas, has spoiled my memory) that my dear husband, wakened at the noise, before they reached the cabin where we lay, took me all trembling with the sudden fright, and leapt into the boat; we cut the cordage, and so put out to sea, driving at mercy of the waves and wind; so scaped we in the dark. to sum up all, we got to shore, and in the mountains hid us, until the barbarous hollanders were gone. _tow._ where is your husband, countrywoman? _eng. wom._ dead with grief; with these two hands i scratched him out a grave, on which i placed a cross, and every day wept o'er the ground where all my joys lay buried. the manner of my life, who can express! the fountain-water was my only drink; the crabbed juice and rhind of half-ripe lemons almost my only food, except some roots; my house, the widowed cave of some wild beast. in this sad state, i stood upon the shore, when this brave captain with his ship approached, whence holding up and waving both my hands, i stood, and by my actions begged their mercy; yet, when they nearer came, i would have fled, had i been able, lest they should have proved those murderous dutch, i more than hunger feared. _har. sen._ what say you to this accusation, van herring? _van her._ 'tis as you said, sir, false and scandalous. _har. sen._ i told you so; all false and scandalous. _isab._ on my soul it is not; her heart speaks in her tongue, and were she silent, her habit and her face speak for her. _beam._ sir, you have heard the proofs. _fisc._ mere allegations, and no proofs. seem not to believe it, sir. _har. sen._ well, well, we'll hear it another time. _mid._ you seem not to believe her testimony, but my whole crew can witness it. _van her._ ay, they are all englishmen. _tow._ that's a nation too generous to do bad actions, and too sincere to justify them done; i wish their neighbours were of the same temper. _har. sen._ nay, now you kindle, captain; this must not be, we are your friends and servants. _mid._ 'tis well you are by land, at sea you would be masters: there i myself have met with some affronts, which, though i wanted power then to return, i hailed the captain of the holland ship, and told him he should dearly answer it, if e'er i met him in the narrow seas. his answer was, (mark but the insolence) if i should hang thee, middleton, up at thy main yard, and sink thy ship, here's that about my neck (pointing to his gold chain) would answer it when i came into holland. _har. jan._ yes, this is like the other. _tow._ i find we must complain at home; there's no redress to be had here. _isab._ come, countrywoman,--i must call you so, since he who owns my heart is english born,--be not dejected at your wretched fortune; my house is yours, my clothes shall habit you, even these i wear, rather than see you thus. _har. sen._ come, come, no more complaints; let us go in; i have ten rummers ready to the bride; as many times shall our guns discharge, to speak the general gladness of this day. i'll lead you, lady. [_takes the bride by the hand._ _tow._ a heavy omen to my nuptials! my countrymen oppressed by sea and land, and i not able to redress the wrong, so weak are we, our enemies so strong. [_exeunt._ act iv. scene i.--_a wood._ _enter_ harman _junior, and_ fiscal, _with swords, and disguised in vizards._ _har. jun._ we are disguised enough; the evening now grows dusk.--i would the deed were done! _enter_ perez _with a soldier, and overhears them._ _fisc._ 'twill now be suddenly, if we have courage in this wild woody walk, hot with the feast and plenteous bowls, the bridal company are walking to enjoy the cooling breeze; i spoke to towerson, as i said i would, and on some private business of great moment, desired that he would leave the company, and meet me single here. _har. jan._ where if he comes, he never shall return but towerson stays too long for my revenge; i am in haste to kill him. _fisc._ he promised me to have been here ere now; if you think fitting, i'll go back and bring him. _har. jun._ do so, i'll wait you in this place. [_exit_ fisc. _per._ was ever villany like this of these unknown assassins? towerson, in vain i saved thy sleeping life if now i let thee lose it, when thou wakest; thou lately hast been bountiful to me, and this way i'll acknowledge it. yet to disclose their crimes were dangerous. what must i do? this generous englishman will strait be here, and consultation then perhaps will be too late: i am resolved.--lieutenant, you have heard, as well as i, the bloody purpose of these men? _sold._ i have, and tremble at the mention of it. _per._ dare you adventure on an action, as brave as theirs is base? _sold._ command my life. _per._ no more. help me despatch that murderer, ere his accomplice comes: the men i know not; but their design is treacherous and bloody. _sold._ and he, they mean to kill, is brave himself, and of a nation i much love. _per._ come on then. [_both draw. to_ har.] villain, thou diest, thy conscience tells thee why; i need not urge the crime. [_they assault him._ _har. jun._ murder! i shall be basely murdered; help! _enter_ towerson. _tow._ hold, villains! what unmanly odds is this? courage, whoe'er thou art; i'll succour thee. [towerson _fights with_ perez, _and_ harman _with the lieutenant, and drive them off the stage._ _har. jun._ though, brave unknown, night takes thee from my knowledge, and i want time to thank thee now, take this, and wear it for my sake; [_gives him a ring._] hereafter i'll acknowledge it more largely. [_exit._ _tow._ that voice i've heard; but cannot call to mind, except it be young harman's. yet, who should put his life in danger thus? this ring i would not take as salary, but as a gage of his free heart who left it; and, when i know him, i'll restore the pledge. sure 'twas not far from hence i made the appointment: i know not what this dutchman's business is, yet, i believe, 'twas somewhat from my rival. it shall go hard, but i will find him out, and then rejoin the company. [_exit._ _re-enter_ harman _junior, and_ fiscal. _fisc._ the accident was wondrous strange: did you neither know your assassinates, nor your deliverer? _har. jun._ 'twas all a hurry; yet, upon better recollecting of myself, the man, who freed me, must be towerson. _fisc._ hark, i hear the company walking this way; will you withdraw? _har. jun._ withdraw, and isabinda coming! _fisc._ the wood is full of murderers; every tree, methinks, hides one behind it. _har. jun._ you have two qualities, my friend, that sort but ill together; as mischievous as hell could wish you, but fearful in the execution. _fisc._ there is a thing within me, called a conscience which is not quite o'ercome; now and then it rebels a little, especially when i am alone, or in the dark. _har. jun._ the moon begins to rise, and glitters through the trees. _isab._ [_within._] pray let us walk this way; that farther lawn, between the groves, is the most green and pleasant of any in this isle. _har. jun._ i hear my siren's voice, i cannot stir from hence.--dear friend, if thou wilt e'er oblige me, divert the company a little, and give me opportunity a while to talk alone with her. _fisc._ you'll get nothing of her, except it be by force. _har. jun._ you know not with what eloquence love may inspire my tongue: the guiltiest wretch, when ready for his sentence, has something still to say. _fisc._ well, they come; i'll put you in a way, and wish you good success; but do you hear? remember you are a man, and she a woman; a little force, it may be, would do well. _enter_ isabinda, beamont, middleton, collins, harman _senior; and_ julia. _isab._ who saw the bridegroom last? _har. sen._ he refused to pledge the last rummer; so i am out of charity with him. _beam._ come, shall we backward to the castle? i'll take care of you, lady. _jul_ oh, you have drunk so much, you are past all care. _col._ but where can be this jolly bridegroom? answer me that; i will have the bride satisfied. _fisc._ he walked alone this way; we met him lately. _isab._ i beseech you, sir, conduct us. _har. jun._ i'll bring you to him, madam. _fisc._ [_to_ har. _jun._] remember, now's your time; if you o'erslip this minute, fortune perhaps will never send another. _har. jun._ i am resolved. _fisc._ come, gentlemen, i'll tell you such a pleasant accident, you'll think the evening short. _jul._ i love a story, and a walk by moonshine. _fisc._ lend me your hand then, madam. [_takes her by the one hand._ _beam._ but one, i beseech you then; i must not quit her so. [_takes her by the other hand. exeunt._ _re-enter_ harman _junior, and_ isabinda. _isab._ come, sir, which is the way? i long to see my love. _har. jun._ you may have your wish, and without stirring hence. _isab._ my love so near? sure you delight to mock me! _har. jun._ 'tis you delight to torture me; behold the man who loves you more than his own eyes; more than the joys of earth, or hopes of heaven. _isab._ when you renewed your friendship with my towerson, i thought these vain desires were dead within you. _har. jun._ smothered they were, not dead; your eyes can kindle no such petty fires, as only blaze a while, and strait go out. _isab._ you know, when i had far less ties upon me, i would not hear you; therefore wonder not if i withdraw, and find the company. _har. jun._ that would be too much cruelty, to make me wretched, and then leave me so. _isab._ am i in fault if you are miserable? so you may call the rich man's wealth, the cause and object of the robber's guilt. pray do not persecute me farther: you know i have a husband now, and would be loth to afflict his knowledge with your second folly. _har. jun._ what wondrous care you take to make him happy! yet i approve your method. ignorance! oh, 'tis a jewel to a husband; that is, 'tis peace in him, 'tis virtue in his wife, 'tis honour in the world; he has all this, while he is ignorant. _isab._ you pervert my meaning: i would not keep my actions from his knowledge; your bold attempts i would: but yet henceforth conceal your impious flames; i shall not ever be thus indulgent to your shame, to keep it from his notice. _har. jun._ you are a woman; have enough of love for him and me; i know the plenteous harvest all is his: he has so much of joy, that he must labour under it. in charity, you may allow some gleanings to a friend. _isab._ now you grow rude: i'll hear no more. _har. jun._ you must. _imb._ leave me. _har. jun._ i cannot. _isab._ i find i must be troubled with this idle talk some minutes more, but 'tis your last. _har. jun._ and therefore i'll improve it: pray, resolve to make me happy by your free consent. i do not love these half enjoyments, to enervate my delights with using force, and neither give myself nor you that full content, which two can never have, but where both join with equal eagerness to bless each other. _isab._ bless me, ye kind inhabitants of heaven, from hearing words like these! _har. jun._ you must do more than hear them. you know you were now going to your bridal-bed. call your own thoughts but to a strict account, they'll tell you, all this day your fancy ran on nothing else; 'tis but the same scene still you were to act; only the person changed,--it may be for the better. _isab._ you dare not, sure, attempt this villany. _har. jun._ call not the act of love by that gross name; you'll give it a much better when 'tis done, and woo me to a second. _isab._ dost thou not fear a heaven? _har. jun._ no, i hope one in you. do it, and do it heartily; time is precious; it will prepare you better for your husband. come-- [_lays hold on her._ _isab._ o mercy, mercy! oh, pity your own soul, and pity mine; think how you'll wish undone this horrid act, when your hot lust is slaked; think what will follow when my husband knows it, if shame will let me live to tell it him; and tremble at a power above, who sees, and surely will revenge it. _har. jun._ i have thought! _isab._ then i am sure you're penitent. _har. jun._ no, i only gave you scope, to let you see, all you have urged i knew: you find 'tis to no purpose either to talk or strive. _isab._ [_running._] some succour! help, oh help! [_she breaks from him._ _har. jun._ [_running after her._] that too is vain, you cannot 'scape me. [_exit._ _har. jun._ [_within._] now you are mine; yield, or by force i'll take it. _isab._ [_within._] oh, kill me first! _har. jun._ [_within._] i'll bear you where your cries shall not be heard. _isab._ [_as further off._] succour, sweet heaven! oh succour me! scene ii. _enter_ harman _senior,_ fiscal, van herring, beamont, collins, _and_ julia. _beam._ you have led us here a fairy's round in the moonshine, to seek a bridegroom in a wood, till we have lost the bride. _col._ i wonder what's become of her? _har. sen._ got together, got together, i warrant you, before this time; you englishmen are so hot, you cannot stay for ceremonies. a good honest dutchman would have been plying the glass all this while, and drunk to the hopes of hans in kelder till 'twas bed-time. _beam._ yes, and then have rolled into the sheets, and turned o' the t'other side to snore, without so much as a parting blow; till about midnight he would have wakened in a maze, and found first he was married by putting forth a foot, and feeling a woman by him; and, it may be, then, instead of kissing, desired yough fro to hold his head. _col._ and by that night's work have given her a proof, what she might expect for ever after. _beam._ in my conscience, you hollanders never get your children, but in the spirit of brandy; you are exalted then a little above your natural phlegm, and only that, which can make you fight, and destroy men, makes you get them. _fisc._ you may live to know, that we can kill men when we are sober. _beam._ then they must be drunk, and not able to defend themselves. _jul._ pray leave this talk, and let us try if we can surprise the lovers under some convenient tree: shall we separate, and look them? _beam._ let you and i go together then, and if we cannot find them, we shall do as good, for we shall find one another. _fisc._ pray take that path, or that; i will pursue this. [_exeunt all but the_ fiscal. _fisc._ so, now i have diverted them from harman, i'll look for him myself, and see how he speeds in his adventure. _enter_ harman _junior._ _har. jun._ who goes there? _fisc._ a friend: i was just in quest of you, so are all the company: where have you left the bride? _har. jun._ tied to a tree and gagged, and-- _fisc._ and what? why do you stare and tremble? answer me like a man. _har. jun._ oh, i have nothing left of manhood in me! i am turned beast or devil. have i not horns, and tail, and leathern wings? methinks i should have by my actions. oh, i have done a deed so ill, i cannot name it. _fisc._ not name it, and yet do it? that's a fool's modesty: come, i'll name it for you: you have enjoyed your mistress. _har. jun._ how easily so great a villany comes from thy mouth! i have done worse, i have ravished her. _fisc._ that's no harm, so you have killed her afterwards. _har. jun._ killed her! why thou art a worse fiend than i. _fisc._ those fits of conscience in another might be excusable; but in you, a dutchman, who are of a race that are born rebels, and live every where on rapine,--would you degenerate, and have remorse? pray, what makes any thing a sin but law? and, what law is there here against it? is not your father chief? will he condemn you for a petty rape? the woman an amboyner, and, what's less, now married to an englishman! come, if there be a hell, 'tis but for those that sin in europe, not for us in asia; heathens have no hell. tell me, how was't? pr'ythee, the history. _har. jun._ i forced her. what resistance she could make she did, but 'twas in vain; i bound her, as i told you, to a tree. _fisc._ and she exclaimed, i warrant-- _har. jun._ yes; and called heaven and earth to witness. _fisc._ not after it was done? _har. jun._ more than before--desired me to have killed her. even when i had not left her power to speak, she curst me with her eyes. _fisc._ nay, then, you did not please her; if you had, she ne'er had cursed you heartily. but we lose time: since you have done this action, 'tis necessary you proceed; we must have no tales told. _har. jun._ what do you mean? _fisc._ to dispatch her immediately; could you be so senseless to ravish her, and let her live? what if her husband should have found her? what if any other english? come, there's no dallying; it must be done: my other plot is ripe, which shall destroy them all to-morrow. _har. jun._ i love her still to madness, and never can consent to have her killed. we'll thence remove her, if you please, and keep her safe till your intended plot shall take effect; and when her husband's gone, i'll win her love by every circumstance of kindness. _fisc._ you may do so; but t'other is the safer way: but i'll not stand with you for one life. i could have wished that towerson had been killed before i had proceeded to my plot; but since it cannot be, we must go on; conduct me where you left her. _har. jun._ oh, that i could forget both act and place! [_exeunt._ scene iii. scene _drawn, discovers_ isabinda _bound. enter_ towerson. _tow._ sure i mistook the place; i'll wait no longer: something within me does forebode me ill; i stumbled when i entered first this wood; my nostrils bled three drops; then stopped the blood, and not one more would follow.-- what's that, which seems to bear a mortal shape, [_sees_ isa. yet neither stirs nor speaks? or, is it some illusion of the night? some spectre, such as in these asian parts more frequently appear? whate'er it be, i'll venture to approach it. [_goes near._ my isabinda bound and gagged! ye powers, i tremble while i free her, and scarce dare restore her liberty of speech, for fear of knowing more. [_unbinds her, and ungags her._ _isab._ no longer bridegroom thou, nor i a bride; those names are vanished; love is now no more; look on me as thou would'st on some foul leper; and do not touch me; i am all polluted, all shame, all o'er dishonour; fly my sight, and, for my sake, fly this detested isle, where horrid ills so black and fatal dwell, as indians could not guess, till europe taught. _tow._ speak plainer, i am recollected now: i know i am a man, the sport of fate; yet, oh my better half, had heaven so pleased, i had been more content, to suffer in myself than thee! _isab._ what shall i say! that monster of a man, harman,--now i have named him, think the rest,-- alone, and singled like a timorous hind from the full herd, by flattery drew me first, then forced me to an act, so base and brutal! heaven knows my innocence: but, why do i call that to witness! heaven saw, stood silent: not one flash of lightning shot from the conscious firmament, to shew its justice: oh had it struck us both, it had saved me! _tow._ heaven suffered more in that, than you, or i, wherefore have i been faithful to my trust, true to my love, and tender to the opprest? am i condemned to be the second man, who e'er complained he virtue served in vain? but dry your tears, these sufferings all are mine. your breast is white, and cold as falling snow; you, still as fragrant as your eastern groves; and your whole frame as innocent, and holy, as if your being were all soul and spirit, without the gross allay of flesh and blood. come to my arms again! _isab._ o never, never! i am not worthy now; my soul indeed is free from sin; but the foul speckled stains are from my body ne'er to be washed out, but in my death. kill me, my love, or i must kill myself; else you may think i was a black adultress in my mind, and some of me consented. _tow._ your wish to die, shews you deserve to live. i have proclaimed you guiltless to myself. self-homicide, which was, in heathens, honour, in us, is only sin. _isab._ i thought the eternal mind had made us masters of these mortal frames; you told me, he had given us wills to chuse, and reason to direct us in our choice; if so, why should he tie us up from dying, when death's the greater good? _tow._ can death, which is our greatest enemy, be good? death is the dissolution of our nature; and nature therefore does abhor it most, whose greatest law is--to preserve our beings. _isab._ i grant, it is its great and general law: but as kings, who are, or should be, above laws, dispense with them when levelled at themselves; even so may man, without offence to heaven, dispense with what concerns himself alone. nor is death in itself an ill; then holy martyrs sinned, who ran uncalled to snatch their martyrdom; and blessed virgins, whom you celebrate for voluntary death, to free themselves from that which i have suffered. _tow._ they did it, to prevent what might ensue; your shame's already past. _isab._ it may return, if i am yet so mean to live a little longer. _tow._ you know not; heaven may give you succour yet; you see it sends me to you. _isab._ 'tis too late, you should have come before. _tow._ you may live to see yourself revenged. come, you shall stay for that, then i'll die with you, you have convinced my reason, nor am i ashamed to learn from you. to heaven's tribunal my appeal i make; if as a governor he sets me here, to guard this weak-built citadel of life, when 'tis no longer to be held, i may with honour quit the fort. but first i'll both revenge myself and you. _isab._ alas! you cannot take revenge; your countrymen are few, and those unarmed. _tow._ though not on all the nation, as i would, yet i at least can take it on the man. _isab._ leave me to heaven's revenge, for thither i will go, and plead, myself, my own just cause. there's not an injured saint of all my sex, but kindly will conduct me to my judge, and help me tell my story. _tow._ i'll send the offender first, though to that place he never can arrive: ten thousand devils, damned for less crimes than he, and tarquin in their head, way-lay his soul, to pull him down in triumph, and to shew him in pomp among his countrymen; for sure hell has its netherlands, and its lowest country must be their lot. _enter_ harman _junior, and_ fiscal. _har. jun._ 'twas hereabout i left her tied. the rage of love renews again within me. _fisc._ she'll like the effects on't better now. by this time it has sunk into her imagination, and given her a more pleasing idea of the man, who offered her so sweet a violence. _isab._ save me, sweet heaven! the monster comes again! _har. jun._ oh, here she is.--my own fair bride,--for so you are, not towerson's,--let me unbind you; i expect that you should bind yourself about me now, and tie me in your arms. _tow._ [_drawing._] no, villain, no! hot satyr of the woods, expect another entertainment now. behold revenge for injured chastity. this sword heaven draws against thee, and here has placed me like a fiery cherub, to guard this paradise from any second violation. _fisc._ we must dispatch him, sir, we have the odds; and when he's killed, leave me t'invent the excuse. _har. jun._ hold a little: as you shunned fighting formerly with me, so would i now with you. the mischiefs i have done are past recal. yield then your useless right in her i love, since the possession is no longer yours; so is your honour safe, and so is hers, the husband only altered. _tow._ you trifle; there's no room for treaty here: the shame's too open, and the wrong too great. now all the saints in heaven look down to see the justice i shall do, for 'tis their cause; and all the fiends below prepare thy tortures. _isab._ if towerson would, think'st thou my soul so poor, to own thy sin, and make the base act mine, by chusing him who did it? know, bad man, i'll die with him, but never live with thee. _tow._ prepare; i shall suspect you stay for further help, and think not this enough. _fisc._ we are ready for you. _har. jun._ stand back! i'll fight with him alone. _fisc._ thank you for that; so, if he kills you, i shall have him single upon me. [_all three fight._ _isab._ heaven assist my love! _har. jun._ there, englishman, 'twas meant well to thy heart. [towerson _wounded._ _fisc._ oh you can bleed, i see, for all your cause. _tow._ wounds but awaken english courage. _har. jun._ yet yield me isabinda, and be safe. _tow._ i'll fight myself all scarlet over first; were there no love, or no revenge, i could not now desist, in point of honour. _har. jun._ resolve me first one question: did you not draw your sword this night before, to rescue one opprest with odds? _tow._ yes, in this very wood: i bear a ring, the badge of gratitude from him i saved. _har. jun._ this ring was mine; i should be loth to kill the frank redeemer of my life. _tow._ i quit that obligation. but we lose time. come, ravisher! [_they fight again,_ tow. _closes with_ harm, _and gets him down; as he is going to kill him, the_ fisc. _gets over him._ _fisc._ hold, and let him rise; for if you kill him, at the same instant you die too. _tow._ dog, do thy worst, for i would so be killed; i'll carry his soul captive with me into the other world. [_stabs_ harman. _har. jun._ o mercy, mercy, heaven! [_dies._ _fisc._ take this, then; in return. [_as he is going to stab him,_ isab. _takes hold of his hand._ _isab._ hold, hold; the weak may give some help. _tow._ [_rising._] now, sir, i am for you. _fisc._ [_retiring._] hold, sir, there is no more resistance made. i beg you, by the honour of your nation, do not pursue my life; i tender you my sword. [_holds his sword by the point to him._ _tow._ base beyond example of any country, but thy own! _isab._ kill him, sweet love, or we shall both repent it. _fisc._ [_kneeling to her._] divinest beauty! abstract of all that's excellent in woman, can you be friend to murder? _isab._ 'tis none to kill a villain, and a dutchman. _fisc._ [_kneeling to_ towerson.] noble englishman, give me my life, unworthy of your taking! by all that is good and holy here i swear, before the governor to plead your cause; and to declare his son's detested crime, so to secure your lives. _tow._ rise, take thy life, though i can scarce believe thee; if for a coward it be possible, become an honest man. _enter_ harman _senior,_ van herring, beamont, collins, julia, _the governors guard._ _fisc._ [_to_ har.] oh, sir, you come in time to rescue me; the greatest villain, who this day draws breath, stands here before your eyes: behold your son, that worthy, sweet, unfortunate young man, lies there, the last cold breath yet hovering betwixt his trembling lips. _tow._ oh, monster of ingratitude! _har._ oh, my unfortunate old age, whose prop and only staff is gone, dead ere i die! these should have been his tears, and i have been that body to be mourned. _beam._ i am so much amazed, i scarce believe my senses. _fisc._ and will you let him live, who did this act? shall murder, and of your own son, and such a son, go free; he lives too long, by this one minute which he stays behind him. _isab._ oh, sir, remember, in that place you hold, you are a common father to us all; we beg but justice of you; hearken first to my lamented story. _fisc._ first hear me, sir. _tow._ thee, slave! thou livest but by the breath i gave thee. didst thou but now plead on thy knees for life, and offer'dst to make known my innocence in harman's injuries? _fisc._ i offered to have cleared thy innocence, who basely murdered him!--but words are needless; sir, you see evidence before your eyes, and i the witness, on my oath to heaven, how clear your son, how criminal this man. _col._ towerson could do nothing but what was noble. _beam._ we know his native worth. _fisc._ his worth! behold it on the murderer's hand; a robber first, he took degrees in mischief, and grew to what he is: know you that diamond, and whose it was? see if he dares deny it. _tow._ sir, it was your son's, that freely i acknowledge; but how i came by it-- _har._ no, it is too much, i'll hear no more. _fisc._ the devil of jealousy, and that of avarice, both, i believe, possest him; or your son was innocently talking with his wife, and he perhaps had found them; this i guess, but saw it not, because i came too late. i only viewed the sweet youth just expiring, and towerson stooping down to take the ring; she kneeling by to help him: when he saw me, he would, you may be sure, have sent me after, because i was a witness of the fact. this on my soul is true. _tow._ false as that soul, each word, each syllable; the ring he put upon my hand this night, when in this wood unknown, and near this place, without my timely help he had been slain. _fisc._ see this unlikely story! what enemies had he, who should assault him? or is it probable that very man, who actually did kill him afterwards, should save his life so little time before? _isab._ base man, thou knowest the reason of his death; he had committed on my person, sir, an impious rape; first tied me to that tree, and there my husband found me, whose revenge was such, as heaven and earth will justify. _har._ i know not what heaven will, but earth shall not. _beam._ her story carries such a face of truth, ye cannot but believe it. _col._ the other, a malicious ill-patched lie. _fisc._ yes, you are proper judges of his crime, who, with the rest of your accomplices, your countrymen, and towerson the chief, whom we too kindly used, would have surprised the fort, and made us slaves; that shall be proved, more soon than you imagine; i found it out this evening. _tow._ sure the devil has lent thee all his stock of falsehood, and must be forced hereafter to tell truth. _beam._ sir, it is impossible you should believe it. _har._ seize them all. _col._ you cannot be so base. _har._ i'll be so just, 'till i can hear your plea against this plot; which if not proved, and fully, you are quit; mean time, resistance is but vain. _tow._ provided that we may have equal hearing, i am content to yield, though i declare, you have no power to judge us. [_gives his sword._ _beam._ barbarous, ungrateful dutch! _har._ see them conveyed apart to several prisons, lest they combine to forge some specious lie in their excuse. let towerson and that woman too be parted. _isab._ was ever such a sad divorce made on a bridal night! but we before were parted, ne'er to meet. farewell, farewell, my last and only love! _tow._ curse on my fond credulity, to think there could be faith or honour in the dutch!-- farewell my isabinda, and farewell, my much wronged countrymen! remember yet, that no unmanly weakness in your sufferings disgrace the native honour of our isle: for you i mourn, grief for myself were vain; i have lost all, and now would lose my pain. [_exeunt._ act v. scene i.--_a table set out._ _enter_ harman, fiscal, van herring, _and two dutchmen: they sit. boy, and waiters, guards._ _har._ my sorrow cannot be so soon digested for losing of a son i loved so well; but i consider great advantages must with some loss be bought; as this rich trade which i this day have purchased with his death: yet let me lie revenged, and i shall still live on, and eat and drink down all my griefs. now to the matter, fiscal. _fisc._ since we may freely speak among ourselves, all i have said of towerson was most false. you were consenting, sir, as well as i, that perez should be hired to murder him, which he refusing when he was engaged, 'tis dangerous to let him longer live. _van. her._ dispatch him; he will be a shrewd witness against us, if he returns to europe. _fisc._ i have thought better, if you please,--to kill him by form of law, as accessary to the english plot, which i have long been forging. _har._ send one to seize him strait. [_exit a messenger._] but what you said, that towerson was guiltless of my son's death, i easily believe, and never thought otherwise, though i dissembled. _van her._ nor i; but it was well done to feign that story. _ dutch._ the true one was too foul. _ dutch._ and afterwards to draw the english off from his concernment, to their own, i think 'twas rarely managed that. _har._ so far, 'twas well; now to proceed, for i would gladly know, whether the grounds are plausible enough of this pretended plot. _fisc._ with favour of this honourable court, give me but leave to smooth the way before you. some two or three nights since, (it matters not,) a japan soldier, under captain perez, came to a centinel upon the guard, and in familiar talk did question him about this castle, of its strength, and how he thought it might be taken; this discourse the other told me early the next morning: i thereupon did issue private orders, to rack the japanese, myself being present. _har._ but what's this to the english? _fisc._ you shall hear: i asked him, when his pains were strongest on him, if towerson, or the english factory, had never hired him to betray the fort? he answered, (as it was true) they never had; nor was his meaning more in that discourse, than as a soldier to inform himself, and so to pass the time. _van her._ did he confess no more? _fisc._ you interrupt me. i told him, i was certainly informed the english had designs upon the castle, and if he frankly would confess their plot, he should not only be released from torment, but bounteously rewarded: present pain and future hope, in fine, so wrought upon him, he yielded to subscribe whatever i pleased; and so he stands committed. _har._ well contrived; a fair way made, upon this accusation, to put them all to torture. _ dutch._ by his confession, all of them shall die, even to their general, towerson. _har._ he stands convicted of another crime, for which he is to suffer. _fisc._ this does well to help it though: for towerson is here a person publicly employed from england, and if he should appeal, as sure he will, you have no power to judge him in amboyna. _van her._ but in regard of the late league and union betwixt the nations, how can this be answered? _ dutch._ to torture subjects to so great a king, a pain never heard of in their happy land, will sound but ill in europe. _fisc._ their english laws in england have their force; and we have ours, different from theirs at home. it is enough, they either shall confess, or we will falsify their hands to make them. then, for the apology, let me alone; i have it writ already to a title, of what they shall subscribe; this i will publish, and make our most unheard of cruelties to seem most just and legal. _har._ then, in the name of him, who put it first into thy head to form this damned false plot, proceed we to the execution of it. and to begin; first seize we their effects, rifle their chests, their boxes, writings, books, and take of them a seeming inventory; but all to our own use.--i shall grow young with thought of this, and lose my son's remembrance! _fisc._ will you not please to call the prisoners in? at least inquire what torments have extorted. _har._ go thou and bring us word. [_exit_ fiscal.] boy, give me some tobacco, and a stoup of wine, boy. _boy._ i shall, sir. _har._ and a tub to leak in, boy; when was this table without a leaking vessel? _van her._ that's an omission. _ dutch._ a great omission. 'tis a member of the table, i take it so. _har._ never any thing of moment was done at our council-table without a leaking tub, at least in my time; great affairs require great consultations, great consultations require great drinking, and great drinking a great leaking vessel. _van her._ i am even drunk with joy already, to see our godly business in this forwardness. _enter_ fiscal. _har._ where are the prisoners? _fisc._ at the door. _har._ bring them in; i'll try if we can face them down by impudence, and make them to confess. _enter_ beamont _and_ collins, _guarded._ you are not ignorant of our business with you: the cries of your accomplices have already reached your ears; and your own consciences, above a thousand summons, a thousand tortures, instruct you what to do. no farther juggling, nothing but plain sincerity and truth to be delivered now; a free confession will first atone for all your sins above, and may do much below to gain your pardons. let me exhort you, therefore, be you merciful, first to yourselves and make acknowledgment of your conspiracy. _beam._ what conspiracy? _fisc._ why la you, that the devil should go masked with such a seeming honest face! i warrant you know of no such thing. _har._ were not you, mr beamont, and you, collins both accessary to the horrid plot, for the surprisal of this fort and island? _beam._ as i shall reconcile my sins to heaven, in my last article of life, i am innocent. _col._ and so am i. _har._ so, you are first upon the negative. _beam._ and will be so till death. _col._ what plot is this you speak of? _fisc._ here are impudent rogues! now after confession of two japanese, these english starts dare ask what plot it is! _har._ not to inform your knowledge, but that law may have its course in every circumstance, fiscal, sum up their accusation to them. _fisc._ you stand accused, that new-year's day last past, there met at captain towerson's house, you present, and many others of your factory: there, against law and justice, and all ties of friendship, and of partnership betwixt us, you did conspire to seize upon the fort, to murder this our worthy governor; and, by the help of your plantations near, of jacatra, banda, and loho, to keep it for yourselves. _beam._ what proofs have you of this? _fisc._ the confession of two japanese, hired by you to attempt it. _beam._ i hear they have been forced by torture to it. _har._ it matters not which way the truth comes out; take heed, for their example is before you. _beam._ ye have no right, ye dare not torture us; we owe you no subjection. _fisc._ that, sir, must be disputed at the hague; in the mean time we are in possession here. _ dutch._ and we can make ourselves to be obeyed. _van her._ in few words, gentlemen, confess. there is a beverage ready for you else, which you will not like to swallow. _col._ how is this? _har._ you shall be muffled up like ladies, with an oiled cloth put underneath your chins, then water poured above; which either you must drink, or must not breathe. _ dutch._ that is one way, we have others. _har._ yes, we have two elements at your service, fire, as well as water; certain things called matches to be tied to your finger-ends, which are as sovereign as nutmegs to quicken your short memories. _beam._ you are inhuman, to make your cruelty your pastime: nature made me a man, and not a whale, to swallow down a flood. _har._ you will grow a corpulent gentleman like me; i shall love you the better for it; now you are but a spare rib. _fisc._ these things are only offered to your choice; you may avoid your tortures, and confess. _col._ kill us first; for that we know is your design at last, and 'tis more mercy now. _beam._ be kind, and execute us while we bear the shapes of men, ere fire and water have destroyed our figures; let me go whole out of the world, i care not, and find my body when i rise again, so as i need not be ashamed of it. _har._ 'tis well you are merry; will you yet confess? _beam._ never. _har._ bear them away to torture. _van. her._ we will try your constancy. _beam._ we will shame your cruelty; if we deserve our tortures, 'tis first for freeing such an infamous nation, that ought to have been slaves, and then for trusting them as partners, who had cast off the yoke of their lawful sovereign. _har._ away, i'll hear no more.--now who comes the next? [_exeunt the english with a guard._ _fisc._ towerson's page, a ship-boy, and a woman. _har._ call them in. [_exit a messenger._ _van her._ we shall have easy work with them. _fisc._ not so easy as you imagine, they have endured the beverage already; all masters of their pain, no one confessing. _har._ the devil's in these english! those brave boys would prove stout topers if they lived. _enter page, a boy, and a woman, led as from torture._ come hither, ye perverse imps; they say you have endured the water torment, we will try what fire will do with you: you, sirrah, confess; were not you knowing of towerson's plot, against this fort and island? _page._ i have told your hangman no, twelve times within this hour, when i was at the last gasp; and that is a time, i think, when a man should not dissemble. _har._ a man! mark you that now; you english boys have learnt a trick of late, of growing men betimes; and doing men's work, too, before you come to twenty. _van her._ sirrah, i will try if you are a salamander and can live in the fire. _page._ sure you think my father got me of some dutchwoman, and that i am but of a half-strain courage; but you shall find that i am all over english as well in fire as water. _boy._ well, of all religions, i do not like your dutch. _fisc._ no? and why, young stripling? _boy._ because your penance comes before confession. _har._ do you mock us, sirrah? to the fire with him. _boy._ do so; all you shall get by it is this; before i answered no; now i'll be sullen and will talk no more. _har._ best cutting off these little rogues betime; if they grow men, they will have the spirit of revenge in them. _page._ yes, as your children have that of rebellion. oh that i could but live to be governor here, to make your fat guts pledge me in that beverage i drunk, you sir john falstaff of amsterdam! _boy._ i have a little brother in england, that i intend to appear to when you have killed me; and if he does not promise me the death of ten dutchmen in the next war, i'll haunt him instead of you. _har._ what say you, woman? have compassion of yourself, and confess; you are of a softer sex. _wom._ but of a courage full as manly; there is no sex in souls; would you have english wives shew less of bravery than their children do? to lie by an englishman's side, is enough to give a woman resolution. _fisc._ here is a hen of the game too, but we shall tame you in the fire. _wom._ my innocence shall there be tried like gold, till it come out the purer. when you have burnt me all into one wound, cram gunpowder into it, and blow me up, i'll not confess one word to shame my country. _har._ i think we have got here the mother of the maccabees; away with them all three. [_exeunt the english guarded._] i'll take the pains myself to see these tortured. [_exeunt_ harman, van herring, _and the two dutchmen with the english: manet_ fiscal. _enter_ julia _to the_ fiscal. _jul._ oh you have ruined me! you have undone me, in the person of my husband! _fisc._ if he will needs forfeit his life to the laws, by joining with the english in a plot, it is not in me to save him; but, dearest julia, be satisfied, you shall not want a husband. _jul._ do you think i'll ever come into a bed with him, who robbed me of my dear sweet man? _fisc._ dry up your tears; i am in earnest; i will marry you; i'faith i will; it is your destiny. _jul._ nay if it be my destiny--but i vow i'll never be yours but upon one condition. _fisc._ name your desire, and take it. _jul._ then save poor beamont's life. _fisc._ this is the most unkind request you could have made; it shews you love him better: therefore, in prudence, i should haste his death. _jul._ come, i'll not be denied; you shall give me his life, or i'll not love you; by this kiss you shall, child. _fisc._ pray ask some other thing. _jul._ i have your word for this, and if you break it, how shall i trust you for your marrying me? _fisc._ well, i will do it to oblige you. but to prevent her new designs with him, i'll see him shipped away for england strait. [_aside._ _jul._ i may build upon your promise, then? _fisc._ most firmly: i hear company. _enter_ harman, van herring, _and the two dutchmen, with_ towerson _prisoner._ _har._ now, captain towerson, you have had the privilege to be examined last; this on the score of my old friendship with you, though you have ill deserved it. but here you stand accused of no less crimes than robbery first, then murder, and last, treason: what can you say to clear yourself? _tow._ you're interested in all, and therefore partial: i have considered on it, and will not plead, because i know you have no right to judge me; for the last treaty betwixt our king and you expressly said, that causes criminal were first to be examined, and then judged, not here, but by the council of defence; to whom i make appeal. _fisc._ this court conceives that it has power to judge you, derived from the most high and mighty states, who in this island are supreme, and that as well in criminal as civil causes. _ dutch._ you are not to question the authority of the court, which is to judge you. _tow._ sir, by your favour, i both must, and will: i'll not so far betray my nation's right; we are not here your subjects, but your partners: and that supremacy of power, you claim, extends but to the natives, not to us: dare you, who in the british seas strike sail, nay more, whose lives and freedom are our alms, presume to sit and judge your benefactors? your base new upstart commonwealth should blush, to doom the subjects of an english king, the meanest of whose merchants would disdain the narrow life, and the domestic baseness, of one of those you call your mighty states. _fisc._ you spend your breath in railing; speak to the purpose. _har._ hold yet: because you shall not call us cruel, or plead i would be judge in my own cause, i shall accept of that appeal you make, concerning my son's death; provided first, you clear yourself from what concerns the public; for that relating to our general safety, the judgment of it cannot be deferred, but with our common danger. _tow._ let me first be bold to question you: what circumstance can make this, your pretended plot, seem likely? the natives, first, you tortured; their confession, extorted so, can prove no crime in us. consider, next, the strength of this your castle; its garrison above two hundred men, besides as many of your city burghers, all ready on the least alarm, or summons, to reinforce the others; for ten english, and merchants they, not soldiers, with the aid of ten japanners, all of them unarmed, except five swords, and not so many muskets,-- the attempt had only been for fools or madmen. _fisc._ we cannot help your want of wit; proceed. _tow._ grant then we had been desperate enough to hazard this; we must at least forecast, how to secure possession when we had it. we had no ship nor pinnace in the harbour, nor could have aid from any factory: the nearest to us forty leagues from hence, and they but few in number: you, besides this fort, have yet three castles in this isle, amply provided for, and eight tall ships riding at anchor near; consider this, and think what all the world will judge of it. _har._ nothing but falsehood is to be expected from such a tongue, whose heart is fouled with treason. give him the beverage. _fisc._ 'tis ready, sir. _har._ hold; i have some reluctance to proceed to that extremity: he was my friend, and i would have him frankly to confess: push open that prison door, and set before him the image of his pains in other men. _the_ scene _opens, and discovers the english tortured, and the dutch tormenting them._ _fisc._ now, sir, how does the object like you? _tow._ are you men or devils! d'alva, whom you condemn for cruelty, did ne'er the like; he knew original villany was in your blood. your fathers all are damned for their rebellion; when they rebelled, they were well used to this. these tortures ne'er were hatched in human breasts; but as your country lies confined on hell, just on its marches, your black neighbours taught ye; and just such pains as you invent on earth, hell has reserved for you. _har._ are you yet moved? _tow._ but not as you would have me. i could weep tears of blood to view this usage; but you, as if not made of the same mould, see, with dry eyes, the miseries of men, as they were creatures of another kind, not christians, nor allies, nor partners with you, but as if beasts, transfixed on theatres, to make you cruel sport. _har._ these are but vulgar objects; bring his friend, let him behold his tortures; shut that door. [_the scene closed._ _enter_ beamont, _led with matches tied to his hands._ _tow._ [_embracing him._] oh my dear friend, now i am truly wretched! even in that part which is most sensible, my friendship: how have we lived to see the english name the scorn of these, the vilest of mankind! _beam._ courage, my friend, and rather praise we heaven, that it has chose two, such as you and me, who will not shame our country with our pains, but stand, like marble statues, in their fires, scorched and defaced, perhaps, not melted down. so let them burn this tenement of earth; they can but burn me naked to my soul; that's of a nobler frame, and will stand firm, upright, and unconsumed. _fisc._ confess; if you have kindness, save your friend. _tow._ yes, by my death i would, not my confession: he is so brave, he would not so be saved; but would renounce a friendship built on shame. _har._ bring more candles, and burn him from the wrists up to the elbows. _beam._ do; i'll enjoy the flames like scævola; and, when one's roasted, give the other hand. _tow._ let me embrace you while you are a man. now you must lose that form; be parched and rivelled, like a dried mummy, or dead malefactor, exposed in chains, and blown about by winds. _beam._ yet this i can endure. go on, and weary out two elements; vex fire and water with the experiments of pains far worse than death. _tow._ oh, let me take my turn! you will have double pleasure; i'm ashamed to be the only englishman untortured. _van. her._ you soon should have your wish, but that we know in him you suffer more. _har._ fill me a brim-full glass: now, captain, here's to all your countrymen; i wish your whole east india company were in this room, that we might use them thus. _fisc._ they should have fires of cloves and cinnamon; we would cut down whole groves to honour them, and be at cost to burn them nobly. _beam._ barbarous villains! now you show yourselves _har._ boy, take that candle thence, and bring it hither; i am exalted, and would light my pipe just where the wick is fed with english fat. _van her._ so would i; oh, the tobacco tastes divinely after it. _tow._ we have friends in england, who would weep to see this acted on a theatre, which here you make your pastime. _beam._ oh, that this flesh were turned a cake of ice, that i might in an instant melt away, and become nothing, to escape this torment! there is not cold enough in all the north to quench my burning blood. [fiscal _whispers_ harman. _har._ do with beamont as you please, so towerson die. _fisc._ you'll not confess yet, captain? _tow._ hangman, no; i would have don't before, if e'er i would: to do it when my friend has suffered this, were to be less than he. _fisc._ free him. [_they free_ beamont. beamont, i have not sworn you should not suffer. but that you should not die; thank julia for it. but on your life do not delay this hour to post from hence! so to your next plantation; i cannot suffer a loved rival near me. _beam._ i almost question if i will receive my life from thee: 'tis like a cure from witches; 'twill leave a sin behind it. _fisc._ nay, i'm not lavish of my courtesy; i can on easy terms resume my gift. _har._ captain, you're a dead man; i'll spare your torture for your quality; prepare for execution instantly. _tow._ i am prepared. _fisc._ you die in charity, i hope? _tow._ i can forgive even thee: my innocence i need not name, you know it. one farewell kiss of my dear isabinda, and all my business here on earth is done. _har._ call her; she's at the door. [_exit_ fisc. _tow._ [_to_ beam. _embracing._] a long and last farewell! i take my death with the more cheerfulness, because thou liv'st behind me: tell my friends, i died so as became a christian and a man; give to my brave employers of the east india company, the last remembrance of my faithful service; tell them, i seal that service with my blood; and, dying, wish to all their factories, and all the famous merchants of our isle, that wealth their generous industry deserves; but dare not hope it with dutch partnership. last, there's my heart, i give it in this kiss: [_kisses him._ do not answer me; friendship's a tender thing, and it would ill become me now to weep. _beam._ adieu! if i would speak, i cannot-- [_exit._ _enter_ isabinda. _isab._ is it permitted me to see your eyes once more, before eternal night shall close them? _tow._ i summoned all i had of man to see you; 'twas well the time allowed for it was short; i could not bear it long: 'tis dangerous, and would divide my love 'twixt heaven and you. i therefore part in haste; think i am going a sudden journey, and have not the leisure to take a ceremonious long farewell. _isab._ do you still love me? _tow._ do not suppose i do; 'tis for your ease, since you must stay behind me, to think i was unkind; you'll grieve the less. _har._ though i suspect you joined in my son's murder, yet, since it is not proved, you have your life. _isab._ i thank you for't, i'll make the noblest use of your sad gift; that is, to die unforced: i'll make a present of my life to towerson, to let you see, though worthless of his love, i would not live without him. _tow._ i charge you, love my memory, but live. _har._ she shall be strictly guarded from that violence she means against herself. _isab._ vain men! there are so many paths to death, you cannot stop them all: o'er the green turf, where my love's laid, there will i mourning sit, and draw no air but from the damps that rise out of that hallowed earth; and for my diet, i mean my eyes alone shall feed my mouth. thus will i live, till he in pity rise, and the pale shade take me in his cold arms, and lay me kindly by him in his grave. _enter_ collins, _and then_ perez, julia _following him._ _har._ no more; your time's now come, you must away. _col._ now, devils, you have done your worst with tortures; death's a privation of pain, but they were a continual dying. _jul._ farewell, my dearest! i may have many husbands, but never one like thee. _per._ as you love my soul, take hence that woman.-- my english friends, i'm not ashamed of death, while i have you for partners; i know you innocent, and so am i, of this pretended plot; but i am guilty of a greater crime; for, being married in another country, the governor's persuasions, and my love to that ill woman, made me leave the first, and make this fatal choice. i'm justly punished; for her sake i die: the fiscal, to enjoy her, has accused me. there is another cause; by his procurement i should have killed-- _fisc._ away with him, and stop his mouth. [_he is led off._ _tow._ i leave thee, life, with no regret at parting; full of whatever thou could'st give, i rise from thy neglected feast, and go to sleep: yet, on this brink of death, my eyes are opened, and heaven has bid me prophecy to you, the unjust contrivers of this tragic scene:-- _an age is coming, when an english monarch with blood shall pay that blood which you have shed: to save your cities from victorious arms, you shall invite the waves to hide your earth[ ], and, trembling, to the, tops of houses fly, while deluges invade your lower rooms: then, as with waters you have swelled our bodies, with damps of waters shall your heads be swoln: till, at the last, your sapped foundations fall, and universal ruin swallows all._ [_he is led out with the english; the dutch remain._ _van. her._ ay, ay, we'll venture both ourselves and children for such another pull. _ dutch._ let him prophecy when his head's off. _ dutch._ there's ne'er a nostradamus of them all shall fright us from our gain. _fisc._ now for a smooth apology, and then a fawning letter to the king of england; and our work's done. _har._ 'tis done as i would wish it: now, brethren, at my proper cost and charges, three days you are my guests; in which good time we will divide their greatest wealth by lots, while wantonly we raffle for the rest: then, in full rummers, and with joyful hearts, we'll drink confusion to all english starts. [_exeunt._ footnote: . during the french invasion of , the dutch were obliged to adopt the desperate defence of cutting their dykes, and inundating the country. epilogue a poet once the spartans led to fight, and made them conquer in the muse's right; so would our poet lead you on this day, showing your tortured fathers in his play. to one well-born the affront is worse, and more, when he's abused, and baffled by a boor: with an ill grace the dutch their mischiefs do, they've both ill-nature and ill-manners too. well may they boast themselves an ancient nation, for they were bred ere manners were in fashion; and their new commonwealth has set them free, only from honour and civility. venetians do not more uncouthly ride[ ], than did their lubber state mankind bestride; their sway became them with as ill a mien, as their own paunches swell above their chin: yet is their empire no true growth, but humour, and only two kings' touch can cure the tumour[ ]. as cato did his afric fruits display, so we before your eyes their indies lay: all loyal english will, like him, conclude, let cæsar live, and carthage be subdued[ ]! footnotes: . the situation of venice renders it impossible to bring horses into the town; accordingly, the venetians are proverbially bad riders. . the poet alludes to the king's evil, and to the joint war of france and england against holland. . allusions to cato,--who presented to the roman senate the rich figs of africa, and reminded them it was but three days sail to the country which produced such excellent fruit,--were fashionable during the dutch war. the lord chancellor shaftesbury had set the example, by applying to holland the favourite maxim of the roman philosopher, _delenda est carthago._ when that versatile statesman afterwards fled to holland, he petitioned to be created a burgess of amsterdam, to ensure him against being delivered up to england. the magistrates conferred on him the freedom desired, with the memorable words, "_ab nostra carthagine nondum deleta, salutem accipe._" * * * * * the state of innocence, and fall of man. an opera. --_utinam modò dicere possem carmina digna deâ: certe est dea carmine digna._ ovid. met. the state of innocence, &c. the "paradise lost" of milton is a work so extraordinary in conception and execution, that it required a lapse of many years to reconcile the herd of readers, and of critics, to what was almost too sublime for ordinary understandings. the poets, in particular, seemed to have gazed on its excellencies, like the inferior animals on dryden's immortal hind; and, incapable of fully estimating a merit, which, in some degree, they could not help feeling, many were their absurd experiments to lower it to the standard of their own comprehension. one author, deeming the "paradise lost" deficient in harmony, was pleased painfully to turn it into rhyme; and more than one, conceiving the subject too serious to be treated in verse of any kind, employed their leisure in humbling it into prose. the names of these well-judging and considerate persons are preserved by mr todd in his edition of milton's poetical works. but we must not confound with these effusions of gratuitous folly an alteration, or imitation, planned and executed by john dryden; although we may be at a loss to guess the motives by which he was guided in hazarding such an attempt. his reverence for milton and his high estimation of his poetry, had already called forth the well-known verses, in which he attributes to him the joint excellencies of the two most celebrated poets of antiquity; and if other proofs of his veneration were wanting, they may be found in the preface to this very production. had the subject been of a nature which admitted its being actually represented, we might conceive, that dryden, who was under engagements to the theatre, with which it was not always easy to comply, might have been desirous to shorten his own labour, by adopting the story sentiments, and language of a poem, which he so highly esteemed and which might probably have been new to the generality of his audience. but the _costume_ of our first parents, had there been no other objection, must have excluded the "state of innocence" from the stage, and accordingly it was certainly never intended for representation. the probable motive, therefore, of this alteration, was the wish, so common to genius, to exert itself upon a subject in which another had already attained brilliant success, or, as dryden has termed a similar attempt, the desire to shoot in the bow of ulysses. some circumstances in the history of milton's immortal poem may have suggested to dryden the precise form of the present attempt. it is reported by voltaire, and seems at length to be admitted, that the original idea of the "paradise lost" was supplied by an italian mystery, or religious play, which milton witnessed when abroad[ ]; and it is certain, that he intended at first to mould his poem into a dramatic form[ ]. it seems, therefore, likely, that dryden, conscious of his own powers, and enthusiastically admiring those of milton, was induced to make an experiment upon the forsaken plan of the blind bard, which, with his usual rapidity of conception and execution, he completed in the short space of one month. the spurious copies which got abroad, and perhaps the desire of testifying his respect for his beautiful patroness, the duchess of york, form his own apology for the publication. it is reported by mr aubrey that the step was not taken without dryden's reverence to milton being testified by a personal application for his permission. the aged poet, conscious that the might of his versification could receive no addition even from the flowing numbers of dryden, is stated to have answered with indifference--"ay, you may _tag_ my verses, if you will." the structure and diction of this opera, as it is somewhat improperly termed, being rather a dramatic poem, strongly indicate the taste of charles the second's reign, for what was ingenious, acute, and polished, in preference to the simplicity of the true sublime. the judgment of that age, as has been already noticed, is always to be referred rather to the head than to the heart; and a poem, written to please mere critics, requires an introduction and display of art, to the exclusion of natural beauty.--this explains the extravagant panegyric of lee on dryden's play: --milton did the wealthy mine disclose, and rudely cast what you could well dispose; he roughly drew, on an old-fashioned ground, a chaos; for no perfect world was found, till through the heap your mighty genius shined: he was the golden ore, which you refined. he first beheld the beauteous rustic maid, and to a place of strength the prize conveyed: you took her thence; to court this virgin brought, dressed her with gems, new-weaved her hard-spun thought, and softest language sweetest manners taught; till from a comet she a star did rise, not to affright, but please, our wondering eyes. doubtless there were several critics of that period, who held the heretical opinion above expressed by lee. and the imitation was such as to warrant that conclusion, considering the school in which it was formed. the scene of the consultation in pandemonium, and of the soliloquy of satan on his arrival in the newly-created universe, would possess great merit, did they not unfortunately remind us of the majestic simplicity of milton. but there is often a sort of ovidian point in the diction which seems misplaced. thus, asmodeus tells us, that the devils, ascending from the lake of fire, shake off their slumber _first_, and _next_ their fear. and, with dryden's usual hate to the poor dutchmen, the council of pandemonium are termed, _most high and mighty_ lords, who better fell from heaven, to rise _states general_ of hell. there is one inconvenience, which, as this poem was intended for perusal only, the author, one would have thought, might have easily avoided. this arises from the stage directions, which supply the place of the terrific and beautiful descriptions of milton. what idea, except burlesque, can we form of the expulsion of the fallen angels from heaven, literally represented by their tumbling down upon the stage? or what feelings of terror can be excited by the idea of an opera hell, composed of pasteboard and flaming rosin? if these follies were not actually to be produced before our eyes, it could serve no good purpose to excite the image of them in our imaginations. they are circumstances by which we feel, that scenic deception must be rendered ridiculous; and ought to be avoided, even in a drama intended for perusal only, since they cannot be mentioned without exciting ludicrous combinations.--even in describing the primitive state of our first parents, dryden has displayed some of the false and corrupted taste of the court of charles. eve does not consent to her union with adam without coquettish apprehensions of his infidelity, which circumstances rendered rather improbable; and even in the state of innocence, she avows the love of sway and of self, which, in a loose age, is thought the principal attribute of her daughters. it may be remembered that the adam of milton, when first experiencing the powers of slumber, thought, i then was passing to my former state insensible, and forthwith to dissolve. the eve of dryden expresses the same apprehensions of annihilation upon a very different occasion. these passages form a contrast highly favourable to the simplicity and chastity of milton's taste. the school logic, employed by adam and the angels in the first scene of the fourth act, however misplaced, may be paralleled if not justified, by similar instances in the "paradise lost." on the other hand, the "state of innocence" contains many passages of varied and happy expression peculiar to our great poet; and the speech of lucfier in paradise (act third, scene first), approaches in sublimity to his prototype in milton, indeed, altered as this poem was from the original, in order to accommodate it to the taste of a frivolous age, it still retained too much fancy to escape the raillery of the men of wit and fashion, more disposed to "laugh at extravagance, than to sympathise with feelings of grandeur." the "companion to the theatre" mentions an objection started by the more nice and delicate critics, against the anachronism and absurdity of lucifer conversing about the world, its form and vicissitudes, at a time previous to its creation, or, at least, to the possibility of his knowing any thing of it. but to this objection, which applies to the "paradise lost" also, it is sufficient to reply, that the measure of intelligence, competent to supernatural beings, being altogether unknown to us, leaves the poet at liberty to accommodate its extent to the purposes in which he employs them, without which poetic license, it would be in vain to introduce them. dryden, moved by this, and similar objections, has prefixed to the drama, "an apology for heroic poetry," and the use of what is technically called "the machinery" employed in it. upon the whole, it may be justly questioned, whether dryden shewed his judgment in the choice of a subject which compelled an immediate parallel betwixt milton and himself, upon a subject so exclusively favourable to the powers of the former. indeed, according to dennis, notwithstanding dryden's admiration of milton, he evinced sufficiently by this undertaking, what he himself confessed twenty years afterwards, that he was not sensible of half the extent of his excellence. in the "town and country mouse," mr bayes is made to term milton "a rough unhewen fellow;" and dryden himself, even in the dedication to the translation from juvenal, a work of his advanced life, alleges, that, though he found in that poet a true sublimity, and lofty thoughts, clothed with admirable grecisms, he did not find the elegant turn of words and expression proper to the italian poets and to spenser. in the same treatise, he undertakes to excuse, but not to justify milton, for his choice of blank verse, affirming that he possessed neither grace nor facility in rhyming. a consciousness of the harmony of his own numbers, and a predilection for that kind of verse, in which he excelled, seemed to have encouraged him to think he could improve the "paradise lost." baker observes but too truly, that the "state of innocence" recals the idea reprobated by marvell in his address to milton: or if a work so infinite be spanned, jealous i was, lest some less skilful hand, such as disquiet always what is well, and by ill-imitating would excel, might hence presume the whole creation's day to change in scenes, and shew it in a play. the "state of innocence" seems to have been undertaken by dryden during a cessation of his theatrical labours, and was first published in , shortly after the death of milton, which took place on the th of november in the same year. footnotes: . the adamo of andreini; for an account of which, see todd's milton, vol. i. the elegant hayley's conjectures on the origin of paradise lost, and walker's memoir on italian tragedy. the drama of andreini opens with a grand chorus of angels, who sing to this purpose: let the rainbow be the fiddle-stick to the fiddle of heaven, let the spheres be the strings, and the stars the musical notes; let the new-born breezes make the pauses and sharps, and let time be careful to beat the measure. . see a sketch of his plan in johnson's life of milton, and in the authorities above quoted. to her royal highness, the duchess[ ]. madam, ambition is so far from being a vice in poets, that it is almost impossible for them to succeed without it. imagination must be raised, by a desire of fame, to a desire of pleasing; and they whom, in all ages, poets have endeavoured most to please, have been the beautiful and the great. beauty is their deity, to which they sacrifice, and greatness is their guardian angel, which protects them. both these, are so eminently joined in the person of your royal highness, that it were not easy for any but a poet to determine which of them outshines the other. but i confess, madam, i am already biassed in my choice. i can easily resign to others the praise of your illustrious family, and that glory which you derive from a long-continued race of princes, famous for their actions both in peace and war: i can give up, to the historians of your country, the names of so many generals and heroes which crowd their annals, and to our own the hopes of those which you are to produce for the british chronicle. i can yield, without envy, to the nation of poets, the family of este, to which ariosto and tasso have owed their patronage, and to which the world has owed their poems. but i could not, without extreme reluctance, resign the theme of your beauty to another hand. give me leave, madam, to acquaint the world, that i am jealous of this subject; and let it be no dishonour to you, that, after having raised the admiration of mankind, you have inspired one man to give it voice. but, with whatsoever vanity this new honour of being your poet has filled my mind, i confess myself too weak for the inspiration: the priest was always unequal to the oracle: the god within him was too mighty for his breast: he laboured with the sacred revelation, and there was more of the mystery left behind, than the divinity itself could enable him to express. i can but discover a part of your excellencies to the world; and that, too, according to the measure of my own weakness. like those who have surveyed the moon by glasses, i can only tell of a new and shining world above us, but not relate the riches and glories of the place. 'tis therefore that i have already waved the subject of your greatness, to resign myself to the contemplation of what is more peculiarly yours. greatness is indeed communicated to some few of both sexes; but beauty is confined to a more narrow compass: 'tis only in your sex, 'tis not shared by many, and its supreme perfection is in you alone. and here, madam, i am proud that i cannot flatter; you have reconciled the differing judgments of mankind; for all men are equal in their judgment of what is eminently best. the prize of beauty was disputed only till you were seen; but now all pretenders have withdrawn their claims: there is no competition but for the second place; even the fairest of our island, which is famed for beauties, not daring to commit their cause against you to the suffrage of those, who most partially adore them. fortune has, indeed, but rendered justice to so much excellence, in setting it so high to public view; or, rather, providence has done justice to itself, in placing the most perfect workmanship of heaven, where it may be admired by all beholders. had the sun and stars been seated lower, their glory had not been communicated to all at once, and the creator had wanted so much of his praise, as he had made your condition more obscure: but he has placed you so near a crown, that you add a lustre to it by your beauty. you are joined to a prince, who only could deserve you; whose conduct, courage, and success in war; whose fidelity to his royal brother, whose love for his country, whose constancy to his friends, whose bounty to his servants, whose justice to merit, whose inviolable truth, and whose magnanimity in all his actions, seem to have been rewarded by heaven by the gift of you. you are never seen but you are blest; and i am sure you bless all those who see you. we think not the day is long enough when we behold you; and you are so much the business of our souls, that while you are in sight, we can neither look nor think on any else. there are no eyes for other beauties; you only are present, and the rest of your sex are but the unregarded parts that fill your triumph. our sight is so intent on the object of its admiration, that our tongues have not leisure even to praise you: for language seems too low a thing to express your excellence; and our souls are speaking so much within, that they despise all foreign conversation. every man, even the dullest, is thinking more than the most eloquent can teach him how to utter. thus, madam, in the midst of crowds, you reign in solitude; and are adored with the deepest veneration, that of silence. 'tis true, you are above all mortal wishes; no man desires impossibilities, because they are beyond the reach of nature. to hope to be a god, is folly exalted into madness; but, by the laws of our creation, we are obliged to adore him, and are permitted to love him too at human distance. 'tis the nature of perfection to be attractive, but the excellency of the object refines the nature of the love. it strikes an impression of awful reverence; 'tis indeed that love which is more properly a zeal than passion. 'tis the rapture which anchorites find in prayer, when a beam of the divinity shines upon them; that which makes them despise all worldly objects; and yet 'tis all but contemplation. they are seldom visited from above, but a single vision so transports them, that it makes up the happiness of their lives. mortality cannot bear it often: it finds them in the eagerness and height of their devotion; they are speechless for the time that it continues, and prostrate and dead when it departs. that ecstacy had need be strong, which, without any end, but that of admiration has power enough to destroy all other passions. you render mankind insensible to other beauties, and have destroyed the empire of love in a court which was the seat of his dominion. you have subverted (may i dare to accuse you of it?) even our fundamental laws; and reign absolute over the hearts of a stubborn and free-born people, tenacious almost to madness of their liberty. the brightest and most victorious of our ladies make daily complaints of revolted subjects, if they may be said to be revolted, whose servitude is not accepted; for your royal highness is too great, and too just a monarch, either to want or to receive the homage of rebellious fugitives. yet, if some few among the multitude continue stedfast to their first pretensions, 'tis an obedience so lukewarm and languishing, that it merits not the name of passion; their addresses are so faint, and their vows so hollow to their sovereigns, that they seem only to maintain their faith out of a sense of honour: they are ashamed to desist, and yet grow careless to obtain. like despairing combatants, they strive against you as if they had beheld unveiled the magical shield of your ariosto, which dazzled the beholders with too much brightness. they can no longer hold up their arms; they have read their destiny in your eyes: _splende lo scudo, a guisa di piropo; e luce altra non é tanto lucente: cader in terra a lo splendor fu d'vopo, con gli occhi abbacinati, e senza mente._ and yet, madam, if i could find in myself the power to leave this argument of your incomparable beauty, i might turn to one which would equally oppress me with its greatness; for your conjugal virtues have deserved to be set as an example, to a less degenerate, less tainted age. they approach so near to singularity in ours, that i can scarcely make a panegyric to your royal highness, without a satire on many others. but your person is a paradise, and your soul a cherubim within, to guard it. if the excellence of the outside invite the beholders, the majesty of your mind deters them from too bold approaches, and turns their admiration into religion. moral perfections are raised higher by you in the softer sex; as if men were of too coarse a mould for heaven to work on, and that the image of divinity could not be cast to likeness in so harsh a metal. your person is so admirable, that it can scarce receive addition, when it shall be glorified: and your soul, which shines through it, finds it of a substance so near her own, that she will be pleased to pass an age within it, and to be confined to such a palace. i know not how i am hurried back to my former theme; i ought and purposed to have celebrated those endowments and qualities of your mind, which were sufficient, even without the graces of your person, to render you, as you are, the ornament of the court, and the object of wonder to three kingdoms. but all my praises are but as a bull-rush cast upon a stream; if they sink not, 'tis because they are borne up by the strength of the current, which supports their lightness; but they are carried round again, and return on the eddy where they first began. i can proceed no farther than your beauty; and even on that too i have said so little, considering the greatness of the subject, that, like him who would lodge a bowl upon a precipice, either my praise falls back, by the weakness of the delivery, or stays not on the top, but rolls over, and is lost on the other side. i intended this a dedication; but how can i consider what belongs to myself, when i have been so long contemplating on you! be pleased then, madam, to receive this poem, without entitling so much excellency as yours, to the faults and imperfections of so mean a writer; and instead of being favourable to the piece, which merits nothing, forgive the presumption of the author; who is, with all possible veneration, your royal highness's most obedient, most humble, most devoted servant, john dryden. footnote: . mary of este, daughter of the duke of modena, and second wife to james duke of york, afterwards james ii. she was married to him by proxy in , and came over in the year following. notwithstanding her husband's unpopularity, and her own attachment to the roman catholic religion, her youth, beauty, and innocence secured her from insult and slander during all the stormy period which preceded her accession to the crown. even burnet, reluctantly, admits the force of her charms, and the inoffensiveness of her conduct. but her beauty produced a more lasting effect on the young and gallant, than on that austere and stubborn partizan; and its force must be allowed, since it was extolled even when mary was dethroned and exiled. granville, lord lansdowne, has praised her in "the progress of beauty;" and i cannot forbear transcribing some of the verses, on account of the gallant spirit of the author, who scorned to change with fortune, and continued to admire and celebrate, in adversity, the charms which he had worshipped in the meridian of prosperity. and now, my muse, a nobler flight prepare, and sing so loud, that heaven and earth may hear. behold from italy an awful ray of heavenly light illuminates the day; northward she bends, majestically bright, and here she fixes her imperial light. be bold, be bold, my muse, nor fear to raise thy voice to her who was thy earliest praise[a]. what though the sullen fates refuse to shine, or frown severe on thy audacious line; keep thy bright theme within thy steady sight, the clouds shall fly before thy dazzling light, and everlasting day direct thy lofty flight. thou, who hast never yet put on disguise, to flatter faction, or descend to vice, let no vain fear thy generous ardour tame, but stand erect, and sound as loud as fame. as when our eye some prospect would pursue, descending from a hill looks round to view, passes o'er lawns and meadows, till it gains some favourite spot, and fixing there remains; with equal ardour my transported muse flies other objects, this bright theme to chuse. queen of our hearts, and charmer of our sight! a monarch's pride, his glory and delight! princess adored and loved! if verse can give a deathless name, thine shall for ever live; invoked where'er the british lion roars, extended as the seas that guard the british shores. the wise immortals, in their seats above, to crown their labours still appointed love; phoebus enjoyed the goddess of the sea, alcides had omphale, james has thee. o happy james! content thy mighty mind, grudge not the world, for still thy queen is kind; to be but at whose feet more glory brings, than 'tis to tread on sceptres and on kings. secure of empire in that beauteous breast, who would not give their crowns to be so blest? was helen half so fair, so formed for joy, well chose the trojan, and well burned was troy. but ah! what strange vicissitudes of fate, what chance attends on every worldly state! as when the skies were sacked, the conquered gods, compelled from heaven, forsook their blessed abodes; wandering in woods, they hid from den to den, and sought their safety in the shapes of men; as when the winds with kindling flames conspire, the blaze increases as they fan the fire; from roof to roof the burning torrent pours, nor spares the palace nor the loftiest towers; or as the stately pine, erecting high her lofty branches shooting to the sky, if riven by the thunderbolt of jove, down falls at once the pride of all the grove; level with lowest shrubs lies the tall head, that, reared aloft, as to the clouds was spread, so-- but cease, my muse, thy colours are too faint; shade with a veil those griefs thou can'st not paint. that sun is set!-- _progress of beauty._ the beauty, which inspired the romantic and unchanging admiration of granville, may be allowed to justify some of the flights of dryden's panegyric. i fear enough will still remain to justify the stricture of johnson, who observes, that dryden's dedication is an "attempt to mingle earth and heaven, by praising human excellence in the language of religion." at the date of this address, the duchess of york was only in her sixteenth year. footnote: a. he had written verses to the earl of peterborough, on the duke of york's marriage with the princess of modena, before he was twelve years old. to mr dryden, on his poem of paradise. forgive me, awful poet, if a muse, whom artless nature did for plainness chuse, in loose attire presents her humble thought, of this best poem that you ever wrought. this fairest labour of your teeming brain i would embrace, but not with flatt'ry stain. something i would to your vast virtue raise, but scorn to daub it with a fulsome praise; that would but blot the work i would commend, and shew a court-admirer, not a friend. to the dead bard your fame a little owes, for milton did the wealthy mine disclose, and rudely cast what you could well dispose: he roughly drew, on an old fashioned ground, a chaos; for no perfect world was found, till through the heap your mighty genius shined: he was the golden ore, which you refined. he first beheld the beauteous rustic maid, and to a place of strength the prize conveyed: you took her thence; to court this virgin brought, drest her with gems, new weaved her hard-spun thought, and softest language sweetest manners taught; till from a comet she a star doth rise, not to affright, but please, our wondering eyes. betwixt you both is trained a nobler piece, than e'er was drawn in italy or greece. thou from his source of thoughts even souls dost bring, as smiling gods from sullen saturn spring. when night's dull mask the face of heaven does wear, 'tis doubtful light, but here and there a star, which serves the dreadful shadows to display, that vanish at the rising of the day; but then bright robes the meadows all adorn, and the world looks as it were newly born. so, when your sense his mystic reason cleared, the melancholy scene all gay appeared; now light leapt up, and a new glory smiled, and all throughout was mighty, all was mild. before this palace, which thy wit did build, which various fancy did so gaudy gild, and judgment has with solid riches filled, my humbler muse begs she may sentry stand, amongst the rest that guard this eden land. but there's no need, for ev'n thy foes conspire thy praise, and, hating thee, thy work admire. on then, o mightiest of the inspired men! monarch of verse! new themes employ thy pen. the troubles of majestic charles set down; not david vanquished more to reach a crown. praise him as cowley did that hebrew king: thy theme's as great; do thou as greatly sing. then thou may'st boldly to his favour rise, look down, and the base serpent's hiss despise; from thund'ring envy safe in laurel sit, while clam'rous critics their vile heads submit, condemned for treason at the bar of wit. nat. lee. the author's apology for heroic poetry, and poetic licence. to satisfy the curiosity of those, who will give themselves the trouble of reading the ensuing poem, i think myself obliged to render them a reason why i publish an opera which was never acted. in the first place, i shall not be ashamed to own, that my chiefest motive was, the ambition which i acknowledged in the epistle. i was desirous to lay at the feet of so beautiful and excellent a princess, a work, which, i confess, was unworthy her, but which, i hope, she will have the goodness to forgive. i was also induced to it in my own defence; many hundred copies of it being dispersed abroad without my knowledge, or consent: so that every one gathering new faults, it became at length a libel against me; and i saw, with some disdain, more nonsense than either i, or as bad a poet, could have crammed into it, at a month's warning; in which time it was wholly written, and not since revised. after this, i cannot, without injury to the deceased author of "paradise lost," but acknowledge, that this poem has received its entire foundation, part of the design, and many of the ornaments, from him. what i have borrowed will be so easily discerned from my mean productions, that i shall not need to point the reader to the places: and truly i should be sorry, for my own sake, that any one should take the pains to compare them together; the original being undoubtedly one of the greatest, most noble, and most sublime poems, which either this age or nation has produced. and though i could not refuse the partiality of my friend, who is pleased to commend me in his verses, i hope they will rather be esteemed the effect of his love to me, than of his deliberate and sober judgment. his genius is able to make beautiful what he pleases: yet, as he has been too favourable to me, i doubt not but he will hear of his kindness from many of our contemporaries for we are fallen into an age of illiterate, censorious, and detracting people, who, thus qualified, set up for critics. in the first place, i must take leave to tell them, that they wholly mistake the nature of criticism, who think its business is principally to find fault. criticism, as it was first instituted by aristotle, was meant a standard of judging well; the chiefest part of which is, to observe those excellencies which should delight a reasonable reader. if the design, the conduct, the thoughts, and the expressions of a poem, be generally such as proceed from a true genius of poetry, the critic ought to pass his judgement in favour of the author. it is malicious and unmanly to snarl at the little lapses of a pen, from which virgil himself stands not exempted. horace acknowledges, that honest homer nods sometimes: he is not equally awake in every line; but he leaves it also as a standing measure for our judgments, --non, _ubi plura nitent in carmine, paucis_ offendi _maculis, quas aut incuria fudit, aut humana parùm cavit natura._-- and longinus, who was undoubtedly, after aristotle the greatest critic amongst the greeks, in his twenty-seventh chapter, [greek: peri hupsous], has judiciously preferred the sublime genius that sometimes errs, to the middling or indifferent one, which makes few faults, but seldom or never rises to any excellence. he compares the first to a man of large possessions, who has not leisure to consider of every slight expence, will not debase himself to the management of every trifle: particular sums are not laid out, or spared, to the greatest advantage in his economy; but are sometimes suffered to run to waste, while he is only careful of the main. on the other side, he likens the mediocrity of wit, to one of a mean fortune, who manages his store with extreme frugality, or rather parsimony; but who, with fear of running into profuseness, never arrives to the magnificence of living. this kind of genius writes indeed correctly. a wary man he is in grammar, very nice as to solecism or barbarism, judges to a hair of little decencies, knows better than any man what is not to be written, and never hazards himself so far as to fall, but plods on deliberately, and, as a grave man ought, is sure to put his staff before him. in short, he sets his heart upon it, and with wonderful care makes his business sure; that is, in plain english, neither to be blamed nor praised.--i could, says my author, find out some blemishes in homer; and am perhaps as naturally inclined to be disgusted at a fault as another man; but, after all, to speak impartially, his failings are such, as are only marks of human frailty: they are little mistakes, or rather negligences, which have escaped his pen in the fervour of his writing; the sublimity of his spirit carries it with me against his carelessness; and though apollonius his "argonauts," and theocritus his "idyllia," are more free from errors, there is not any man of so false a judgment, who would chuse rather to have been apollonius or theocritus, than homer. it is worth our consideration a little, to examine how much these hypercritics in english poetry differ from the opinion of the greek and latin judges of antiquity; from the italians and french, who have succeeded them; and, indeed, from the general taste and approbation of all ages. heroic poetry, which they condemn, has ever been esteemed, and ever will be, the greatest work of human nature: in that rank has aristotle placed it; and longinus is so full of the like expressions, that he abundantly confirms the other's testimony. horace as plainly delivers his opinion, and particularly praises homer in these verses: _trojani belli scriptorem, maxime lolli, dum tu declamas romæ, præneste relegi: qui quid sit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non, plenius ac melius chrysippo et crantore dicit._ and in another place, modestly excluding himself from the number of poets, because he only writ odes and satires, he tells you a poet is such an one, --_cui mens divinior, atque os magna soniturum._ quotations are superfluous in an established truth; otherwise i could reckon up, amongst the moderns, all the italian commentators on aristotle's book of poetry; and, amongst the french, the greatest of this age, boileau and rapin; the latter of which is alone sufficient, were all other critics lost, to teach anew the rules of writing. any man, who will seriously consider the nature of an epic poem, how it agrees with that of poetry in general, which is to instruct and to delight, what actions it describes, and what persons they are chiefly whom it informs, will find it a work which indeed is full of difficulty in the attempt, but admirable when it is well performed. i write not this with the least intention to undervalue the other parts of poetry: for comedy is both excellently instructive, and extremely pleasant; satire lashes vice into reformation, and humour represents folly so as to render it ridiculous. many of our present writers are eminent in both these kinds; and, particularly, the author of the "plain dealer," whom i am proud to call my friend, has obliged all honest and virtuous men, by one of the most bold, most general, and most useful satires, which has ever been presented on the english theatre. i do not dispute the preference of tragedy; let every man enjoy his taste: but it is unjust, that they, who have not the least notion of heroic writing, should therefore condemn the pleasure which others receive from it, because they cannot comprehend it. let them please their appetites in eating what they like; but let them not force their dish on all the table. they, who would combat general authority with particular opinion, must first establish themselves a reputation of understanding better than other men. are all the flights of heroic poetry to be concluded bombast, unnatural, and mere madness, because they are not affected with their excellencies? it is just as reasonable as to conclude there is no day, because a blind man cannot distinguish of light and colours. ought they not rather, in modesty, to doubt of their own judgments, when they think this or that expression in homer, virgil, tasso, or milton's "paradise," to be too far strained, than positively to conclude, that it is all fustian, and mere nonsense? it is true, there are limits to be set betwixt the boldness and rashness of a poet; but he must understand those limits, who pretends to judge as well as he who undertakes to write: and he who has no liking to the whole, ought, in reason, to be excluded from censuring of the parts. he must be a lawyer before he mounts the tribunal; and the judicature of one court, too, does not qualify a man to preside in another. he may be an excellent pleader in the chancery, who is not fit to rule the common pleas. but i will presume for once to tell them, that the boldest strokes of poetry, when they are managed artfully, are those which most delight the reader. virgil and horace, the severest writers of the severest age, have made frequent use of the hardest metaphors, and of the strongest hyperboles; and in this case the best authority is the best argument; for generally to have pleased, and through all ages, must bear the force of universal tradition. and if you would appeal from thence to right reason, you will gain no more by it in effect, than, first, to set up your reason against those authors; and, secondly, against all those who have admired them. you must prove, why that ought not to have pleased, which has pleased the most learned, and the most judicious; and, to be thought knowing, you must first put the fool upon all mankind. if you can enter more deeply, than they have done, into the causes and resorts of that which moves pleasure in a reader, the field is open, you may be heard: but those springs of human nature are not so easily discovered by every superficial judge: it requires philosophy, as well as poetry, to sound the depth of all the passions; what they are in themselves, and how they are to be provoked: and in this science the best poets have excelled. aristotle raised the fabric of his poetry from observation of those things, in which euripides, sophocles, and Æschylus pleased: he considered how they raised the passions, and thence has drawn rules for our imitation. from hence have sprung the tropes and figures, for which they wanted a name, who first practised them, and succeeded in them. thus i grant you, that the knowledge of nature was the original rule; and that all poets ought to study her, as well as aristotle and horace, her interpreters. but then this also undeniably follows, that those things, which delight all ages, must have been an imitation of nature; which is all i contend. therefore is rhetoric made an art; therefore the names of so many tropes and figures were invented; because it was observed they had such and such effect upon the audience. therefore catachreses and hyperboles have found their place amongst them; not that they were to be avoided, but to be used judiciously, and placed in poetry, as heightenings and shadows are in painting, to make the figure bolder, and cause it to stand off to sight. _nec retia cervis ulla dolum meditantur;_ says virgil in his eclogues: and speaking of leander, in his georgics, _nocte natat cæca serus freta, quem super ingens porta tonat cæli, et scopulis illisa reclamant Æquora:_ in both of these, you see, he fears not to give voice and thought to things inanimate. will you arraign your master, horace, for his hardness of expression, when he describes the death of cleopatra, and says she did--_asperos tractare serpentes, ut atrum corpore combiberet cenenum,_--because the body, in that action, performs what is proper to the mouth? as for hyperboles, i will neither quote lucan, nor statius, men of an unbounded imagination, but who often wanted the poize of judgment. the divine virgil was not liable to that exception; and yet he describes polyphemus thus: _--graditurque per æquor jam medium; necdum fluctus latera ardua tinxit._ in imitation of this place, our admirable cowley thus paints goliah: the valley, now, this monster seemed to fill; and we, methought, looked up to him from our hill: where the two words, _seemed_ and _methought_, have mollified the figure; and yet if they had not been there, the fright of the israelites might have excused their belief of the giant's stature[ ]. in the eighth of the Æneids, virgil paints the swiftness of camilla thus: _ilia vel intactæ segetis per summa volaret gramina, nec teneras cursu læsisset aristas; vel mare per medium, fluctu suspensa tumenti, ferret iter, celeres nec tingeret æquore plantas._ you are not obliged, as in history, to a literal belief of what the poet says; but you are pleased with the image, without being cozened by the fiction. yet even in history, longinus quotes herodotus on this occasion of hyperboles. the lacedemonians, says he, at the straits of thermopylæ, defended themselves to the last extremity; and when their arms failed them, fought it out with their nails and teeth; till at length, (the persians shooting continually upon them) they lay buried under the arrows of their enemies. it is not reasonable, (continues the critic) to believe, that men could defend themselves with their nails and teeth from an armed multitude; nor that they lay buried under a pile of darts and arrows; and yet there wants not probability for the figure: because the hyperbole seems not to have been made for the sake of the description; but rather to have been produced from the occasion. it is true, the boldness of the figures is to be hidden sometimes by the address of the poet; that they may work their effect upon the mind, without discovering the art which caused it. and therefore they are principally to be used in passion; when we speak more warmly, and with more precipitation than at other times: for then, _si vis me flere, dolendum est primum ipsi tibi;_ the poet must put on the passion he endeavours to represent: a man in such an occasion is not cool enough, either to reason rightly, or to talk calmly. aggravations are then in their proper places; interrogations, exclamations, hyperbata, or a disordered connection of discourse, are graceful there, because they are natural. the sum of all depends on what before i hinted, that this boldness of expression is not to be blamed, if it be managed by the coolness and discretion which is necessary to a poet. yet before i leave this subject, i cannot but take notice how disingenuous our adversaries appear: all that is dull, insipid, languishing, and without sinews, in a poem, they call an imitation of nature: they only offend our most equitable judges, who think beyond them; and lively images and elocution are never to be forgiven. what fustian, as they call it, have i heard these gentlemen find out in mr cowley's odes! i acknowledge myself unworthy to defend so excellent an author, neither have i room to do it here; only in general i will say, that nothing can appear more beautiful to me, than the strength of those images which they condemn. imaging is, in itself, the very height and life of poetry. it is, as longinus describes it, a discourse, which, by a kind of enthusiasm, or extraordinary emotion of the soul, makes it seem to us, that we behold those things which the poet paints, so as to be pleased with them, and to admire them. if poetry be imitation, that part of it must needs be best, which describes most lively our actions and passions; our virtues and our vices; our follies and our humours: for neither is comedy without its part of imaging; and they who do it best are certainly the most excellent in their kind. this is too plainly proved to be denied: but how are poetical fictions, how are hippocentaurs and chimeras, or how are angels and immaterial substances to be imaged; which, some of them, are things quite out of nature; others, such whereof we can have no notion? this is the last refuge of our adversaries; and more than any of them have yet had the wit to object against us. the answer is easy to the first part of it: the fiction of some beings which are not in nature, (second notions, as the logicians call them) has been founded on the conjunction of two natures, which have a real separate being. so hippocentaurs were imaged, by joining the natures of a man and horse together; as lucretius tells us, who has used this word of _image_ oftener than any of the poets: _nam certè ex vivo centauri non fit imago, nulla fuit quoniam talis natura animai: verùm ubi equi atque hominis, casu, convenit imago, hærescit facilè extemplò,_ &c. the same reason may also be alleged for chimeras and the rest. and poets may be allowed the like liberty, for describing things which really exist not, if they are founded on popular belief. of this nature are fairies, pigmies, and the extraordinary effects of magic; for it is still an imitation, though of other men's fancies: and thus are shakespeare's "tempest," his "midsummer night's dream," and ben jonson's "masque of witches" to be defended. for immaterial substances, we are authorised by scripture in their description: and herein the text accommodates itself to vulgar apprehension, in giving angels the likeness of beautiful young men. thus, after the pagan divinity, has homer drawn his gods with human faces: and thus we have notions of things above us, by describing them like other beings more within our knowledge. i wish i could produce any one example of excellent imaging in all this poem. perhaps i cannot; but that which comes nearest it, is in these four lines, which have been sufficiently canvassed by my well-natured censors: seraph and cherub, careless of their charge, and wanton, in full ease now live at large: unguarded leave the passes of the sky, and all dissolved in hallelujahs lie. i have heard (says one of them) of anchovies _dissolved_ in sauce; but never of an angel _in hallelujahs._ a mighty witticism! (if you will pardon a new word,) but there is some difference between a laugher and a critic. he might have burlesqued virgil too, from whom i took the image. _invadunt urbem, somno vinoque sepultam._ a city's being buried, is just as proper on occasion, as an angel's being dissolved in ease, and songs of triumph. mr cowley lies as open too in many places: where their vast courts the mother waters keep, &c. for if the mass of waters be the mothers, then their daughters, the little streams, are bound, in all good manners, to make courtesy to them, and ask them blessing. how easy it is to turn into ridicule the best descriptions, when once a man is in the humour of laughing, till he wheezes at his own dull jest! but an image, which is strongly and beautifully set before the eyes of the reader, will still be poetry, when the merry fit is over, and last when the other is forgotten. i promised to say somewhat of poetic licence, but have in part anticipated my discourse already. poetic licence, i take to be the liberty which poets have assumed to themselves, in all ages, of speaking things in verse, which are beyond the severity of prose. it is that particular character, which distinguishes and sets the bounds betwixt _oratio soluta_, and poetry. this, as to what regards the thought, or imagination of a poet, consists in fiction: but then those thoughts must be expressed; and here arise two other branches of it; for if this licence be included in a single word, it admits of tropes; if in a sentence or proposition, of figures; both which are of a much larger extent, and more forcibly to be used in verse than prose. this is that birth-right which is derived to us from our great forefathers, even from homer down to ben; and they, who would deny it to us, have, in plain terms, the fox's quarrel to the grapes--they cannot reach it. how far these liberties are to be extended, i will not presume to determine here, since horace does not. but it is certain that they are to be varied, according to the language and age in which an author writes. that which would be allowed to a grecian poet, martial tells you, would not be suffered in a roman; and it is evident, that the english does more nearly follow the strictness of the latter, than the freedoms of the former. connection of epithets, or the conjunction of two words in one, are frequent and elegant in the greek, which yet sir philip sidney, and the translator of du bartas, have unluckily attempted in the english; though this, i confess, is not so proper an instance of poetic licence, as it is of variety of idiom in languages. horace a little explains himself on this subject of _licentia poetica_, in these verses: _--pictoribus atque poetis quidlibet audendi semper fuit æqua potestas: ... sed non, ut placidis coeant immitia, non ut serpentes avibus geminentur, tigribus hædi._ he would have a poem of a piece; not to begin with one thing, and end with another: he restrains it so far, that thoughts of an unlike nature ought not to be joined together. that were indeed to make a chaos. he taxed not homer, nor the divine virgil, for interesting their gods in the wars of troy and italy; neither, had he now lived, would he have taxed milton, as our false critics have presumed to do, for his choice of a supernatural argument; but he would have blamed my author, who was a christian, had he introduced into his poem heathen deities, as tasso is condemned by rapin on the like occasion; and as camoëns, the author of the "lusiads," ought to be censured by all his readers, when he brings in bacchus and christ into the same adventure of his fable. from that which has been said, it may be collected, that the definition of wit (which has been so often attempted, and ever unsuccessfully by many poets,) is only this: that it is a propriety of thoughts and words; or, in other terms, thoughts and words elegantly adapted to the subject. if our critics will join issue on this definition, that we may _convenire in aliquo tertio_; if they will take it as a granted principle, it will be easy to put an end to this dispute. no man will disagree from another's judgment concerning the dignity of style in heroic poetry; but all reasonable men will conclude it necessary, that sublime subjects ought to be adorned with the sublimest, and consequently often, with the most figurative expressions. in the mean time i will not run into their fault of imposing my opinions on other men, any more than i would my writings on their taste: i have only laid down, and that superficially enough, my present thoughts; and shall be glad to be taught better by those who pretend to reform our poetry. footnote: . with all this mitigation, the passage seems horrible bombast. the state of innocence, and fall of man. act i. scene i.--_represents a chaos, or a confused mass of matter; the stage is almost wholly dark: a symphony of warlike music is heard for some time; then from the heavens, (which are opened) fall the rebellious angels, wheeling in air, and seeming transfixed with thunderbolts: the bottom of the stage being opened, receives the angels, who fall out of sight. tunes of victory are played, and an hymn sung; angels discovered above, brandishing their swords: the music ceasing, and the heavens being closed, the scene shifts, and on a sudden represents hell: part of the scene is a lake of brimstone, or rolling fire; the earth of a burnt colour: the fallen angels appear on the lake, lying prostrate; a tune of horror and lamentation is heard._ lucifer, _raising himself on the lake._ _lucif._ is this the seat our conqueror has given? and this the climate we must change for heaven? these regions and this realm my wars have got; this mournful empire is the loser's lot: in liquid burnings, or on dry, to dwell, is all the sad variety of hell. but see, the victor has recalled, from far, the avenging storms, his ministers of war: his shafts are spent, and his tired thunders sleep, nor longer bellow through the boundless deep. best take the occasion, and these waves forsake, while time is given.--ho, asmoday, awake, if thou art he! but ah! how changed from him, companion of my arms! how wan! how dim! how faded all thy glories are! i see myself too well, and my own change in thee. _asm._ prince of the thrones, who in the fields of light led'st forth the embattled seraphim to fight; who shook the power of heaven's eternal state, had broke it too, if not upheld by fate; but now those hopes are fled: thus low we lie, shut from his day, and that contended sky, and lost, as far as heavenly forms can die; yet, not all perished: we defy him still, and yet wage war, with our unconquered will. _lucif._ strength may return. _asm._ already of thy virtue i partake, erected by thy voice. _lucif._ see on the lake our troops, like scattered leaves in autumn, lie; first let us raise ourselves, and seek the dry, perhaps more easy dwelling. _asm._ from the beach thy well-known voice the sleeping gods will reach, and wake the immortal sense, which thunder's noise had quelled, and lightning deep had driven within them. _lucif._ with wings expanded wide, ourselves we'll rear, and fly incumbent on the dusky air.-- hell, thy new lord receive! heaven cannot envy me an empire here. [_both fly to dry land._ _asm._ thus far we have prevailed; if that be gain, which is but change of place, not change of pain. now summon we the rest. _lucif._ dominions, powers, ye chiefs of heaven's bright host, (of heaven, once your's; but now in battle lost) wake from your slumber! are your beds of down? sleep you so easy there? or fear the frown of him who threw you hence, and joys to see your abject state confess his victory? rise, rise, ere from his battlements he view your prostrate postures, and his bolts renew, to strike you deeper down. _asm._ they wake, they hear, shake off their slumber first, and next their fear; and only for the appointed signal stay. _lucif._ rise from the flood, and hither wing your way. _mol._ [_from the lake._] thine to command; our part is to obey. [_the rest of the devils rise up, and fly to the land._ _lucif._ so, now we are ourselves again an host, fit to tempt fate, once more, for what we lost; to o'erleap the etherial fence, or if so high we cannot climb, to undermine his sky, and blow him up, who justly rules us now, because more strong: should he be forced to bow. the right were ours again: 'tis just to win the highest place; to attempt, and fail, is sin. _mol._ changed as we are, we're yet from homage free; we have, by hell, at least gained liberty: that's worth our fall; thus low though we are driven, better to rule in hell, than serve in heaven. _lucif._ there spoke the better half of lucifer! _asm._ 'tis fit in frequent senate we confer, and then determine how to steer our course; to wage new war by fraud, or open force. the doom's now past; submission were in vain. _mol._ and were it not, such baseness i disdain; i would not stoop, to purchase all above, and should contemn a power, whom prayer could move, as one unworthy to have conquered me. _beelzebub._ moloch, in that all are resolved, like thee. the means are unproposed; but 'tis not fit our dark divan in public view should sit; or what we plot against the thunderer, the ignoble crowd of vulgar devils hear. _luci._ a golden palace let be raised on high; to imitate? no, to outshine the sky! all mines are ours, and gold above the rest: let this be done; and quick as 'twas exprest. _a palace rises, where sit, as in council,_ lucifer, asmoday, moloch, belial, beelzebub, _and_ satan. most high and mighty lords, who better fell from heaven, to rise states-general of hell, nor yet repent, though ruined and undone, our upper provinces already won, such pride there is in souls created free, such hate of universal monarchy; speak, for we therefore meet: if peace you chuse, your suffrages declare; or means propound, to carry on the war. _mol._ my sentence is for war; that open too: unskilled in stratagems, plain force i know: treaties are vain to losers; nor would we, should heaven grant peace, submit to sovereignty. we can no caution give we will adore; and he above is warned to trust no more. what then remains but battle? _satan._ i agree with this brave vote; and if in hell there be ten more such spirits, heaven is our own again: we venture nothing, and may all obtain. yet who can hope but well, since even success makes foes secure, and makes our danger less? seraph and cherub, careless of their charge, and wanton, in full ease now live at large; unguarded leave the passes of the sky, and all dissolved in hallelujahs lie. _mol._ grant that our hazardous attempt prove vain; we feel the worst, secured from greater pain: perhaps we may provoke the conquering foe to make us nothing; yet, even then, we know, that not to be, is not to be in woe. _belial._ that knowledge which, as spirits, we obtain, is to be valued in the midst of pain: annihilation were to lose heaven more; we are not quite exiled where thought can soar. then cease from arms; tempt him not farther to pursue his blow, and be content to bear those pains we know. if what we had, we could not keep, much less can we regain what those above possess. _beelzebub._ heaven sleeps not; from one wink a breach would be in the full circle of eternity. long pains, with use of bearing, are half eased; heaven, unprovoked, at length may be appeased. by war we cannot scape our wretched lot; and may, perhaps, not warring, be forgot. _asm._ could we repent, or did not heaven well know rebellion, once forgiven, would greater grow, i should, with belial, chuse ignoble ease; but neither will the conqueror give peace, nor yet so lost in this low state we are, as to despair of a well-managed war. nor need we tempt those heights which angels keep, who fear no force, or ambush, from the deep. what if we find some easier enterprise? there is a place,--if ancient prophecies and fame in heaven not err,--the blest abode of some new race, called man, a demi-god, whom, near this time, the almighty must create; he swore it, shook the heavens, and made it fate. _lucif._ i heard it; through all heaven the rumour ran, and much the talk of this intended man: of form divine; but less in excellence than we; endued with reason lodged in sense: the soul pure fire, like ours, of equal force; but, pent in flesh, must issue by discourse: we see what is; to man truth must be brought by sense, and drawn by a long chain of thought: by that faint light, to will and understand; for made less knowing, he's at more command. _asm._ though heaven be shut, that world, if it be made, as nearest heaven, lies open to invade: man therefore must be known, his strength, his state, and by what tenure he holds all of fate. him let us then seduce, or overthrow; the first is easiest, and makes heaven his foe. advise, if this attempt be worth our care. _belial._ great is the advantage, great the hazards are. some one (but who that task dares undertake?) of this new creature must discovery make. hell's brazen gates he first must break, then far must wander through old night, and through the war of antique chaos; and, when these are past, meet heaven's out-guards, who scout upon the waste: at every station must be bid to stand, and forced to answer every strict demand. _mol._ this glorious enterprise-- [_rising up._ _lucif._ rash angel, stay; [_rising, and laying his sceptre on_ moloch's _head._ that palm is mine, which none shall take away. hot braves, like thee, may fight; but know not well to manage this, the last great stake of hell. why am i ranked in state above the rest, if, while i stand of sovereign power possest, another dares, in danger, farther go? kings are not made for ease, and pageant-show. who would be conqueror, must venture all: he merits not to rise, who dares not fall. _asm._ the praise, and danger, then, be all your own. _lucif._ on this foundation i erect my throne: through brazen gates, vast chaos, and old night, i'll force my way, and upwards steer my flight; discover this new world, and newer man; make him my footstep to mount heaven again: then, in the clemency of upward air, we'll scour our spots, and the dire thunder scar, with all the remnants of the unlucky war, and once again grow bright, and once again grow fair. _asm._ meantime the youth of hell strict guard may keep, and set their centries to the utmost deep, that no etherial parasite may come to spy our ills, and tell glad tales at home. _lucif._ before yon brimstone lake thrice ebb and flow, (alas, that we must measure time by woe!) i shall return, (my mind presages well) and outward lead the colonies of hell. your care i much approve; what time remains, seek to forget, at least divert your pains with sports and music, in the vales and fields, and whate'erjoy so sad a climate yields. _betwixt the first act and the second, while the chiefs sit in the palace, may be expressed the sports of the devils; as flights, and dancing in grotesque figures: and a song, expressing the change of their condition; what they enjoyed before, and how they fell bravely in battle, having deserved victory by their valour, and what they would have done if they had conquered._ act ii. scene .--_a champaign country._ adam, _as newly created, laid on a bed of moss and flowers, by a rock._ _adam._ what am i? or from whence? for that i am [_rising._ i know, because i think; but whence i came, or how this frame of mine began to be, what other being can disclose to me? i move, i see, i speak, discourse, and know; though now i am, i was not always so. then that, from which i was, must be before, whom, as my spring of being, i adore. how full of ornament is all i view, in all its parts! and seems as beautiful as new: o goodly-ordered work! o power divine, of thee i am, and what i am is thine! raphael _descends to_ adam, _in a cloud._ _raphael._ first of mankind, made o'er the world to reign, whose fruitful loins an unborn kind contain, well hast thou reasoned: of himself is none but that eternal infinite and one, who never did begin, who ne'er can end; on him all beings, as their source, depend. we first, who of his image most partake, whom he all spirit, immortal, pure, did make; man next; whose race, exalted, must supply the place of those, who, falling, lost the sky. _adam._ bright minister of heaven, sent here below to me, who but begin to think and know; if such could fall from bliss, who knew and saw, by near admission, their creator's law, what hopes have i, from heaven remote so far, to keep those laws, unknowing when i err? _raphael._ right reason's law to every human heart the eternal, as his image, will impart: this teaches to adore heaven's majesty; in prayer and praise does all devotion lie: so doing, thou and all thy race are blest. _adam._ of every creeping thing, of bird, and beast, i see the kinds: in pairs distinct they go; the males their loves, their lovers females know: thou nam'st a race which must proceed from me, yet my whole species in myself i see: a barren sex, and single, of no use, but full of forms which i can ne'er produce. _raphael._ think not the power, who made thee thus, can find no way like theirs to propagate thy kind: meantime, live happy in thyself alone; like him who, single, fills the etherial throne. to study nature will thy time employ: knowledge and innocence are perfect joy. _adam._ if solitude were best, the all-wise above had made no creature for himself to love. i add not to the power he had before; yet to make me, extends his goodness more. he would not be alone, who all things can; but peopled heaven with angels, earth with man. _raphael._ as man and angels to the deity, so all inferior creatures are to thee. heaven's greatness no society can bear; servants he made, and those thou want'st not here. _adam._ why did he reason in my soul implant, and speech, the effect of reason? to the mute, my speech is lost; my reason to the brute. love and society more blessings bring to them, the slaves, than power to me, their king. _raphael._ thus far to try thee; but to heaven 'twas known, it was not best for man to be alone; an equal, yet thy subject, is designed, for thy soft hours, and to unbend thy mind. thy stronger soul shall her weak reason sway; and thou, through love, her beauty shalt obey; thou shalt secure her helpless sex from harms, and she thy cares shall sweeten with her charms. _adam._ what more can heaven bestow, or man require? _raphael._ yes, he can give beyond thy own desire. a mansion is provided thee, more fair than this, and worthy heaven's peculiar care: not framed of common earth, nor fruits, nor flowers of vulgar growth, but like celestial bowers: the soil luxuriant, and the fruit divine, where golden apples on green branches shine, and purple grapes dissolve into immortal wine; for noon-day's heat are closer arbours made, and for fresh evening air the opener glade. ascend; and, as we go, more wonders thou shalt know. _adam._ and, as we go, let earth and heaven above sound our great maker's power, and greater love. [_they ascend to soft music, and a song is sung._ _the scene changes, and represents, above, a sun gloriously rising and moving orbicularly: at a distance, below, is the moon; the part next the sun enlightened, the other dark. a black cloud comes whirling from the adverse part of the heavens, bearing_ lucifer _in it; at his nearer approach the body of the sun is darkened._ _lucif._ am i become so monstrous, so disfigured, that nature cannot suffer my approach, or look me in the face, but stands aghast; and that fair light which gilds this new-made orb, shorn of his beams, shrinks in? accurst ambition! and thou, black empire of the nether world, how dearly have i bought you! but, 'tis past; i have already gone too far to stop, and must push on my dire revenge, in ruin of this gay frame, and man, my upstart rival, in scorn of me created. down, my pride, and all my swelling thoughts! i must forget awhile i am a devil, and put on a smooth submissive face; else i in vain have past through night and chaos, to discover those envied skies again, which i have lost. but stay; far off i see a chariot driven, flaming with beams, and in it uriel, one of the seven, (i know his hated face) who stands in presence of the eternal throne, and seems the regent of that glorious light. _from that part of the heavens where the sun appears, a chariot is discovered drawn with white horses, and in it_ uriel, _the regent of the sun. the chariot moves swiftly towards_ lucifer, _and at_ uriel's _approach the sun recovers his light._ _uriel._ spirit, who art thou, and from whence arrived? (for i remember not thy face in heaven) or by command, or hither led by choice? or wander'st thou within this lucid orb, and, strayed from those fair fields of light above, amidst this new creation want'st a guide, to reconduct thy steps? _lucifer._ bright uriel, chief of the seven! thou flaming minister, who guard'st this new-created orb of light, (the world's eye that, and thou the eye of it) thy favour and high office make thee known: an humble cherub i, and of less note, yet bold, by thy permission, hither come, on high discoveries bent. _uriel._ speak thy design. _lucifer._ urged by renown of what i heard above, divulged by angels nearest heaven's high king, concerning this new world, i came to view (if worthy such a favour) and admire this last effect of our great maker's power: thence to my wondering fellows i shall turn, full fraught with joyful tidings of these works, new matter of his praise, and of our songs. _uriel._ thy business is not what deserves my blame, nor thou thyself unwelcome; see, fair spirit, below yon sphere (of matter not unlike it) there hangs the ball of earth and water mixt, self-centered and unmoved. _lucifer._ but where dwells man? _uriel._ on yonder mount; thou see'st it fenced with rocks, and round the ascent a theatre of trees, a sylvan scene, which, rising by degrees, leads up the eye below, nor gluts the sight with one full prospect, but invites by many, to view at last the whole: there his abode, thither direct thy flight. _lucifer._ o blest be thou, who to my low converse has lent thy ear, and favoured my request! hail, and farewell. [_flies downward out of sight._ _uriel._ not unobserved thou goest, whoe'er thou art; whether some spirit on holy purpose bent, or some fallen angel from below broke loose, who com'st, with envious eyes and curst intent, to view this world and its created lord: here will i watch, and, while my orb rolls on, pursue from hence thy much suspected flight, and, if disguised, pierce through with beams of light. [_the chariot drives forward out of sight._ scene ii.--_paradise._ _trees cut out on each side, with several fruits upon them; a fountain in the midst: at the far end the prospect terminates in walks._ _adam._ if this be dreaming, let me never wake; but still the joys of that sweet sleep partake. methought--but why do i my bliss delay, by thinking what i thought? fair vision, stay; my better half, thou softer part of me, to whom i yield my boasted sovereignty, i seek myself, and find not, wanting thee. [_exit._ _enter_ eve. _eve._ tell me, ye hills and dales, and thou fair sun, who shin'st above, what am i? whence begun? like myself, i see nothing: from each tree the feathered kind peep down to look on me; and beasts with up-cast eyes forsake their shade, and gaze, as if i were to be obeyed. sure i am somewhat which they wish to be, and cannot; i myself am proud of me. what's here? another firmament below, [_looks into a fountain._ spread wide, and other trees that downward grow! and now a face peeps up, and now draws near, with smiling looks, as pleased to see me here. as i advance, so that advances too, and seems to imitate whate'er i do: when i begin to speak, the lips it moves; streams drown the voice, or it would say, it loves. yet when i would embrace, it will not stay: [_stoops down to embrace._ lost ere 'tis held; when nearest, far away. ah, fair, yet false! ah, being, formed to cheat, by seeming kindness, mixt with deep deceit! _enter_ adam. _adam._ o virgin, heaven-begot, and born of man, thou fairest of thy great creator's works! thee, goddess, thee the eternal did ordain, his softer substitute on earth to reign; and, wheresoe'er thy happy footsteps tread, nature in triumph after thee is led! angels with pleasure view thy matchless grace, and love their maker's image in thy face. _eve._ o, only like myself,(for nothing here so graceful, so majestic does appear:) art thou the form my longing eyes did see, loosed from thy fountain, and come out to me? yet sure thou art not, nor thy face the same, nor thy limbs moulded in so soft a frame; thou look'st more sternly, dost more strongly move, and more of awe thou bear'st, and less of love. yet pleased i hear thee, and above the rest, i, next myself, admire and love thee best. _adam._ made to command, thus freely i obey, and at thy feet the whole creation lay. pity that love thy beauty does beget; what more i shall desire, i know not yet. first let us locked in close embraces be, thence i, perhaps, may teach myself and thee. _eve._ somewhat forbids me, which i cannot name; for, ignorant of guilt, i fear not shame: but some restraining thought, i know not why, tells me, you long should beg, i long deny. _adam._ in vain! my right to thee is sealed above; look round and see where thou canst place thy love: all creatures else are much unworthy thee; they matched, and thou alone art left for me. if not to love, we both were made in vain; i my new empire would resign again, and change with my dumb slaves my nobler mind, who, void of reason, more of pleasure find. methinks, for me they beg; each silently demands thy grace, and seems to watch thy eye. _eve._ i well foresee, whene'er thy suit i grant, that i my much-loved sovereignty shall want: or like myself some other may be made, and her new beauty may thy heart invade. _adam._ could heaven some greater master-piece devise, set out with all the glories of the skies, that beauty yet in vain he should decree. unless he made another heart for me. _eve._ with how much ease i, whom i love, believe! giving myself, my want of worth i grieve. here, my inviolable faith i plight, so, thou be my defence, i, thy delight. [_exeunt, he leading her._ act iii. scene i.--_paradise._ lucifer. _lucif._ fair place! yet what is this to heaven, where i sat next, so almost equalled the most high? i doubted, measuring both, who was more strong; then, willing to forget time since so long, scarce thought i was created: vain desire of empire in my thoughts still shot me higher, to mount above his sacred head: ah why, when he so kind, was so ungrateful i? he bounteously bestowed unenvied good on me: in arbitrary grace i stood: to acknowledge this, was all he did exact; small tribute, where the will to pay was act. i mourn it now, unable to repent, as he, who knows my hatred to relent, jealous of power once questioned: hope, farewell; and with hope, fear; no depth below my hell can be prepared: then, ill, be thou my good; and, vast destruction, be my envy's food. thus i, with heaven, divided empire gain; seducing man, i make his project vain, and in one hour destroy his six days pain. they come again, i must retire. _enter_ adam _and_ eve. _adam._ thus shall we live in perfect bliss, and see, deathless ourselves, our numerous progeny. thou young and beauteous, my desires to bless; i, still desiring, what i still possess. _eve._ heaven, from whence love, our greatest blessing, came, can give no more, but still to be the same. thou more of pleasure may'st with me partake; i, more of pride, because thy bliss i make. _adam._ when to my arms thou brought'st thy virgin love, fair angels sung our bridal hymn above: the eternal, nodding, shook the firmament, and conscious nature gave her glad consent. roses unbid, and every fragrant flower, flew from their stalks, to strew thy nuptial bower: the furred and feathered kind the triumph did pursue, and fishes leaped above the streams, the passing pomp to view. _eve._ when your kind eyes looked languishing on mine, and wreathing arms did soft embraces join, a doubtful trembling seized me first all o'er; then, wishes; and a warmth, unknown before: what followed was all ecstasy and trance; immortal pleasures round my swimming eyes did dance, and speechless joys, in whose sweet tumult tost, i thought my breath and my new being lost. _lucif._ o death to hear! and a worse hell on earth! [_aside._ what mad profusion on this clod-born birth! abyss of joys, as if heaven meant to shew what, in base matters, such a hand could do: or was his virtue spent, and he no more with angels could supply the exhausted store, of which i swept the sky? and wanting subjects to his haughty will, on this mean work employed his trifling skill? _eve._ blest in ourselves, all pleasures else abound; without our care behold the unlaboured ground bounteous of fruit; above our shady bowers the creeping jessamin thrusts her fragrant flowers; the myrtle, orange, and the blushing rose, with bending heaps so nigh their blooms disclose, each seems to swell the flavour which the other blows: by these the peach, the guava, and the pine, and, creeping 'twixt them all, the mantling vine does round their trunks her purple clusters twine. _adam._ all these are ours, all nature's excellence, whose taste or smell can bless the feasted sense; one only fruit, in the mid garden placed,-- the tree of knowledge,--is denied our taste; (our proof of duty to our maker's will:) of disobedience, death's the threatened ill. _eve._ death is some harm, which, though we know not yet, since threatened, we must needs imagine great: and sure he merits it, who disobeys that one command, and one of so much ease. _lucif._ must they then die, if they attempt to know? he sees they would rebel, and keeps them low. on this foundation i their ruin lay, hope to know more shall tempt to disobey. i fell by this, and, since their strength is less, why should not equal means give like success? _adam._ come, my fair love, our morning's task we lose; some labour even the easiest life would chuse: ours is not great: the dangling boughs to crop, whose too luxuriant growth our alleys stop, and choke the paths: this our delight requires, and heaven no more of daily work desires. _eve._ with thee to live, is paradise alone: without the pleasure of thy sight, is none. i fear small progress will be made this day; so much our kisses will our task delay. [_exeunt._ _lucif._ why have not i, like these, a body too, formed for the same delights which they pursue! i could (so variously my passions move) enjoy, and blast her in the act of love. unwillingly i hate such excellence; she wronged me not; but i revenge the offence, through her, on heaven, whose thunder took away my birth-right skies! live happy whilst you may, blest pair; y'are not allowed another day! [_exit._ gabriel _and_ ithuriel _descend, carried on bright clouds, and flying cross each other, then light on the ground._ _gab._ ithuriel, since we two commissioned are from heaven the guardians of this new made pair, each mind his charge; for, see, the night draws on, and rising mists pursue the setting sun. _ithu._ blest is our lot to serve; our task we know: to watch, lest any, from the abyss below broke loose, disturb their sleep with dreams; or worse, assault their beings with superior force. [uriel _flies down from the sun._ _uriel._ gabriel, if now the watch be set, prepare, with strictest guard, to shew thy utmost care. this morning came a spirit, fair he seemed, whom, by his face, i some young cherub deemed; of man he much inquired, and where his place, with shews of zeal to praise his maker's grace; but i, with watchful eyes, observed his flight, and saw him on yon steepy mount alight; there, as he thought, unseen, he laid aside his borrowed mask, and re-assumed his pride: i marked his looks, averse to heaven and good; dusky he grew, and long revolving stood on some deep, dark design; thence shot with haste, and o'er the mounds of paradise he past: by his proud port, he seemed the prince of hell; and here he lurks in shades 'till night: search well each grove and thicket, pry in every shape, lest, hid in some, the arch hypocrite escape. _gab._ if any spirit come to invade, or scout from hell, what earthy fence can keep him out? but rest secure of this, he shall be found, and taken, or proscribed this happy ground. _ithu._ thou to the east, i westward walk the round, and meet we in the midst. _uriel._ heaven your design succeed; your charge requires you, and me mine. [uriel _flies forward out of sight; the two angels exeunt severally._ _a night-piece of a pleasant bower:_ adam _and_ eve _asleep in it._ _enter_ lucifer. _lucif._ so, now they lie secure in love, and steep their sated senses in full draughts of sleep. by what sure means can i their bliss invade? by violence? no, for they are immortal made. their reason sleeps, but mimic fancy wakes, supplies her part, and wild ideas takes, from words and things, ill sorted and misjoined; the anarchy of thought, and chaos of the mind: hence dreams, confused and various, may arise; these will i set before the woman's eyes; the weaker she, and made my easier prey; vain shows and pomp the softer sex betray. [lucifer _sits down by_ eve, _and seems to whisper in her ear._ _a vision, where a tree rises loaden with fruit; four spirits rise with it, and draw a canopy out of the tree; other spirits dance about the tree in deformed shapes; after the dance an angel enters, with a woman, habited like_ eve. _angel._ [_singing._] look up, look up, and see, what heaven prepares for thee; look up, and this fair fruit behold, ruddy it smiles, and rich with streaks of gold. the loaded branches downward bend, willing they stoop, and thy fair hand attend. fair mother of mankind, make haste and bless, and bless thy senses with the taste. _woman._ no, 'tis forbidden; i in tasting it shall die. _angel._ say, who enjoined this harsh command? _woman._ 'twas heaven; and who can heaven withstand? _angel._ why was it made so fair, why placed in sight? heaven is too good to envy man's delight. see, we before thy face will try what thou so fearest, and will not die. [_the angel takes the fruit, and gives to the spirits who danced; they immediately put off their deformed shapes, and appear angels._ _angel._ [_singing._] behold what a change on a sudden is here! how glorious in beauty, how bright they appear! prom spirits deformed they are deities made, their pinions at pleasure the clouds can invade, [_the angel gives to the woman, who eats._ till equal in honour they rise, with him who commands in the skies; then taste without fear, and be happy and wise. _woman._ ah, now i believe! such a pleasure i find, as enlightens my eyes, and enlivens my mind. [_the spirits, who are turned angels, fly up when they have tasted._ i only repent, i deferred my content. _angel._ now wiser experience has taught you to prove, what a folly it is, out of fear to shun bliss. to the joy that's forbidden we eagerly move; it inhances the price, and increases the love. _chorus of both._ to the joy, &c. _two angels descend; they take the woman each by the hand, and fly up with her out of sight. the angel who sung, and the spirits who held the canopy, at the same instant sink down with the tree._ _enter_ gabriel _and_ ithuriel _to_ lucifer, _who remains._ _gab._ what art thou? speak thy name and thy intent. why here alone? and on what errand sent? not from above; no, thy wan looks betray diminished light, and eyes unused to day. _lucif._ not to know me, argues thyself unknown: time was, when, shining next the imperial throne, i sat in awful state; while such as thou did in the ignoble crowd at distance bow. _gab._ think'st thou, vain spirit, thy glories are the same? and seest not sin obscures thy god-like frame? i know thee now by thy ungrateful pride, that shews me what thy faded looks did hide, traitor to him who made and set thee high, and fool, that power which formed thee to defy. _lucif._ go, slaves, return, and fawn in heaven again: seek thanks from him whose quarrel you maintain. vile wretches! of your servitude to boast; you basely keep the place i bravely lost. _ithu._ freedom is choice of what we will and do: then blame not servants, who are freely so. 'tis base not to acknowledge what we owe. _lucif._ thanks, howe'er due, proclaim subjection yet; i fought for power to quit the upbraided debt. whoe'er expects our thanks, himself repays, and seems but little, who can want our praise. _gab._ what in us duty, shews not want in him; blest in himself alone, to whom no praise we, by good deeds, can add; nor can his glory suffer from our bad. made for his use; yet he has formed us so, we, unconstrained, what he commands us do. so praise we him, and serve him freely best; thus thou, by choice, art fallen, and we are blest. _ithu._ this, lest thou think thy plea, unanswered, good. our question thou evad'st: how didst thou dare to break hell bounds, and near this human pair in nightly ambush lie? _lucif._ lives there, who would not seek to force his way, from pain to ease, from darkness to the day? should i, who found the means to 'scape, not dare to change my sulphurous smoke for upper air? when i, in fight, sustained your thunderer, and heaven on me alone spent half his war, think'st thou those wounds were light? should i not seek the clemency of some more temperate clime, to purge my gloom; and, by the sun refined, bask in his beams, and bleach me in the wind? _gab._ if pain to shun be all thy business here, methinks thy fellows the same course should steer. is their pain less, who yet behind thee stay? or thou less hardy to endure than they? _lucif._ nor one, nor t'other; but, as leaders ought, i ventured first alone, first danger sought, and first explored this new-created frame, which filled our dusky regions with its fame; in hopes my fainting troops to settle here, and to defend against your thunderer, this spot of earth; or nearer heaven repair, and forage to his gates from middle air. _ithu._ fool! to believe thou any part canst gain from him, who could'st not thy first ground maintain. _gab._ but whether that design, or one as vain, to attempt the lives of these, first drew thee here, avoid the place, and never more appear upon this hallowed earth; else prove our might. _lucif._ not that i fear, do i decline the fight: you i disdain; let me with him contend, on whom your limitary powers depend. more honour from the sender than the sent: till then, i have accomplished my intent; and leave this place, which but augments my pain, gazing to wish, yet hopeless to obtain. [_exit, they following him._ act iv. scene i.--_paradise._ adam _and_ eve. _adam._ strange was your dream, and full of sad portent; avert it, heaven, if it from heaven were sent! let on thy foes the dire presages fall; to us be good and easy, when we call. _eve._ behold from far a breaking cloud appears, which in it many winged warriors bears: their glory shoots upon my aching sense; thou, stronger, mayest endure the flood of light, and while in shades i chear my fainting sight, encounter the descending excellence. [_exit._ _the cloud descends with six angels in it, and when it is near the ground, breaks, and on each side discovers six more: they descend out of the cloud._ raphael _and_ gabriel _discourse with_ adam, _the rest stand at a distance._ _raph._ first of mankind, that we from heaven are sent, is from heaven's care thy ruin to prevent. the apostate angel has by night been here, and whispered through thy sleeping consort's ear delusive dreams. thus warned by us, beware, and guide her frailty by thy timely care. _gab._ these, as thy guards from outward harms, are sent; ills from within thy reason must prevent. _adam._ natives of heaven, who in compassion deign to want that place where joys immortal reign, in care of me; what praises can i pay, descended in obedience; taught to obey? _raph._ praise him alone, who god-like formed thee free, with will unbounded as a deity; who gave thee reason, as thy aid, to chuse apparent good, and evil to refuse. obedience is that good; this heaven exacts, and heaven, all-just, from man requires not acts, which man wants power to do: power then is given of doing good, but not compelled by heaven. _gab._ made good, that thou dost to thy maker owe; but to thyself, if thou continuest so. _adam._ freedom of will of all good things is best; but can it be by finite man possest? i know not how heaven can communicate what equals man to his creator's state. _raph._ heaven cannot give his boundless power away, but boundless liberty of choice he may; so orbs from the first mover motion take, yet each their proper revolutions make. _adam._ grant heaven could once have given us liberty; are we not bounded now, by firm decree, since whatsoe'er is pre-ordained must be? else heaven for man events might pre-ordain, and man's free will might make those orders vain. _gab._ the eternal, when he did the world create, all other agents did necessitate: so what he ordered, they by nature do; thus light things mount, and heavy downward go. man only boasts an arbitrary state. _adam._ yet causes their effects necessitate in willing agents: where is freedom then? or who can break the chain which limits men to act what is unchangeably forecast, since the first cause gives motion to the last? _raph._ heaven, by fore-knowing what will surely be, does only, first, effects in causes see, and finds, but does not make, necessity. creation is of power and will the effect, foreknowledge only of his intellect. his prescience makes not, but supposes things; infers necessity to be, not brings. thus thou art not constrained to good or ill; causes, which work the effect, force not the will. _adam._ the force unseen, and distant, i confess; but the long chain makes not the bondage less. even man himself may to himself seem free; and think that choice, which is necessity. _gab._ and who but man should judge of man's free state? _adam._ i find that i can chuse to love or hate, obey or disobey, do good or ill; yet such a choice is but consent, not will. i can but chuse what he at first designed, for he, before that choice, my will confined. _gab._ such impious fancies, where they entrance gain, make heaven, all-pure, thy crimes to pre-ordain. _adam._ far, far from me be banished such a thought, i argue only to be better taught. can there be freedom, when what now seems free was founded on some first necessity? for whate'er cause can move the will t'elect, must be sufficient to produce the effect; and what's sufficient must effectual be: then how is man, thus forced by causes, free? _raph._ sufficient causes only work the effect, when necessary agents they respect. such is not man; who, though the cause suffice, yet often he his free assent denies. _adam._ what causes not, is not sufficient still. _gab._ sufficient in itself; not in thy will. _raph._ when we see causes joined to effects at last, the chain but shews necessity that's past. that what's done is: (ridiculous proof of fate!) tell me which part it does necessitate? i'll cruise the other; there i'll link the effect. o chain, which fools, to catch themselves, project! _adam._ though no constraint from heaven, or causes, be, heaven may prevent that ill he does foresee; and, not preventing, though he does not cause, he seems to will that men should break his laws. _gab._ heaven may permit, but not to ill consent; for, hindering ill, he would all choice prevent. 'twere to unmake, to take away the will. _adam._ better constrained to good, than free to ill. _raph._ but what reward or punishment could be, if man to neither good nor ill were free? the eternal justice could decree no pain to him whose sins itself did first ordain; and good, compelled, could no reward exact: his power would shine in goodness, not thy act. our task is done: obey; and, in that choice, thou shalt be blest, and angels shall rejoice. [raphael _and_ gabriel _fly up in the cloud: the other angels go off._ _adam._ hard state of life! since heaven foreknows my will, why am i not tied up from doing ill? why am i trusted with myself at large, when he's more able to sustain the charge? since angels fell, whose strength was more than mine, 'twould show more grace my frailty to confine. fore-knowing the success, to leave me free, excuses him, and yet supports not me. _to him_ eve. _eve._ behold, my heart's dear lord, how high the sun is mounted, yet our labour not begun. the ground, unhid, gives more than we can ask; but work is pleasure when we chuse our task. nature, not bounteous now, but lavish grows; our paths with flowers she prodigally strows; with pain we lift up our entangled feet, while cross our walks the shooting branches meet. _adam._ well has thy care advised; 'tis fit we haste; nature's too kind, and follows us too fast; leaves us no room her treasures to possess, but mocks our industry with her excess; and, wildly wanton, wears by night away the sign of all our labours done by day. _eve._ since, then, the work's so great, the hands so few, this day let each a several task pursue. by thee, my hands to labour will not move, but, round thy neck, employ themselves in love. when thou would'st work, one tender touch, one smile (how can i hold?) will all thy task beguile. _adam._ so hard we are not to our labour tied, that smiles, and soft endearments are denied; smiles, not allowed to beasts, from reason move, and are the privilege of human love: and if, sometimes, each others eyes we meet, those little vacancies from toil are sweet. but you, by absence, would refresh your joys, because perhaps my conversation cloys. yet this, would prudence grant, i could permit. _eve._ what reason makes my small request unfit? _adam._ the fallen archangel, envious of our state, pursues our beings with immortal hate; and, hopeless to prevail by open force, seeks hid advantage to betray us worse; which when asunder will not prove so hard; for both together are each other's guard. _eve._ since he, by force, is hopeless to prevail, he can by fraud alone our minds assail: and to believe his wiles my truth can move, is to misdoubt my reason, or my love. _adam._ call it my care, and not mistrust of thee; yet thou art weak, and full of art is he; else how could he that host seduce to sin, whose fall has left the heavenly nation thin? _eve._ i grant him armed with subtilty and hate; but why should we suspect our happy state? is our perfection of so frail a make, as every plot can undermine or shake? think better both of heaven, thyself, and me: who always fears, at ease can never be. poor state of bliss, where so much care is shown, as not to dare to trust ourselves alone! _adam._ such is our state, as not exempt from fall; yet firm, if reason to our aid we call: and that, in both, is stronger than in one; i would not,--why would'st thou, then, be alone? _eve._ because, thus warned, i know myself secure, and long my little trial to endure, to approve my faith, thy needless fears remove, gain thy esteem, and so deserve thy love. if all this shake not thy obdurate will, know that, even present, i am absent still: and then what pleasure hop'st thou in my stay, when i'm constrained, and wish myself away? _adam._ constraint does ill with love and beauty suit; i would persuade, but not be absolute. better be much remiss, than too severe; if pleased in absence thou wilt still be here. go; in thy native innocence proceed, and summon all thy reason at thy need. _eve._ my soul, my eyes delight! in this i find thou lov'st; because to love is to be kind. [_embracing him._ seeking my trial, i am still on guard: trials, less sought, would find us less prepared. our foe's too proud the weaker to assail, or doubles his dishonour if he fail. [_exit._ _adam._ in love, what use of prudence can there be? more perfect i, and yet more powerful she. blame me not, heaven; if thou love's power hast tried, what could be so unjust to be denied? one look of hers my resolution breaks; reason itself turns folly when she speaks: and awed by her, whom it was made to sway, flatters her power, and does its own betray. [_exit._ _the middle part of the garden is represented, where four rivers meet: on the right side of the scene is placed the tree of life; on the left, the tree of knowledge._ _enter_ lucifer. _lucif._ methinks the beauties of this place should mourn; the immortal fruits and flowers, at my return, should hang their withered heads; for sure my breath is now more poisonous, and has gathered death enough, to blast the whole creation's frame. swoln with despite, with sorrow, and with shame, thrice have i beat the wing, and rode with night about the world, behind the globe of light, to shun the watch of heaven; such care i use: (what pains will malice, raised like mine, refuse? not the most abject form of brutes to take.) hid in the spiry volumes of the snake, i lurked within the covert of a brake, not yet descried. but see, the woman here alone! beyond my hopes! no guardian near. good omen that: i must retire unseen, and, with my borrowed shape, the work begin. [_retires._ _enter_ eve. _eve._ thus far, at least, with leave; nor can it be a sin to look on this celestial tree: i would not more; to touch, a crime may prove: touching is a remoter taste in love. death may be there, or poison in the smell, (if death in any thing so fair can dwell:) but heaven forbids: i could be satisfied, were every tree but this, but this denied. _a serpent enters on the stage, and makes directly to the tree of knowledge, on which winding himself, he plucks an apple; then descends, and carries it away._ strange sight! did then our great creator grant that privilege, which we, their masters, want, to these inferior brings? or was it chance? and was he blest with bolder ignorance? i saw his curling crest the trunk enfold: the ruddy fruit, distinguished o'er with gold. and smiling in its native wealth, was torn from the rich bough, and then in triumph borne: the venturous victor marched unpunished hence, and seemed to boast his fortunate offence. _to her_ lucifer, _in a human shape._ _lucif._ hail, sovereign of this orb! formed to possess the world, and, with one look, all nature bless. nature is thine; thou, empress, dost bestow on fruits, to blossom; and on flowers, to blow. they happy, yet insensible to boast their bliss: more happy they who know thee most. then happiest i, to human reason raised, and voice, with whose first accents thou art praised. _eve._ what art thou, or from whence? for on this ground, beside my lord's, ne'er heard i human sound. art thou some other adam, formed from earth, and comest to claim an equal share, by birth, in this fair field? or sprung of heavenly race? _lucif._ an humble native of this happy place, thy vassal born, and late of lowest kind, whom heaven neglecting made, and scarce designed, but threw me in, for number, to the rest, below the mounting bird and grazing beast; by chance, not prudence, now superior grown. _eve._ to make thee such, what miracle was shown? _lucif._ who would not tell what thou vouchsaf'st to hear? sawest thou not late a speckled serpent rear his gilded spires to climb on yon' fair tree? before this happy minute i was he. _eve._ thou speak'st of wonders: make thy story plain. _lucif._ not wishing then, and thoughtless to obtain so great a bliss, but led by sense of good, inborn to all, i sought my needful food: then, on that heavenly tree my sight i cast; the colour urged my eye, the scent my taste. not to detain thee long,--i took, did eat: scarce had my palate touched the immortal meat, but, on a sudden, turned to what i am, god-like, and, next to thee, i fair became; thought, spake, and reasoned; and, by reason found thee, nature's queen, with all her graces crowned. _eve._ happy thy lot; but far unlike is mine: forbid to eat, not daring to repine. 'twas heaven's command; and should we disobey, what raised thy being, ours must take away. _lucif._ sure you mistake the precept, or the tree: heaven cannot envious of his blessings be. some chance-born plant he might forbid your use, as wild, or guilty of a deadly juice; not this, whose colour, scent divine, and taste, proclaim the thoughtful maker not in haste. _eve._ by all these signs, too well i know the fruit, and dread a power severe and absolute. _lucif._ severe, indeed; even to injustice hard; if death, for knowing more, be your reward: knowledge of good, is good, and therefore fit; and to know ill, is good, for shunning it. _eve._ what, but our good, could he design in this, who gave us all, and placed in perfect bliss? _lucif._ excuse my zeal, fair sovereign, in your cause, which dares to tax his arbitrary laws. 'tis all his aim to keep you blindly low, that servile fear from ignorance may flow: we scorn to worship whom too well we know. he knows, that, eating, you shall godlike be; as wise, as fit to be adored, as he. for his own interest he this law has given; such beauty may raise factions in his heaven. by awing you he does possession keep, and is too wise to hazard partnership. _eve._ alas, who dares dispute with him that right? the power, which formed us, must be infinite. _luc._ who told you how your form was first designed? the sun and earth produce, of every kind, grass, flowers, and fruits; nay, living creatures too: their mould was base; 'twas more refined in you: where vital heat, in purer organs wrought, produced a nobler kind raised up to thought; and that, perhaps, might his beginning be: something was first; i question if 'twere he. but grant him first, yet still suppose him good, not envying those he made, immortal food. _eve._ but death our disobedience must pursue. _lucif._ behold, in me, what shall arrive to you. i tasted; yet i live: nay, more; have got a state more perfect than my native lot. nor fear this petty fault his wrath should raise: heaven rather will your dauntless virtue praise, that sought, through threatened death, immortal good: gods are immortal only by their food. taste, and remove what difference does 'twixt them and you remain; as i gained reason, you shall godhead gain. _eve._ he eats, and lives, in knowledge greater grown: [_aside._ was death invented then for us alone? is intellectual food to man denied, which brutes have with so much advantage tried? nor only tried themselves, but frankly, more, to me have offered their unenvied store? _lucif._ behold, and all your needless doubts remove; view well this tree, (the queen of all the grove) how vast her hole, how wide her arms are spread, how high above the rest she shoots her head, placed in the midst: would heaven his work disgrace, by planting poison in the happiest place? haste; you lose time and godhead by delay. [_plucking the fruit._ _eve._ 'tis done; i'll venture all, and disobey. [_looking about her._ perhaps, far hid in heaven, he does not spy, and none of all his hymning guards are nigh. to my dear lord the lovely fruit i'll bear; he, to partake my bliss, my crime shall share. [_exit hastily._ _lucif._ she flew, and thanked me not, for haste: 'twas hard, with no return such counsel to reward. my work is done, or much the greater part; she's now the tempter to ensnare his heart. he, whose firm faith no reason could remove, will melt before that soft seducer, love. [_exit._ act v. scene i.--_paradise._ eve, _with a bough in her hand._ _eve._ methinks i tread more lightly on the ground; my nimble feet from unhurt flowers rebound: i walk in air, and scorn this earthly seat; heaven is my palace; this my base retreat. take me not, heaven, too soon; 'twill be unkind to leave the partner of my bed behind. i love the wretch; but stay, shall i afford him part? already he's too much my lord. 'tis in my power to be a sovereign now; and, knowing more, to make his manhood bow. empire is sweet; but how if heaven has spied? if i should die, and he above provide some other eve, and place her in my stead? shall she possess his love, when i am dead? no; he shall eat, and die with me, or live: our equal crimes shall equal fortune give. _enter_ adam. _adam._ what joy, without your sight, has earth, in store! while you were absent, eden was no more. winds murmured through the leaves your long delay, and fountains, o'er the pebbles, chid your stay: but with your presence cheered, they cease to mourn, and walks wear fresher green at your return. _eve._ henceforth you never shall have cause to chide; no future absence shall our joys divide: 'twas a short death my love ne'er tried before, and therefore strange; but yet the cause was more. _adam._ my trembling heart forebodes some ill; i fear to ask that cause which i desire to hear. what means that lovely fruit? what means, alas! that blood, which flushes guilty in your face? speak--do not--yet, at last, i must be told. _eve._ have courage, then: 'tis manly to be bold. this fruit--why dost thou shake? no death is nigh: 'tis what i tasted first; yet do not die. _adam._ is it--(i dare not ask it all at first; doubt is some ease to those who fear the worst:) say, 'tis not-- _eve._ 'tis not what thou needst to fear: what danger does in this fair fruit appear? we have been cozened; and had still been so, had i not ventured boldly first to know. yet, not i first; i almost blush to say, the serpent eating taught me first the way. the serpent tasted, and the godlike fruit gave the dumb voice; gave reason to the brute. _adam._ o fairest of all creatures, last and best of what heaven made, how art them dispossest of all thy native glories! fallen! decayed! (pity so rare a frame so frail was made) now cause of thy own ruin; and with thine, (ah, who can live without thee!) cause of mine. _eve._ reserve thy pity till i want it more: i know myself much happier than before; more wise, more perfect, all i wish to be, were i but sure, alas! of pleasing thee. _adam._ you've shown, how much you my content design: yet, ah! would heaven's displeasure pass like mine! must i without you, then, in wild woods dwell? think, and but think, of what i loved so well? condemned to live with subjects ever mute; a savage prince, unpleased, though absolute? _eve._ please then yourself with me, and freely taste, lest i, without you, should to godhead haste: lest, differing in degree, you claim too late unequal love, when 'tis denied by fate. _adam._ cheat not yourself with dreams of deity; too well, but yet too late, your crime i see: nor think the fruit your knowledge does improve; but you have beauty still, and i have love. not cozened, i with choice my life resign: imprudence was your fault, but love was mine. [_takes the fruit and eats it._ _eve._ o wondrous power of matchless love exprest! [_embracing him._ why was this trial thine, of loving best? i envy thee that lot; and could it be, would venture something more than death for thee. not that i fear, that death the event can prove; ware both immortal, while so well we love. _adam._ whate'er shall be the event, the lot is cast; where appetites are given, what sin to taste? or if a sin, 'tis but by precept such; the offence so small, the punishment's too much. to seek so soon his new-made world's decay: nor we, nor that, were fashioned for a day. _eve._ give to the winds thy fear of death, or ill; and think us made but for each other's will. _adam._ i will, at least, defer that anxious thought, and death, by fear, shall not be nigher brought: if he will come, let us to joys make haste; then let him seize us when our pleasure's past. we'll take up all before; and death shall find we have drained life, and left a void behind. [_exeunt._ _enter_ lucifer. _lucif._ 'tis done: sick nature, at that instant, trembled round; and mother earth sighed, as she felt the wound. of how short durance was this new-made state! how far more mighty than heaven's love, hell's hate! his project ruined, and his king of clay: he formed an empire for his foe to sway. heaven let him rule, which by his arms he got; i'm pleased to have obtained the second lot. this earth is mine; whose lord i made my thrall: annexing to my crown his conquered ball. loosed from the lakes my regions i will lead, and o'er the darkened air black banners spread: contagious damps, from hence, shall mount above, and force him to his inmost heaven's remove. [_a clap of thunder is heard._ he hears already, and i boast too soon; i dread that engine which secured his throne. i'll dive below his wrath, into the deep, and waste that empire, which i cannot keep. [_sinks down._ raphael _and_ gabriel _descend._ _raph._ as much of grief as happiness admits in heaven, on each celestial forehead sits: kindness for man, and pity for his fate, may mix with bliss, and yet not violate. their heavenly harps a lower strain began; and, in soft music, mourned the fall of man. _gab._ i saw the angelic guards from earth ascend, (grieved they must now no longer man attend:) the beams about their temples dimly shone; one would have thought the crime had been their own. the etherial people flocked for news in haste, whom they, with down-cast looks, and scarce saluting past: while each did, in his pensive breast, prepare a sad account of their successless care. _raph._ the eternal yet, in majesty severe, and strictest justice, did mild pity bear: their deaths deferred; and banishment, (their doom,) in penitence foreseen, leaves mercy room. _gab._ that message is thy charge: mine leads me hence; placed at the garden's gate, for its defence, lest man, returning, the blest place pollute, and 'scape from death, by life's immortal fruit. [_another clap of thunder. exeunt severally._ _enter_ adam _and_ eve, _affrighted._ _adam._ in what dark cavern shall i hide my head? where seek retreat, now innocence is fled? safe in that guard, i durst even hell defy; without it, tremble now, when heaven is nigh. _eve._ what shall we do? or where direct our flight? eastward, as far as i could cast my sight, from opening heavens, i saw descending light. its glittering through the trees i still behold; the cedar tops seem all to burn with gold. _adam._ some shape divine, whose beams i cannot bear! would i were hid, where light could not appear. deep into some thick covert would i run, impenetrable to the stars or sun, and fenced from day, by night's eternal skreen; unknown to heaven, and to myself unseen. _eve._ in vain: what hope to shun his piercing sight, who from dark chaos struck the sparks of light? _adam._ these should have been your thoughts, when, parting hence, you trusted to your guideless innocence. see now the effects of your own wilful mind: guilt walks before us; death pursues behind. so fatal 'twas to seek temptations out: most confidence has still most cause to doubt. _eve._ such might have been thy hap, alone assailed; and so, together, might we both have failed. cursed vassalage of all my future kind! first idolized, till love's hot fire be o'er, then slaves to those who courted us before. _adam._ i counselled you to stay; your pride refused: by your own lawless will you stand accused. _eve._ have you that privilege of only wise, and would you yield to her you so despise? you should have shown the authority you boast, and, sovereign-like, my headlong will have crost: counsel was not enough to sway my heart; an absolute restraint had been your part. _adam._ even such returns do they deserve to find, when force is lawful, who are fondly kind. unlike my love; for when thy guilt i knew, i shared the curse which did that crime pursue. hard fate of love! which rigour did forbear, and now 'tis taxed, because 'twas not severe. _eve._ you have yourself your kindness overpaid; he ceases to oblige, who can upbraid. _adam._ on women's virtue, who too much rely, to boundless will give boundless liberty. restraint you will not brook; but think it hard your prudence is not trusted as your guard: and, to yourselves so left, if ill ensues, you first our weak indulgence will accuse. curst be that hour, when, sated with my single happiness, i chose a partner, to controul my bliss! who wants that reason which her will should sway, and knows but just enough to disobey. _eve._ better with brutes my humble lot had gone; of reason void, accountable for none: the unhappiest of creation is a wife, made lowest, in the highest rank of life: her fellow's slave; to know, and not to chuse: curst with that reason she must never use. _adam._ add, that she's proud, fantastic, apt to change, restless at home, and ever prone to range: with shows delighted, and so vain is she, she'll meet the devil, rather than not see. our wise creator, for his choirs divine, peopled his heaven with souls all masculine.-- ah! why must man from woman take his birth? why was this sin of nature made on earth? this fair defect, this helpless aid, called wife; the bending crutch of a decrepid life? posterity no pairs from you shall find, but such as by mistake of love are joined: the worthiest men their wishes ne'er shall gain; but see the slaves they scorn their loves obtain. blind appetite shall your wild fancies rule; false to desert, and faithful to a fool. [_turns in anger from her, and is going off._ _eve._ unkind! wilt thou forsake me, in distress, [_kneeling._ for that which now is past me to redress? i have misdone, and i endure the smart, loth to acknowledge, but more loth to part. the blame be mine; you warned, and i refused: what would you more? i have myself accused. was plighted faith so weakly sealed above, that, for one error, i must lose your love? had you so erred, i should have been more kind, than to add pain to an afflicted mind. _adam._ you're grown much humbler than you were before; i pardon you; but see my face no more. _eve._ vain pardon, which includes a greater ill; be still displeased, but let me see you still. without your much-loved sight i cannot live; you more than kill me, if you so forgive. the beasts, since we are fallen, their lords despise; and, passing, look at me with glaring eyes: must i then wander helpless, and alone? you'll pity me, too late, when i am gone. _adam._ your penitence does my compassion move; as you deserve it, i may give my love. _eve._ on me, alone, let heaven's displeasure fall; you merit none, and i deserve it all. _adam._ you all heaven's wrath! how could you bear a part, who bore not mine, but with a bleeding heart? i was too stubborn, thus to make you sue; forgive me--i am more in fault than you. return to me, and to my love return; and, both offending, for each other mourn. _enter_ raphael. _raph._ of sin to warn thee i before was sent; for sin, i now pronounce thy punishment: yet that much lighter than thy crimes require; th' all-good does not his creatures' death desire: justice must punish the rebellious deed; yet punish so, as pity shall exceed. _adam._ i neither can dispute his will, nor dare: death will dismiss me from my future care, and lay me softly in my native dust, to pay the forfeit of ill-managed trust. _eve._ why seek you death? consider, ere you speak, the laws were hard, the power to keep them, weak. did we solicit heaven to mould our clay? from darkness to produce us to the day? did we concur to life, or chuse to be? was it our will which formed, or was it he? since 'twas his choice, not ours, which placed us here, the laws we did not chuse why should we bear? _adam._ seek not, in vain, our maker to accuse; terms were proposed; power left us to refuse. the good we have enjoyed from heaven's free will, and shall we murmur to endure the ill? should we a rebel son's excuse receive, because he was begot without his leave? heaven's right in us is more: first, formed to serve; the good, we merit not; the ill, deserve. _raph._ death is deferred, and penitence has room to mitigate, if not reverse the doom: but, for your crime, the eternal does ordain in eden you no longer shall remain. hence, to the lower world, you are exiled; this place with crimes shall be no more defiled. _eve._ must we this blissful paradise forego? _raph._ your lot must be where thorns and thistles grow, unhid, as balm and spices did at first; for man, the earth, of which he was, is cursed. by thy own toil procured, thou food shalt eat; [_to_ adam. and know no plenty, but from painful sweat. she, by a curse, of future wives abhorred, shall pay obedience to her lawful lord; and he shall rule, and she in thraldom live, desiring more of love than man can give. _adam._ heaven is all mercy; labour i would chuse; and could sustain this paradise to lose: the bliss, but not the place: here, could i say, heaven's winged messenger did pass the day; under this pine the glorious angel staid: then, show my wondering progeny the shade. in woods and lawns, where-e'er thou didst appear, each place some monument of thee should bear. i, with green turfs, would grateful altars raise, and heaven, with gums, and offered incense, praise. _raph._ where-e'er thou art, he is; the eternal mind acts through all places; is to none confined: fills ocean, earth, and air, and all above, and through the universal mass does move. thou canst be no where distant: yet this place had been thy kingly seat, and here thy race, from all the ends of peopled earth had come to reverence thee, and see their native home. immortal, then; now sickness, care, and age, and war, and luxury's more direful rage, thy crimes have brought, to shorten mortal breath, with all the numerous family of death. _eve._ my spirits faint, while i these ills foreknow, and find myself the sad occasion too. but what is death? _raph._ in vision thou shalt see his griesly face, the king of terrors, raging in thy face. that, while in future fate thou shar'st thy part, a kind remorse, for sin, may seize thy heart. _the_ scene _shifts, and discovers deaths of several sorts. a battle at land, and a naval fight._ _adam._ o wretched offspring! o unhappy state of all mankind, by me betrayed to fate! born, through my crime, to be offenders first; and, for those sins they could not shun, accurst. _eve._ why is life forced on man, who, might he chuse, would not accept what he with pain must lose? unknowing, he receives it; and when, known, he thinks it his, and values it, 'tis gone. _raph._ behold of every age; ripe manhood see, decrepid years, and helpless infancy: those who, by lingering sickness, lose their breath; and those who, by despair, suborn their death: see yon mad fools, who for some trivial right, for love, or for mistaken honour, fight: see those, more mad, who throw their lives away in needless wars; the stakes which monarchs lay, when for each other's provinces they play. then, as if earth too narrow were for fate, on open seas their quarrels they debate: in hollow wood they floating armies bear; and force imprisoned winds to bring them near. _eve._ who would the miseries of man foreknow? not knowing, we but share our part of woe: now, we the fate of future ages bear, and, ere their birth, behold our dead appear. _adam._ the deaths, thou show'st, are forced and full of strife, cast headlong from the precipice of life. is there no smooth descent? no painless way of kindly mixing with our native clay? _raph._ there is; but rarely shall that path be trod, which, without horror, leads to death's abode. some few, by temperance taught, approaching slow, to distant fate by easy journies go: gently they lay them down, as evening sheep on their own woolly fleeces softly sleep. _adam._ so noiseless would i live, such death to find; like timely fruit, not shaken by the wind, but ripely dropping from the sapless bough, and, dying, nothing to myself would owe. _eve._ thus, daily changing, with a duller taste of lessening joys, i, by degrees, would waste: still quitting ground, by unperceived decay, and steal myself from life, and melt away. _raph._ death you have seen: now see your race revive, how happy they in deathless pleasures live; far more than i can show, or you can see, shall crown the blest with immortality. _here a heaven descends, full of angels, and blessed spirits, with soft music, a song and chorus._ _adam._ o goodness infinite! whose heavenly will can so much good produce from so much ill! happy their state! pure, and unchanged, and needing no defence from sins, as did my frailer innocence. their joy sincere, and with no sorrow mixt: eternity stands permanent and fixt, and wheels no longer on the poles of time; secure from fate, and more secure from crime. _eve._ ravished with joy, i can but half repent the sin, which heaven makes happy in the event. _raph._ thus armed, meet firmly your approaching ill; for see, the guards, from yon' far eastern hill, already move, nor longer stay afford; high in the air they wave the flaming sword, your signal to depart; now down amain they drive, and glide, like meteors, through the plain. _adam._ then farewell all; i will indulgent be to my own ease, and not look back to see. when what we love we ne'er must meet again, to lose the thought is to remove the pain. _eve._ farewell, you happy shades! where angels first should practise hymns, and string their tuneful harps, when they to heaven would sing. farewell, you flowers, whose buds, with early care, i watched, and to the chearful sun did rear: who now shall bind your stems? or, when you fall, with fountain streams your fainting souls recal? a long farewell to thee, my nuptial bower, adorned with every fair and fragrant flower! and last, farewell, farewell my place of birth! i go to wander in the lower earth, as distant as i can; for, dispossest, farthest from what i once enjoyed, is best. _raph._ the rising winds urge the tempestuous air; and on their wings deformed winter bear: the beasts already feel the change; and hence they fly to deeper coverts, for defence: the feebler herd before the stronger run; for now the war of nature is begun: but, part you hence in peace, and, having mourned your sin, for outward eden lost, find paradise within. [_exeunt._ * * * * * aureng-zebe. a tragedy. --_sed, cum fregit subsellia versu, esurit, intactam paridi nisi vendat agaven._ juv. aureng-zebe. "aureng-zebe," or the ornament of the throne, for such is the interpretation of his name, was the last descendant of timur, who enjoyed the plenitude of authority originally vested in the emperor of india. his father, sha-jehan, had four sons, to each of whom he delegated the command of a province. dara-sha, the eldest, superintended the district of delhi, and remained near his father's person; sultan-sujah was governor of bengal, aureng-zebe of the decan, and morat bakshi of guzerat. it happened, that sha-jehan being exhausted by the excesses of the haram, a report of his death became current in the provinces, and proved the signal for insurrection and discord among his children. morat bakshi possessed himself of surat, after a long siege, and sultan-sujah, having declared himself independent in bengal, advanced as far as lahor, with a large army. dara-sha, the legitimate successor of the crown, was the only son of sha-jehan, who preferred filial duty to the prospect of aggrandisement. he dispatched an army against sultan-sujah, checked his progress, and compelled him to retreat. but aureng-zebe, the third and most wily of the brethren, had united his forces to those of morat bakshi, and advancing against dara-sha, totally defeated him, and dissipated his army. aureng-zebe availed himself of the military reputation and treasures, acquired by his success, to seduce the forces of morat bakshi, whom he had pretended to assist, and, seizing upon his person at a banquet, imprisoned him in a strong fortress. meanwhile, he advanced towards agra, where his father had sought refuge, still affecting to believe that the old emperor was dead. the more pains sha-jehan took to contradict this report, the more obstinate was aureng-zebe in refusing to believe that he was still alive. and, although the emperor dispatched his most confidential servants to assure his dutiful son that he was yet in being, the incredulity of aureng-zebe could only be removed by a personal interview, the issue of which was sha-jehan's imprisonment and speedy death. during these transactions dara-sha, who, after his defeat, had fled with his treasures to lahor, again assembled an army, and advanced against the conqueror; but, being deserted by his allies, defeated by aureng-zebe, and betrayed by an omrah, whom he trusted in his flight, he was delivered up to his brother, and by his command assassinated. aureng-zebe now assumed the throne, and advanced against sultan-sujah, his sole remaining brother; he seduced his chief commanders, routed the forces who remained faithful, and drove him out of bengal into the pagan countries adjacent, where, after several adventures, he perished miserably in the mountains. aureng-zebe also murdered one or two nephews, and a few other near relations; but, in expiation of his complicated crimes, renounced the use of flesh, fish, and wine, living only upon barley-bread vegetables, and confections, although scrupling no excesses by which he could extend and strengthen his usurped power[ ]. dr johnson has supposed, that, in assuming for his subject a living prince, dryden incurred some risque; as, should aureng-zebe have learned and resented the freedom, our indian trade was exposed to the consequences of his displeasure. it may, however, be safely doubted, whether a monarch, who had actually performed the achievements above narrated, would have been scandalized by those imputed to him in the text. in other respects, the distance and obscurity of the events gave a poet the same authority over them, as if they had occurred in the annals of past ages; a circumstance in which dryden's age widely differed from ours, when so much has our intimacy increased with the oriental world, that the transactions of delhi are almost as familiar to us as those of paris. the tragedy of "aureng-zebe" is introduced by the poet's declaration in the prologue, that his taste for heroic plays was now upon the wane: but he has now another taste of wit; and, to confess a truth, though out of time, grows weary of his long-loved mistress, rhyme. passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound, and nature flies him, like enchanted ground, what verse can do, he has performed in this, which he presumes the most correct of his. agreeably to what might be expected from this declaration, the verse used in "aureng-zebe" is of that kind which may be most easily applied to the purposes of ordinary dialogue. there is much less of ornate structure and emphatic swell, than occurs in the speeches of almanzor and maximin; and dryden, though late, seems to have at length discovered, that the language of true passion is inconsistent with that regular modulation, to maintain which, the actor must mouth each couplet in a sort of recitative. the ease of the verse in "aureng-zebe," although managed with infinite address, did not escape censure. in the "just remonstrance of affronted _that_," transmitted to the spectator, the offended conjunction is made to plead, "what great advantage was _i_ of to mr dryden, in his "indian emperor?" you force me still to answer you in _that,_ to furnish out a rhime to morat. and what a poor figure would mr bayes have made, without his _egad, and all that_?" but, by means of this easy flow of versification in which the rhime is sometimes almost lost by the pause being transferred to the middle of the line, dryden, in some measure indemnified himself for his confinement, and, at least, muffled the clank of his fetters. still, however, neither the kind of verse, nor perhaps the poet, himself, were formed for expressing rapid and ardent dialogue; and the beauties of "aureng-zebe" will be found chiefly to consist in strains of didactic morality, or solemn meditation. the passage, descriptive of life, has been distinguished by all the critics, down to dr johnson: _aur._ when i consider life, 'tis all a cheat; yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit; trust on, and think to-morrow will repay: to-morrow's falser than the former day; lies worse; and, while it says, we shall be blest with some new joys, cuts off what we possest. strange cozenage! none would live past years again, yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain; and from the dregs of life think to receive what the first sprightly running could not give. i'm tired with waiting for this chemic gold, which fools us young, and beggars us when old. nor is the answer of nourmahal inferior in beauty: _nour._ 'tis not for nothing that we life pursue; it pays our hopes with something still that's new; each day's a mistress, unenjoyed before; like travellers, we're pleased with seeing more. did you but know what joys your way attend, you would not hurry to your journey's end. it might be difficult to point out a passage in english poetry, in which so common and melancholy a truth is expressed in such beautiful verse, varied with such just illustration. the declamation on virtue, also, has great merit, though, perhaps, not equal to that on the vanity of life: _aur._ how vain is virtue, which directs our ways through certain danger to uncertain praise! barren, and airy name! thee fortune flies, with thy lean train, the pious and the wise. heaven takes thee at thy word, without regard; and let's thee poorly be thy own reward. the world is made for the bold impious man, who stops at nothing, seizes all he can. justice to merit does weak aid afford; she trusts her balance, and neglects her sword. virtue is nice to take what's not her own; and, while she long consults, the prize is gone. to this account may be added the following passage from davies' "dramatic miscellanies." "dryden's last and most perfect rhiming tragedy was 'aureng-zebe.' in this play, the passions are strongly depicted, the characters well discriminated, and the diction more familiar and dramatic than in any of his preceding pieces. hart and mohun greatly distinguished themselves in the characters of aureng-zebe, and the old emperor. mrs marshall was admired in nourmahal, and kynaston has been much extolled by cibber, for his happy expression of the arrogant and savage fierceness in morat. booth, in some part of this character, says the same critical historian, was too tame, from an apprehension of raising the mirth of the audience improperly. "though i pay great deference to cibber's judgment, yet i am not sure whether booth was not in the right. and i cannot help approving the answer which this actor gave to one, who told him, he was surprised, that he neglected to give a spirited turn to the passage in question: _nour._ 'twill not be safe to let him live an hour. _mor._ i'll do it to shew my arbitrary power. "'sir,' said booth, 'it was not through negligence, but by design, that i gave no spirit to that ludicrous bounce of morat. i know very well, that a laugh of approbation may be obtained from the understanding few, but there is nothing more dangerous than exciting the laugh of simpletons, who know not where to stop. the majority is not the wisest part of the audience, and therefore i will run no hazard.' "the court greatly encouraged the play of 'aureng-zebe.' the author tells us, in his dedication, that charles ii. altered an incident in the plot, and pronounced it to be the best of all dryden's tragedies. it was revived at drury-lane about the year , with the public approbation: the old emperor, mills; wilkes, aureng-zebe; booth, morat; indamora, mrs oldfield; melesinda, the first wife of theophilus cibber, a very pleasing actress, in person agreeable, and in private life unblemished. she died in ."--vol. i. p. . the introduction states all that can be said in favour of the management of the piece; and it is somewhat amusing to see the anxiety which dryden uses to justify the hazardous experiment, of ascribing to emperors and princesses the language of nature and of passion. he appears with difficulty to have satisfied himself, that the decorum of the scene was not as peremptory as the etiquette of a court. "aureng-zebe" was received with the applause to which it is certainly entitled. it was acted and printed in . footnote: . voyages de tavernier, seconde partie; livre seconde. to the right honourable john, earl of mulgrave, gentleman of his majesty's bed-chamber, and knight of the most noble order of the garter[ ]. my lord, it is a severe reflection which montaigne has made on princes, that we ought not, in reason, to have any expectations of favour from them; and that it is kindness enough, if they leave us in possession of our own. the boldness of the censure shows the free spirit of the author: and the subjects of england may justly congratulate to themselves, that both the nature of our government, and the clemency of our king, secure us from any such complaint. i, in particular, who subsist wholly by his bounty, am obliged to give posterity a far other account of my royal master, than what montaigne has left of his. those accusations had been more reasonable, if they had been placed on inferior persons: for in all courts, there are too many, who make it their business to ruin wit; and montaigne, in other places, tells us, what effects he found of their good natures. he describes them such, whose ambition, lust, or private interest, seem to be the only end of their creation. if good accrue to any from them, it is only in order to their own designs: conferred most commonly on the base and infamous; and never given, but only happening sometimes on well-deservers. dulness has brought them to what they are; and malice secures them in their fortunes. but somewhat of specious they must have, to recommend themselves to princes, (for folly will not easily go down in its own natural form with discerning judges,) and diligence in waiting is their gilding of the pill; for that looks like love, though it is only interest. it is that which gains them their advantage over witty men; whose love of liberty and ease makes them willing too often to discharge their burden of attendance on these officious gentlemen. it is true, that the nauseousness of such company is enough to disgust a reasonable man; when he sees, he can hardly approach greatness, but as a moated castle; he must first pass through the mud and filth with which it is encompassed. these are they, who, wanting wit, affect gravity, and go by the name of solid men; and a solid man is, in plain english, a solid, solemn fool. another disguise they have, (for fools, as well as knaves, take other names, and pass by an _alias_) and that is, the title of honest fellows. but this honesty of theirs ought to have many grains for its allowance; for certainly they are no farther honest, than they are silly: they are naturally mischievous to their power; and if they speak not maliciously, or sharply, of witty men, it is only because god has not bestowed on them the gift of utterance. they fawn and crouch to men of parts, whom they cannot ruin; quote their wit when they are present, and, when they are absent steal their jests; but to those who are under them, and whom they can crush with ease, they shew themselves in their natural antipathy; there they treat wit like the common enemy, and giving no more quarter, than a dutchman would to an english vessel in the indies; they strike sail where they know they shall be mastered, and murder where they can with safety. this, my lord, is the character of a courtier without wit; and therefore that which is a satire to other men, must be a panegyric to your lordship, who are a master of it. if the least of these reflections could have reached your person, no necessity of mine could have made me to have sought so earnestly, and so long, to have cultivated your kindness. as a poet, i cannot but have made some observations on mankind; the lowness of my fortune has not yet brought me to flatter vice; and it is my duty to give testimony to virtue. it is true, your lordship is not of that nature, which either seeks a commendation, or wants it. your mind has always been above the wretched affectation of popularity. a popular man is, in truth, no better than a prostitute to common fame, and to the people. he lies down to every one he meets for the hire of praise; and his humility is only a disguised ambition. even cicero himself, whose eloquence deserved the admiration of mankind, yet, by his insatiable thirst of fame, he has lessened his character with succeeding ages; his action against catiline may be said to have ruined the consul, when it saved the city; for it so swelled his soul, which was not truly great, that ever afterwards it was apt to be over-set with vanity. and this made his virtue so suspected by his friends, that brutus, whom of all men he adored, refused him a place in his conspiracy. a modern wit has made this observation on him; that, coveting to recommend himself to posterity, he begged it as an alms of all his friends, the historians, to remember his consulship: and observe, if you please, the oddness of the event; all their histories are lost, and the vanity of his request stands yet recorded in his own writings. how much more great and manly in your lordship, is your contempt of popular applause, and your retired virtue, which shines only to a few; with whom you live so easily and freely, that you make it evident, you have a soul which is capable of all the tenderness of friendship, and that you only retire yourself from those, who are not capable of returning it. your kindness, where you have once placed it, is inviolable; and it is to that only i attribute my happiness in your love. this makes me more easily forsake an argument, on which i could otherwise delight to dwell; i mean, your judgment in your choice of friends; because i have the honour to be one. after which i am sure you will more easily permit me to be silent, in the care you have taken of my fortune; which you have rescued, not only from the power of others, but from my worst of enemies, my own modesty and laziness; which favour, had it been employed on a more deserving subject, had been an effect of justice in your nature; but, as placed on me, is only charity. yet, withal, it is conferred on such a man, as prefers your kindness itself, before any of its consequences; and who values, as the greatest of your favours, those of your love, and of your conversation. from this constancy to your friends, i might reasonably assume, that your resentments would be as strong and lasting, if they were not restrained by a nobler principle of good nature and generosity; for certainly, it is the same composition of mind, the same resolution and courage, which makes the greatest friendships, and the greatest enmities. and he, who is too lightly reconciled, after high provocations, may recommend himself to the world for a christian, but i should hardly trust him for a friend. the italians have a proverb to that purpose, "to forgive the first time, shows me a good catholic; the second time, a fool." to this firmness in all your actions, though you are wanting in no other ornaments of mind and body, yet to this i principally ascribe the interest your merits have acquired you in the royal family. a prince, who is constant to himself, and steady in all his undertakings; one with whom that character of horace will agree, _si fractus illabatur orbis, impavidum ferient ruinæ_[ ];-- such an one cannot but place an esteem, and repose a confidence on him, whom no adversity, no change of courts, no bribery of interests, or cabals of factions, or advantages of fortune, can remove from the solid foundations of honour and fidelity: _ille meos, primus qui me sibi junxit, amores abstulit; ille habeat secum, servetque sepulcro._ how well your lordship will deserve that praise, i need no inspiration to foretell. you have already left no room for prophecy: your early undertakings have been such, in the service of your king and country, when you offered yourself to the most dangerous employment, that of the sea; when you chose to abandon those delights, to which your youth and fortune did invite you, to undergo the hazards, and, which was worse, the company of common seamen, that you have made it evident, you will refuse no opportunity of rendering yourself useful to the nation, when either your courage or conduct shall be required[ ]. the same zeal and faithfulness continue in your blood, which animated one of your noble ancestors to sacrifice his life in the quarrels of his sovereign[ ]; though, i hope, both for your sake, and for the public tranquillity, the same occasion will never be offered to your lordship, and that a better destiny will attend you. but i make haste to consider you as abstracted from a court, which (if you will give me leave to use a term of logic) is only an adjunct, not a propriety of happiness. the academics, i confess, were willing to admit the goods of fortune into their notion of felicity; but i do not remember, that any of the sects of old philosophers did ever leave a room for greatness. neither am i formed to praise a court, who admire and covet nothing, but the easiness and quiet of retirement. i naturally withdraw my sight from a precipice; and, admit the prospect be never so large and goodly, can take no pleasure even in looking on the downfal, though i am secure from the danger. methinks, there is something of a malignant joy in that excellent description of lucretius; _suave, mari magno turbantibus æquora ventis, e terrâ magnum alterius spectare laborem; non quia vexari quenquam est jucunda voluptas, sed, quibus ipse malis careas, quia cernere suave est._ i am sure his master epicurus, and my better master cowley, preferred the solitude of a garden, and the conversation of a friend, to any consideration, so much as a regard, of those unhappy people, whom, in our own wrong, we call the great. true greatness, if it be any where on earth, is in a private virtue; removed from the notion of pomp and vanity, confined to a contemplation of itself, and centering on itself: _omnis enim per se divûm natura necesse est immortali ævo summâ cum pace fruatur; --curâ semota, metuque, ipsa suis pollens opibus_[ ]. if this be not the life of a deity, because it cannot consist with providence, it is, at least, a god-like life. i can be contented, (and i am sure i have your lordship of my opinion) with an humbler station in the temple of virtue, than to be set on the pinnacle of it: _despicere unde queas alios, passimque videre errare, atque viam palantes quærere vitæ._ the truth is, the consideration of so vain a creature as man, is not worth our pains. i have fool enough at home, without looking for it abroad; and am a sufficient theatre to myself of ridiculous actions, without expecting company, either in a court, a town, or a play-house. it is on this account that i am weary with drawing the deformities of life, and lazars of the people, where every figure of imperfection more resembles me than it can do others. if i must be condemned to rhyme, i should find some ease in my change of punishment. i desire to be no longer the sisyphus of the stage; to roll up a stone with endless labour, (which, to follow the proverb, gathers no moss) and which is perpetually falling down again. i never thought myself very fit for an employment, where many of my predecessors have excelled me in all kinds; and some of my contemporaries, even in my own partial judgement have outdone me in comedy. some little hopes i have yet remaining, and those too, considering my abilities, may be vain, that i may make the world some part of amends, for many ill plays, by an heroic poem. your lordship has been long acquainted with my design; the subject of which you know is great, the story english, and neither too far distant from the present age, nor too near approaching it. such it is in my opinion, that i could not have wished a nobler occasion to do honour by it to my king, my country, and my friends; most of our ancient nobility being concerned in the action[ ]. and your lordship has one particular reason to promote this undertaking, because you were the first who gave me the opportunity of discoursing it to his majesty, and his royal highness: they were then pleased, both to commend the design, and to encourage it by their commands. but the unsettledness of my condition has hitherto put a stop to my thoughts concerning it. as i am no successor to homer in his wit, so neither do i desire to be in his poverty. i can make no rhapsodies nor go a begging at the grecian doors, while i sing the praises of their ancestors. the times of virgil please me better, because he had an augustus for his patron; and, to draw the allegory nearer you, i am sure i shall not want a mecænas with him. it is for your lordship to stir up that remembrance in his majesty, which his many avocations of business have caused him, i fear, to lay aside; and, as himself and his royal brother are the heroes of the poem, to represent to them the images of their warlike predecessors; as achilles is said to be roused to glory, with the sight of the combat before the ships. for my own part, i am satisfied to have offered the design, and it may be to the advantage of my reputation to have it refused me. in the mean time, my lord, i take the confidence to present you with a tragedy, the characters of which are the nearest to those of an heroic poem. it was dedicated to you in my heart, before it was presented on the stage. some things in it have passed your approbation, and many your amendment. you were likewise pleased to recommend it to the king's perusal, before the last hand was added to it, when i received the favour from him, to have the most considerable event of it modelled by his royal pleasure. it may be some vanity in me to add his testimony then, and which he graciously confirmed afterwards, that it was the best of all my tragedies; in which he has made authentic my private opinion of it; at least, he has given it a value by his commendation, which it had not by my writing. that which was not pleasing to some of the fair ladies in the last act of it, as i dare not vindicate, so neither can i wholly condemn, till i find more reason for their censures. the procedure of indamora and melesinda seems yet, in my judgment, natural, and not unbecoming of their characters. if they, who arraign them, fail not more, the world will never blame their conduct; and i shall be glad, for the honour of my country, to find better images of virtue drawn to the life in their behaviour, than any i could feign to adorn the theatre. i confess, i have only represented a practical virtue, mixed with the frailties and imperfections of human life. i have made my heroine fearful of death, which neither cassandra nor cleopatra would have been; and they themselves, i doubt it not, would have outdone romance in that particular. yet their mandana (and the cyrus was written by a lady,) was not altogether so hard-hearted: for she sat down on the cold ground by the king of assyria, and not only pitied him, who died in her defence; but allowed him some favours, such, perhaps, as they would think, should only be permitted to her cyrus[ ]. i have made my melesinda, in opposition to nourmahal, a woman passionately loving of her husband, patient of injuries and contempt, and constant in her kindness, to the last; and in that, perhaps, i may have erred, because it is not a virtue much in use. those indian wives are loving fools, and may do well to keep themselves in their own country, or, at least, to keep company with the arrias and portias of old rome: some of our ladies know better things. but, it may be, i am partial to my own writings; yet i have laboured as much as any man, to divest myself of the self-opinion of an author; and am too well satisfied of my own weakness, to be pleased with any thing i have written. but, on the other side, my reason tells me, that, in probability, what i have seriously and long considered may be as likely to be just and natural, as what an ordinary judge (if there be any such among those ladies) will think fit, in a transient presentation, to be placed in the room of that which they condemn. the most judicious writer is sometimes mistaken, after all his care; but the hasty critic, who judges on a view, is full as liable to be deceived. let him first consider all the arguments, which the author had, to write this, or to design the other, before he arraigns him of a fault; and then, perhaps, on second thoughts, he will find his reason oblige him to revoke his censure. yet, after all, i will not be too positive. _homo sum, humani à me nihil alienum puto._ as i am a man, i must be changeable; and sometimes the gravest of us all are so, even upon ridiculous accidents. our minds are perpetually wrought on by the temperament of our bodies; which makes me suspect, they are nearer allied, than either our philosophers or school-divines will allow them to be. i have observed, says montaigne, that when the body is out of order, its companion is seldom at his ease. an ill dream, or a cloudy day, has power to change this wretched creature, who is so proud of a reasonable soul, and make him think what he thought not yesterday. and homer was of this opinion, as cicero is pleased to translate him for us: _tales sunt hominum mentes, quali pater ipse jupiter auctiferâ lustravit lampade terras._ or, as the same author, in his "tusculan questions," speaks, with more modesty than usual, of himself: _nos in diem vivimus; quodcunque animos nostros probabilitate percussit, id dicimus._ it is not therefore impossible but that i may alter the conclusion of my play, to restore myself into the good graces of my fair critics; and your lordship, who is so well with them, may do me the office of a friend and patron, to intercede with them on my promise of amendment. the impotent lover in petronius, though his was a very unpardonable crime, yet was received to mercy on the terms i offer. _summa excusationis meæ hæc est: placebo tibi, si culpam emendare permiseris._ but i am conscious to myself of offering at a greater boldness, in presenting to your view what my meanness can produce, than in any other error of my play; and therefore make haste to break off this tedious address, which has, i know not how, already run itself into so much of pedantry, with an excuse of tully's, which he sent with his books "de finibus," to his friend brutus: _de ipsis rebus autem, sæpenumerò, brute, vereor ne reprehendar, cum hæc ad te scribam, qui tum in poesi,_ (i change it from _philosophiâ_) _tum in optimo genere poeseos tantum processeris. quod si facerem quasi te erudiens, jure reprehenderer. sed ab eo plurimùm absum: nec, ut ea cognoscas quæ tibi notissima sunt, ad te mitto; sed quià facillimè in nomine tuo acquiesco, et quia te habeo æquissimum eorum studiorum, quæ mihi communia tecum sunt, æstimatorem et judicem._ which you may please, my lord, to apply to yourself, from him, who is, your lordship's most obedient, humble servant, dryden. footnotes: . john sheffield, earl of mulgrave, afterwards created marquis of normanby, and at length duke of buckingham, made a great figure during the reigns of charles ii. of his unfortunate successor, of william the third, and of queen anne. his bravery as a soldier, and abilities as a statesman, seem to have been unquestioned; but for his poetical reputation, he was probably much indebted to the assistance of those wits whom he relieved and patronized. as, however, it has been allowed a sufficient proof of wisdom in a monarch, that he could chuse able ministers, so it is no slight commendation to the taste of this rhyming peer, that in youth he selected dryden to supply his own poetical deficiencies, and in age became the friend and the eulogist of pope. we may observe, however, a melancholy difference betwixt the manner in which an independent man of letters is treated by the great, and that in which they think themselves entitled to use one to whom their countenance is of consequence. in addressing pope, sheffield contents himself with launching out into boundless panegyric, while his praise of dryden, in his "essay on poetry," is qualified by a gentle sneer at the "hind and panther," our bard's most laboured production. his lordship is treating of satire: the laureat here may justly claim our praise, crowned by mack flecnoe with immortal bays; yet once his pegasus has borne dead weight, rid by some lumpish minister of state. lord mulgrave, to distinguish him by his earliest title, certainly received considerable assistance from dryden in "the essay on satire," which occasioned rochester's base revenge; and was distinguished by the name of the _rose-alley satire_, from the place in which dryden was way-laid and beaten by the hired bravoes of that worthless profligate. it is probable, that the patronage which dryden received from mulgrave, was not entirely of an empty and fruitless nature. it is at least certain, that their friendship continued uninterrupted till the death of our poet. the "discourse upon epic poetry" is dedicated to lord mulgrave, then duke of buckingham, and in high favour with queen anne, for whom he is supposed to have long cherished a youthful passion. after the grave of dryden had remained twenty years without a memorial, this nobleman had the honour to raise the present monument at his own expence; being the latest, and certainly one of the most honourable acts of his life. mr malone, from macky's "secret services," gives the following character of sheffield, duke of buckingham:--"he is a nobleman of learning and good natural parts, but of no principles. violent for the high church, yet seldom goes to it. very proud, insolent, and covetous, and takes all advantages. in paying his debts unwilling, and is neither esteemed nor beloved; for notwithstanding his great interest at court, it is certain he has none in either house of parliament, or in the country. he is of a middle stature, of a brown complexion, with a sour lofty look." swift sanctioned this severe character, by writing on the margin of his copy of macky's book, "_this character is the truest of any._" to so bitter a censure, let us contrast the panegyric of pope: muse, 'tis enough; at length thy labour ends, and thou shalt live, for buckingham commends; let crowds of critics now my verse assail, let dennis write, and nameless numbers rail, this more than pays whole years of thankless pain-- time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain. sheffield approves; consenting phoebus bends, and i and malice from this hour are friends. it may be worth the attention of the great to consider the value of that genius, which can hand them down to posterity in an interesting and amiable point of view, in spite of their own imbecilities, errors, and vices. while the personal character of mulgrave has nothing to recommend it, and his poetical effusions are sunk into oblivion, we still venerate the friend of pope, and the protector of dryden. sheffield, duke of buckingham, marquis of normanby, and earl of mulgrave, was born in , and died in . he was therefore twenty-seven years old when he received this dedication. . on perusing such ill applied flattery, i know not whether we ought to feel most for charles ii. or for dryden. . the earl of mulgrave, in the dutch war of , served as a volunteer on board the victory, commanded by the earl of ossory. he behaved with distinguished courage himself, and has borne witness to that of his unfortunate admiral, james duke of york. his intrepid coolness appears from a passage in his memoirs, containing the observations he made during the action, on the motion of cannon bullets in the recoil, and their effect when passing near the human body. his bravery was rewarded by his promotion to command the katharine, the second best ship in the fleet. this vessel had been captured by the dutch during the action, but was retaken by the english crew before she could be carried into harbour. lord mulgrave had a picture of the katherine at his house in st james's park.--see carleton's _memoirs_, p. . . in - , there were insurrections in several counties of england, having for their object the restoration of the catholic religion, and the redress of grievances. the insurgents in northamptonshire were , strong, headed by one ket, a tanner, who possessed himself of norwich. the earl of northampton, marching rashly and hastily against him, at the head of a very inferior force, was defeated with loss. in the rout lord sheffield, ancestor of the earl of mulgrave, and the person alluded to in the text, fell with his horse into a ditch, and was slain by a butcher with a club. the rebels were afterwards defeated by the earl of warwick.--dugdale's _baron_, vol. ii. p. . hollinshed, p. .] . the entire passage of lucretius is somewhat different from this quotation: _quæ bene, et eximie quamvis disposta ferantur, longe sunt tamen a verâ ratione repulsa. omnia enim per se divum natura necesse est immortali ævo summâ cum pace fruatur, semota a nostris rebus, sejunctaque longè. nam privata dolore omni, privata periclis, ipsa suis pollens opibus, nihil indiga nostri, nec bene promeritis capitur, nec tangitur ira._ lib. ii. dryden ingeniously applies, to the calm of philosophical retirement, the epicurean tranquillity of the deities of lucretius. . the subject of this intended poem, was probably the exploits of the black prince. see life. . an incident in "artèmenes, ou le grand cyrus," a huge romance, written by madame scuderi. prologue. our author, by experience, finds it true, 'tis much more hard to please himself than you; and out of no feigned modesty, this day damns his laborious trifle of a play: not that its worse than what before he writ, but he has now another taste of wit; and, to confess a truth, though out of time, grows weary of his long-loved mistress, rhyme. passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound, and nature flies him like enchanted ground: what verse can do, he has performed in this, which he presumes the most correct of his; but spite of all his pride, a secret shame invades his breast at shakespeare's sacred name: awed when he hears his godlike romans rage, he, in a just despair, would quit the stage; and to an age less polished, more unskilled, does, with disdain, the foremost honours yield. as with the greater dead he dares not strive, he would not match his verse with those who live: let him retire, betwixt two ages cast, the first of this, and hindmost of the last. a losing gamester, let him sneak away; he bears no ready money from the play. the fate, which governs poets, thought it fit he should not raise his fortunes by his wit. the clergy thrive, and the litigious bar; dull heroes fatten with the spoils of war: all southern vices, heaven be praised, are here: but wit's a luxury you think too dear. when you to cultivate the plant are loth, 'tis a shrewd sign 'twas never of your growth; and wit in northern climates will not blow, except, like orange-trees, 'tis housed from snow. there needs no care to put a playhouse down, 'tis the most desart place of all the town: we and our neighbours, to speak proudly, are, like monarchs, ruined with expensive war; while, like wise english, unconcerned you sit, and see us play the tragedy of wit. dramatis personÆ. _the old emperor._ aureng-zebe, _his son._ morat, _his younger son._ arimant, _governor of agra._ dianet, } solyman, } mir baba, } _indian lords, or omrahs, of several abas, } factions._ asaph chan, } fazel chan, } nourmahal, _the empress._ indamora, _a captive queen._ melesinda, _wife to morat._ zayda, _favourite slave to the empress._ scene--_agra,_ in the year . aureng-zebe. act i. scene i. _enter_ arimant, asaph chan, _and_ fazel chan. _arim._ heaven seems the empire of the east to lay on the success of this important day: their arms are to the last decision bent, and fortune labours with the vast event: she now has in her hand the greatest stake, which for contending monarchs she can make. whate'er can urge ambitious youth to fight, she pompously displays before their sight; laws, empire, all permitted to the sword, and fate could ne'er an ampler scene afford. _asaph._ four several armies to the field are led, which, high in equal hopes, four princes head: indus and ganges, our wide empire's bounds, swell their dyed currents with their natives' wounds: each purple river winding, as he runs, his bloody arms about his slaughtered sons. _fazel._ i well remember you foretold the storm, when first the brothers did their factions form: when each, by cursed cabals of women, strove to draw the indulgent king to partial love. _arim._ what heaven decrees, no prudence can prevent. to cure their mad ambition, they were sent to rule a distant province each alone: what could a careful father more have done? he made provision against all, but fate, while, by his health, we held our peace of state. the weight of seventy winters prest him down, he bent beneath the burden of a crown: sickness, at last, did his spent body seize, and life almost sunk under the disease: mortal 'twas thought, at least by them desired, who, impiously, into his years inquired: as at a signal, strait the sons prepare for open force, and rush to sudden war: meeting, like winds broke loose upon the main, to prove, by arms, whose fate it was to reign. _asaph._ rebels and parricides! _arim._ brand not their actions with so foul a name: pity at least what we are forced to blame. when death's cold hand has closed the father's eye, you know the younger sons are doomed to die. less ills are chosen greater to avoid, and nature's laws are by the state's destroyed. what courage tamely could to death consent, and not, by striking first, the blow prevent? who falls in fight, cannot himself accuse, and he dies greatly, who a crown pursues. _to them_ solyman aga. _solym._ a new express all agra does affright: darah and aureng-zebe are joined in fight; the press of people thickens to the court, the impatient crowd devouring the report. _arim._ t' each changing news they changed affections bring, and servilely from fate expect a king. _solym._ the ministers of state, who gave us law, in corners, with selected friends, withdraw: there, in deaf murmurs, solemnly are wise; whispering, like winds, ere hurricanes arise. the most corrupt are most obsequious grown, and those they scorned, officiously they own. _asaph._ in change of government, the rabble rule their great oppressors' fate; do sovereign justice, and revenge the state. _solym._ the little courtiers, who ne'er come to know the depth of factions, as in mazes go, where interests meet and cross so oft, that they, with too much care, are wildered in their way. _arim._ what of the emperor? _solym._ unmoved, and brave, he like himself appears, and, meriting no ill, no danger fears: yet mourns his former vigour lost so far, to make him now spectator of a war: repining that he must preserve his crown by any help or courage but his own: wishes, each minute, he could unbeget those rebel sons, who dare usurp his seat; to sway his empire with unequal skill, and mount a throne, which none but he can fill. _arim._ oh! had he still that character maintained, of valour, which, in blooming youth, he gained! he promised in his east a glorious race; now, sunk from his meridian, sets apace. but as the sun, when he from noon declines, and, with abated heat, less fiercely shines, seems to grow milder as he goes away, pleasing himself with the remains of day; so he, who, in his youth, for glory strove, would recompense his age with ease and love. _asaph._ the name of father hateful to him grows, which, for one son, produces him three foes. _fazel._ darah, the eldest, bears a generous mind, but to implacable revenge inclined: too openly does love and hatred show; a bounteous master, but a deadly foe. _solym._ from sujah's valour i should much expect, but he's a bigot of the persian sect; and by a foreign interest seeks to reign, hopeless by love the sceptre to obtain. _asaph._ morat's too insolent, too much a brave; his courage to his envy is a slave. what he attempts, if his endeavours fail to effect, he is resolved no other shall. _arim._ but aureng-zebe, by no strong passion swayed, except his love, more temperate is, and weighed: this atlas must our sinking state uphold; in council cool, but in performance bold: he sums their virtues in himself alone, and adds the greatest, of a loyal son: his father's cause upon his sword he wears, and with his arms, we hope, his fortune bears. _solym._ two vast rewards may well his courage move, a parent's blessing, and a mistress' love. if he succeed, his recompence, we hear, must be the captive queen of cassimere. _to them_ abas. _abas._ mischiefs on mischiefs, greater still, and more! the neighbouring plain with arms is covered o'er: the vale an iron-harvest seems to yield, of thick-sprung lances in a waving field. the polished steel gleams terribly from far, and every moment nearer shows the war. the horses' neighing by the wind is blown, and castled-elephants o'er-look the town. _arim._ if, as i fear, morat these powers commands, our empire on the brink of ruin stands: the ambitious empress with her son is joined, and, in his brother's absence, has designed the unprovided town to take with ease, and then the person of the king to seize. _solym._ to all his former issue she has shown long hate, and laboured to advance her own. _abas._ these troops are his. surat he took; and thence, preventing fame, by quick and painful marches hither came. since his approach, he to his mother sent, and two long hours in close debate were spent. _arim._ i'll to my charge, the citadel, repair, and show my duty by my timely care. _to them the emperor, with a letter in his hand: after him, an ambassador, with a train following._ _asaph._ but see, the emperor! a fiery red his brows and glowing temples does o'erspread; morat has some displeasing message sent. _amb._ do not, great sir, misconstrue his intent; nor call rebellion what was prudent care, to guard himself by necessary war: while he believed you living, he obeyed; his governments but as your viceroy swayed: but, when he thought you gone to augment the number of the blessed above, he deemed them legacies of royal love: nor armed, his brothers' portions to invade, but to defend the present you had made. _emp._ by frequent messages, and strict commands, he knew my pleasure to discharge his bands: proof of my life my royal signet made; yet still he armed, came on, and disobeyed. _amb._ he thought the mandate forged, your death concealed; and but delayed, till truth should be revealed. _emp._ news of my death from rumour he received; and what he wished, he easily believed: but long demurred, though from my hand he knew i lived, so loth he was to think it true. since he pleads ignorance to that command, now let him show his duty, and disband. _amb._ his honour, sir, will suffer in the cause; he yields his arms unjust, if he withdraws: and begs his loyalty may be declared, by owning those he leads to be your guard. _emp._ i, in myself, have all the guard i need! bid the presumptuous boy draw off with speed: if his audacious troops one hour remain, my cannon from the fort shall scour the plain. _amb._ since you deny him entrance, he demands his wife, whom cruelly you hold in bands: her, if unjustly you from him detain, he justly will, by force of arms, regain. _emp._ o'er him and his a right from heaven i have; subject and son, he's doubly born my slave. but whatsoe'er his own demerits are, tell him, i shall not make on women war. and yet i'll do her innocence the grace, to keep her here, as in the safer place. but thou, who dar'st this bold defiance bring, may'st feel the rage of an offended king. hence, from my sight, without the least reply! one word, nay one look more, and thou shalt die. [_exit ambassador._ _re-enter_ arimant. _arim._ may heaven, great monarch, still augment your bliss with length of days, and every day like this! for, from the banks of gemna news is brought, your army has a bloody battle fought: darah from loyal aureng-zebe is fled, and forty thousand of his men lie dead. to sujah next your conquering army drew; him they surprised, and easily o'erthrew. _emp._ 'tis well. _arim._ but well! what more could at your wish be done, than two such conquests gained by such a son? your pardon, mighty sir; you seem not high enough your joys to rate; you stand indebted a vast sum to fate, and should large thanks for the great blessing pay. _emp._ my fortune owes me greater every day; and should my joy more high for this appear, it would have argued me, before, of fear. how is heaven kind, where i have nothing won, and fortune only pays me with my own? _arim._ great aureng-zebe did duteous care express, and durst not push too far his good success; but, lest morat the city should attack, commanded his victorious army back; which, left to march as swiftly as they may, himself comes first, and will be here this day, before a close-formed siege shut up his way. _emp._ prevent his purpose! hence, with all thy speed! stop him; his entrance to the town forbid. _arim._ how, sir? your loyal, your victorious son? _emp._ him would i, more than all the rebels, shun. _arim._ whom with your power and fortune, sir, you trust. now to suspect is vain, as 'tis unjust. he comes not with a train to move your fear, but trusts himself to be a prisoner here. you knew him brave, you know him faithful now: he aims at fame, but fame from serving you. 'tis said, ambition in his breast does rage: who would not be the hero of an age? all grant him prudent: prudence interest weighs, and interest bids him seek your love and praise. i know you grateful; when he marched from hence, you bade him hope an ample recompence: he conquered in that hope; and, from your hands, his love, the precious pledge he left, demands. _emp._ no more; you search too deep my wounded mind, and show me what i fear, and would not find. my son has all the debts of duty paid: our prophet sends him to my present aid. such virtue to distrust were base and low: i'm not ungrateful--or i was not so! inquire no farther, stop his coming on: i will not, cannot, dare not, see my son. _arim._ 'tis now too late his entrance to prevent, nor must i to your ruin give consent; at once your people's heart, and son's, you lose, and give him all, when you just things refuse. _emp._ thou lov'st me, sure; thy faith has oft been tried, in ten pitched fields not shrinking from my side, yet giv'st me no advice to bring me ease. _arim._ can you be cured, and tell not your disease? i asked you, sir. _emp._ thou shouldst have asked again: there hangs a secret shame on guilty men. thou shouldst have pulled the secret from my breast, torn out the bearded steel, to give me rest; at least, thou should'st have guessed-- yet thou art honest, thou couldst ne'er have guessed. hast thou been never base? did love ne'er bend thy frailer virtue, to betray thy friend? flatter me, make thy court, and say, it did; kings in a crowd would have their vices hid. we would be kept in count'nance, saved from shame, and owned by others who commit the same. nay, now i have confessed. thou seest me naked, and without disguise: i look on aureng-zebe with rival's eyes. he has abroad my enemies o'ercome, and i have sought to ruin him at home. _arim._ this free confession shows you long did strive; and virtue, though opprest, is still alive. but what success did your injustice find? _emp._ what it deserved, and not what i designed. unmoved she stood, and deaf to all my prayers, as seas and winds to sinking mariners. but seas grow calm, and winds are reconciled: her tyrant beauty never grows more mild; prayers, promises, and threats, were all in vain. _arim._ then cure yourself, by generous disdain. _emp._ virtue, disdain, despair, i oft have tried, and, foiled, have with new arms my foe defied. this made me with so little joy to hear the victory, when i the victor fear. _arim._ something you swiftly must resolve to do, lest aureng-zebe your secret love should know. morat without does for your ruin wait; and would you lose the buckler of your state? a jealous empress lies within your arms, too haughty to endure neglected charms. your son is duteous, but, as man, he's frail, and just revenge o'er virtue may prevail. _emp._ go then to indamora; say, from me, two lives depend upon her secrecy. bid her conceal my passion from my son: though aureng-zebe return a conqueror, both he and she are still within my power. say, i'm a father, but a lover too; much to my son, more to myself i owe. when she receives him, to her words give law, and even the kindness of her glances awe. see, he appears! [_after a short whisper,_ arimant _departs._ _enter_ aureng-zebe, dianet, _and_ attendants.--aureng-zebe _kneels to his father, and kisses his hand._ _aur._ my vows have been successful as my sword; my prayers are heard, you have your health restored. once more 'tis given me to behold your face; the best of kings and fathers to embrace. pardon my tears; 'tis joy which bids them flow, a joy which never was sincere till now. that, which my conquest gave, i could not prize; or 'twas imperfect till i saw your eyes. _emp._ turn the discourse: i have a reason why i would not have you speak so tenderly. knew you what shame your kind expressions bring, you would, in pity, spare a wretched king. _aur._ a king! you rob me, sir, of half my due; you have a dearer name,--a father too. _emp._ i had that name. _aur._ what have i said or done, that i no longer must be called your son? 'tis in that name, heaven knows, i glory more, than that of prince, or that of conqueror. _emp._ then you upbraid me; i am pleased to see you're not so perfect, but can fail, like me. i have no god to deal with. _aur._ now i find, some sly court-devil has seduced your mind; filled it with black suspicions not your own, and all my actions through false optics shown. i ne'er did crowns ambitiously regard; honour i sought, the generous mind's reward. long may you live! while you the sceptre sway, i shall be still most happy to obey. _emp._ oh, aureng-zebe! thy virtues shine too bright, they flash too fierce: i, like the bird of night, shut my dull eyes, and sicken at the sight. thou hast deserved more love than i can show; but 'tis thy fate to give, and mine to owe. thou seest me much distempered in my mind; pulled back, and then pushed forward to be kind. virtue, and--fain i would my silence break, but have not yet the confidence to speak. leave me, and to thy needful rest repair. _aur._ rest is not suiting with a lover's care. i have not yet my indamora seen. [_is going._ _emp._ somewhat i had forgot; come back again: so weary of a father's company? _aur._ sir, you were pleased yourself to license me. _emp._ you made me no relation of the fight; besides, a rebel's army is in sight. advise me first: yet go-- he goes to indamora; i should take [_aside._ a kind of envious joy to keep him back. yet to detain him makes my love appear;-- i hate his presence, and his absence fear. [_exit._ _aur._ to some new clime, or to thy native sky, oh friendless and forsaken virtue, fly! thy indian air is deadly to thee grown: deceit and cankered malice rule thy throne. why did my arms in battle prosperous prove, to gain the barren praise of filial love? the best of kings by women is misled, charmed by the witchcraft of a second bed. against myself i victories have won, and by my fatal absence am undone. _to him_ indamora, _with_ arimant. but here she comes! in the calm harbour of whose gentle breast, my tempest-beaten soul may safely rest. oh, my heart's joy! whate'er my sorrows be, they cease and vanish in beholding thee! care shuns thy walks; as at the cheerful light, the groaning ghosts and birds obscene take flight. by this one view, all my past pains are paid; and all i have to come more easy made. _ind._ such sullen planets at my birth did shine, they threaten every fortune mixt with mine. fly the pursuit of my disastrous love, and from unhappy neighbourhood remove. _aur._ bid the laborious hind, whose hardened hands did long in tillage toil, neglect the promised harvest of the soil. should i, who cultivated love with blood, refuse possession of approaching good? _ind._ love is an airy good, opinion makes; which he, who only thinks he has, partakes: seen by a strong imagination's beam, that tricks and dresses up the gaudy dream: presented so, with rapture 'tis enjoyed; raised by high fancy, and by low destroyed. _aur._ if love be vision, mine has all the fire, which, in first dreams, young prophets does inspire: i dream, in you, our promised paradise: an age's tumult of continued bliss. but you have still your happiness in doubt; or else 'tis past, and you have dreamt it out. _ind._ perhaps not so. _aur._ can indamora prove so altered? is it but, perhaps you love? then farewell all! i thought in you to find a balm, to cure my much distempered mind. i came to grieve a father's heart estranged; but little thought to find a mistress changed. nature herself is changed to punish me; virtue turned vice, and faith inconstancy. _ind._ you heard me not inconstancy confess: 'twas but a friend's advice to love me less. who knows what adverse fortune may befal? arm well your mind: hope little, and fear all. hope, with a goodly prospect, feeds your eye; shows, from a rising ground, possession nigh; shortens the distance, or o'erlooks it quite; so easy 'tis to travel with the sight. _aur._ then to despair you would my love betray, by taking hope, its last kind friend, away. you hold the glass, but turn the perspective, and farther off the lessened object drive. you bid me fear: in that your change i know; you would prepare me for the coming blow. but, to prevent you, take my last adieu; i'll sadly tell my self you are untrue, rather than stay to hear it told by you. [_going._ _ind._ stay, aureng-zebe, i must not let you go,-- and yet believe yourself your own worst foe; think i am true, and seek no more to know, let in my breast the fatal secret lie; 'tis a sad riddle, which, if known, we die. [_seeming to pause._ _aur._ fair hypocrite, you seek to cheat in vain; your silence argues you ask time to feign. once more, farewell! the snare in sight is laid, 'tis my own fault if i am now betrayed. [_going again._ _ind._ yet once more stay; you shall believe me true, though in one fate i wrap myself and you. your absence-- _arim._ hold! you know the hard command, i must obey: you only can withstand your own mishap. i beg you, on my knee, be not unhappy by your own decree. _aur._ speak, madam; by (if that be yet an oath) your love, i'm pleased we should be ruined both. both is a sound of joy. in death's dark bowers our bridals we will keep; and his cold hand shall draw the curtain, when we go to sleep. _ind._ know then, that man, whom both of us did trust, has been to you unkind, to me unjust. the guardian of my faith so false did prove, as to solicit me with lawless love: prayed, promised, threatened, all that man could do; base as he's great; and need i tell you who? _aur._ yes; for i'll not believe my father meant: speak quickly, and my impious thoughts prevent. _ind._ you've said; i wish i could some other name! _arim._ my duty must excuse me, sir, from blame. a guard there! _enter guards._ _aur._ slave, for me? _arim._ my orders are to seize this princess, whom the laws of war long since made prisoner. _aur._ villain! _arim._ sir, i know your birth, nor durst another call me so. _aur._ i have redeemed her; and, as mine, she's free. _arim._ you may have right to give her liberty; but with your father, sir, that right dispute; for his commands to me were absolute, if she disclosed his love, to use the right of war, and to secure her from your sight. _aur._ i'll rescue her, or die. [_draws._ and you, my friends, though few, are yet too brave, to see your general's mistress made a slave. [_all draw._ _ind._ hold, my dear love! if so much power there lies, as once you owned, in indamora's eyes, lose not the honour you have early won, but stand the blameless pattern of a son. my love your claim inviolate secures; 'tis writ in fate, i can be only yours. my sufferings for you make your heart my due; be worthy me, as i am worthy you. _aur._ i've thought, and blessed be you who gave me time; [_putting up his sword._ my virtue was surprised into a crime. strong virtue, like strong nature, struggles still; exerts itself, and then throws off the ill. i to a son's and lover's praise aspire, and must fulfil the parts which both require. how dear the cure of jealousy has cost! with too much care and tenderness you're lost. so the fond youth from hell redeemed his prize, till, looking back, she vanished from his eyes! [_exeunt severally._ act ii. scene i. _betwixt the acts, a warlike tune is played, shooting of guns and shouts of soldiers are heard, as in an assault._ aureng-zebe, arimant, asaph chan, fazel chan, _and_ solyman. _aur._ what man could do, was by morat performed; the fortress thrice himself in person stormed. your valour bravely did the assault sustain, and filled the moats and ditches with the slain; 'till, mad with rage, into the breach he fired, slew friends and foes, and in the smoke retired. _arim._ to us you give what praises are not due; morat was thrice repulsed, but thrice by you. high, over all, was your great conduct shown; you sought our safety, but forgot your own. _asaph._ their standard, planted on the battlement, despair and death among the soldiers sent; you the bold omrah tumbled from the wall, and shouts of victory pursued his fall. _fazel._ to you alone we owe this prosperous day; our wives and children rescued from the prey: know your own interest, sir; where'er you lead, we jointly vow to own no other head. _solym._ your wrongs are known. impose but your commands, this hour shall bring you twenty thousand hands. _aur._ let them, who truly would appear my friends, employ their swords, like mine, for noble ends. no more: remember you have bravely done; shall treason end what loyalty begun? i own no wrongs; some grievance i confess; but kings, like gods, at their own time redress. yet, some becoming boldness i may use; i've well deserved, nor will he now refuse. [_aside._ i'll strike my fortunes with him at a heat, and give him not the leisure to forget. [_exit, attended by the omrahs._ _arim._ oh! indamora, hide these fatal eyes! too deep they wound whom they too soon surprise; my virtue, prudence, honour, interest, all before this universal monarch fall. beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; who can tread sure on the smooth slippery way? pleased with the passage, we slide swiftly on, and see the dangers which we cannot shun. _to him_ indamora. _ind._ i hope my liberty may reach thus far; these terrace walks within my limits are. i came to seek you, and to let you know, how much i to your generous pity owe. the king, when he designed you for my guard, resolved he would not make my bondage hard: if otherwise, you have deceived his end; and whom he meant a guardian, made a friend. _arim._ a guardian's title i must own with shame; but should be prouder of another name. _ind._ and therefore 'twas i changed that name before; i called you friend, and could you wish for more? _arim._ i dare not ask for what you would not grant. but wishes, madam, are extravagant; they are not bounded with things possible: i may wish more than i presume to tell. desire's the vast extent of human mind; it mounts above, and leaves poor hope behind. i could wish-- _ind._ what? _arim._ why did you speak? you've dashed my fancy quite, even in the approaching minute of delight. i must take breath, ere i the rapture of my wish renew, and tell you then,--it terminates in you. _ind._ have you considered what the event would be? or know you, arimant, yourself, or me? were i no queen, did you my beauty weigh, my youth in bloom, your age in its decay? _arim._ i, my own judge, condemned myself before; for pity aggravate my crime no more! so weak i am, i with a frown am slain; you need have used but half so much disdain. _ind._ i am not cruel yet to that degree; have better thoughts both of yourself and me. beauty a monarch is, which kingly power magnificently proves, by crowds of slaves, and peopled empire loves: and such a slave as you what queen would lose? above the rest, i arimant would chuse, for counsel, valour, truth, and kindness too; all i could wish in man, i find in you. _arim._ what lover could to greater joy be raised? i am, methinks, a god, by you thus praised. _ind._ to what may not desert like yours pretend? you have all qualities, that fit a friend. _arim._ so mariners mistake the promised coast; and, with full sails, on the blind rocks are lost. think you my aged veins so faintly beat, they rise no higher than to friendship's heat? so weak your charms, that, like a winter's night, twinkling with stars, they freeze me, while they light? _ind._ mistake me not, good arimant; i know my beauty's power, and what my charms can do. you your own talent have not learned so well; but practise one, where you can ne'er excel. you can, at most, to an indifferent lover's praise pretend; but you would spoil an admirable friend. _arim._ never was amity so highly prized, nor ever any love so much despised. even to myself ridiculous i grow, and would be angry, if i knew but how. _ind._ do not. your anger, like your love, is vain; whene'er i please, you must be pleased again. knowing what power i have your will to bend, i'll use it; for i need just such a friend. you must perform, not what you think is fit; but to whatever i propose submit. _arim._ madam, you have a strange ascendant gained; you use me like a courser, spurred and reined: if i fly out, my fierceness you command, then sooth, and gently stroke me with your hand. impose; but use your power of taxing well; when subjects cannot pay, they soon rebel. _enter the emperor, unseen by them._ _ind._ my rebel's punishment would easy prove; you know you're in my power, by making love. _arim._ would i, without dispute, your will obey, and could you, in return, my life betray? _emp._ what danger, arimant, is this you fear? or what love-secret, which i must not hear? these altered looks some inward motion show: his cheeks are pale, and yours with blushes glow. [_to her._ _ind._ 'tis what, with justice, may my anger move; he has been bold, and talked to me of love. _arim._ i am betrayed, and shall be doomed to die. [_aside._ _emp._ did he, my slave, presume to look so high? that crawling insect, who from mud began, warmed by my beams, and kindled into man? durst he, who does but for my pleasure live, intrench on love, my great prerogative? print his base image on his sovereign's coin? 'tis treason if he stamp his love with mine. _arim._ 'tis true, i have been bold, but if it be a crime-- _ind._ he means, 'tis only so to me. you, sir, should praise, what i must disapprove. he insolently talked to me of love; but, sir, 'twas yours, he made it in your name; you, if you please, may all he said disclaim. _emp._ i must disclaim whate'er he can express; his groveling sense will show my passion less: but stay,--if what he said my message be, what fear, what danger, could arrive from me? he said, he feared you would his life betray. _ind._ should he presume again, perhaps i may. though in your hands he hazard not his life, remember, sir, your fury of a wife; who, not content to be revenged on you, the agents of your passion will pursue. _emp._ if i but hear her named, i'm sick that day; the sound is mortal, and frights life away.-- forgive me, arimant, my jealous thought: distrust in lovers is the tenderest fault. leave me, and tell thyself, in my excuse, love, and a crown, no rivalship can bear; and precious things are still possessed with fear. [_exit_ arimant, _bowing._ this, madam, my excuse to you may plead; love should forgive the faults, which love has made. _ind._ from me, what pardon can you hope to have, robbed of my love, and treated as a slave? _emp._ force is the last relief which lovers find; and 'tis the best excuse of woman-kind. _ind._ force never yet a generous heart did gain; we yield on parley, but are stormed in vain. constraint in all things makes the pleasure less; sweet is the love which comes with willingness. _emp._ no; 'tis resistance that inflames desire, sharpens the darts of love, and blows his fire. love is disarmed, that meets with too much ease; he languishes, and does not care to please: and therefore 'tis, your golden fruit you guard with so much care,--to make possession hard. _ind._ was't not enough, you took my crown away, but cruelly you must my love betray? i was well pleased to have transferred my right, and better changed your claim of lawless might, by taking him, whom you esteemed above your other sons, and taught me first to love. _emp._ my son by my command his course must steer: i bade him love, i bid him now forbear. if you have any kindness for him still, advise him not to shock a father's will. _ind._ must i advise? then let me see him, and i'll try to obey. _emp._ i had forgot, and dare not trust your way. but send him word, he has not here an army to command: remember, he and you are in my hand. _ind._ yes, in a father's hand, whom he has served, and, with the hazard of his life, preserved. but piety to you, unhappy prince, becomes a crime, and duty an offence; against yourself you with your foes combine, and seem your own destruction to design. _emp._ you may be pleased your politics to spare; i'm old enough, and can myself take care. _ind._ advice from me was, i confess, too bold: you're old enough; it may be, sir, too old. _emp._ you please yourself with your contempt of age; but love, neglected, will convert to rage. if on your head my fury does not turn, thank that fond dotage which so much you scorn; but, in another's person, you may prove, there's warmth for vengeance left, though not for love. _re-enter_ arimant. _arim._ the empress has the antichambers past, and this way moves with a disordered haste: her brows the stormy marks of anger bear. _emp._ madam, retire; she must not find you here. [_exit_ indamora _with_ arimant. _enter_ nourmahal _hastily._ _nour._ what have i done, that nourmahal must prove the scorn and triumph of a rival's love? my eyes are still the same; each glance, each grace, keep their first lustre, and maintain their place; not second yet to any other face. _emp._ what rage transports you? are you well awake? such dreams distracted minds in fevers make. _nour._ those fevers you have given, those dreams have bred, by broken faith, and an abandoned bed. such visions hourly pass before my sight, which from my eyes their balmy slumbers fright, in the severest silence of the night; visions, which in this citadel are seen,-- bright glorious visions of a rival queen. _emp._ have patience,--my first flames can ne'er decay; these are but dreams, and soon will pass away; thou know'st, my heart, my empire, all is thine. in thy own heaven of love serenely shine; fair as the face of nature did appear, when flowers first peep'd, and trees did blossoms bear, and winter had not yet deformed the inverted year; calm as the breath which fans our eastern groves, and bright as when thy eyes first lighted up our loves. let our eternal peace be sealed by this, with the first ardour of a nuptial kiss. [_offers to kiss her._ _nour._ me would you have,--me your faint kisses prove, the dregs and droppings of enervate love? must i your cold long-labouring age sustain, and be to empty joys provoked in vain? receive you, sighing after other charms, and take an absent husband in my arms? _emp._ even these reproaches i can bear from you; you doubted of my love, believe it true: nothing but love this patience could produce, and i allow your rage that kind excuse. _nour._ call it not patience; 'tis your guilt stands mute; you have a cause too foul to bear dispute. you wrong me first, and urge my rage to rise: then i must pass for mad; you, meek and wise. good man! plead merit by your soft replies. vain privilege poor women have of tongue; men can stand silent, and resolve on wrong. _emp._ what can i more? my friendship you refuse. and even my mildness, as my crime, accuse. _nour._ your sullen silence cheats not me, false man; i know you think the bloodiest things you can. could you accuse me, you would raise your voice, watch for my crimes, and in my guilt rejoice: but my known virtue is from scandal free, and leaves no shadow for your calumny. _emp._ such virtue is the plague of human life; a virtuous woman, but a cursed wife. in vain of pompous chastity you're proud; virtue's adultery of the tongue, when loud. i, with less pain, a prostitute could bear, than the shrill sound of--"_virtue! virtue!_" hear. in unchaste wives there's yet a kind of recompensing ease; vice keeps them humble, gives them care to please; but against clamorous virtue, what defence? it stops our mouths, and gives your noise pretence. _nour._ since virtue does your indignation raise, 'tis pity but you had that wife you praise: your own wild appetites are prone to range, and then you tax our humours with your change. _emp._ what can be sweeter than our native home? thither for ease and soft repose we come: home is the sacred refuge of our life; secured from all approaches, but a wife. if thence we fly, the cause admits no doubt; none but an inmate foe could force us out: clamours our privacies uneasy make; birds leave their nests disturbed, and beasts their haunts forsake. _nour._ honour's my crime, that has your loathing bred; you take no pleasure in a virtuous bed. _emp._ what pleasure can there be in that estate, which your unquietness has made me hate? i shrink far off, dissembling sleep, but wakeful with the fright; the day takes off the pleasure of the night. _nour._ my thoughts no other joys but power pursue; or, if they did, they must be lost in you. and yet the fault's not mine, though youth and beauty cannot warmth command; the sun in vain shines on the barren sand. _emp._ 'tis true, of marriage-bands i'm weary grown; love scorns all ties, but those that are his own. chains, that are dragged, must needs uneasy prove, for there's a godlike liberty in love. _nour._ what's love to you? the bloom of beauty other years demands, nor will be gathered by such withered hands: you importune it with a false desire, which sparkles out, and makes no solid fire. this impudence of age, whence can it spring? all you expect, and yet you nothing bring: eager to ask, when you are past a grant; nice in providing what you cannot want. have conscience; give not her you love this pain; solicit not yourself and her in vain: all other debts may compensation find; but love is strict, and will be paid in kind. _emp._ sure, of all ills, domestic are the worst; when most secure of blessings, we are curst. when we lay next us what we hold most dear, like hercules, envenomed shirts we wear, and cleaving mischiefs. _nour._ what you merit, have; and share, at least, the miseries you gave. your days i will alarm, i'll haunt your nights. and, worse than age, disable your delights. may your sick fame still languish till it die, all offices of power neglected lie, and you grow cheap in every subject's eye! then, as the greatest curse that i can give, unpitied be deposed, and, after, live! [_going off._ _emp._ stay, and now learn, how criminal soe'er we husbands are, 'tis not for wives to push our crimes too far. had you still mistress of your temper been, i had been modest, and not owned my sin. your fury hardens me; and whate'er wrong you suffer, you have cancelled by your tongue. a guard there!--seize her; she shall know this hour, what is a husband's and a monarch's power. [_guard seizes her._ _enter_ aureng-zebe. _nour._ i see for whom your charter you maintain; i must be fettered, and my son be slain, that zelyma's ambitious race may reign. not so you promised, when my beauty drew all asia's vows; when, persia left for you, the realm of candahar for dower i brought; that long-contended prize for which you fought. _aur._ the name of stepmother, your practised art, by which you have estranged my father's heart, all you have done against me, or design, shows your aversion, but begets not mine. long may my father india's empire guide, and may no breach your nuptial vows divide! _emp._ since love obliges not, i from this hour assume the right of man's despotic power; man is by nature formed your sex's head, and is himself the canon of his bed: in bands of iron fettered you shall be,-- an easier yoke than what you put on me. _aur._ though much i fear my interest is not great, let me your royal clemency intreat. [_kneeling._ secrets of marriage still are sacred held; their sweet and bitter by the wise concealed. errors of wives reflect on husbands still, and, when divulged, proclaim you've chosen ill; and the mysterious power of bed and throne should always be maintained, but rarely shown. _emp._ to so perverse a sex all grace is vain; it gives them courage to offend again: for with feigned tears they penitence pretend, again are pardoned, and again offend; fathom our pity when they seem to grieve, only to try how far we can forgive; till, launching out into a sea of strife, they scorn all pardon, and appear all wife. but be it as you please; for your loved sake, this last and fruitless trial i will make: in all requests your right of merit use; and know, there is but one i can refuse. [_he signs to the guards, and they remove from the empress._ _nour._ you've done enough, for you designed my chains; the grace is vanished, but the affront remains. nor is't a grace, or for his merit done; you durst no farther, for you feared my son. this you have gained by the rough course you prove; i'm past repentance, and you past my love. [_exit._ _emp._ a spirit so untamed the world ne'er bore. _aur._ and yet worse usage had incensed her more. but since by no obligement she is tied, you must betimes for your defence provide. i cannot idle in your danger stand, but beg once more i may your arms command: two battles your auspicious cause has won; my sword can perfect what it has begun, and from your walls dislodge that haughty son. _emp._ my son, your valour has this day been such, none can enough admire, or praise too much: but now, with reason, your success i doubt; her faction's strong within, his arms without. _aur._ i left the city in a panic fright; lions they are in council, lambs in fight. but my own troops, by mirzah led, are near; i, by to-morrow's dawn, expect them here: to favour them, i'll sally out ere day, and through our slaughtered foes enlarge their way. _emp._ age has not yet so shrunk my sinews, or so chilled my veins, but conscious virtue in my breast remains: but had i now that strength, with which my boiling youth was fraught, when in the vale of balasor i fought, and from bengal their captive monarch brought; when elephant 'gainst elephant did rear his trunk, and castles jostled in the air; my sword thy way to victory had shown, and owed the conquest to itself alone. _aur._ those fair ideas to my aid i'll call, and emulate my great original; or, if they fail, i will invoke, in arms, the power of love, and indamora's charms. _emp._ i doubt the happy influence of your star; to invoke a captive's name bodes ill in war. _aur._ sir, give me leave to say, whatever now the omen prove, it boded well to you. your royal promise, when i went to fight, obliged me to resign a victor's right: her liberty i fought for, and i won, and claim it, as your general, and your son. _emp._ my ears still ring with noise; i'm vexed to death, tongue-killed, and have not yet recovered breath; nor will i be prescribed my time by you. first end the war, and then your claim renew; while to your conduct i my fortune trust, to keep this pledge of duty is but just. _aur._ some hidden cause your jealousy does move, or you could ne'er suspect my loyal love. _emp._ what love soever by an heir is shown, he waits but time to step into the throne; you're neither justified, nor yet accused; meanwhile, the prisoner with respect is used. _aur._ i know the kindness of her guardian such, i need not fear too little, but too much. but, how, sir, how have you from virtue swerved? or what so ill return have i deserved? you doubt not me, nor have i spent my blood, to have my faith no better understood: your soul's above the baseness of distrust: nothing but love could make you so unjust. _emp._ you know your rival then; and know 'tis fit, the son should to the father's claim submit. _aur._ sons may have rights which they can never quit. yourself first made that title which i claim: first bade me love, and authorised my flame. _emp._ the value of my gift i did not know: if i could give, i can resume it too. _aur._ recall your gift, for i your power confess. but first take back my life, a gift that's less. long life would now but a long burthen prove: you're grown unkind, and i have lost your love. my grief lets unbecoming speeches fall: i should have died, and not complained at all. _emp._ witness, ye powers, how much i suffered, and how long i strove against the assaults of this imperious love! i represented to myself the shame of perjured faith, and violated fame; your great deserts, how ill they were repaid; all arguments, in vain, i urged and weighed: for mighty love, who prudence does despise, for reason showed me indamora's eyes. what would you more? my crime i sadly view, acknowledge, am ashamed, and yet pursue. _aur._ since you can love, and yet your error see, the same resistless power may plead for me. with no less ardour i my claim pursue: i love, and cannot yield her even to you. _emp._ your elder brothers, though o'ercome, have right: the youngest yet in arms prepared to fight. but, yielding her, i firmly have decreed, that you alone to empire shall succeed. _aur._ to after-ages let me stand a shame, when i exchange for crowns my love or fame! you might have found a mercenary son, to profit of the battles he had won. had i been such, what hindered me to take the crown? nor had the exchange been yours to make. while you are living, i no right pretend; wear it, and let it where you please descend. but from my love, 'tis sacrilege to part: there, there's my throne, in indamora's heart. _emp._ 'tis in her heart alone that you must reign: you'll find her person difficult to gain. give willingly what i can take by force: and know, obedience is your safest course. _aur._ i'm taught, by honour's precepts, to obey: fear to obedience is a slavish way. if aught my want of duty could beget, you take the most prevailing means, to threat. pardon your blood, that boils within my veins; it rises high, and menacing disdains. even death's become to me no dreadful name: i've often met him, and have made him tame: in fighting fields, where our acquaintance grew, i saw him, and contemned him first for you. _emp._ of formal duty make no more thy boast: thou disobey'st where it concerns me most. fool! with both hands thus to push back a crown, and headlong cast thyself from empire down! though nourmahal i hate, her son shall reign: inglorious thou, by thy own fault, remain. thy younger brother i'll admit this hour: so mine shall be thy mistress, his thy power. [_exit._ _aur._ how vain is virtue, which directs our ways through certain danger to uncertain praise! barren, and airy name! thee fortune flies, with thy lean train, the pious and the wise. heaven takes thee at thy word, without regard, and lets thee poorly be thy own reward. the world is made for the bold impious man, who stops at nothing, seizes all he can. justice to merit does weak aid afford; she trusts her balance, and neglects her sword. virtue is nice to take what's not her own; and, while she long consults, the prize is gone. _to him_ dianet. _dia._ forgive the bearer of unhappy news: your altered father openly pursues your ruin; and, to compass his intent, for violent morat in haste has sent. the gates he ordered all to be unbarred, and from the market-place to draw the guard. _aur._ how look the people in this turn of state? _dia._ they mourn your ruin as their proper fate; cursing the empress: for they think it done by her procurement, to advance her son. him too, though awed, they scarcely can forbear: his pride they hate, his violence they fear. all bent to rise, would you appear their chief, till your own troops come up to your relief. _aur._ ill treated, and forsaken, as i am, i'll not betray the glory of my name: 'tis not for me, who have preserved a state, to buy an empire at so base a rate. _dia._ the points of honour poets may produce; trappings of life, for ornament, not use: honour, which only does the name advance, is the mere raving madness of romance. pleased with a word, you may sit tamely down; and see your younger brother force the crown. _aur._ i know my fortune in extremes does lie; the sons of indostan must reign, or die; that desperate hazard courage does create, as he plays frankly, who has least estate; and that the world the coward will despise, when life's a blank, who pulls not for a prize. _dia._ of all your knowledge, this vain fruit you have, to walk with eyes broad open to your grave. _aur._ from what i've said, conclude, without reply, i neither would usurp, nor tamely die. the attempt to fly, would guilt betray, or fear: besides, 'twere vain; the fort's our prison here. somewhat i have resolved. morat, perhaps, has honour in his breast; and, in extremes, both counsels are the best. like emp'ric remedies, they last are tried, and by the event condemned, or justified. presence of mind, and courage in distress, are more than armies, to procure success. [_exeunt._ act iii. scene i. arimant, _with a letter in his hand:_ indamora. _arim._ and i the messenger to him from you? your empire you to tyranny pursue: you lay commands, both cruel and unjust, to serve my rival, and betray my trust. _ind._ you first betrayed your trust, in loving me; and should not i my own advantage see? serving my love, you may my friendship gain; you know the rest of your pretences vain. you must, my arimant, you must be kind: 'tis in your nature, and your noble mind. _arim._ i'll to the king, and straight my trust resign. _ind._ his trust you may, but you shall never mine. heaven made you love me for no other end, but to become my confidant and friend: as such, i keep no secret from your sight, and therefore make you judge how ill i write: read it, and tell me freely then your mind; if 'tis indited, as i meant it, kind. _arim._ _i ask not heaven my freedom to restore,_ [_reading._ _but only for your sake_--i'll read no more: and yet i must-- _less for my own, than for your sorrow sad_-- [_reading._ another line, like this, would make me mad-- heaven! she goes on--yet more--and yet more kind! [_as reading._ each sentence is a dagger to my mind. _see me this night_-- [_reading._ _thank fortune, who did such a friend provide, for faithful arimant shall be your guide._ not only to be made an instrument, but pre-engaged without my own consent! _ind._ unknown to engage you still augments my score, and gives you scope of meriting the more. _arim._ the best of men some interest in their actions must confess; none merit, but in hope they may possess. the fatal paper rather let me tear, than, like bellerophon, my own sentence bear. _ind._ you may; but 'twill not be your best advice: 'twill only give me pains of writing twice. you know you must obey me, soon or late: why should you vainly struggle with your fate? _arim._ i thank thee, heaven, thou hast been wondrous kind! why am i thus to slavery designed, and yet am cheated with a freeborn mind? or make thy orders with my reason suit, or let me live by sense a glorious brute-- [_she frowns._ you frown, and i obey with speed, before that dreadful sentence comes, _see me no more:_ see me no more! that sound, methinks, i hear like the last trumpet thundering in my ear. _enter_ solyman. _solym._ the princess melesinda, bathed in tears, and tossed alternately with hopes and fears, if your affairs such leisure can afford, would learn from you the fortunes of her lord. _arim._ tell her, that i some certainty may bring, i go this minute to attend the king. _ind._ this lonely turtle i desire to see: grief, though not cured, is eased by company. _arim._ [_to_ solym.] say, if she please, she hither may repair, and breathe the freshness of the open air. [_exit_ solym. _ind._ poor princess! how i pity her estate, wrapt in the ruins of her husband's fate! she mourned morat should in rebellion rise; yet he offends, and she's the sacrifice. _arim._ not knowing his design, at court she staid; 'till, by command, close prisoner she was made. since when, her chains with roman constancy she bore, but that, perhaps, an indian wife's is more. _ind._ go, bring her comfort; leave me here alone. _arim._ my love must still he in obedience shown. [_exit_ arim. _enter_ melesinda, _led by_ solyman, _who retires afterwards._ _ind._ when graceful sorrow in her pomp appears, sure she is dressed in melesinda's tears. your head reclined, (as hiding grief from view) droops, like a rose, surcharged with morning dew. _mel._ can flowers but droop in absence of the sun, which waked their sweets? and mine, alas! is gone. but you the noblest charity express: for they, who shine in courts, still shun distress. _ind._ distressed myself, like you, confined, i live: and, therefore, can compassion take and give. we're both love's captives, but with fate so cross, one must be happy by the other's loss. morat, or aureng-zebe, must fall this day. _mel._ too truly tamerlane's successors they; each thinks a world too little for his sway. could you and i the same pretences bring, mankind should with more ease receive a king: i would to you the narrow world resign, and want no empire while morat was mine. _ind._ wished freedom, i presage, you soon will find; if heaven be just, and be to virtue kind. _mel._ quite otherwise my mind foretels my fate: short is my life, and that unfortunate. yet should i not complain, would heaven afford some little time, ere death, to see my lord. _ind._ these thoughts are but your melancholy's food; raised from a lonely life, and dark abode: but whatsoe'er our jarring fortunes prove, though our lords hate, methinks we two may love. _mel._ such be our loves as may not yield to fate; i bring a heart more true than fortunate. [_giving their hands._ _to them,_ arimant. _arim._ i come with haste surprising news to bring: in two hours time, since last i saw the king, the affairs of court have wholly changed their face: unhappy aureng-zebe is in disgrace; and your morat, proclaimed the successor, is called, to awe the city with his power. those trumpets his triumphant entry tell, and now the shouts waft near the citadel. _ind._ see, madam, see the event by me foreshown: i envy not your chance, but grieve my own. _mel._ a change so unexpected must surprise: and more, because i am unused to joys. _ind._ may all your wishes ever prosperous be! but i'm too much concerned the event to see. my eyes too tender are, to view my lord become the public scorn.-- i came to comfort, and i go to mourn. [_taking her leave._ _mel._ stay, i'll not see my lord, before i give your sorrow some relief; and pay the charity you lent my grief. here he shall see me first, with you confined; and, if your virtue fail to move his mind, i'll use my interest that he may be kind. fear not, i never moved him yet in vain. _ind._ so fair a pleader any cause may gain. _mel._ i have no taste, methinks, of coming joy; for black presages all my hopes destroy. "die!" something whispers,--"melesinda, die! fulfil, fulfil, thy mournful destiny!"-- mine is a gleam of bliss, too hot to last; watry it shines, and will be soon o'ercast. [ind. _and_ mel. _retire._ _arim._ fortune seems weary grown of aureng-zebe, while to her new-made favourite morat, her lavish hand is wastefully profuse: with fame and flowing honours tided in, borne on a swelling current smooth beneath him. the king, and haughty empress, to our wonder, if not atoned, yet seemingly at peace, as fate for him that miracle reserved. _enter, in triumph, emperor,_ morat, _and train._ _emp._ i have confessed i love. as i interpret fairly your design, so look not with severer eyes on mine. your fate has called you to the imperial seat: in duty be, as you in arms are, great; for aureng-zebe a hated name is grown, and love less bears a rival than the throne. _mor._ to me, the cries of fighting fields are charms: keen be my sabre, and of proof my arms, i ask no other blessing of my stars: no prize but fame, nor mistress but the wars. i scarce am pleased i tamely mount the throne:-- would aureng-zebe had all their souls in one! with all my elder brothers i would fight, and so from partial nature force my right. _emp._ had we but lasting youth, and time to spare, some might be thrown away on fame and war; but youth, the perishing good, runs on too fast, and, unenjoyed, will spend itself to waste; few know the use of life before 'tis past. had i once more thy vigour to command, i would not let it die upon my hand: no hour of pleasure should pass empty by; youth should watch joys, and shoot them as they fly. _mor._ methinks, all pleasure is in greatness found. kings, like heaven's eye, should spread their beams around, pleased to be seen, while glory's race they run: rest is not for the chariot of the sun. subjects are stiff-necked animals; they soon feel slackened reins, and pitch their rider down. _emp._ to thee that drudgery of power i give: cares be thy lot: reign thou, and let me live. the fort i'll keep for my security; business and public state resign to thee. _mor._ luxurious kings are to their people lost: they live, like drones, upon the public cost. my arms from pole to pole the world shall shake, and, with myself, keep all mankind awake. _emp._ believe me, son, and needless trouble spare; 'tis a base world, and is not worth our care: the vulgar, a scarce animated clod, ne'er pleased with aught above them, prince or god. were i a god, the drunken globe should roll, the little emmetts with the human soul care for themselves, while at my ease i sat, and second causes did the work of fate; or, if i would take care, that care should be for wit that scorned the world, and lived like me. _to them,_ nourmahal, zayda, _and attendants._ _nour._ my dear morat, [_embracing her son._ this day propitious to us all has been: you're now a monarch's heir, and i a queen. your faithful father now may quit the state, and find the ease he sought, indulged by fate. cares shall not keep him on the throne awake, nor break the golden slumbers he would take. _emp._ in vain i struggled to the gaol of life, while rebel-sons, and an imperious wife, still dragged me backward into noise and strife. _mor._ be that remembrance lost; and be it my pride to be your pledge of peace on either side. _to them,_ aureng-zebe. _aur._ with all the assurance innocence can bring, fearless without, because secure within, armed with my courage, unconcerned i see this pomp; a shame to you, a pride to me. shame is but where with wickedness 'tis joined; and, while no baseness in this breast i find, i have not lost the birth-right of my mind. _emp._ children, the blind effect of love and chance, formed by their sportive parents' ignorance, bear from their birth the impressions of a slave; whom heaven for play-games first, and then for service gave: one then may be displaced, and one may reign, and want of merit render birth-right vain. _mor._ comes he to upbraid us with his innocence? seize him, and take the preaching brachman hence. _aur._ stay, sir!--i from my years no merit plead: [_to his father._ all my designs and acts to duty lead. your life and glory are my only end; and for that prize i with morat contend. _mor._ not him alone: i all mankind defy. who dares adventure more for both than i? _aur._ i know you brave, and take you at your word: that present service, which you vaunt, afford. our two rebellious brothers are not dead: though vanquished, yet again they gather head. i dare you, as your rival in renown, march out your army from the imperial town: chuse whom you please, the other leave to me; and set our father absolutely free. this, if you do, to end all future strife, i am content to lead a private life; disband my army, to secure the state, nor aim at more, but leave the rest to fate. _mor._ i'll do it.--draw out my army on the plain! war is to me a pastime, peace a pain. _emp._ think better first.-- [_to_ mor. you see yourself enclosed beyond escape, [_to_ aur. and, therefore, proteus-like, you change your shape; of promise prodigal, while power you want, and preaching in the self-denying cant. _mor._ plot better; for these arts too obvious are, of gaming time, the master-piece of war. is aureng-zebe so known? _aur._ if acts like mine, so far from interest, profit, or design, can show my heart, by those i would be known: i wish you could as well defend your own. my absent army for my father fought: yours, in these walls, is to enslave him brought. if i come singly, you an armed guest, the world with ease may judge whose cause is best. _mor._ my father saw you ill designs pursue; and my admission showed his fear of you. _aur._ himself best knows why he his love withdraws: i owe him more than to declare the cause. but still i press, our duty may be shown by arms. _mor._ i'll vanquish all his foes alone. _aur._ you speak, as if you could the fates command, and had no need of any other hand. but, since my honour you so far suspect, 'tis just i should on your designs reflect. to prove yourself a loyal son, declare you'll lay down arms when you conclude the war. _mor._ no present answer your demand requires; the war once done, i'll do what heaven inspires; and while this sword this monarchy secures, 'tis managed by an abler arm than yours. _emp._ morat's design a doubtful meaning bears: [_aside._ in aureng-zebe true loyalty appears. he, for my safety, does his own despise; still, with his wrongs, i find his duty rise. i feel my virtue struggling in my soul, but stronger passion does its power controul.-- yet be advised your ruin to prevent: [_to_ aur. _aside._ you might be safe, if you would give consent. _aur._ so to your welfare i of use may be, my life or death are equal both to me. _emp._ the people's hearts are yours; the fort yet mine: be wise, and indamora's love resign. i am observed: remember, that i give this my last proof of kindness--die, or live. _aur._ life, with my indamora, i would chuse; but, losing her, the end of living lose. i had considered all i ought before; and fear of death can make me change no more. the people's love so little i esteem, condemned by you, i would not live by them. may he, who must your favour now possess, much better serve you, and not love you less. _emp._ i've heard you; and, to finish the debate, [_aloud._ commit that rebel prisoner to the state. _mor._ the deadly draught he shall begin this day: and languish with insensible decay. _aur._ i hate the lingering summons to attend; death all at once would be the nobler end. fate is unkind! methinks, a general should warm, and at the head of armies fall; and my ambition did that hope pursue, that so i might have died in fight for you. [_to his father._ _mor._ would i had been disposer of thy stars! thou shouldst have had thy wish, and died in wars. 'tis i, not thou, have reason to repine, that thou shouldst fall by any hand, but mine. _aur._ when thou wert formed, heaven did a man begin; but the brute soul, by chance, was shuffled in. in woods and wilds thy monarchy maintain, where valiant beasts, by force and rapine, reign. in life's next scene, if transmigration be, some bear, or lion, is reserved for thee. _mor._ take heed thou com'st not in that lion's way! i prophecy, thou wilt thy soul convey into a lamb, and be again my prey.-- hence with that dreaming priest! _nour._ let me prepare the poisonous draught: his death shall be my care. near my apartment let him prisoner be, that i his hourly ebbs of life may see. _aur._ my life i would not ransom with a prayer: 'tis vile, since 'tis not worth my father's care. i go not, sir, indebted to my grave: you paid yourself, and took the life you gave. [_exit._ _emp._ o that i had more sense of virtue left, [_aside._ or were of that, which yet remains, bereft! i've just enough to know how i offend, and, to my shame, have not enough to mend. lead to the mosque.-- _mor._ love's pleasures, why should dull devotion stay? heaven to my melesinda's but the way. [_exeunt emperor,_ morat, _and train._ _zayd._ sure aureng-zebe has somewhat of divine, whose virtue through so dark a cloud can shine. fortune has from morat this day removed the greatest rival, and the best beloved. _nour._ he is not yet removed. _zayd._ he lives, 'tis true; but soon must die, and, what i mourn, by you. _nour._ my zayda, may thy words prophetic be! [_embracing her eagerly._ i take the omen; let him die by me! he, stifled in my arms, shall lose his breath; and life itself shall envious be of death. _zayd._ bless me, you powers above! _nour._ why dost thou start? is love so strange? or have not i a heart? could aureng-zebe so lovely seem to thee, and i want eyes that noble worth to see? thy little soul was but to wonder moved: my sense of it was higher, and i loved. that man, that god-like man, so brave, so great-- but these are thy small praises i repeat. i'm carried by a tide of love away: he's somewhat more than i myself can say, _zayd._ though all the ideas you can form be true, he must not, cannot, be possessed by you. if contradicting interests could be mixt, nature herself has cast a bar betwixt; and, ere you reach to this incestuous love, you must divine and human rights remove. _nour._ count this among the wonders love has done: i had forgot he was my husband's son. _zayd._ nay, more, you have forgot who is your own: for whom your care so long designed the throne. morat must fall, if aureng-zebe should rise. _nour._ 'tis true; but who was e'er in love, and wise? why was that fatal knot of marriage tied, which did, by making us too near, divide? divides me from my sex! for heaven, i find, excludes but me alone of womankind. i stand with guilt confounded, lost with shame, and yet made wretched only by a name. if names have such command on human life, love sure's a name that's more divine than wife. that sovereign power all guilt from action takes, at least the stains are beautiful it makes. _zayd._ the incroaching ill you early should oppose: flattered, 'tis worse, and by indulgence grows. _nour._ alas! and what have i not said or done? i fought it to the last,--and love has won. a bloody conquest, which destruction brought, and ruined all the country where he fought. whether this passion from above was sent, the fate of him heaven favours to prevent; or as the curse of fortune in excess, that, stretching, would beyond its reach possess; and, with a taste which plenty does deprave, loaths lawful good, and lawless ill does crave-- _zayd._ but yet, consider-- _nour._ no, 'tis loss of time: think how to further, not divert my crime. my artful engines instantly i'll move, and chuse the soft and gentlest hour of love. the under-provost of the fort is mine.-- but see, morat! i'll whisper my design. _enter_ morat _with_ arimant, _as talking: attendants._ _arim._ and for that cause was not in public seen, but stays in prison with the captive queen. _mor._ let my attendants wait; i'll be alone: where least of state, there most of love is shewn. _nour._ my son, your business is not hard to guess; [_to_ morat. long absence makes you eager to possess: i will not importune you by my stay; she merits all the love which you can pay. [_exit with_ zayda. _re-enter_ arimant, _with_ melesinda; _then exit._ morat _runs to_ melesinda, _and embraces her._ _mor._ should i not chide you, that you chose to stay in gloomy shades, and lost a glorious day? lost the first fruits of joy you should possess in my return, and made my triumph less? _mel._ should i not chide, that you could stay and see those joys, preferring public pomp to me? through my dark cell your shouts of triumph rung: i heard with pleasure, but i thought them long. _mor._ the public will in triumphs rudely share, and kings the rudeness of their joys must bear: but i made haste to set my captive free, and thought that work was only worthy me. the fame of ancient matrons you pursue, and stand a blameless pattern to the new. i have not words to praise such acts as these: but take my heart, and mould it as you please. _mel._ a trial of your kindness i must make, though not for mine so much as virtue's sake. the queen of cassimere-- _mor._ no more, my love; that only suit i beg you not to move. that she's in bonds for aureng-zebe i know, and should, by my consent, continue so; the good old man, i fear, will pity shew. my father dotes, and let him still dote on; he buys his mistress dearly, with his throne. _mel._ see her; and then be cruel if you can. _mor._ 'tis not with me as with a private man. such may be swayed by honour, or by love; but monarchs only by their interest move. _mel._ heaven does a tribute for your power demand: he leaves the opprest and poor upon your hand; and those, who stewards of his pity prove, he blesses, in return, with public love: in his distress some miracle is shewn; if exiled, heaven restores him to his throne: he needs no guard, while any subject's near, nor, like his tyrant neighbours, lives in fear: no plots the alarm to his retirement give: 'tis all mankind's concern that he should live. _mor._ you promised friendship in your low estate, and should forget it in your better fate. such maxims are more plausible than true; but somewhat must be given to love and you. i'll view this captive queen; to let her see, prayers and complaints are lost on such as me. _mel._ i'll bear the news: heaven knows how much i'm pleased, that, by my care, the afflicted may be eased. _as she is going off, enter_ indamora. _ind._ i'll spare your pains, and venture out alone, since you, fair princess, my protection own. but you, brave prince, a harder task must find; [_to_ morat _kneeling, who takes her up._ in saving me, you would but half be kind. an humble suppliant at your feet i lie; you have condemned my better part to die. without my aureng-zebe i cannot live; revoke his doom, or else my sentence give. _mel._ if melesinda in your love have part,-- which, to suspect, would break my tender heart,-- if love, like mine, may for a lover plead, by the chaste pleasures of our nuptial bed, by all the interest my past sufferings make, and all i yet would suffer for your sake; by you yourself, the last and dearest tie-- _mor._ you move in vain; for aureng-zebe must die. _ind._ could that decree from any brother come? nature herself is sentenced in your doom. piety is no more, she sees her place usurped by monsters, and a savage race. from her soft eastern climes you drive her forth, to the cold mansions of the utmost north. how can our prophet suffer you to reign, when he looks down, and sees your brother slain? avenging furies will your life pursue: think there's a heaven, morat, though not for you. _mel._ her words imprint a terror on my mind. what if this death, which is for him designed, had been your doom, (far be that augury!) and you, not aureng-zebe, condemned to die? weigh well the various turns of human fate, and seek, by mercy, to secure your state. _ind._ had heaven the crown for aureng-zebe designed, pity for you had pierced his generous mind. pity does with a noble nature suit: a brother's life had suffered no dispute. all things have right in life; our prophet's care commands the beings even of brutes to spare. though interest his restraint has justified, can life, and to a brother, be denied? _mor._ all reasons, for his safety urged, are weak: and yet, methinks, 'tis heaven to hear you speak. _mel._ 'tis part of your own being to invade-- _mor._ nay, if she fail to move, would you persuade? [_turning to_ inda. my brother does a glorious fate pursue; i envy him, that he must fall for you. he had been base, had he released his right: for such an empire none but kings should fight. if with a father he disputes this prize, my wonder ceases when i see those eyes. _mel._ and can you, then, deny those eyes you praise? can beauty wonder, and not pity raise? _mor._ your intercession now is needless grown; retire, and let me speak with her alone. [melesinda _retires, weeping, to the side of the stage._ queen, that you may not fruitless tears employ, [_taking_ indamora's _hand._ i bring you news to fill your heart with joy: your lover, king of all the east shall reign; for aureng-zebe to-morrow shall be slain. _ind._ the hopes you raised, you've blasted with a breath: [_starting back._ with triumphs you began, but end with death. did you not say my lover should be king? _mor._ i, in morat, the best of lovers bring. for one, forsaken both of earth and heaven, your kinder stars a nobler choice have given: my father, while i please, a king appears; his power is more declining than his years. an emperor and lover, but in shew; but you, in me, have youth and fortune too: as heaven did to your eyes, and form divine, submit the fate of all the imperial line; so was it ordered by its wise decree, that you should find them all comprised in me. _ind._ if, sir, i seem not discomposed with rage, feed not your fancy with a false presage. farther to press your courtship is but vain; a cold refusal carries more disdain. unsettled virtue stormy may appear; honour, like mine, serenely is severe; to scorn your person, and reject your crown, disorder not my face into a frown. [_turns from him._ _mor._ your fortune you should reverently have used: such offers are not twice to be refused. i go to aureng-zebe, and am in haste for your commands; they're like to be the last. _ind._ tell him, with my own death i would his life redeem; but less than honour both our lives esteem. _mor._ have you no more? _ind._ what shall i do or say? he must not in this fury go away.-- [_aside._ tell him, i did in vain his brother move; and yet he falsely said, he was in love: falsely; for, had he truly loved, at least he would have given one day to my request. _mor._ a little yielding may my love advance: she darted from her eyes a sidelong glance, just as she spoke; and, like her words, it flew: seemed not to beg, what yet she bid me do. [_aside._ a brother, madam, cannot give a day; [_to her._ a servant, and who hopes to merit, may. _mel._ if, sir-- [_coming to him._ _mor._ no more--set speeches, and a formal tale, with none but statesmen and grave fools prevail. dry up your tears, and practice every grace, that fits the pageant of your royal place. [_exit._ _mel._ madam, the strange reverse of fate you see: i pitied you, now you may pity me. [_exit after him._ _ind._ poor princess! thy hard fate i could bemoan, had i not nearer sorrows of my own. beauty is seldom fortunate, when great: a vast estate, but overcharged with debt. like those, whom want to baseness does betray, i'm forced to flatter him, i cannot pay. o would he be content to seize the throne! i beg the life of aureng-zebe alone. whom heaven would bless, from pomp it will remove, and make their wealth in privacy and love. [_exit._ act iv. scene i. aureng-zebe _alone._ distrust, and darkness, of a future state, make poor mankind so fearful of their fate. death, in itself, is nothing; but we fear, to be we know not what, we know not where. [_soft music._ this is the ceremony of my fate: a parting treat; and i'm to die in state. they lodge me, as i were the persian king: and with luxuriant pomp my death they bring. _to him,_ nourmahal. _nour._ i thought, before you drew your latest breath, to smooth your passage, and to soften death; for i would have you, when you upward move, speak kindly of me, to our friends above: nor name me there the occasion of our fate; or what my interest does, impute to hate. _aur._ i ask not for what end your pomp's designed; whether to insult, or to compose my mind: i marked it not; but, knowing death would soon the assault begin, stood firm collected in my strength within: to guard that breach did all my forces guide, and left unmanned the quiet sense's side. _nour._ because morat from me his being took, all i can say will much suspected look: 'tis little to confess, your fate i grieve; yet more than you would easily believe. _aur._ since my inevitable death you know, you safely unavailing pity shew: 'tis popular to mourn a dying foe. _nour._ you made my liberty your late request; is no return due from a grateful breast? i grow impatient, 'till i find some way, great offices, with greater, to repay. _aur._ when i consider life, 'tis all a cheat; yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit; trust on, and think to-morrow will repay: to-morrow's falser than the former day; lies worse, and, while it says, we shall be blest with some new joys, cuts off what we possest. strange cozenage! none would live past years again, yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain; and, from the dregs of life, think to receive, what the first sprightly running could not give. i'm tired with waiting for this chemic gold, which fools us young, and beggars us when old. _nour._ 'tis not for nothing that we life pursue; it pays our hopes with something still that's new: each day's a mistress, unenjoyed before; like travellers, we're pleased with seeing more. did you but know what joys your way attend, you would not hurry to your journey's end. _aur._ i need not haste the end of life to meet; the precipice is just beneath my feet. _nour._ think not my sense of virtue is so small: i'll rather leap down first, and break your fall. my aureng-zebe, (may i not call you so?) [_taking him by the hand._ behold me now no longer for your foe; i am not, cannot be your enemy: look, is there any malice in my eye? pray, sit.-- [_both sit._ that distance shews too much respect, or fear; you'll find no danger in approaching near. _aur._ forgive the amazement of my doubtful state: this kindness from the mother of morat! or is't some angel, pitying what i bore, who takes that shape, to make my wonder more? _nour._ think me your better genius in disguise; or any thing that more may charm your eyes. your guardian angel never could excel in care, nor could he love his charge so well. _aur._ whence can proceed so wonderful a change? _nour._ can kindness to desert, like yours, be strange? kindness by secret sympathy is tied; for noble souls in nature are allied. i saw with what a brow you braved your fate; yet with what mildness bore your father's hate. my virtue, like a string, wound up by art to the same sound, when yours was touched, took part, at distance shook, and trembled at my heart. _aur._ i'll not complain, my father is unkind, since so much pity from a foe i find. just heaven reward this act! _nour._ 'tis well the debt no payment does demand; you turn me over to another hand. but happy, happy she, and with the blessed above to be compared, whom you yourself would, with yourself, reward: the greatest, nay, the fairest of her kind, would envy her that bliss, which you designed. _aur._ great princes thus, when favourites they raise, to justify their grace, their creatures praise. _nour._ as love the noblest passion we account, so to the highest object it should mount. it shews you brave when mean desires you shun; an eagle only can behold the sun: and so must you, if yet presage divine there be in dreams,--or was't a vision mine? _aur._ of me? _nour._ and who could else employ my thought? i dreamed, your love was by love's goddess sought; officious cupids, hovering o'er your head, held myrtle wreaths; beneath your feet were spread what sweets soe'er sabean springs disclose, our indian jasmine, or the syrian rose; the wanton ministers around you strove for service, and inspired their mother's love: close by your side, and languishing, she lies, with blushing cheeks, short breath, and wishing eyes upon your breast supinely lay her head, while on your face her famished sight she fed. then, with a sigh, into these words she broke, (and gathered humid kisses as she spoke) dull, and ungrateful! must i offer love? desired of gods, and envied even by jove: and dost thou ignorance or fear pretend? mean soul! and darest not gloriously offend? then, pressing thus his hand-- _aur._ i'll hear no more. [_rising up._ 'twas impious to have understood before: and i, till now, endeavoured to mistake the incestuous meaning, which too plain you make. _nour._ and why this niceness to that pleasure shewn, where nature sums up all her joys in one; gives all she can, and, labouring still to give, makes it so great, we can but taste and live: so fills the senses, that the soul seems fled, and thought itself does, for the time, lie dead; till, like a string screwed up with eager haste, it breaks, and is too exquisite to last? _aur._ heavens! can you this, without just vengeance, hear? when will you thunder, if it now be clear? yet her alone let not your thunder seize: i, too, deserve to die, because i please.[ ] _nour._ custom our native royalty does awe; promiscuous love is nature's general law: for whosoever the first lovers were, brother and sister made the second pair, and doubled, by their love, their piety. _aur._ hence, hence, and to some barbarous climate fly, which only brutes in human form does yield, and man grows wild in nature's common field. who eat their parents, piety pretend;[ ] yet there no sons their sacred bed ascend. to vail great sins, a greater crime you chuse; and, in your incest, your adultery lose. _nour._ in vain this haughty fury you have shewn. how i adore a soul, so like my own! you must be mine, that you may learn to live; know joys, which only she who loves can give. nor think that action you upbraid, so ill; i am not changed, i love my husband still[ ]; but love him as he was, when youthful grace, and the first down began to shade his face: that image does my virgin-flames renew, and all your father shines more bright in you. _aur._ in me a horror of myself you raise; cursed by your love, and blasted by your praise. you find new ways to prosecute my fate; and your least-guilty passion was your hate. _nour._ i beg my death, if you can love deny. [_offering him a dagger._ _aur._ i'll grant you nothing; no, not even to die. _nour._ know then, you are not half so kind as i. [_stamps with her foot._ _enter mutes, some with swords drawn, one with a cup._ you've chosen, and may now repent too late. behold the effect of what you wished,--my hate. [_taking the cup to present him._ this cup a cure for both our ills has brought; you need not fear a philtre in the draught. _aur._ all must be poison which can come from thee; [_receiving it from her._ but this the least. to immortal liberty this first i pour, like dying socrates; [_spilling a little of it._ grim though he be, death pleases, when he frees. _as he is going to drink, enter_ morat _attended._ _mor._ make not such haste, you must my leisure stay; your fate's deferred, you shall not die to-day. [_taking the cup from him._ _nour._ what foolish pity has possessed your mind, to alter what your prudence once designed? _mor._ what if i please to lengthen out his date a day, and take a pride to cozen fate? _nour._ 'twill not be safe to let him live an hour. _mor._ i'll do't, to show my arbitrary power. _nour._ fortune may take him from your hands again, and you repent the occasion lost in vain. _mor._ i smile at what your female fear foresees; i'm in fate's place, and dictate her decrees.-- let arimant be called. [_exit one of his attendants._ _aur._ give me the poison, and i'll end your strife; i hate to keep a poor precarious life. would i my safety on base terms receive, know, sir, i could have lived without your leave. but those i could accuse, i can forgive; by my disdainful silence, let them live. _nour._ what am i, that you dare to bind my hand? [_to_ morat. so low, i've not a murder at command! can you not one poor life to her afford, her, who gave up whole nations to your sword? and from the abundance of whose soul and heat, the o'erflowing served to make your mind so great? _mor._ what did that greatness in a woman's mind? ill lodged, and weak to act what it designed? pleasure's your portion, and your slothful ease: when man's at leisure, study how to please, soften his angry hours with servile care, and, when he calls, the ready feast prepare. from wars, and from affairs of state abstain; women emasculate a monarch's reign; and murmuring crowds, who see them shine with gold, that pomp, as their own ravished spoils, behold. _nour._ rage choaks my words: 'tis womanly to weep: [_aside._ in my swollen breast my close revenge i'll keep; i'll watch his tenderest part, and there strike deep. [_exit._ _aur._ your strange proceeding does my wonder move; yet seems not to express a brother's love. say, to what cause my rescued life i owe. _mor._ if what you ask would please, you should not know. but since that knowledge, more than death, will grieve, know, indamora gained you this reprieve. _aur._ and whence had she the power to work your change? _mor._ the power of beauty is not new or strange. should she command me more, i could obey; but her request was bounded with a day. take that; and, if you spare my farther crime, be kind, and grieve to death against your time. _enter_ arimant. remove this prisoner to some safer place: he has, for indamora's sake, found grace; and from my mother's rage must guarded be, till you receive a new command from me. _arim._ thus love, and fortune, persecute me still, and make me slave to every rival's will. [_aside._ _aur._ how i disdain a life, which i must buy with your contempt, and her inconstancy! for a few hours my whole content i pay: you shall not force on me another day. [_exit with_ ari. _enter_ melesinda. _mel._ i have been seeking you this hour's long space, and feared to find you in another place; but since you're here, my jealousy grows less: you will be kind to my unworthiness. what shall i say? i love to that degree, each glance another way is robbed from me. absence, and prisons, i could bear again; but sink, and die, beneath your least disdain. _mor._ why do you give your mind this needless care, and for yourself, and me, new pains prepare? i ne'er approved this passion in excess: if you would show your love, distrust me less. i hate to be pursued from place to place; meet, at each turn, a stale domestic face. the approach of jealousy love cannot bear; he's wild, and soon on wing, if watchful eyes come near. _mel._ from your loved presence how can i depart? my eyes pursue the object of my heart. _mor._ you talk as if it were our bridal night: fondness is still the effect of new delight, and marriage but the pleasure of a day: the metal's base, the gilding worn away. _mel._ i fear i'm guilty of some great offence, and that has bred this cold indifference. _mor._ the greatest in the world to flesh and blood: you fondly love much longer than you should. _mel._ if that be all which makes your discontent, of such a crime i never can repent. _mor._ would you force love upon me, which i shun? and bring coarse fare, when appetite is gone? _mel._ why did i not in prison die, before my fatal freedom made me suffer more? i had been pleased to think i died for you, and doubly pleased, because you then were true: then i had hope; but now, alas! have none. _mor._ you say you love me; let that love be shown. 'tis in your power to make my happiness. _mel._ speak quickly! to command me is to bless. _mor._ to indamora you my suit must move: you'll sure speak kindly of the man you love. _mel._ oh, rather let me perish by your hand, than break my heart, by this unkind command! think, 'tis the only one i could deny; and that 'tis harder to refuse, than die. try, if you please, my rival's heart to win; i'll bear the pain, but not promote the sin. you own whate'er perfections man can boast, and, if she view you with my eyes, she's lost. _mor._ here i renounce all love, all nuptial ties: henceforward live a stranger to my eyes: when i appear, see you avoid the place, and haunt me not with that unlucky face. _mel._ hard as it is, i this command obey, and haste, while i have life, to go away: in pity stay some hours, till i am dead, that blameless you may court my rival's bed. my hated face i'll not presume to show; yet i may watch your steps where'er you go. unseen, i'll gaze; and, with my latest breath, bless, while i die, the author of my death. [_weeping._ _enter emperor._ _emp._ when your triumphant fortune high appears, what cause can draw these unbecoming tears? let cheerfulness on happy fortune wait, and give not thus the counter-time to fate. _mel._ fortune long frowned, and has but lately smiled: i doubt a foe so newly reconciled. you saw but sorrow in its waning form, a working sea remaining from a storm; when the now weary waves roll o'er the deep, and faintly murmur ere they fall asleep. _emp._ your inward griefs you smother in your mind; but fame's loud voice proclaims your lord unkind. _mor._ let fame be busy, where she has to do; tell of fought fields, and every pompous show. those tales are fit to fill the people's ears; monarchs, unquestioned, move in higher spheres. _mel._ believe not rumour, but yourself; and see the kindness 'twixt my plighted lord and me. [_kissing_ morat. this is our state; thus happily we live; these are the quarrels which we take and give. i had no other way to force a kiss. [_aside to_ morat. forgive my last farewell to you and bliss. [_exit._ _emp._ your haughty carriage shows too much of scorn, and love, like hers, deserves not that return. _mor._ you'll please to leave me judge of what i do, and not examine by the outward show. your usage of my mother might be good: i judged it not. _emp._ nor was it fit you should. _mor._ then, in as equal balance weigh my deeds. _emp._ my right, and my authority, exceeds. suppose (what i'll not grant) injustice done; is judging me the duty of a son? _mor._ not of a son, but of an emperor: you cancelled duty when you gave me power. if your own actions on your will you ground, mine shall hereafter know no other bound. what meant you when you called me to a throne? was it to please me with a name alone? _emp._ 'twas that i thought your gratitude would know what to my partial kindness you did owe; that what your birth did to your claim deny, your merit of obedience might supply. _mor._ to your own thoughts such hope you might propose; but i took empire not on terms like those. of business you complained; now take your ease; enjoy whate'er decrepid age can please; eat, sleep, and tell long tales of what you were in flower of youth,--if any one will hear. _emp._ power, like new wine, does your weak brain surprise, and its mad fumes, in hot discourses, rise: but time these giddy vapours will remove; meanwhile, i'll taste the sober joys of love. _mor._ you cannot love nor pleasures take, or give; but life begin, when 'tis too late to live. on a tired courser you pursue delight, let slip your morning, and set out at night. if you have lived, take thankfully the past; make, as you can, the sweet remembrance last. if you have not enjoyed what youth could give, but life sunk through you, like a leaky sieve, accuse yourself, you lived not while you might; but, in the captive queen resign your right. i've now resolved to fill your useless place; i'll take that post, to cover your disgrace, and love her, for the honour of my race. _emp._ thou dost but try how far i can forbear, nor art that monster, which thou wouldst appear; but do not wantonly my passion move; i pardon nothing that relates to love. my fury does, like jealous forts, pursue with death, even strangers who but come to view. _mor._ i did not only view, but will invade. could you shed venom from your reverend shade, like trees, beneath whose arms 'tis death to sleep; did rolling thunder your fenced fortress keep, thence would i snatch my semele, like jove, and 'midst the dreadful wrack enjoy my love. _emp._ have i for this, ungrateful as thou art! when right, when nature, struggled in my heart; when heaven called on me for thy brother's claim, broke all, and sullied my unspotted fame? wert thou to empire, by my baseness, brought, and wouldst thou ravish what so dear i bought? dear! for my conscience and its peace i gave;-- why was my reason made my passion's slave? i see heaven's justice; thus the powers divine pay crimes with crimes, and punish mine by thine. _mor._ crimes let them pay, and punish as they please; what power makes mine, by power i mean to seize. since 'tis to that they their own greatness owe above, why should they question mine below? [_exit._ _emp._ prudence, thou vainly in our youth art sought, and, with age purchased, art too dearly bought: we're past the use of wit, for which we toil; late fruit, and planted in too cold a soil. my stock of fame is lavished and decayed; no profit of the vast profusion made. too late my folly i repent; i know my aureng-zebe would ne'er have used me so. but, by his ruin, i prepared my own; and, like a naked tree, my shelter gone, to winds and winter-storms must stand exposed alone. [_exit._ _enter_ aureng-zebe _and_ arimant. _arim._ give me not thanks, which i will ne'er deserve; but know, 'tis for a noble price i serve. by indamora's will you're hither brought: all my reward in her command i sought. the rest your letter tells you.--see, like light, she comes, and i must vanish, like the night. [_exit._ _enter_ indamora. _ind._ 'tis now, that i begin to live again; heavens, i forgive you all my fear and pain: since i behold my aureng-zebe appear, i could not buy him at a price too dear. his name alone afforded me relief, repeated as a charm to cure my grief. i that loved name did, as some god, invoke, and printed kisses on it, while i spoke. _aur._ short ease, but long, long pains from you i find; health, to my eyes; but poison, to my mind. why are you made so excellently fair? so much above what other beauties are, that, even in cursing, you new form my breath; and make me bless those eyes which give me death! _ind._ what reason for your curses can you find? my eyes your conquest, not your death, designed. if they offend, 'tis that they are too kind. _aur._ the ruins they have wrought, you will not see; too kind they are, indeed, but not to me. _ind._ think you, base interest souls like mine can sway? or that, for greatness, i can love betray? no, aureng-zebe, you merit all my heart, and i'm too noble but to give a part. your father, and an empire! am i known no more? or have so weak a judgment shown, in chusing you, to change you for a throne? _aur._ how, with a truth, you would a falsehood blind! 'tis not my father's love you have designed; your choice is fix'd where youth and power are join'd. _ind._ where youth and power are joined!--has he a name? _aur._ you would be told; you glory in your shame: there's music in the sound; and, to provoke your pleasure more, by me it must be spoke. then, then it ravishes, when your pleased ear the sound does from a wretched rival hear. morat's the name your heart leaps up to meet, while aureng-zebe lies dying at your feet. _ind._ who told you this? _aur._ are you so lost to shame? morat, morat, morat! you love the name so well, your every question ends in that; you force me still to answer you, morat. morat, who best could tell what you revealed; morat, too proud to keep his joy concealed. _ind._ howe'er unjust your jealousy appear, it shows the loss of what you love, you fear; and does my pity, not my anger move: i'll fond it, as the forward child of love. to show the truth of my unaltered breast, know, that your life was given at my request, at least reprieved. when heaven denied you aid, she brought it, she, whose falsehood you upbraid. _aur._ and 'tis by that you would your falsehood hide? had you not asked, how happy had i died! accurst reprieve! not to prolong my breath; it brought a lingering, and more painful death, i have not lived since first i heard the news; the gift the guilty giver does accuse. you knew the price, and the request did move, that you might pay the ransom with your love. _ind._ your accusation must, i see, take place;-- and am i guilty, infamous, and base? _aur._ if you are false, those epithets are small; you're then the things, the abstract of them all. and you are false: you promised him your love,-- no other price a heart so hard could move. do not i know him? could his brutal mind be wrought upon? could he be just, or kind? insultingly, he made your love his boast; gave me my life, and told me what it cost. speak; answer. i would fain yet think you true: lie; and i'll not believe myself, but you. tell me you love; i'll pardon the deceit, and, to be fooled, myself assist the cheat. _ind._ no; 'tis too late; i have no more to say: if you'll believe i have been false, you may. _aur._ i would not; but your crimes too plain appear: nay, even that i should think you true, you fear. did i not tell you, i would be deceived? _ind._ i'm not concerned to have my truth believed. you would be cozened! would assist the cheat! but i'm too plain to join in the deceit: i'm pleased you think me false, and, whatsoe'er my letter did pretend, i made this meeting for no other end. _aur._ kill me not quite, with this indifference! when you are guiltless, boast not an offence. i know you better than yourself you know: your heart was true, but did some frailty shew: you promised him your love, that i might live; but promised what you never meant to give. speak, was't not so? confess; i can forgive. _ind._ forgive! what dull excuses you prepare, as if your thoughts of me were worth my care! _aur._ ah traitress! ah ingrate! ah faithless mind! ah sex, invented first to damn mankind! nature took care to dress you up for sin; adorned, without; unfinished left, within. hence, by no judgment you your loves direct; talk much, ne'er think, and still the wrong affect. so much self-love in your composure's mixed, that love to others still remains unfixed: greatness, and noise, and shew, are your delight; yet wise men love you, in their own despite: and finding in their native wit no ease, are forced to put your folly on, to please. _ind._ now you shall know what cause you have to rage; but to increase your fury, not assuage: i found the way your brother's heart to move. yet promised not the least return of love. his pride and brutal fierceness i abhor; but scorn your mean suspicions of me more. i owed my honour and my fame this care: know what your folly lost you, and despair. [_turning from him._ _aur._ too cruelly your innocence you tell: shew heaven, and damn me to the pit of hell. now i believe you; 'tis not yet too late: you may forgive, and put a stop to fate; save me, just sinking, and no more to rise. [_she frowns._ how can you look with such relentless eyes? or let your mind by penitence be moved, or i'm resolved to think you never loved. you are not cleared, unless you mercy speak: i'll think you took the occasion thus to break. _ind._ small jealousies, 'tis true, inflame desire; too great, not fan, but quite blow out the fire: yet i did love you, till such pains i bore, that i dare trust myself and you no more. let me not love you; but here end my pain: distrust may make me wretched once again. now, with full sails, into the port i move, and safely can unlade my breast of love; quiet, and calm: why should i then go back, to tempt the second hazard of a wreck? _aur._ behold these dying eyes, see their submissive awe; these tears, which fear of death could never draw: heard you that sigh? from my heaved heart it past, and said,--"if you forgive not, 'tis my last." love mounts, and rolls about my stormy mind, like fire, that's borne by a tempestuous wind. oh, i could stifle you, with eager haste! devour your kisses with my hungry taste! rush on you! eat you! wander o'er each part, raving with pleasure, snatch you to my heart! then hold you off, and gaze! then, with new rage, invade you, till my conscious limbs presage torrents of joy, which all their banks o'erflow! so lost, so blest, as i but then could know! _ind._ be no more jealous! [_giving him her hand._ _aur._ give me cause no more: the danger's greater after, than before; if i relapse, to cure my jealousy, let me (for that's the easiest parting) die. _ind._ my life! _aur._ my soul! _ind._ my all that heaven can give! death's life with you; without you, death to live. _to them,_ arimant, _hastily._ _arim._ oh, we are lost, beyond all human aid! the citadel is to morat betrayed. the traitor, and the treason, known too late; the false abas delivered up the gate: even while i speak, we're compassed round with fate. the valiant cannot fight, or coward fly; but both in undistinguished crowds must die. _aur._ then my prophetic fears are come to pass: morat was always bloody; now, he's base: and has so far in usurpation gone, he will by parricide secure the throne. _to them, the emperor._ _emp._ am i forsaken, and betrayed, by all? not one brave man dare, with a monarch, fall? then, welcome death, to cover my disgrace! i would not live to reign o'er such a race. my aureng-zebe! [_seeing_ aureng-zebe. but thou no more art mine; my cruelty has quite destroyed the right i had in thee. i have been base, base even to him from whom i did receive all that a son could to a parent give: behold me punished in the self-same kind; the ungrateful does a more ungrateful find. _aur._ accuse yourself no more; you could not be ungrateful; could commit no crime to me. i only mourn my yet uncancelled score: you put me past the power of paying more. that, that's my grief, that i can only grieve, and bring but pity, where i would relieve; for had i yet ten thousand lives to pay, the mighty sum should go no other way. _emp._ can you forgive me? 'tis not fit you should. why will you be so excellently good? 'twill stick too black a brand upon my name: the sword is needless; i shall die with shame. what had my age to do with love's delight, shut out from all enjoyments but the sight? _arim._ sir, you forget the danger's imminent: this minute is not for excuses lent. _emp._ disturb me not;-- how can my latest hour be better spent? to reconcile myself to him is more, than to regain all i possessed before. empire and life are now not worth a prayer; his love, alone, deserves my dying care. _aur._ fighting for you, my death will glorious be. _ind._ seek to preserve yourself, and live for me. _arim._ lose then no farther time. heaven has inspired me with a sudden thought, whence your unhoped for safety may be wrought, though with the hazard of my blood 'tis bought. but since my life can ne'er be fortunate, 'tis so much sorrow well redeemed from fate. you, madam, must retire, (your beauty is its own security,) and leave the conduct of the rest to me. glory will crown my life, if i succeed; if not, she may afford to love me dead. [_aside._ _aur._ my father's kind, and, madam, you forgive; were heaven so pleased, i now could wish to live. and i shall live. with glory and with love, at once, i burn: i feel the inspiring heat, and absent god return. [_exeunt._ act v. scene i. indamora _alone._ _ind._ the night seems doubled with the fear she brings, and o'er the citadel new-spreads her wings. the morning, as mistaken, turns about, and all her early fires again go out. shouts, cries, and groans, first pierce my ears, and then a flash of lightning draws the guilty scene, and shows me arms, and wounds, and dying men. ah, should my aureng-zebe be fighting there, and envious winds, distinguished to my ear, his dying groans and his last accents bear! _to her,_ morat, _attended._ _mor._ the bloody business of the night is done, and, in the citadel, an empire won. our swords so wholly did the fates employ, that they, at length, grew weary to destroy, refused the work we brought, and, out of breath, made sorrow and despair attend for death. but what of all my conquest can i boast? my haughty pride, before your eyes, is lost: and victory but gains me to present that homage, which our eastern world has sent. _ind._ your victory, alas, begets my fears: can you not then triumph without my tears? resolve me; (for you know my destiny is aureng-zebes) say, do i live or die? _mor._ urged by my love, by hope of empire fired, 'tis true, i have performed what both required: what fate decreed; for when great souls are given, they bear the marks of sovereignty from heaven. my elder brothers my fore-runners came; rough-draughts of nature, ill designed, and lame: blown off, like blossoms never made to bear; till i came, finished, her last-laboured care. _ind._ this prologue leads to your succeeding sin: blood ended what ambition did begin. _mor._ 'twas rumour'd,--but by whom i cannot tell,-- my father 'scaped from out the citadel; my brother too may live. _ind._ he may? _mor._ he must: i kill'd him not: and a less fate's unjust. heaven owes it me, that i may fill his room, a phoenix-lover, rising from his tomb; in whom you'll lose your sorrows for the dead; more warm, more fierce, and fitter for your bed. _ind._ should i from aureng-zebe my heart divide, to love a monster, and a parricide? these names your swelling titles cannot hide. severe decrees may keep our tongues in awe; but to our thoughts, what edict can give law? even you yourself, to your own breast, shall tell your crimes; and your own conscience be your hell. _mor._ what business has my conscience with a crown? she sinks in pleasures, and in bowls will drown. if mirth should fail, i'll busy her with cares, silence her clamorous voice with louder wars: trumpets and drums shall fright her from the throne, as sounding cymbals aid the labouring moon. _ind._ repelled by these, more eager she will grow, spring back more strongly than a scythian bow. amidst your train, this unseen judge will wait; examine how you came by all your state; upbraid your impious pomp; and, in your ear, will hollow,--"rebel, tyrant, murderer!" your ill-got power wan looks and care shall bring, known but by discontent to be a king. of crowds afraid, yet anxious when alone, you'll sit and brood your sorrows on a throne. _mor._ birth-right's a vulgar road to kingly sway; 'tis every dull-got elder brother's way. dropt from above, he lights into a throne; grows of a piece with that he sits upon; heaven's choice, a low, inglorious, rightful drone. but who by force a sceptre does obtain, shows he can govern that, which he could gain. right comes of course, whate'er he was before; murder and usurpation are no more. _ind._ by your own laws you such dominion make, as every stronger power has right to take: and parricide will so deform your name, that dispossessing you will give a claim. who next usurps, will a just prince appear, so much your ruin will his reign endear. _mor._ i without guilt would mount the royal seat; but yet 'tis necessary to be great. _ind._ all greatness is in virtue understood: 'tis only necessary to be good. tell me, what is't at which great spirits aim, what most yourself desire? _mor._ renown and fame, and power, as uncontrouled as is my will. _ind._ how you confound desires of good and ill. for true renown is still with virtue joined; but lust of power lets loose the unbridled mind. yours is a soul irregularly great, which, wanting temper, yet abounds with heat, so strong, yet so unequal pulses beat; a sun, which does, through vapours, dimly shine; what pity 'tis, you are not all divine! new moulded, thorough lightened, and a breast so pure, to bear the last severest test; fit to command an empire you should gain by virtue, and without a blush to reign. _mor._ you show me somewhat i ne'er learnt before; but 'tis the distant prospect of a shore, doubtful in mists; which, like enchanted ground, flies from my sight, before 'tis fully found. _ind._ dare to be great, without a guilty crown; view it, and lay the bright temptation down: 'tis base to seize on all, because you may; that's empire, that, which i can give away: there's joy when to wild will you laws prescribe, when you bid fortune carry back her bribe: a joy, which none but greatest minds can taste; a fame, which will to endless ages last. _mor._ renown, and fame, in vain, i courted long, and still pursued them, though directed wrong. in hazard, and in toils, i heard they lay; sailed farther than the coast, but missed my way: now you have given me virtue for my guide; and, with true honour, ballasted my pride. unjust dominion i no more pursue; i quit all other claims, but those to you. _ind._ oh be not just by halves! pay all you owe: think there's a debt to melesinda too. to leave no blemish on your after-life, reward the virtue of a suffering wife. _mor._ to love, once past, i cannot backward move; call yesterday again, and i may love. 'twas not for nothing i the crown resigned; i still must own a mercenary mind; i, in this venture, double gains pursue, and laid out all my stock, to purchase you. _to them,_ asaph chan. now, what success? does aureng-zebe yet live? _asaph._ fortune has given you all that she can give. your brother-- _mor._ hold; thou showest an impious joy, and think'st i still take pleasure to destroy: know, i am changed, and would not have him slain. _asaph._ 'tis past; and you desire his life in vain. he, prodigal of soul, rushed on the stroke of lifted weapons, and did wounds provoke: in scorn of night, he would not be concealed; his soldiers, where he fought, his name revealed. in thickest crowds, still aureng-zebe did sound; the vaulted roofs did aureng-zebe rebound; till late, and in his fall, the name was drowned. _ind._ wither that hand which brought him to his fate, and blasted be the tongue which did relate! _asaph._ his body-- _mor._ cease to enhance her misery: pity the queen, and show respect to me. 'tis every painter's art to hide from sight, and cast in shades, what, seen, would not delight.-- your grief in me such sympathy has bred, [_to her._ i mourn, and wish i could recal the dead. love softens me; and blows up fires, which pass through my tough heart, and melt the stubborn mass. _ind._ break, heart; or choak, with sobs, my hated breath! do thy own work: admit no foreign death. alas! why do i make this useless moan? i'm dead already, for my soul is gone. _to them,_ mir baba. _mir._ what tongue the terror of this night can tell, within, without, and round the citadel! a new-formed faction does your power oppose; the fight's confused, and all who meet are foes: a second clamour, from the town, we hear; and the far noise so loud, it drowns the near. abas, who seemed our friend, is either fled, or, what we fear, our enemies does head: your frighted soldiers scarce their ground maintain. _mor._ i thank their fury; we shall fight again: they rouse my rage; i'm eager to subdue: 'tis fatal to with-hold my eyes from you. [_exit with the two omrahs._ _enter_ melesinda. _mel._ can misery no place of safety know? the noise pursues me wheresoe'er i go, as fate sought only me, and, where i fled, aimed all its darts at my devoted head. and let it; i am now past care of life; the last of women; an abandoned wife. _ind._ whether design or chance has brought you here, i stand obliged to fortune, or to fear: weak women should, in danger, herd like deer. but say, from whence this new combustion springs? are there yet more morats? more fighting kings? _mel._ him from his mother's love your eyes divide, and now her arms the cruel strife decide. _ind._ what strange misfortunes my vext life attend! death will be kind, and all my sorrows end. if nourmahal prevail, i know my fate. _mel._ i pity, as my own, your hard estate: but what can my weak charity afford? i have no longer interest in my lord: nor in his mother, he: she owns her hate aloud, and would herself usurp the state. _ind._ i'm stupified with sorrow, past relief of tears; parched up, and withered with my grief. _mel._ dry mourning will decays more deadly bring, as a north wind burns a too forward spring. give sorrow vent, and let the sluices go. _ind._ my tears are all congealed, and will not flow. _mel._ have comfort; yield not to the blows of fate. _ind._ comfort, like cordials after death, comes late. name not so vain a word; my hopes are fled: think your morat were kind, and think him dead. _mel._ i can no more-- can no more arguments, for comfort, find: your boding words have quite o'erwhelmed my mind. [_clattering of weapons within._ _ind._ the noise increases, as the billows roar, when rolling from afar they threat the shore. she comes; and feeble nature now, i find, shrinks back in danger, and forsakes my mind. i wish to die, yet dare not death endure; detest the medicine, yet desire the cure. i would have death; but mild, and at command: i dare not trust him in another's hand. in nourmahal's, he would not mine appear; but armed with terror, and disguised with fear. _mel._ beyond this place you can have no retreat: stay here, and i the danger will repeat. i fear not death, because my life i hate; and envious death will shun the unfortunate. _ind._ you must not venture. _mel._ let me: i may do myself a kindness, in obliging you. in your loved name, i'll seek my angry lord; and beg your safety from his conquering sword: so his protection all your fears will ease, and i shall see him once, and not displease. [_exit._ _ind._ o wretched queen! what power thy life can save? a stranger, and unfriended, and a slave! _enter_ nourmahal, zayda, _and_ abas, _with soldiers._ alas, she's here! [indamora _retires._ _nour._ heartless they fought, and quitted soon their ground, while ours with easy victory were crowned. to you, abas, my life and empire too, and, what's yet dearer, my revenge, i owe. _abas._ the vain morat, by his own rashness wrought, too soon discovered his ambitious thought; believed me his, because i spoke him fair, and pitched his head into the ready snare: hence 'twas i did his troops at first admit; but such, whose numbers could no fears beget: by them the emperor's party first i slew, then turned my arms the victors to subdue. _nour._ now let the head-strong boy my will controul! virtue's no slave of man; no sex confines the soul: i, for myself, the imperial seat will gain, and he shall wait my leisure for his reign.-- but aureng-zebe is no where to be found, and now, perhaps, in death's cold arms he lies! i fought, and conquered, yet have lost the prize. _zayd._ the chance of war determined well the strife, that racked you, 'twixt the lover and the wife. he's dead, whose love had sullied all your reign, and made you empress of the world in vain. _nour._ no; i my power and pleasure would divide: the drudge had quenched my flames, and then had died. i rage, to think without that bliss i live, that i could wish what fortune would not give: but, what love cannot, vengeance must supply; she, who bereaved me of his heart, shall die. _zayd._ i'll search: far distant hence she cannot be. [_goes in._ _nour._ this wondrous master-piece i fain would see; this fatal helen, who can wars inspire, make kings her slaves, and set the world on fire. my husband locked his jewel from my view; or durst not set the false one by the true. _re-enter_ zayda, _leading_ indamora. _zayd._ your frighted captive, ere she dies, receive; her soul's just going else, without your leave. _nour._ a fairer creature did my eyes ne'er see! sure she was formed by heaven, in spite to me! some angel copied, while i slept, each grace, and moulded every feature from my face. such majesty does from her forehead rise, her cheeks such blushes cast, such rays her eyes, nor i, nor envy, can a blemish find.-- the palace is, without, too well designed: conduct me in, for i will view thy mind. [_to her._ speak, if thou hast a soul, that i may see, if heaven can make, throughout, another me. _ind._ my tears and miseries must plead my cause; [_kneeling._ my words, the terror of your presence awes: mortals, in sight of angels, mute become; the nobler nature strikes the inferior dumb. _nour._ the palm is, by the foe's confession, mine; but i disdain what basely you resign. heaven did, by me, the outward model build; its inward work, the soul, with rubbish filled. yet, oh! the imperfect piece moves more delight; 'tis gilded o'er with youth, to catch the sight. the gods have poorly robbed my virgin bloom, and what i am, by what i was, o'ercome. traitress! restore my beauty and my charms, nor steal my conquest with my proper arms. _ind._ what have i done thus to inflame your hate? i am not guilty, but unfortunate. _nour._ not guilty, when thy looks my power betray, seduce mankind, my subject, from my sway, take all my hearts and all my eyes away? my husband first; but that i could forgive; he only moved, and talked, but did not live. my aureng-zebe!--for i dare own the name, the glorious sin, and the more glorious flame,-- him from my beauty have thy eyes misled, and starved the joys of my expected bed. _ind._ his love so sought, he's happy that he's dead. o had i courage but to meet my fate, that short dark passage to a future state, that melancholy riddle of a breath! _nour._ that something, or that nothing, after death: take this, and teach thyself. [_giving a dagger._ _ind._ alas! _nour._ why dost thou shake? dishonour not the vengeance i designed: a queen, and own a base plebeian mind! let it drink deep in thy most vital part; strike home, and do me reason in thy heart. _ind._ i dare not. _nour._ do't, while i stand by and see, at my full gust, without the drudgery. i love a foe, who dares my stroke prevent, who gives me the full scene of my content; shows me the flying soul's convulsive strife, and all the anguish of departing life. disdain my mercy, and my rage defy; curse me with thy last breath, and make me see a spirit, worthy to have rivalled me. _ind._ oh, i desire to die, but dare not yet! give me some respite, i'll discharge the debt. without my aureng-zebe i would not live. _nour._ thine, traitress! thine! that word has winged thy fate, and put me past the tedious forms of hate: i'll kill thee with such eagerness and haste, as fiends, let loose, would lay all nature waste. [indamora _runs back: as_ nourmahal _is running to her, clashing of swords is heard within._ _sold._ yield, you're o'erpowered: resistance is in vain. [_within._ _mor._ then death's my choice: submission i disdain. [_within._ _nour._ retire, ye slaves! ah, whither does he run [_at the door._ on pointed swords? disarm, but save my son. _enter_ morat _staggering, and upheld by soldiers._ _mor._ she lives! and i shall see her once again! i have not thrown away my life in vain. [_catches hold of_ indamora's _gown, and falls by her: she sits._ i can no more; yet even in death i find my fainting body biassed by my mind: i fall toward you; still my contending soul points to your breast, and trembles to its pole. _to them_ melesinda, _hastily casting herself on the other side of_ morat. _mel._ ah woe, woe, woe! the worst of woes i find! live still; oh live; live e'en to be unkind!-- with half-shut eyes he seeks the doubtful day; but, ah! he bends his sight another way. he faints! and in that sigh his soul is gone; yet heaven's unmoved, yet heaven looks careless on. _nour._ where are those powers which monarchs should defend? or do they vain authority pretend o'er human fates, and their weak empire show, which cannot guard their images below? if, as their image, he was not divine, they ought to have respected him as mine. i'll waken them with my revenge; and she, their indamora, shall my victim be, and helpless heaven shall mourn in vain, like me. [_as she is going to stab_ indamora, morat _raises himself, and holds her hand._ _mor._ ah, what are we, who dare maintain with heaven this wretched strife, puft with the pride of heaven's own gift, frail life? that blast which my ambitious spirit swelled, see by how weak a tenure it was held! i only stay to save the innocent; oh envy not my soul its last content! _ind._ no, let me die; i'm doubly summoned now; first by my aureng-zebe, and since by you. my soul grows hardy, and can death endure; your convoy makes the dangerous way secure. _mel._ let me at least a funeral marriage crave, nor grudge my cold embraces in the grave. i have too just a title in the strife; by me, unhappy me, he lost his life: i called him hither, 'twas my fatal breath, and i the screech-owl that proclaimed his death. [_shout within._ _abas._ what new alarms are these? i'll haste and see. [_exit._ _nour._ look up and live; an empire shall be thine. _mor._ that i condemned, even when i thought it mine.-- oh, i must yield to my hard destinies, [_to_ ind. and must for ever cease to see your eyes! _mel._ ah turn your sight to me, my dearest lord! can you not one, one parting look afford? even so unkind in death:--but 'tis in vain; i lose my breath, and to the winds complain. yet 'tis as much in vain your cruel scorn; still i can love, without this last return. nor fate, nor you, can my vowed faith controul; dying, i follow your disdainful soul: a ghost, i'll haunt your ghost; and, where you go, with mournful murmurs fill the plains below. _mor._ be happy, melesinda; cease to grieve, and for a more deserving husband live:-- can you forgive me? _mel._ can i! oh, my heart! have i heard one kind word before i part? i can, i can forgive: is that a task to love like mine? are you so good to ask! one kiss--oh, 'tis too great a blessing this! [_kisses him._ i would not live to violate the bliss, _re-enter_ abas. _abas._ some envious devil has ruined us yet more: the fort's revolted to the emperor; the gates are opened, the portcullis drawn, and deluges of armies from the town come pouring in: i heard the mighty flaw, when first it broke; the crowding ensigns saw, which choked the passage; and, what least i feared, the waving arms of aureng-zebe appeared, displayed with your morat's: in either's flag the golden serpents bear erected crests alike, like volumes rear, and mingle friendly hissings in the air. their troops are joined, and our destruction nigh. _neur._ 'tis vain to fight, and i disdain to fly. i'll mock the triumphs which our foes intend, and spite of fortune, make a glorious end. in poisonous draughts my liberty i'll find, and from the nauseous world set free my mind. [_exit._ _at the other end of the stage enter_ aureng-zebe, dianet, _and attendants._ aureng-zebe _turns back, and speaks entering._ _aur._ the lives of all, who cease from combat, spare; my brother's be your most peculiar care: our impious use no longer shall obtain; brothers no more by brothers shall be slain.-- [_seeing_ indamora _and_ morat. ha! do i dream? is this my hoped success? i grow a statue, stiff and motionless. look, dianet; for i dare not trust these eyes; they dance in mists, and dazzle with surprise. _dia._ sir, 'tis morat; dying he seems, or dead; and indamora's hand-- _aur._ supports his head. [_sighing._ thou shalt not break yet, heart, nor shall she know my inward torments by my outward show: to let her see my weakness were too base; dissembled quiet sit upon my face: my sorrow to my eyes no passage find, but let it inward sink, and drown my mind. falsehood shall want its triumph: i begin to stagger, but i'll prop myself within. the specious tower no ruin shall disclose, till down at once the mighty fabric goes, _mor._ in sign that i die yours, reward my love, [_to_ ind. and seal my passport to the blessed above. [_kissing her hand._ _ind._ oh stay; or take me with you when you go; there's nothing now worth living for below. _mor._ i leave you not; for my expanded mind grows up to heaven, while it to you is joined: not quitting, but enlarged! a blazing fire, fed from the brand. [_dies._ _mel._ ah me! he's gone! i die! [_swoons._ _ind._ oh, dismal day! fate, thou hast ravished my last hope away! [_she turns, and sees_ aureng-zebe _standing by her, and starts._ o heaven! my aureng-zebe--what strange surprise! or does my willing mind delude my eyes, and shows the figure always present there? or liv'st thou? am i blessed, and see thee here? _aur._ my brother's body see conveyed with care, [_turning from her, to her attendants._ where we may royal sepulture prepare. with speed to melesinda bring relief: recal her spirits, and moderate her grief-- [_half turning to_ ind. i go, to take for ever from your view, both the loved object, and the hated too. [_going away after the bodies, which are carried off._ _ind._ hear me! yet think not that i beg your stay; [_laying hold of him._ i will be heard, and, after, take your way. go; but your late repentance shall be vain: [_he struggles still: she lets him go._ i'll never, never see your face again. [_turning away._ _aur._ madam, i know whatever you can say: you might be pleased not to command my stay. all things are yet disordered in the fort; i must crave leave your audience may be short. _ind._ you need not fear i shall detain you long: yet you may tell me your pretended wrong. _aur._ is that the business? then my stay is vain. _ind._ how are you injured? _aur._ when did i complain? _ind._ leave off your forced respect, and show your rage in its most furious form: i'm armed with innocence to brave the storm. you heard, perhaps, your brother's last desire, and, after, saw him in my arms expire; saw me, with tears, so great a loss, bemoan; heard me complaining my last hopes were gone. _aur._ "oh stay, or take me with you when you go, there's nothing now worth living for below." unhappy sex! whose beauty is your snare: exposed to trials; made too frail to bear. i grow a fool, and show my rage again: 'tis nature's fault; and why should i complain? _ind._ will you yet hear me? _aur._ yes, till you relate what powerful motives did your change create. you thought me dead, and prudently did weigh tears were but vain, and brought but youth's decay. then, in morat, your hopes a crown designed; and all the woman worked within your mind.-- i rave again, and to my rage return, to be again subjected to your scorn. _ind._ i wait till this long storm be over-blown. _aur._ i'm conscious of my folly: i have done.-- i cannot rail; but silently i'll grieve. how did i trust! and how did you deceive! oh, arimant, would i had died for thee! i dearly buy thy generosity. _ind._ alas, is he then dead? _aur._ unknown to me, he took my arms; and, while i forced my way through troops of foes, which did our passage stay, my buckler o'er my aged father cast, still fighting, still defending as i past, the noble arimant usurped my name; fought, and took from me, while he gave me, fame. to aureng-zebe, he made his soldiers cry, and, seeing not, where he heard danger nigh, shot, like a star, through the benighted sky, a short, but mighty aid: at length he fell. my own adventures 'twere lost time to tell; or how my army, entering in the night, surprised our foes; the dark disordered fight: how my appearance, and my father shown, made peace; and all the rightful monarch own. i've summed it briefly, since it did relate the unwelcome safety of the man you hate. _ind._ as briefly will i clear my innocence: your altered brother died in my defence. those tears you saw, that tenderness i showed, were just effects of grief and gratitude. he died my convert. _aur._ but your lover too: i heard his words, and did your actions view; you seemed to mourn another lover dead: my sighs you gave him, and my tears you shed. but, worst of all, your gratitude for his defence was shown: it proved you valued life, when i was gone. _ind._ not that i valued life, but feared to die: think that my weakness, not inconstancy. _aur._ fear showed you doubted of your own intent: and she, who doubts, becomes less innocent. tell me not you could fear; fear's a large promiser; who subject live to that base passion, know not what they give. no circumstance of grief you did deny; and what could she give more, who durst not die? _ind._ my love, my faith. _aur._ both so adulterate grown, when mixed with fear, they never could be known. i wish no ill might her i love befal; but she ne'er loved, who durst not venture all. her life and fame should my concernment be; but she should only be afraid for me. _ind._ my heart was yours; but, oh! you left it here, abandoned to those tyrants, hope and fear; if they forced from me one kind look, or word, could you not that, not that small part afford? _aur._ if you had loved, you nothing yours could call; giving the least of mine, you gave him all. true love's a miser; so tenacious grown, he weighs to the least grain of what's his own; more delicate than honour's nicest sense, neither to give nor take the least offence. with, or without you, i can have no rest: what shall i do? you're lodged within my breast: your image never will be thence displaced; but there it lies, stabbed, mangled, and defaced. _ind._ yet to restore the quiet of your heart, there's one way left. _aur._ oh, name it. _ind._ 'tis to part. since perfect bliss with me you cannot prove, i scorn to bless by halves the man i love. _aur._ now you distract me more: shall then the day, which views my triumph, see our loves decay? must i new bars to my own joy create? refuse myself what i had forced from fate? what though i am not loved? reason's nice taste does our delights destroy: brutes are more blessed, who grossly feed on joy. _ind._ such endless jealousies your love pursue, i can no more be fully blessed than you. i therefore go, to free us both from pain: i prized your person, but your crown disdain. nay, even my own-- i give it you; for, since i cannot call your heart my subject, i'll not reign at all. [_exit._ _aur._ go: though thou leav'st me tortured on the rack, 'twixt shame and pride, i cannot call thee back.-- she's guiltless, and i should submit; but oh! when she exacts it, can i stoop so low? yes; for she's guiltless; but she's haughty too. great souls long struggle ere they own a crime: she's gone; and leaves me no repenting time. i'll call her now; sure, if she loves, she'll stay; linger at least, or not go far away. [_looks to the door, and returns._ for ever lost! and i repent too late. my foolish pride would set my whole estate, till, at one throw, i lost all back to fate. _to him the emperor, drawing in_ indamora: _attendants._ _emp._ it must not be, that he, by whom we live, should no advantage of his gift receive. should he be wholly wretched? he alone, in this blessed day, a day so much his own? [_to_ ind. i have not quitted yet a victor's right: i'll make you happy in your own despite. i love you still; and, if i struggle hard to give, it shows the worth of the reward. _ind._ suppose he has o'ercome; must i find place among his conquered foes, and sue for grace? be pardoned, and confess i loved not well? what though none live my innocence to tell, i know it: truth may own a generous pride: i clear myself, and care for none beside. _aur._ oh, indamora, you would break my heart! could you resolve, on any terms, to part? i thought your love eternal: was it tied so loosely, that a quarrel could divide? i grant that my suspicions were unjust; but would you leave me, for a small distrust? forgive those foolish words-- [_kneeling to her._ they were the froth my raging folly moved, when it boiled up: i knew not then i loved; yet then loved most. _ind._ [_to_ aur.] you would but half be blest! [_giving her hand, smiling._ _aur._ oh do but try my eager love: i'll give myself the lie. the very hope is a full happiness, yet scantly measures what i shall possess. fancy itself, even in enjoyment, is but a dumb judge, and cannot tell its bliss. _emp._ her eyes a secret yielding do confess, and promise to partake your happiness. may all the joys i did myself pursue, be raised by her, and multiplied on you! _a procession of priests, slaves following, and, last,_ melesinda _in white._ _ind._ alas! what means this pomp? _aur._ 'tis the procession of a funeral vow, which cruel laws to indian wives allow, when fatally their virtue they approve; cheerful in flames, and martyrs of their love. _ind._ oh, my foreboding heart! the event i fear: and see! sad melesinda does appear. _mel._ you wrong my love; what grief do i betray? this is the triumph of my nuptial day, my better nuptials; which, in spite of fate, for ever join me to my dear morat. now i am pleased; my jealousies are o'er: he's mine; and i can lose him now no more. _emp._ let no false show of fame, your reason blind. _ind._ you have no right to die; he was not kind. _mel._ had he been kind, i could no love have shown: each vulgar virtue would as much have done. my love was such, it needed no return; but could, though he supplied no fuel, burn. rich in itself, like elemental fire, whose pureness does no aliment require. in vain you would bereave me of my lord; for i will die:--die is too base a word, i'll seek his breast, and, kindling by his side, adorned with flames, i'll mount a glorious bride. [_exit._ _enter_ nourmahal, _distracted, with_ zayda. _zay._ she's lost, she's lost! but why do i complain, for her, who generously did life disdain! poisoned, she raves-- the envenomed body does the soul attack; the envenomed soul works its own poison back. _nour._ i burn, i more than burn; i am all fire. see how my mouth and nostrils flame expire! i'll not come near myself-- now i'm a burning lake, it rolls and flows; i'll rush, and pour it all upon my foes. pull, pull that reverend piece of timber near: throw't on--'tis dry--'twill burn-- ha, ha! how my old husband crackles there! keep him down, keep him down; turn him about: i know him,--he'll but whiz, and strait go out. fan me, you winds: what, not one breath of air? i'll burn them all, and yet have flames to spare. quench me: pour on whole rivers. 'tis in vain: morat stands there to drive them back again: with those huge billows in his hands, he blows new fire into my head: my brain-pan glows. see! see! there's aureng-zebe too takes his part; but he blows all his fire into my heart[ ]. _aur._ alas, what fury's this? _nour._ that's he, that's he! [_staring upon him, and catching at him._ i know the dear man's voice: and this my rival, this the cursed she. they kiss; into each other's arms they run: close, close, close! must i see, and must have none? thou art not hers: give me that eager kiss. ungrateful! have i lost morat for this? will you?--before my face?--poor helpless i see all, and have my hell before i die! [_sinks down._ _emp._ with thy last breath thou hast thy crimes confest: farewell; and take, what thou ne'er gav'st me, rest. but you, my son, receive it better here: [_giving him_ indamora's _hand._ the just rewards of love and honour wear. receive the mistress, you so long have served; receive the crown, your loyalty preserved. take you the reins, while i from cares remove, and sleep within the chariot which i drove. [_exeunt._ footnotes: . --_magne regnator deum, tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides? ecquando sæva fulmen emittes manu, si nunc serenum est? --me velox cremet, transactus ignis. sum nocens, merui mori, placui novercæ._--hippolitus apud senecam. see langbaine, on this play. . in dryden's time it was believed, that some indian tribes devoured the bodies of their parents; affirming, they could shew no greater mark of respect, than to incorporate their remains with their own substance. . langbaine traces this speech also to seneca's hippolitus. _--thesei vultus amo; illos priores quos tulit quondam puer, cum prima puras barba signaret genas._ . i wish the duty of an editor had permitted me to omit this extravagant and ludicrous rhapsody. epilogue a pretty task! and so i told the fool, who needs would undertake to please by rule: he thought, that if his characters were good, the scenes entire, and freed from noise and blood; the action great, yet circumscribed by time, the words not forced, but sliding into rhyme, the passions raised, and calm by just degrees, as tides are swelled, and then retire to seas; he thought, in hitting these, his business done, though he, perhaps, has failed in every one: but, after all, a poet must confess, his art's like physic, but a happy guess. your pleasure on your fancy must depend: the lady's pleased, just as she likes her friend. no song! no dance! no show! he fears you'll say: you love all naked beauties, but a play. he much mistakes your methods to delight; and, like the french, abhors our target-fight: but those damned dogs can ne'er be in the right. true english hate your monsieur's paltry arts, for you are all silk-weavers in your hearts[ ]. bold britons, at a brave bear-garden fray, are roused: and, clattering sticks, cry,--play, play, play![ ] meantime, your filthy foreigner will stare, and mutters to himself,--_ha! gens barbare!_ and, gad, 'tis well he mutters; well for him; our butchers else would tear him limb from limb. 'tis true, the time may come, your sons may be infected with this french civility: but this, in after ages will be done: our poet writes an hundred years too soon. this age comes on too slow, or he too fast: and early springs are subject to a blast! who would excel, when few can make a test betwixt indifferent writing and the best? for favours, cheap and common, who would strive, which, like abandoned prostitutes, you give? yet, scattered here and there, i some behold, who can discern the tinsel from the gold: to these he writes; and, if by them allowed, 'tis their prerogative to rule the crowd. for he more fears, like a presuming man, their votes who cannot judge, than theirs who can. footnotes: . enemies, namely, like the english silk-weavers to the manufactures of france. . alluding to the prize-fighting with broad-swords at the bear-garden: an amusement sufficiently degrading, yet more manly, and less brutal than that of boxing, as now practised. we have found, in the lowest deep, a lower still. * * * * * all for love; or, the world well lost. a tragedy. all for love. the prologue to the preceding play has already acquainted us, that dryden's taste for rhyming, or heroic plays, was then upon the wane; and, accordingly "aureng-zebe" was the last tragedy which he formed upon that once admired model. "henceforth a series of new times began," for, when given up by the only writer, whose command of flowing and powerful numbers had rendered it impressive, that department of the drama was soon abandoned by the inferior class of play-writers, to whom it presented multiplied difficulties, without a single advantage. the new taste, which our author had now decidedly adopted, was founded upon the stile of shakespeare, of whose works he appears always to have been a persevering student, and, at length, an ardent admirer. accordingly, he informs us, in the introduction, that this play is professedly written in imitation of "the divine shakespeare." as if to bring this more immediately under the eye of the reader, he has chosen a subject upon which his immortal original had already laboured; and, perhaps, the most proper introduction to "all for love" may be a parallel betwixt it and shakespeare's "antony and cleopatra." the first point of comparison is the general conduct, or plot, of the tragedy. and here dryden, having, to use his own language, undertaken to shoot in the bow of ulysses, imitates the wily antinous in using art to eke out his strength, and suppling the weapon before he attempted to bend it. shakespeare, with the license peculiar to his age and character, had diffused the action of his play over italy, greece, and egypt; but dryden, who was well aware of the advantage to be derived from a simplicity and concentration of plot, has laid every scene in the city of alexandria. by this he guarded the audience from that vague and puzzling distraction which must necessarily attend a violent change of place. it is a mistake to suppose, that the argument in favour of the unities depends upon preserving the deception of the scene; they are necessarily connected with the intelligibility of the piece. it may be true, that no spectator supposes that the stage before him is actually the court of alexandria; yet, when he has once made up his mind to let it pass as such during the representation, it is a cruel tax, not merely on his imagination, but on his powers of comprehension, if the scene be suddenly transferred to a distant country. time is lost before he can form new associations, and reconcile their bearings with those originally presented to him, and if he be a person of slow comprehension, or happens to lose any part of the dialogue, announcing the changes, the whole becomes unintelligible confusion. in this respect, and in discarding a number of uninteresting characters, the plan of dryden's play must be unequivocally preferred to that of shakespeare in point of coherence, unity, and simplicity. it is a natural consequence of this more artful arrangement of the story, that dryden contents himself with the concluding scene of antony's history instead of introducing the incidents of the war with cneius pompey, the negociation with lepidus, death of his first wife, and other circumstances, which, in shakespeare, only tend to distract our attention from the main interest of the drama. the union of time, as necessary as that of place to the intelligibility of the drama, has, in like manner, been happily attained; and an interesting event is placed before the audience with no other change of place, and no greater lapse of time, than can be readily adapted to an ordinary imagination. but, having given dryden the praise of superior address in managing the story, i fear he must be pronounced in most other respects inferior to his grand prototype. antony, the principal character in both plays, is incomparably grander in that of shakespeare. the majesty and generosity of the military hero is happily expressed by both poets; but the awful ruin of grandeur, undermined by passion, and tottering to its fall, is far more striking in the antony of shakespeare. love, it is true, is the predominant; but it is not the sole ingredient in his character. it has usurped possession of his mind, but is assailed by his original passions, ambition of power, and thirst for military fame. he is, therefore, often, and it should seem naturally represented, as feeling for the downfall of his glory and power, even so intensely as to withdraw his thoughts from cleopatra, unless considered as the cause of his ruin. thus, in the scene in which he compares himself to "black vesper's pageants," he runs on in a train of fantastic and melancholy similes, having relation only to his fallen state, till the mention of egypt suddenly recalls the idea of cleopatra. but dryden has taken a different view of antony's character, and more closely approaching to his title of "all for love."--"he seems not now that awful antony." his whole thoughts and being are dedicated to his fatal passion; and though a spark of resentment is occasionally struck out by the reproaches of ventidius, he instantly relapses into love-sick melancholy. the following beautiful speech exhibits the romance of despairing love, without the deep and mingled passion of a dishonoured soldier, and dethroned emperor: _ant._ [_throwing himself down._] lie there, thou shadow of an emperor; the place, thou pressest on thy mother earth, is all thy empire now: now, it contains thee; some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large, when thou'rt contracted in the narrow urn, shrunk to a few cold ashes; then, octavia, for cleopatra will not live to see it, octavia then will have thee all her own, and bear thee in her widowed hand to cæsar; cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep, to see his rival of the universe lie still and peaceful there. i'll think no more on't. give me some music; look that it be sad: i'll sooth my melancholy, 'till i swell, and burst myself with sighing-- [_soft music._ 'tis somewhat to my humour: stay, i fancy i'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature; of all forsaken, and forsaking all; live in a shady forest's sylvan scene, stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak, i lean my head upon the mossy bark, and look just of a piece, as i grew from it: my uncombed locks, matted like misletoe, hang o'er my hoary face; a murmuring brook runs at my foot. _ven._ methinks i fancy myself there too. _ant._ the herd come jumping by me, and, fearless, quench their thirst, while i look on, and take me for their fellow-citizen. even when antony is finally ruined, the power of jealousy is called upon to complete his despair, and he is less sensible to the idea of cæsar's successful arms, than to the risque of dolabella's rivalling him in the affections of cleopatra. it is true, the antony of shakespeare also starts into fury, upon cleopatra permitting thyreus to kiss her hand; but this is not jealousy; it is pride offended, that she, for whom he had sacrificed his glory and empire, should already begin to court the favour of the conqueror, and vouchsafe her hand to be saluted by a "jack of cæsars." hence enobarbus, the witness of the scene, alludes immediately to the fury of mortified ambition and falling power: 'tis better playing with a lion's whelp, than with an old one dying-- having, however, adopted an idea of antony's character, rather suitable to romance than to nature, or history, we must not deny dryden the praise of having exquisitely brought out the picture he intended to draw. he has informed us, that this was the only play written to please himself; and he has certainly exerted in it the full force of his incomparable genius. antony is throughout the piece what the author meant him to be; a victim to the omnipotence of love, or rather to the infatuation of one engrossing passion[ ]. in the cleopatra of dryden, there is greatly less spirit and originality than in shakespeare's. the preparation of the latter for death has a grandeur which puts to shame the same scene in dryden, and serves to support the interest during the whole fifth act, although antony has died in the conclusion of the fourth. no circumstance can more highly evince the power of shakespeare's genius, in spite of his irregularities; since the conclusion in dryden, where both lovers die in the same scene, and after a reconciliation, is infinitely more artful and better adapted to theatrical effect. in the character of ventidius, dryden has filled up, with ability, the rude sketches, which shakespeare has thrown off in those of scæva and eros. the rough old roman soldier is painted with great truth; and the quarrel betwixt him and antony, in the first act, is equal to any single scene that our author ever wrote, excepting, perhaps, that betwixt sebastian and dorax; an opinion in which the judgment of the critic coincides with that of the poet. it is a pity, as has often been remarked, that this dialogue occurs so early in the play, since what follows is necessarily inferior in force. dryden, while writing this scene, had unquestionably in his recollection the quarrel betwixt brutus and cassius, which was justly so great a favourite in his time, and to which he had referred as inimitable in his prologue to "aureng-zebe.[ ]" the inferior characters are better supported in dryden than in shakespeare. we have no low buffoonery in the former, such as disgraces enobarbus, and is hardly redeemed by his affecting catastrophe. even the egyptian alexas acquires some respectability, from his patriotic attachment to the interests of his country, and from his skill as a wily courtier. he expresses, by a beautiful image, the effeminate attachment to life, appropriated to his character and country: o, that i less could fear to lose this being, which, like a snow-ball in my coward hand, the more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away. the octavia of dryden is a much more important personage than in the "antony and cleopatra" of shakespeare. she is, however, more cold and unamiable; for, in the very short scenes in which the octavia of shakespeare appears, she is placed in rather an interesting point of view. but dryden has himself informed us, that he was apprehensive the justice of a wife's claim upon her husband would draw the audience to her side, and lessen their interest in the lover and the mistress. he seems accordingly to have studiedly lowered the character of the injured octavia, who, in her conduct towards her husband, shews much duty and little love; and plainly intimates, that her rectitude of conduct flows from a due regard to her own reputation, rather than from attachment to antony's person, or sympathy with him in his misfortunes. it happens, therefore, with octavia, as with all other very good selfish kind of people; we think it unnecessary to feel any thing for her, as she is obviously capable of taking very good care of herself. i must not omit, that her scolding scene with cleopatra, although anxiously justified by the author in the preface, seems too coarse to be in character, and is a glaring exception to the general good taste evinced throughout the rest of the piece. it would be too long a task to contrast the beauties of these two great poets in point of diction and style. but the reader will doubtless be pleased to compare the noted descriptions of the voyage of cleopatra down the cydnus. it is thus given in shakespeare: the barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold; purple the sails, and so perfumed, that the winds were love-sick with them: the oars were silver; which, to the tune of flutes, kept stroke, and made the water which they beat, to follow faster, as amorous of their strokes. for her own person, it beggared all description: she did lie in her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue), o'er-picturing that venus, where we see, the fancy outwork nature; on each side her, stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling cupids, with diverse coloured fans, whose wind did seem to glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, and what they undid, did. her gentlewomen, like the nereids, so many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, and made their bends adornings: at the helm a seeming mermaid steers: the silken tackle swells with the touches of those flower-soft hands that yarely frame the office. from the barge a strange invisible perfume hits the sense of the adjacent wharfs. the city cast her people out upon her; and antony, enthroned in the market-place, did sit alone, whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy, had gone to gaze on cleopatra too, and made a gap in nature. _antony and cleopatra_, act i. scene . the parallel passage in dryden runs thus: the tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold, the gentle winds were lodged in purple sails: her nymphs, like nereids, round her couch were placed; where she, another sea-born venus, lay, _dola._ no more: i would not hear it, _ant._ o, you must! she lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand, and cast a look so languishingly sweet, as if secure of all beholders hearts, neglecting she could take them: boys, like cupids, stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds that played about her face! but if she smiled, a darting glory secured to blaze abroad: that men's desiring eyes were never wearied, but hung upon the object: to soft flutes the silver oars kept time; and while they played, the hearing gave new pleasure to the sight; and both to thought. 'twas heaven, or somewhat more; for she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath to give their welcome voice. then, dolabella, where was then thy soul? was not thy fury quite disarmed with murder? didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes, and whisper in my ear, oh, tell her not that i accused her of my brother's death? in judging betwixt these celebrated passages, we feel almost afraid to avow a preference of dryden, founded partly upon the easy flow of the verse, which seems to soften with the subject, but chiefly upon the beauty of the language and imagery, which is flowery without diffusiveness, and rapturous without hyperbole. i fear shakespeare cannot be exculpated from the latter fault; yet i am sensible, it is by sifting his beauties from his conceits that his imitator has been enabled to excel him. it is impossible to bestow too much praise on the beautiful passages which occur so frequently in "all for love." having already given several examples of happy expression of melancholy and tender feelings, i content myself with extracting the sublime and terrific description of an omen presaging the downfall of egypt. _serap._ last night, between the hours of twelve and one, in a lone isle of the temple while i walked, a whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast, shook all the dome: the doors around me clapt; the iron wicket, that defends the vault, where the long race of ptolemies is laid, burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead. from out each monument, in order placed, an armed ghost starts up: the boy-king last reared his inglorious head. a peal of groans then followed, and a lamentable voice cried,--"egypt is no more!" my blood ran back, my shaking knees against each other knocked; on the cold pavement down i fell entranced, and so, unfinished, left the horrid scene. having quoted so many passages of exquisite poetry, and having set this play in no unequal opposition to that of shakespeare, it is, perhaps, unnecessary to mention by what other poets the same subject has been treated. daniel, mary countess of pembroke, may, and sir charles sedley, each produced a play on the fortunes of anthony. of these pieces i have never read the three former, and will assuredly never read the last a second time[ ]. "all for love," as the most laboured performance of our author, received the full tribute of applause and popularity which had often graced his less perfect and more hurried performances. davies gives us the following account of its first representation. "in dryden's "all for love," booth's dignified action and forcible elocution, in the part of antony, attracted the public to that heavy, though, in many parts, well written play, six night's successively, without the assistance of pantomime, or farce, which, at that time, was esteemed something extraordinary.--but, indeed, he was well supported by an oldfield, in his cleopatra, who, to a most harmonious and powerful voice, and fine person, added grace and elegance of gesture. when booth and oldfield met in the second act, their dignity of deportment commanded the applause and approbation of the most judicious critics. when antony said to cleopatra, you promised me your silence, and you break it ere i have scarce begun,-- this check was so well understood by oldfield, and answered with such propriety of behaviour, that, in shakespeare's phrase; her "bendings were adornings." "the elder mills acted ventidius with the true spirit of a rough and generous old soldier. to render the play as acceptable to the public as possible, wilkes took the trifling part of dolabella, nor did colley cibber disdain to appear in alexas. these parts would scarcely be accepted now by third-rate actors. still to add more weight to the performance, octavia was a short character of a scene or two, in which mrs porter drew not only respect, but the more affecting approbation of tears from the audience. since that time, "all for love" has gradually sunk into forgetfulness." if this last observation be true, it is, under mr davies' favour, a striking illustration of the caprice of the public taste. the play of "all for love" was first acted and printed in . footnotes: . dryden has himself, in the prologue, alluded to this predominance of sentiment in his hero's character. his hero, whom you wits his bully call, bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all; he's somewhat lewd; but a well meaning mind, weeps much, fights little, but is wondrous kind. . but, spite of all his pride, a secret shame invades his breast at shakespeare's sacred name: awed, when he hears his god-like romans rage, he, in a just despair, would quit the stage, and, to an age less polished, more unskilled, does, with disdain, the foremost honours yield. . lest any reader should have anticipated better things of "sedley's noble muse," the lisideius of our author's dialogue on dramatic poetry, i subjoin a specimen, taken at hazard: gape, hell, and to thy dismal bottom take the lost antonius; this was our last stake: warned by my ruin, let no roman more, set foot on the inhospitable shore. cowards and traitors filled this impious land, faithless and fearful, without heart or hand, some ran to cæsar, like a headlong tide, the rest their fear made useless on our side. "this passion, with the death of a dear friend, would go nigh to make one sad;" yet some of the authors of the day held a very different doctrine. shadwell, in his dedication to "a true widow," tells sedley, "you have in that mulberry garden shewn the true wit, humour, and satire of a comedy; and, in antony and cleopatra, the true spirit of a tragedy; the only one, except two of jonson's and one of shakespeare's, wherein romans are made to speak and do like romans. there are to be found the true characters of antony and cleopatra, as they were; whereas a french author would have made the egyptian and roman both become french under his pen. and even our english authors are too much given to make history (in these plays) romantic and impossible; but, in this play, the romans are true romans, and their style is such; and i dare affirm, that there is not in any play of this age so much of the spirit of the classic authors, as in your antony and cleopatra." i cannot help suspecting that much of this hyperbolical praise of sedley was obliquely designed to mortify dryden. to the right honourable thomas, earl of danby, viscount latimer, and baron osborne of kiveton in yorkshire; lord high treasurer of england, one of his majesty's most honourable privy council, and knight of the most noble order of the garter[ ]. my lord, the gratitude of poets is so troublesome a virtue to great men, that you are often in danger of your own benefits: for you are threatened with some epistle, and not suffered to do good in quiet, or to compound for their silence whom you have obliged. yet, i confess, i neither am or ought to be surprised at this indulgence; for your lordship has the same right to favour poetry, which the great and noble have ever had: _carmen amat, quisquis carmine digna gerit._ there is somewhat of a tie in nature betwixt those who are born for worthy actions, and those who can transmit them to posterity; and though ours be much the inferior part, it comes at least within the verge of alliance; nor are we unprofitable members of the commonwealth, when we animate others to those virtues, which we copy and describe from you. it is indeed their interest, who endeavour the subversion of governments, to discourage poets and historians; for the best which can happen to them, is, to be forgotten: but such who, under kings, are the fathers of their country, and by a just and prudent ordering of affairs preserve it, have the same reason to cherish the chroniclers of their actions, as they have to lay up in safety the deeds and evidences of their estates; for such records are their undoubted titles to the love and reverence of after-ages. your lordship's administration has already taken up a considerable part of the english annals; and many of its most happy years are owing to it. his majesty, the most knowing judge of men, and the best master, has acknowledged the ease and benefit he receives in the incomes of his treasury, which you found not only disordered, but exhausted. all things were in the confusion of a chaos, without form or method if not reduced beyond it, even to annihilation; so that you had not only to separate the jarring elements, but (if that boldness of expression might be allowed me) to create them. your enemies had so embroiled the management of your office, that they looked on your advancement as the instrument of your ruin. and as if the clogging of the revenue, and the confusion of accounts, which you found in your entrance, were not sufficient, they added their own weight of malice to the public calamity, by forestalling the credit which should cure it. your friends on the other side were only capable of pitying, but not of aiding you; no farther help or counsel was remaining to you, but what was founded on yourself; and that indeed was your security; for your diligence, your constancy, and your prudence, wrought more surely within, when they were not disturbed by any outward motion. the highest virtue is best to be trusted with itself; for assistance only can be given by a genius superior to that which it assists; and it is the noblest kind of debt, when we are only obliged to god and nature. this then, my lord, is your just commendation, that you have wrought out yourself a way to glory, by those very means that were designed for your destruction: you have not only restored, but advanced the revenues of your master, without grievance to the subject; and, as if that were little yet, the debts of the exchequer, which lay heaviest both on the crown, and on private persons, have by your conduct been established in a certainty of satisfaction.[ ] an action so much the more great and honourable, because the case was without the ordinary relief of laws; above the hopes of the afflicted, and beyond the narrowness of the treasury to redress, had it been managed by a less able hand. it is certainly the happiest, and most unenvied part of all your fortune, to do good to many, while you do injury to none; to receive at once the prayers of the subject, and the praises of the prince; and, by the care of your conduct, to give him means of exerting the chiefest (if any be the chiefest) of his royal virtues, his distributive justice to the deserving, and his bounty and compassion to the wanting. the disposition of princes towards their people cannot be better discovered than in the choice of their ministers; who, like the animal spirits betwixt the soul and body, participate somewhat of both natures, and make the communication which is betwixt them. a king, who is just and moderate in his nature, who rules according to the laws, whom god has made happy by forming the temper of his soul to the constitution of his government, and who makes us happy, by assuming over us no other sovereignty than that wherein our welfare and liberty consists; a prince, i say, of so excellent a character, and so suitable to the wishes of all good men, could not better have conveyed himself into his people's apprehensions, than in your lordship's person; who so lively express the same virtues, that you seem not so much a copy, as an emanation of him. moderation is doubtless an establishment of greatness; but there is a steadiness of temper which is likewise requisite in a minister of state; so equal a mixture of both virtues, that he may stand like an isthmus betwixt the two encroaching seas of arbitrary power, and lawless anarchy. the undertaking would be difficult to any but an extraordinary genius, to stand at the line, and to divide the limits; to pay what is due to the great representative of the nation, and neither to enhance, nor to yield up, the undoubted prerogatives of the crown. these, my lord, are the proper virtues of a noble englishman, as indeed they are properly english virtues; no people in the world being capable of using them, but we who have the happiness to be born under so equal, and so well poised a government;--a government which has all the advantages of liberty beyond a commonwealth, and all the marks of kingly sovereignty, without the danger of a tyranny. both my nature, as i am an englishman, and my reason, as i am a man, have bred in me a loathing to that specious name of a republic; that mock appearance of a liberty, where all who have not part in the government, are slaves; and slaves they are of a viler note, than such as are subjects to an absolute dominion. for no christian monarchy is so absolute, but it is circumscribed with laws; but when the executive power is in the law-makers, there is no farther check upon them; and the people must suffer without a remedy, because they are oppressed by their representatives. if i must serve, the number of my masters, who were born my equals, would but add to the ignominy of my bondage. the nature of our government, above all others, is exactly suited both to the situation of our country, and the temper of the natives; an island being more proper for commerce and for defence, than for extending its dominions on the continent; for what the valour of its inhabitants might gain, by reason of its remoteness, and the casualties of the seas, it could not so easily preserve: and, therefore, neither the arbitrary power of one, in a monarchy, nor of many, in a commonwealth, could make us greater than we are. it is true, that vaster and more frequent taxes might be gathered, when the consent of the people was not asked or needed; but this were only by conquering abroad, to be poor at home; and the examples of our neighbours teach us, that they are not always the happiest subjects, whose kings extend their dominions farthest. since therefore we cannot win by an offensive war, at least a land war, the model of our government seems naturally contrived for the defensive part; and the consent of a people is easily obtained to contribute to that power which must protect it. _felices nimium, bona si sua nórint, angligenæ!_ and yet there are not wanting malecontents amongst us, who, surfeiting themselves on too much happiness, would persuade the people that they might be happier by a change. it was indeed the policy of their old forefather, when himself was fallen from the station of glory, to seduce mankind into the same rebellion with him, by telling him he might yet be freer than he was; that is, more free than his nature would allow, or, if i may so say, than god could make him. we have already all the liberty which free-born subjects can enjoy, and all beyond it is but licence. but if it be liberty of conscience which they pretend, the moderation of our church is such, that its practice extends not to the severity of persecution; and its discipline is withal so easy, that it allows more freedom to dissenters than any of the sects would allow to it. in the mean time, what right can be pretended by these men to attempt innovation in church or state? who made them the trustees, or, to speak a little nearer their own language, the keepers of the liberty of england? if their call be extraordinary, let them convince us by working miracles; for ordinary vocation they can have none, to disturb the government under which they were born, and which protects them. he who has often changed his party, and always has made his interest the rule of it, gives little evidence of his sincerity for the public good; it is manifest he changes but for himself, and takes the people for tools to work his fortune. yet the experience of all ages might let him know, that they, who trouble the waters first, have seldom the benefit of fishing; as they who began the late rebellion, enjoyed not the fruit of their undertaking, but were crushed themselves by the usurpation of their own instrument. neither is it enough for them to answer, that they only intend a reformation of the government, but not the subversion of it: on such pretence all insurrections have been founded; it is striking at the root of power, which is obedience. every remonstrance of private men has the seed of treason in it; and discourses, which are couched in ambiguous terms, are therefore the more dangerous, because they do all the mischief of open sedition, yet are safe from the punishment of the laws. these, my lord, are considerations, which i should not pass so lightly over, had i room to manage them as they deserve; for no man can be so inconsiderable in a nation, as not to have a share in the welfare of it; and if he be a true englishman, he must at the same time be fired with indignation, and revenge himself as he can on the disturbers of his country. and to whom could i more fitly apply myself than to your lordship, who have not only an inborn, but an hereditary loyalty? the memorable constancy and sufferings of your father, almost to the ruin of his estate, for the royal cause, were an earnest of that, which such a parent and such an institution would produce in the person of a son. but so unhappy an occasion of manifesting your own zeal, in suffering for his present majesty, the providence of god, and the prudence of your administration, will, i hope, prevent; that, as your father's fortune waited on the unhappiness of his sovereign, so your own may participate of the better fate which attends his son. the relation, which you have by alliance to the noble family of your lady, serves to confirm to you both this happy augury. for what can deserve a greater place in the english chronicle, than the loyalty and courage, the actions and death, of the general of an army, fighting for his prince and country? the honour and gallantry of the earl of lindsey is so illustrious a subject, that it is fit to adorn an heroic poem; for he was the proto-martyr of the cause, and the type of his unfortunate royal master[ ]. yet after all, my lord, if i may speak my thoughts, you are happy rather to us than to yourself; for the multiplicity, the cares, and the vexations of your employment, have betrayed you from yourself, and given you up into the possession of the public. you are robbed of your privacy and friends, and scarce any hour of your life you can call your own. those, who envy your fortune, if they wanted not good-nature, might more justly pity it; and when they see you watched by a crowd of suitors, whose importunity it is impossible to avoid, would conclude, with reason, that you have lost much more in true content, than you have gained by dignity; and that a private gentleman is better attended by a single servant, than your lordship with so clamorous a train. pardon me, my lord, if i speak like a philosopher on this subject; the fortune, which makes a man uneasy, cannot make him happy; and a wise man must think himself uneasy, when few of his actions are in his choice. this last consideration has brought me to another, and a very seasonable one for your relief; which is, that while i pity your want of leisure, i have impertinently detained you so long a time. i have put off my own business, which was my dedication, till it is so late, that i am now ashamed to begin it; and therefore i will say nothing of the poem, which i present to you, because i know not if you are like to have an hour, which, with a good conscience, you may throw away in perusing it; and for the author, i have only to beg the continuance of your protection to him, who is, my lord, your lordship's most obliged, most humble, and most obedient, servant, john dryden. footnotes: . the person, to whom these high titles now belonged, was sir thomas osburne, a baronet of good family, and decayed estate; part of which had been lost in the royal cause. he was of a bold undaunted character, and stood high for the prerogative. hence he was thought worthy of being sworn into the privy council during the administration of the famous cabal; and when that was dissolved by the secession of shaftesbury and the resignation of clifford, he was judged a proper person to succeed the latter as lord high treasurer. he was created earl of danby, and was supposed to be deeply engaged in the attempt to new-model our constitution on a more arbitrary plan; having been even heard to say, when sitting in judgment, that a new proclamation from the crown was superior to an old act of parliament. nevertheless, he was persecuted as well by the faction of the duke of york, to whom he was odious for having officiously introduced the famous popish plot to the consideration of parliament, as by the popular party, who hated him as a favourite minister. accordingly, in , he was impeached by a vote of the house of commons, and in consequence, notwithstanding the countenance of the king, was deprived of all his offices, and finally committed to the tower, where he remained for four years. sir john reresby has these reflections on lord danby's greatness and sudden fall: "it was but a few months before, that few things were transacted at court, but with the privity or consent of this great man; the king's brother, and favourite mistress, were glad to be fair with him, and the general address of all men of business was to him, who was not only treasurer, but prime minister also, who not only kept the purse, but was the first, and greatest confident in all affairs of state. but now he is neglected of all, forced to hide his head as a criminal, and in danger of losing all he has got, and his life therewith: his family, raised from privacy to the degree of marquis, (a patent was then actually passing to invest him with that dignity) is now on the brink of falling below the humble stand of a yeoman; nor would almost the meanest subject change conditions with him now, whom so very lately the greatest beheld with envy." _memoirs_, p. . as he was obnoxious to all parties, lord danby would probably have been made a sacrifice, had not the disturbances, which arose from the various plots of the time, turned the attention of his enemies to other subjects. he was liberated in - , survived the revolution, was created duke of leeds, and died in . his character was of the most decided kind; he was fertile in expedients and had always something new to substitute for those which failed; a faculty highly acceptable to charles, who loved to be relieved even were it but in idea, from the labour of business, and the pressure of difficulty. in other points, he was probably not very scrupulous, since even dryden found cause to say at length, that danby's matchless impudence helped to support the knave. . this alludes to the stop of payments in exchequer, in - ; a desperate measure recommended by clifford, to secure money for the war against holland. . the earl of lindsey was general in chief for king charles i. at the breaking out of the civil war. as an evil omen of the royal cause, he was mortally wounded and made prisoner at the battle of edgehill, the very first which was fought betwixt the king and parliament. clarendon says, "he had very many friends, and very few enemies, and died generally lamented." his son montague bertie, earl of lindsey, was a sufferer in the same cause. lord danby was married to the lady bridget, the second daughter of that nobleman. preface. the death of antony and cleopatra is a subject which has been treated by the greatest wits of our nation, after shakespeare; and by all so variously, that their example has given me the confidence to try myself in this bow of ulysses amongst the crowd of shooters; and, withal, to take my own measures, in aiming at the mark. i doubt not but the same motive has prevailed with all of us in this attempt; i mean the excellency of the moral: for the chief persons represented, were famous patterns of unlawful love; and their end accordingly was unfortunate. all reasonable men have long since concluded, that the hero of the poem ought not to be a character of perfect virtue, for then he could not, without injustice, be made unhappy; nor yet altogether wicked, because he could not then be pitied. i have therefore steered the middle course; and have drawn the character of antony as favourably as plutarch, appian, and dion cassius would give me leave; the like i have observed in cleopatra. that which is wanting to work up the pity to a greater heighth, was not afforded me by the story; for the crimes of love, which they both committed, were not occasioned by any necessity, or fatal ignorance, but were wholly voluntary; since our passions are, or ought to be, within our power. the fabric of the play is regular enough, as to the inferior parts of it; and the unities of time, place, and action, more exactly observed, than perhaps the english theatre requires. particularly, the action is so much one, that it is the only of the kind without episode, or underplot; every scene in the tragedy conducing to the main design, and every act concluding with a turn of it. the greatest error in the contrivance seems to be in the person of octavia; for, though i might use the privilege of a poet, to introduce her into alexandria, yet i had not enough considered, that the compassion she moved to herself and children, was destructive to that which i reserved for antony and cleopatra; whose mutual love being founded upon vice, must lessen the favour of the audience to them, when virtue and innocence were oppressed by it. and, though i justified antony in some measure, by making octavia's departure to proceed wholly from herself; yet the force of the first machine still remained; and the dividing of pity, like the cutting of a river into many channels, abated the strength of the natural stream. but this is an objection which none of my critics have urged against me; and therefore i might have let it pass, if i could have resolved to have been partial to myself. the faults my enemies have found, are rather cavils concerning little and not essential decencies; which a master of the ceremonies may decide betwixt us. the french poets, i confess, are strict observers of these punctilios: they would not, for example, have suffered cleopatra and octavia to have met; or, if they had met, there must have only passed betwixt them some cold civilities, but no eagerness of repartee, for fear of offending against the greatness of their characters, and the modesty of their sex. this objection i foresaw, and at the same time contemned; for i judged it both natural and probable, that octavia, proud of her new-gained conquest, would search out cleopatra to triumph over her; and that cleopatra thus attacked, was not of a spirit to shun the encounter: and it is not unlikely, that two exasperated rivals should use such satire as i have put into their mouths; for, after all, though the one were a roman, and the other a queen, they were both women. it is true, some actions, though natural, are not fit to be represented; and broad obscenities in words, ought in good manners to be avoided: expressions therefore are a modest clothing of our thoughts, as breeches and petticoats are of our bodies. if i have kept myself within the bounds of modesty, all beyond it is but nicety and affectation; which is no more but modesty depraved into a vice. they betray themselves, who are too quick of apprehension in such cases, and leave all reasonable men to imagine worse of them, than of the poet. honest montaigne goes yet farther: _nous ne sommes que ceremonie; la ceremonie nous emporte, et laissons la substance des choses: nous nous tenons aux branches, et abandonnons le tronc et le corps. nous avons appris aux dames de rougir, oyans seulement nommer ce qu'elles ne craignent aucunement à faire; nous n'esons appeller à droict nos membres, et ne craignons pas de les employer à toute sorte de debauche. la ceremonie nous defend d'exprimer par paroles les choses licites et naturelles, et nous l'en croyons; la raison nous defend de n'en faire point d'illicites et mauvaises, et personne ne l'en croit._ my comfort is, that by this opinion my enemies are but sucking critics, who would fain be nibbling ere their teeth are come. yet, in this nicety of manners does the excellency of french poetry consist. their heroes are the most civil people breathing; but their good breeding seldom extends to a word of sense; all their wit is in their ceremony; they want the genius which animates our stage; and therefore it is but necessary, when they cannot please, that they should take care not to offend. but as the civillest man in the company is commonly the dullest, so these authors, while they are afraid to make you laugh or cry, out of pure good manners, make you sleep. they are so careful not to exasperate a critic, that they never leave him any work; so busy with the broom, and make so clean a riddance, that there is little left either for censure or for praise: for no part of a poem is worth our discommending, where the whole is insipid; as when we have once tasted of palled wine, we stay not to examine it glass by glass. but while they affect to shine in trifles, they are often careless in essentials. thus, their hippolitus is so scrupulous in point of decency, that he will rather expose himself to death, than accuse his step-mother to his father; and my critics i am sure will commend him for it: but we of grosser apprehensions are apt to think, that this excess of generosity is not practicable, but with fools and madmen. this was good manners with a vengeance; and the audience is like to be much concerned at the misfortunes of this admirable hero. but take hippolitus out of his poetic fit, and i suppose he would think it a wiser part, to set the saddle on the right horse, and chuse rather to live with the reputation of a plain-spoken honest man, than to die with the infamy of an incestuous villain.[ ] in the mean time we may take notice, that where the poet ought to have preserved the character as it was delivered to us by antiquity, when he should have given us the picture of a rough young man, of the amazonian strain, a jolly huntsman, and both by his profession and his early rising a mortal enemy to love, he has chosen to give him the turn of gallantry sent him to travel from athens to paris, taught him to make love, and transformed the hippolitus of euripides into monsieur hippolite. i should not have troubled myself thus far with french poets, but that i find our _chedreux_[ ] critics wholly form their judgments by them. but for my part, i desire to be tried by the laws of my own country; for it seems unjust to me, that the french should prescribe here, till they have conquered. our little sonetteers, who follow them, have too narrow souls to judge of poetry. poets themselves are the most proper, though i conclude not the only critics. but till some genius, as universal as aristotle, shall arise, one who can penetrate into all arts and sciences, without the practice of them, i shall think it reasonable that the judgment of an artificer in his own art should be preferable to the opinion of another man; at least where he is not bribed by interest, or prejudiced by malice. and this, i suppose, is manifest by plain inductions: for, first, the crowd cannot be presumed to have more than a gross instinct, of what pleases or displeases them: every man will grant me this; but then, by a particular kindness to himself, he draws his own stake first, and will be distinguished from the multitude, of which other men may think him one. but, if i come closer to those who are allowed for witty men, either by the advantage of their quality, or by common fame, and affirm that neither are they qualified to decide sovereignly concerning poetry, i shall yet have a strong party of my opinion; for most of them severally will exclude the rest, either from the number of witty men, or at least of able judges. but here again they are all indulgent to themselves; and every one who believes himself a wit, that is, every man, will pretend at the same time to a right judgeing. but to press it yet farther, there are many witty men, but few poets; neither have all poets a taste of tragedy. and this is the rock on which they are daily splitting. poetry, which is a picture of nature, must generally please; but it is not to be understood that all parts of it must please every man; therefore is not tragedy to be judged by a witty man, whose taste is only confined to comedy. nor is every man who loves tragedy, a sufficient judge of it; he must understand the excellencies of it too, or he will only prove a blind admirer, not a critic. from hence it comes that so many satires on poets, and censures of their writings, fly abroad. men of pleasant conversation, (at least esteemed so) and endued with a trifling kind of fancy, perhaps helped out with some smattering of latin, are ambitious to distinguish themselves from the herd of gentlemen, by their poetry; _rarus enim fermè; sensus communis in illâ fortunâ._ and is not this a wretched affectation, not to be contented with what fortune has done for them, and sit down quietly with their estates, but they must call their wits in question, and needlessly expose their nakedness to public view? not considering that they are not to expect the same approbation from sober men, which they have found from their flatterers after the third bottle. if a little glittering in discourse has passed them on us for witty men, where was the necessity of undeceiving the world? would a man who has an ill title to an estate, but yet is in possession of it; would he bring it of his own accord, to be tried at westminster? we who write, if we want the talent, yet have the excuse that we do it for a poor subsistence; but what can be urged in their defence, who, not having the vocation of poverty to scribble, out of mere wantonness take pains to make themselves ridiculous? horace was certainly in the right, where he said, "that no man is satisfied with his own condition." a poet is not pleased, because he is not rich; and the rich are discontented, because the poets will not admit them of their number. thus the case is hard with writers: if they succeed not, they must starve; and if they do, some malicious satire is prepared to level them, for daring to please without their leave. but while they are so eager to destroy the fame of others, their ambition is manifest in their concernment; some poem of their own is to lie produced, and the slaves are to be laid flat with their faces on the ground, that the monarch may appear in the greater majesty[ ]. dionysius and nero had the same longing, but with all their power they could never bring their business well about. 'tis true, they proclaimed themselves poets by sound of trumpet; and poets they were, upon pain of death to any man who durst call them otherwise. the audience had a fine time on't, you may imagine; they sat in a bodily fear, and looked as demurely as they could: for it was a hanging matter to laugh unseasonably; and the tyrants were suspicious, as they had reason, that their subjects had them in the wind; so, every man, in his own defence, set as good a face upon the business as he could. it was known before-hand that the monarchs were to be crowned laureats; but when the show was over, and an honest man was suffered to depart quietly, he took out his laughter which he had stifled; with a firm resolution never more to see an emperor's play, though he had been ten years a making it. in the mean time the true poets were they who made the best markets, for they had wit enough to yield the prize with a good grace, and not contend with him who had thirty legions[ ]. they were sure to be rewarded, if they confessed themselves bad writers, and that was somewhat better than to be martyrs for their reputation. lucan's example was enough to teach them manners; and after he was put to death, for overcoming nero, the emperor carried it without dispute for the best poet in his dominions. no man was ambitious of that grinning honour; for if he heard the malicious trumpeter proclaiming his name before his betters, he knew there was but one way with him. mecænas took another course, and we know he was more than a great man, for he was witty too: but finding himself far gone in poetry, which seneca assures us was not his talent, he thought it his best way to be well with virgil and with horace; that at least he might be a poet at the second hand; and we see how happily it has succeeded with him; for his own bad poetry is forgotten, and their panegyricks of him still remain. but they who should be our patrons, are for no such expensive ways to fame; they have much of the poetry of mecænas, but little of his liberality. they are for persecuting horace and virgil, in the persons of their successors; for such is every man, who has any part of their soul and fire, though in a less degree. some of their little zanies yet go farther; for they are persecutors even of horace himself; as far as they are able, by their ignorant and vile imitations of him; by making an unjust use of his authority and turning his artillery against his friends. but how would he disdain to be copied by such hands! i dare answer for him, he would be more uneasy in their company, than he was with crispinus, their forefather, in the holy way; and would no more have allowed them a place amongst the critics, than he would demetrius the mimic, and tigellius the buffoon; --_demetri, teque, tigelli, discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras._ with what scorn would he look down on such miserable translators, who make doggrel of his latin, mistake his meaning, mis-apply his censures, and often contradict their own? he is fixed as a landmark to set out the bounds of poetry: --_saxum antiquum, ingens,-- limes agro positus, litem ut discerneret arvis._ but other arms than theirs, and other sinews are required, to raise the weight of such an author; and when they would toss him against their enemies, _genua labant, gelidus concrevit frigore sanguis. tum lapis ipse, viri vacuum per inane volutus, nec spatium evasit totum, nec pertulit ictum_[ ]. for my part, i would wish no other revenge, either for myself, or the rest of the poets, from this rhyming judge of the twelve-penny gallery, this legitimate son of sternhold, than that he would subscribe his name to his censure, or (not to tax him beyond his learning) set his mark: for, should he own himself publicly, and come from behind the lion's skin, they, whom he condemns, would be thankful to him, they, whom he praises, would chuse to be condemned; and the magistrates, whom he has elected, would modestly withdraw from their employment, to avoid the scandal of his nomination[ ]. the sharpness of his satire, next to himself, falls most heavily on his friends, and they ought never to forgive him for commending them perpetually the wrong way, and sometimes by contraries. if he have a friend, whose hastiness in writing is his greatest fault, horace would have taught him to have minced the matter, and to have called it readiness of thought, and a flowing fancy; for friendship will allow a man to christen an imperfection by the name of some neighbour virtue; _vellem in amicitiâ sic erraremus; et isti errori nomen virtus posuisset honestum._ but he would never have allowed him to have called a slow man hasty, or a hasty writer a slow drudge[ ], as juvenal explains it: --_canibus pigris, scabieque vetustâ lævibus, et siccæ lambentibus ora lucernæ, nomen erit, pardus, tygris, leo; si quid adhuc est quod fremit in terris violentius_[ ]. yet lucretius laughs at a foolish lover, even for excusing the imperfections of his mistress: _nigra [greek: melichroos] est, immunda et foetida [greek: akosmos]. balba loqui non quit, [greek: traulizei]; muta pudens est, &c._ but to drive it _ad Æthiopem cygnum_ is not to be endured. i leave him to interpret this by the benefit of his french version on the other side, and without farther considering him, than i have the rest of my illiterate censors, whom i have disdained to answer, because they are not qualified for judges. it remains that i acquaint the reader, that i have endeavoured in this play to follow the practice of the ancients, who, as mr rymer has judiciously observed, are and ought to be our masters[ ]. horace likewise gives it for a rule in his art of poetry. --_vos exemplaria græca nocturnâ versate manu, versate diurnâ._ yet, though their models are regular, they are too little for english tragedy; which requires to be built in a larger compass. i could give an instance in the "oedipus tyrannus," which was the master piece of sophocles; but i reserve it for a more fit occasion, which i hope to have hereafter. in my style, i have professed to imitate the divine shakespeare; which that i might perform more freely, i have disincumbered myself from rhyme. not that i condemn my former way, but that this is more proper to my present purpose. i hope i need not to explain myself, that i have not copied my author servilely: words and phrases must of necessity receive a change in succeeding ages; but it is almost a miracle that much of his language remains so pure; and that he who began dramatic poetry amongst us, untaught by any, and, as ben jonson tells us, without learning, should by the force of his own genius perform so much, that in a manner he has left no praise for any who come after him. the occasion is fair, and the subject would be pleasant to handle the difference of styles betwixt him and fletcher, and wherein, and how far they are both to be imitated. but since i must not be over-confident of my own performance after him, it will be prudence in me to be silent. yet, i hope, i may affirm, and without vanity, that, by imitating him, i have excelled myself throughout the play; and particularly, that i prefer the scene betwixt antony and ventidius in the first act, to any thing which i have written in this kind. footnotes: . that the reader may himself judge of the justice of dryden's censure, i subjoin the argument on this knotty point, as it is stated by hippolytus and his mistress in the th act of the "phedre" of racine. aricie. _quoi vous pouvés vous taire en ce peril extreme? vous laissés dans l'erreur un pere qui vous uime? cruel, si de mes pleurs meprisant le pouvoir, vous consentéz sans peine a ne me plus revoir, partes, separés vous de la triste aricie, mais du moins en partaut assurés votre vie. defendés votre honneur d' un reproche honteux, et forcés votre pere a revoquer ses væux; il en est tems encore. pourguoi, par quel caprice, laissés vous le champ libre a votre accusatrice? ecclaircissés thesée._ hippolyte. _hé que nai-je point dit? ai-je du mettre au jour l'opprobre de son lit? devois-je en lui faisant un recit trop sincere, d'un indigne rougeur couvrir le front d'un pere? vous seul avés percé ce mystere odieux, mon coeur pour s'epancher, n'a que vous et les dieux: je n'ai pu vous cacher, jugés si je vous aime, tout ce que je voulois me cacher a moi-meme. mais songés sous quel sceau je vous l'ai révélé; oubliés, si se peut, que je vous ai parlé, madame; et que jamais une bouche si pure ne s'ouvre pour conter cette horrible avanture. sur l'equité des dieux osons nous confier, ils ont trop d'interet a me justifier, et phédre tot ou tard de son crime punie, n'en saúroit eviter la juste ignominié._ . _chedreux_ was the name of the fashionable periwigs of the day, and appears to have been derived from their maker. a french _peruqirier_, in one of shadwell's comedies, says, "you talke of de chedreux; he is no bodie to me. dere is no man can travaille vis mee. monsieur wildish has got my peruke on his head. let me see, here is de haire, de curie, de brucle, ver good, ver good. if dat foole chedreux make de peruke like me, i vil be hanga." bury fair, act i. scene ii. it appears from the letter of the literary veteran in the gentleman's magazine for , that our author, as he advanced in reputation, assumed the fashionable _chedreux_ periwig. . this passage though, doubtless applicable to many of the men of rank at the court of charles ii., was particularly levelled at lord rochester with whom our author was now on bad terms. it is hardly fair to enquire how far this description of the discourse and talents of a person of wit and honour agrees with that given in the dedication to marriage a-la-mode, when, in compliment to the same nobleman, we are told, that, "wit seems to have lodged itself more nobly in this age, than in any of the former; and that his lordship had but another step to make, from the patron of wit, to become its tyrant." this last observation seems to have been made in the spirit of prophecy. . such is said to have been the answer of a philosopher to a friend, who upbraided him with giving up a dispute to the emperor adrian. . this passage alludes to an imitation of horace, quaintly entitled an "allusion to the tenth satire of his first book" which was the production of rochester. as however it appeared without a name, it may have been for a time imputed to some of the inferior wits, whom his lordship patronized. it contains a warm attack on dryden, part of which has been already quoted. dryden probably knew the real author of this satire, although he chose to impute it to one of the "zanies" of the great. at least it seems unlikely that he should take crown for the author, as has been supposed by mr malone; for in the imitation we have these lines: for by that rule i might as well admit crown's heavy scenes for poetry and wit. crown could hardly be charged as author of a poem, in which this sarcasm occurred. . alluding probably to the concluding lines of the satire. i loath the rabble; 'tis enough for me if sedley, shadwell, shepherd, wycherley, godolphin, butler, buckhurst, buckingham, and some few more whom i omit to name, approve my sense; i count their censure fame. . dryden alludes to the censure past on himself, where it is said, five hundred verses in a morning writ. prove him no more a poet than a wit. . this refers to the characters of shadwell and wycherley, which according to dryden, the satirist seems to have misunderstood. of all our modern wits, none seems to me once to have touched upon true comedy, but hasty shadwell and slow wycherley; shadwell's unfinished works do yet impart great proofs of force of nature, none of art. with just bold strokes he dashes here and there, shewing great mastery with little care; but wycherley earns hard whate'er he gains, he wants no judgment, and he spares no pains; he frequently excels, and, at the least, makes fewer faults than any of the rest. . "i have chiefly considered the fable, or plot, which all conclude to be the soul of a tragedy, which, with the ancients, is all ways to be found a reasonable soul, but with us, for the most part, a brutish, and often worse than brutish. "and certainly there is not required much learning, or that a man must be some aristotle and doctor of subtilties, to form a right judgement in this particular; common sense suffices; and rarely have i known women-judges mistaken in these points, where they have patience to think; and left to their own heads, they decide with their own sense. but if people are prepossessed, if they will judge of rollo by othello, and one crooked line by another, we can never have a certainty." the tragedies of the last age considered, in a letter to fleetwood shepherd, by thomas rymer, edit. , p. . prologue. what flocks of critics hover here to-day, as vultures wait on armies for their prey, all gaping for the carcase of a play! with croaking notes they bode some dire event, and follow dying poets by the scent. ours gives himself for gone; you've watched your time: he fights this day unarmed,--without his rhyme;-- and brings a tale which often has been told; as sad as dido's; and almost as old. his hero, whom you wits his bully call, bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all: he's somewhat lewd; but a well-meaning mind; weeps much; fights little; but is wond'rous kind. in short, a pattern, and companion fit, for all the keeping tonies of the pit. i could name more: a wife, and mistress too; both (to be plain) too good for most of you: the wife well-natured, and the mistress true. now, poets, if your fame has been his care, allow him all the candour you can spare. a brave man scorns to quarrel once a-day; like hectors, in at every petty fray. let those find fault whose wit's so very small, they've need to show that they can think at all; errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; he who would search for pearls, must dive below. fops may have leave to level all they can; as pigmies would be glad to lop a man. half-wits are fleas; so little and so light, we scarce could know they live, but that they bite. but, as the rich, when tired with daily feasts, for change, become their next poor tenant's guests; drink hearty draughts of ale from plain brown bowls, and snatch the homely rasher from the coals: so you, retiring from much better cheer, for once, may venture to do penance here. and since that plenteous autumn now is past, whose grapes and peaches have indulged your taste, take in good part, from our poor poet's board, such rivelled fruits as winter can afford. dramatis personÆ. mark antony. ventidius, _his general._ dolabella, _his friend._ alexas, _the queen's eunuch._ serapion, _priest of isis._ myris, _another priest._ _servants to_ antony. cleopatra, _queen of Ægypt._ octavia, antony's _wife._ charmion, } cleopatra's _maids._ iras, } antony's _two little daughters._ scene.--_alexandria._ all for love; or, the world well lost. act i. scene i.--_the temple of_ isis. _enter_ serapion, myris, _priests of_ isis. _ser._ portents and prodigies have grown so frequent, that they have lost their name. our fruitful nile flowed ere the wonted season, with a torrent so unexpected, and so wondrous fierce, that the wild deluge overtook the haste even of the hinds that watched it: men and beasts were borne above the tops of trees, that grew on the utmost margin of the water-mark. then, with so swift an ebb the flood drove backward, it slipt from underneath the scaly herd: here monstrous phocæ; panted on the shore; forsaken dolphins there, with their broad tails lay lashing the departing waves: hard by them, sea-horses floundring in the slimy mud, tossed up their heads, and dashed the ooze about them. _enter_ alexas _behind them._ _myr._ avert these omens, heaven! _ser._ last night, between the hours of twelve and one, in a lone aisle of the temple while i walked, a whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast, shook all the dome: the doors around me clapt; the iron wicket, that defends the vault, where the long race of ptolemies is laid, burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead. from out each monument, in order placed, an armed ghost starts up: the boy-king last reared his inglorious head. a peal of groans then followed, and a lamentable voice cried, egypt is no more. my blood ran back, my shaking knees against each other knocked; on the cold pavement down i fell entranced, and so unfinished left the horrid scene. _alex._ and dreamed you this? or did invent the story, [_shewing himself._ to frighten our egyptian boys withal, and train them up, betimes, in fear of priesthood? _serap._ my lord, i saw you not, nor meant my words should reach your ears; but what i uttered was most true. _alex._ a foolish dream, bred from the fumes of indigested feasts, and holy luxury. _serap._ i know my duty: this goes no farther. _alex._ 'tis not fit it should; nor would the times now bear it, were it true. all southern, from yon hills, the roman camp hangs o'er us black and threatning, like a storm just breaking on our heads. _serap._ our faint egyptians pray for antony; but in their servile hearts they own octavius. _myr._ why then does antony dream out his hours, and tempts not fortune for a noble day, which might redeem what actium lost? _alex._ he thinks 'tis past recovery. _serap._ yet the foe seems not to press the siege. _alex._ o, there's the wonder. mecænas and agrippa, who can most with cæsar, are his foes. his wife octavia, driven from his house, solicits her revenge; and dolabella, who was once his friend, upon some private grudge, now seeks his ruin: yet still war seems on either side to sleep. _serap._ 'tis strange that antony, for some days past, has not beheld the face of cleopatra; but here, in isis temple, lives retired, and makes his heart a prey to black despair. _alex._ 'tis true; and we much fear he hopes by absence to cure his mind of love. _serap._ if he be vanquished, or make his peace, egypt is doomed to be a roman province; and our plenteous harvests must then redeem the scarceness of their soil. while antony stood firm, our alexandria rivalled proud rome, (dominion's other seat) and fortune striding, like a vast colossus, could fix an equal foot of empire here. _alex._ had i my wish, these tyrants of all nature, who lord it o'er mankind, should perish,--perish, each by the other's sword; but, since our will is lamely followed by our power, we must depend on one; with him to rise or fall. _serap._ how stands the queen affected? _alex._ o she dotes, she dotes, serapion, on this vanquished man, and winds herself about his mighty ruins; whom would she yet forsake, yet yield him up, this hunted prey, to his pursuer's hands, she might preserve us all: but 'tis in vain-- this changes my designs, this blasts my counsels, and makes me use all means to keep him here, whom i could wish divided from her arms, far as the earth's deep centre. well, you know the state of things; no more of your ill omens and black prognostics; labour to confirm the people's hearts. _enter_ ventidius, _talking aside with a gentleman of_ antony's. _serap._ these romans will o'erhear us. but, who's that stranger? by his warlike port, his fierce demeanour, and erected look, he's of no vulgar note. _alex._ o 'tis ventidius, our emperor's great lieutenant in the east, who first showed rome that parthia could be conquered. when antony returned from syria last, he left this man to guard the roman frontiers. _serap._ you seem to know him well. _alex._ too well. i saw him in cilicia first, when cleopatra there met antony: a mortal foe he was to us, and egypt. but,--let me witness to the worth i hate,-- a braver roman never drew a sword; firm to his prince, but as a friend, not slave. he ne'er was of his pleasures; but presides o'er all his cooler hours, and morning counsels: in short, the plainness, fierceness, rugged virtue, of an old true-stampt roman lives in him. his coming bodes i know not what of ill to our affairs. withdraw, to mark him better; and i'll acquaint you why i sought you here, and what's our present work. [_they withdraw to a corner of the stage; and_ ventidius, _with the other, comes forward to the front._ _vent._ not see him, say you? i say, i must, and will. _gent._ he has commanded, on pain of death, none should approach his presence. _vent._ i bring him news will raise his drooping spirits, give him new life. _gent._ he sees not cleopatra. _vent._ would he had never seen her! _gent._ he eats not, drinks not, sleeps not, has no use of any thing, but thought; or, if he talks, 'tis to himself, and then 'tis perfect raving: then he defies the world, and bids it pass; sometimes he gnaws his lip, and curses loud the boy octavius; then he draws his mouth into a scornful smile, and cries,--"take all, the world's not worth my care." _vent._ just, just his nature. virtue's his path; but sometimes 'tis too narrow for his vast soul; and then he starts out wide, and bounds into a vice, that bears him far from his first course, and plunges him in ills: but, when his danger makes him find his fault, quick to observe, and full of sharp remorse, he censures eagerly his own misdeeds, judging himself with malice to himself, and not forgiving what as man he did, because his other parts are more than man.-- he must not thus be lost. [alexas _and the priests come forward._ _alex._ you have your full instructions, now advance; proclaim your orders loudly. _serap._ romans, egyptians, hear the queen's command. thus cleopatra bids: let labour cease; to pomp and triumphs give this happy day, that gave the world a lord: 'tis antony's. live, antony; and cleopatra live! be this the general voice sent up to heaven, and every public place repeat this echo. _vent._ fine pageantry! [_aside._ _serap._ set before your doors the images of all your sleeping fathers, with laurels crowned; with laurels wreath your posts, and strew with flowers the pavement; let the priests do present sacrifice; pour out the wine, and call the gods to join with you in gladness. _vent._ curse on the tongue that bids this general joy! can they be friends of antony, who revel when antony's in danger? hide, for shame, you romans, your great grandsires' images, for fear their souls should animate their marbles, to blush at their degenerate progeny. _alex._ a love, which knows no bounds to antony, would mark the day with honours, when all heaven laboured for him, when each propitious star stood wakeful in his orb, to watch that hour, and shed his better influence. her own birth-day our queen neglected, like a vulgar fate, that passed obscurely by. _vent._ would it had slept, divided far from his; till some remote and future age had called it out, to ruin some other prince, not him! _alex._ your emperor, though grown unkind, would be more gentle, than to upbraid my queen for loving him too well. _vent._ does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priest? he knows him not his executioner. o, she has decked his ruin with her love, led him in golden bands to gaudy slaughter, and made perdition pleasing: she has left him the blank of what he was; i tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmanned him: can any roman see, and know him now, thus altered from the lord of half mankind, unbent, unsinewed, made a woman's toy, shrunk from the vast extent of all his honours, and crampt within a corner of the world? o, antony! thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends! bounteous as nature; next to nature's god! couldst thou but make new worlds, so wouldst thou give them, as bounty were thy being: rough in battle, as the first romans, when they went to war; yet, after victory, more pitiful than all their praying virgins left at home! _alex._ would you could add, to those more shining virtues, his truth to her who loves him. _vent._ would i could not! but wherefore waste i precious hours with thee? thou art her darling mischief, her chief engine, antony's other fate. go, tell thy queen, ventidius is arrived, to end her charms. let your egyptian timbrels play alone, nor mix effeminate sounds with roman trumpets. you dare not fight for antony; go pray, and keep your coward's holiday in temples. [_exeunt_ alex. serap. _re-enter the gentleman of_ m. antony. _ gent._ the emperor approaches, and commands, on pain of death, that none presume to stay. _ gent._ i dare not disobey him. [_going out with the other._ _vent._ well, i dare. but i'll observe him first unseen, and find which way his humour drives: the rest i'll venture. [_withdraws._ _enter_ antony, _walking with a disturbed motion before he speaks._ _ant._ they tell me, 'tis my birth-day, and i'll keep it with double pomp of sadness. 'tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. why was i raised the meteor of the world, hung in the skies, and blazing as i travelled, till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward, to be trod out by cæsar? _vent._ [_aside._] on my soul, 'tis mournful, wondrous mournful! _ant._ count thy gains. now, antony, wouldst thou be born for this! glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth has starved thy wanting age. _vent._ how sorrow shakes him! [_aside._ so, now the tempest tears him up by the roots, and on the ground extends the noble ruin. [ant. _having thrown himself down._ lie there, thou shadow of an emperor; the place, thou pressest on thy mother earth, is all thy empire now: now it contains thee; some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large. when thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn, shrunk to a few cold ashes; then octavia, (for cleopatra will not live to see it) octavia then will have thee all her own, and bear thee in her widowed hand to cæsar; cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep, to see his rival of the universe lie still and peaceful there. i'll think no more on't. _ant._ give me some music; look that it be sad: i'll sooth my melancholy, till i swell, and burst myself with sighing.-- [_soft music._ 'tis somewhat to my humour: stay, i fancy i'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature; of all forsaken, and forsaking all; live in a shady forest's sylvan scene, stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak, i lean my head upon the mossy bark, and look just of a piece as i grew from it; my uncombed locks, matted like misletoe, hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook runs at my foot. _vent._ methinks, i fancy myself there too. _ant._ the herd come jumping by me, and, fearless, quench their thirst, while i look on, and take me for their fellow-citizen. more of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts. [_soft music again._ _vent._ i must disturb him; i can hold no longer. [_stands before him._ _ant._ [_starting up._] art thou ventidius? _vent._ are you antony? i'm liker what i was, than you to him i left you last. _ant._ i'm angry. _vent._ so am i. _ant._ i would be private: leave me. _vent._ sir, i love you, and therefore will not leave you. _ant._ will not leave me! where have you learnt that answer? who am i? _vent._ my emperor; the man i love next heaven: if i said more, i think 'twere scarce a sin: you're all that's good, and godlike. _ant._ all that's wretched. you will not leave me then? _vent._ 'twas too presuming to say i would not; but i dare not leave you: and, 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence so soon, when i so far have come to see you. _ant._ now thou hast seen me, art thou satified? for, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough; and, if a foe, too much. _vent._ look, emperor, this is no common dew, [_weeping._ i have not wept this forty years; but now my mother comes afresh into my eyes; i cannot help her softness. _ant._ by heaven, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps! the big round drops course one another down the furrows of his cheeks.--stop them, ventidius, or i shall blush to death: they set my shame, that caused them, full before me. _vent._ i'll do my best. _ant._ sure there's contagion in the tears of friends: see, i have caught it too. believe me, 'tis not for my own griefs, but thine.--nay, father! _vent._ emperor. _ant._ emperor! why, that's the style of victory; the conqu'ring soldier, red with unfelt wounds, salutes his general so: but never more shall that sound reach my ears. _vent._ i warrant you. _ant._ actium, actium! oh!-- _vent._ it sits too near you. _ant._ here, here it lies; a lump of lead by day, and, in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers, the hag that rides my dreams.-- _vent._ out with it; give it vent. _ant._ urge not my shame. i lost a battle,-- _vent._ so has julius done. _ant._ thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half thou think'st; for julius fought it out, and lost it fairly: but antony-- _vent._ nay, stop not. _ant._ antony,-- well, thou wilt have it,--like a coward, fled, fled while his soldiers fought; fled first, ventidius. thou long'st to curse me, and i give thee leave. i know thou cam'st prepared to rail. _vent._ i did. _ant._ i'll help thee.--i have been a man, ventidius. _vent._ yes, and a brave one; but-- _ant._ i know thy meaning. but i have lost my reason, have disgraced the name of soldier, with inglorious ease. in the full vintage of my flowing honours, sat still, and saw it prest by other hands. fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it, and purple greatness met my ripened years. when first i came to empire, i was borne on tides of people, crowding to my triumphs; the wish of nations, and the willing world received me as its pledge of future peace; i was so great, so happy, so beloved, fate could not ruin me; till i took pains, and worked against my fortune, chid her from me, and turned her loose; yet still she came again. my careless days, and my luxurious nights, at length have wearied her, and now she's gone, gone, gone, divorced for ever. help me, soldier, to curse this madman, this industrious fool, who laboured to be wretched: pr'ythee curse me. _vent._ no. _ant._ why? _vent._ you are too sensible already of what you've done, too conscious of your failings; and, like a scorpion, whipt by others first to fury, sting yourself in mad revenge. i would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds, cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes. _ant._ i know thou would'st. _vent._ i will. _ant._ ha, ha, ha, ha! _vent._ you laugh. _ant._ i do, to see officious love give cordials to the dead. _vent._ you would be lost then? _ant._ i am. _vent._ i say you are not. try your fortune. _ant._ i have, to the utmost. dost thou think me desperate, without just cause? no, when i found all lost beyond repair, i hid me from the world, and learnt to scorn it here; which now i do so heartily, i think it is not worth the cost of keeping. _vent._ cæsar thinks not so: he'll thank you for the gift he could not take. you would be killed like tully, would you? do, hold out your throat to cæsar, and die tamely. _ant._ no, i can kill myself; and so resolve. _vent._ i can die with you too, when time shall serve; but fortune calls upon us now to live, to fight, to conquer. _ant._ sure thou dream'st, ventidius. _vent._ no; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours in desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy. up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you, and long to call you chief: by painful journeys, i led them, patient both of heat and hunger, down from the parthian marches to the nile. 'twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces, their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands: there's virtue in them. they'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates than yon trim bands can buy. _ant._ where left you them? _vent._ i said in lower syria. _ant._ bring them hither; there may be life in these. _vent._ they will not come. _ant._ why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids, to double my despair? they're mutinous. _vent._ most firm and loyal. _ant._ yet they will not march to succour me. oh trifler! _vent._ they petition you would make haste to head them. _ant._ i'm besieged. _vent._ there's but one way shut up: how came i hither? _ant._ i will not stir. _vent._ they would perhaps desire a better reason. _ant._ i have never used my soldiers to demand a reason of my actions. why did they refuse to march? _vent._ they said they would not fight for cleopatra. _ant._ what was't they said? _vent._ they said they would not fight for cleopatra. why should they fight indeed, to make her conquer, and make you more a slave? to gain you kingdoms, which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast, you'll sell to her? then she new-names her jewels, and calls this diamond such or such a tax; each pendant in her ear shall be a province. _ant._ ventidius, i allow your tongue free licence on all my other faults; but, on your life, no word of cleopatra: she deserves more worlds than i can lose. _vent._ behold, you powers, to whom you have entrusted human kind! see europe, afric, asia, put in balance, and all weighed down by one light, worthless woman! i think the gods are antonies, and give, like prodigals, this nether world away to none but wasteful hands. _ant._ you grow presumptuous. _vent._ i take the privilege of plain love to speak. _ant._ plain love! plain arrogance, plain insolence! thy men are cowards; thou, an envious traitor; who, under seeming honesty, hast vented the burden of thy rank o'erflowing gall. o that thou wert my equal; great in arms as the first cæsar was, that i might kill thee without a stain to honour! _vent._ you may kill me; you have done more already,--called me traitor. _ant._ art thou not one? _vent._ for showing you yourself, which none else durst have done? but had i been that name, which i disdain to speak again, i needed not have sought your abject fortunes, come to partake your fate, to die with you. what hindered me to have led my conquering eagles to fill octavius' bands? i could have been a traitor then, a glorious, happy traitor, and not have been so called. _ant._ forgive me, soldier; i've been too passionate. _vent._ you thought me false; thought my old age betrayed you: kill me, sir, pray, kill me; yet you need not, your unkindness has left your sword no work. _ant._ i did not think so; i said it in my rage: pr'ythee, forgive me: why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery of what i would not hear? _vent._ no prince but you could merit that sincerity i used, nor durst another man have ventured it; but you, ere love misled your wandering eyes, were sure the chief and best of human race, framed in the very pride and boast of nature; so perfect, that the gods, who formed you, wondered at their own skill, and cried,--a lucky hit has mended our design. their envy hindered, else you had been immortal, and a pattern, when heaven would work for ostentation sake, to copy out again. _ant._ but cleopatra-- go on; for i can bear it now. _vent._ no more. _ant._ thou dar'st not trust my passion, but thou may'st; thou only lov'st, the rest have flattered me. _vent._ heaven's blessing on your heart for that kind word! may i believe you love me? speak again. _ant._ indeed i do. speak this, and this, and this. [_hugging him._ thy praises were unjust; but, i'll deserve them, and yet mend all. do with me what thou wilt; lead me to victory! thou know'st the way. _vent._ and, will you leave this-- _ant._ pr'ythee, do not curse her, and i will leave her; though, heaven knows, i love beyond life, conquest, empire; all, but honour: but i will leave her. _vent._ that's my royal master; and, shall we fight? _ant._ i warrant thee, old soldier. thou shalt behold me once again in iron; and at the head of our old troops, that beat the parthians, cry aloud--come, follow me! _vent._ o now i hear my emperor! in that word octavius fell. gods, let me see that day, and, if i have ten years behind, take all: i'll thank you for the exchange. _ant._ oh, cleopatra! _vent._ again? _ant._ i've done: in that last sigh, she went. cæsar shall know what 'tis to force a lover from all he holds most dear. _vent._ methinks, you breathe another soul: your looks are more divine; you speak a hero, and you move a god. _ant._ o, thou hast fired me; my soul's up in arms, and mans each part about me: once again, that noble eagerness of fight has seized me; that eagerness, with which i darted upward to cassius' camp: in vain the steepy hill opposed my way; in vain a war of spears sung round my head, and planted all my shield; i won the trenches, while my foremost men lagged on the plain below. _vent._ ye gods, ye gods, for such another honour! _ant._ come on, my soldier! our hearts and arms are still the same: i long once more to meet our foes; that thou and i, like time and death, marching before our troops, may taste fate to them; mow them out a passage, and, entering where the foremost squadrons yield, begin the noble harvest of the field. [_exeunt._ act ii. scene i. _enter_ cleopatra, iras, _and_ alexas. _cleo._ what shall i do, or whither shall i turn? ventidius has o'ercome, and he will go. _alex._ he goes to fight for you. _cleo._ then he would see me, ere he went to fight: flatter me not: if once he goes, he's lost, and all my hopes destroyed. _alex._ does this weak passion become a mighty queen? _cleo._ i am no queen: is this to be a queen, to be besieged by yon insulting roman, and to wait each hour the victor's chain? these ills are small; for antony is lost, and i can mourn for nothing else but him. now come, octavius, i have no more to lose; prepare thy bands; i'm fit to be a captive: antony has taught my mind the fortune of a slave. _iras._ call reason to assist you. _cleo._ i have none, and none would have: my love's a noble madness, which shows the cause deserved it. moderate sorrow fits vulgar love, and for a vulgar man: but i have loved with such transcendent passion, i soared, at first, quite out of reason's view, and now am lost above it. no, i'm proud 'tis thus: would antony could see me now! think you he would not sigh, though he must leave me? sure he would sigh; for he is noble-natured, and bears a tender heart: i know him well. ah, no, i know him not; i knew him once, but now 'tis past. _iras._ let it be past with you: forget him, madam. _cleo._ never, never, iras. he once was mine; and once, though now 'tis gone, leaves a faint image of possession still. _alex._ think him inconstant, cruel, and ungrateful. _cleo._ i cannot: if i could, those thoughts were vain. faithless, ungrateful, cruel, though he be, i still must love him. _enter_ charmion. now, what news, my charmion? will he be kind? and will he not forsake me? am i to live, or die? nay, do i live? or am i dead? for when he gave his answer, fate took the word, and then i lived or died. _char._ i found him, madam-- _cleo._ a long speech preparing? if thou bring'st comfort, haste, and give it me, for never was more need. _iras._ i know he loves you. _cleo._ had he been kind, her eyes had told me so, before her tongue could speak it: now she studies, to soften what he said; but give me death, just as he sent it, charmion, undisguised, and in the words he spoke. _char._ i found him, then, encompassed round, i think, with iron statues; so mute, so motionless his soldiers stood, while awfully he cast his eyes about, and every leader's hopes or fears surveyed: methought he looked resolved, and yet not pleased. when he beheld me struggling in the crowd, he blushed, and bade make way. _alex._ there's comfort yet. _char._ ventidius fixed his eyes upon my passage, severely, as he meant to frown me back, and sullenly gave place: i told my message, just as you gave it, broken and disordered; i numbered in it all your sighs and tears, and while i moved your pitiful request, that you but only begged a last farewell, he fetched an inward groan; and every time i named you, sighed, as if his heart were breaking. but, shunned my eyes, and guiltily looked down: he seemed not now that awful antony, who shook an armed assembly with his nod; but, making show as he would rub his eyes, disguised and blotted out a falling tear. _cleo._ did he then weep? and was i worth a tear? if what thou hast to say be not as pleasing, tell me no more, but let me die contented. _char._ he bid me say,--he knew himself so well, he could deny you nothing, if he saw you; and therefore-- _cleo._ thou wouldst say, he would not see me? _char._ and therefore begged you not to use a power, which he could ill resist; yet he should ever respect you, as he ought. _cleo._ is that a word for antony to use to cleopatra? oh that faint word, _respect_! how i disdain it! disdain myself, for loving after it! he should have kept that word for cold octavia. respect is for a wife: am i that thing, that dull insipid lump, without desires, and without power to give them? _alex._ you misjudge; you see through love, and that deludes your sight; as, what is straight, seems crooked through the water: but i, who bear my reason undisturbed, can see this antony, this dreaded man, a fearful slave, who fain would run away, and shuns his master's eyes: if you pursue him, my life on't, he still drags a chain along, that needs must clog his flight. _cleo._ could i believe thee!-- _alex._ by every circumstance i know he loves. true, he's hard prest, by interest and by honour; yet he but doubts, and parleys, and casts out many a long look for succour. _cleo._ he sends word, he fears to see my face. _alex._ and would you more? he shows his weakness, who declines the combat, and you must urge your fortune. could he speak more plainly? to my ears, the message sounds-- come to my rescue, cleopatra, come; come, free me from ventidius; from my tyrant: see me, and give me a pretence to leave him!-- i hear his trumpets. this way he must pass. please you, retire a while; i'll work him first, that he may bend more easy. _cleo._ you shall rule me; but all, i fear, in vain. [_exit with_ char. _and_ iras. _alex._ i fear so too; though i concealed my thoughts, to make her bold; but 'tis our utmost means, and fate befriend it! [_withdraws._ _enter lictors with fasces; one bearing the eagle; then enter_ antony _with_ ventidius, _followed by other commanders._ _ant._ octavius is the minion of blind chance, but holds from virtue nothing. _vent._ has he courage? _ant._ but just enough to season him from coward. o, 'tis the coldest youth upon a charge, the most deliberate fighter! if he ventures, (as in illyria once, they say, he did, to storm a town) 'tis when he cannot chuse; when all the world have fixt their eyes upon him; and then he lives on that for seven years after; but, at a close revenge he never fails. _vent._ i heard you challenged him. _ant._ i did, ventidius. what think'st thou was his answer? 'twas so tame!-- he said, he had more ways than one to die; i had not. _vent._ poor! _ant._ he has more ways than one; but he would chuse them all before that one. _vent._ he first would chuse an ague, or a fever. _ant._ no; it must be an ague, not a fever; he has not warmth enough to die by that. _vent._ or old age and a bed. _ant._ ay, there's his choice. he would live, like a lamp, to the last wink, and crawl upon the utmost verge of life. o, hercules! why should a man like this, who dares not trust his fate for one great action, be all the care of heaven? why should he lord it o'er fourscore thousand men, of whom each one is braver than himself? _vent._ you conquered for him: philippi knows it; there you shared with him that empire, which your sword made all your own. _ant._ fool that i was, upon my eagle's wings i bore this wren, 'till i was tired with soaring, and now he mounts above me[ ]. good heavens, is this,--is this the man who braves me? who bids my age make way? drives me before him, to the world's ridge, and sweeps me off like rubbish? _vent._ sir, we lose time; the troops are mounted all. _ant._ then give the word to march: i long to leave this prison of a town, to join thy legions; and, in open field, once more to show my face. lead, my deliverer. _enter_ alexas. _alex._ great emperor, in mighty arms renowned above mankind, but, in soft pity to the opprest, a god; this message sends the mournful cleopatra to her departing lord. _vent._ smooth sycophant! _alex._ a thousand wishes, and ten thousand prayers, millions of blessings wait you to the wars; millions of sighs and tears she sends you too, and would have sent as many dear embraces to your arms, as many parting kisses to your lips; but those, she fears, have wearied you already. _vent._ [_aside._] false crocodile! _alex._ and yet she begs not now, you would not leave her; that were a wish too mighty for her hopes, too presuming for her low fortune, and your ebbing love; that were a wish for her more prosperous days, her blooming beauty, and your growing kindness. _ant._ [_aside._] well, i must man it out:--what would the queen? _alex._ first, to these noble warriors, who attend your daring courage in the chase of fame,-- too daring, and too dangerous for her quiet,-- she humbly recommends all she holds dear, all her own cares and fears,--the care of you. _vent._ yes, witness actium. _ant._ let him speak, ventidius. _alex._ you, when his matchless valour bears him forward, with ardour too heroic, on his foes, fall down, as she would do, before his feet; lie in his way, and stop the paths of death; tell him, this god is not invulnerable; that absent cleopatra bleeds in him; and, that you may remember her petition, she begs you wear these trifles, as a pawn, which, at your wisht return, she will redeem [_gives jewels to the commanders._ with all the wealth of egypt: this to the great ventidius she presents, whom she can never count her enemy, because he loves her lord. _vent._ tell her, i'll none on't; i'm not ashamed of honest poverty; not all the diamonds of the east can bribe ventidius from his faith. i hope to see these, and the rest of all her sparkling store, where they shall more deservingly be placed. _ant._ and who must wear them then? _vent._ the wronged octavia. _ant._ you might have spared that word. _vent._ and he that bribe. _ant._ but have i no remembrance? _alex._ yes, a dear one; your slave, the queen-- _ant._ my mistress. _alex._ then your mistress; your mistress would, she says, have sent her soul, but that you had long since; she humbly begs this ruby bracelet, set with bleeding hearts, the emblems of her own, may bind your arm. [_presenting a bracelet._ _vent._ now, my best lord,--in honour's name, i ask you, for manhood's sake, and for your own dear safety,-- touch not these poisoned gifts, infected by the sender; touch them not; myriads of bluest plagues lie underneath them, and more than aconite has dipt the silk. _ant._ nay, now you grow too cynical, ventidius: a lady's favours may be worn with honour. what, to refuse her bracelet! on my soul, when i lie pensive in my tent alone, 'twill pass the wakeful hours of winter nights, to tell these pretty beads upon my arm, to count for every one a soft embrace, a melting kiss at such and such a time; and now and then the fury of her love, when--and what harm's in this? _alex._ none, none, my lord, but what's to her, that now 'tis past for ever. _ant._ [_going to tie it._] we soldiers are so awkward--help me tie it. _alex._ in faith, my lord, we courtiers too are awkward in these affairs: so are all men indeed: even i, who am not one. but shall i speak? _ant._ yes, freely. _alex._ then, my lord, fair hands alone are fit to tie it; she, who sent it, can. _vent._ hell, death! this eunuch pandar ruins you. you will not see her? [alexas _whispers an attendant, who goes out._ _ant._ but to take my leave. _vent._ then i have washed an Æthiop. you're undone; you're in the toils; you're taken; you're destroyed: her eyes do cæsar's work. _ant._ you fear too soon. i'm constant to myself: i know my strength; and yet she shall not think me barbarous neither, born in the depths of afric: i'm a roman, bred to the rules of soft humanity. a guest, and kindly used, should bid farewell. _vent._ you do not know how weak you are to her, how much an infant; you are not proof against a smile, or glance; a sigh will quite disarm you. _ant._ see, she comes! now you shall find your error.--gods, i thank you: i formed the danger greater than it was, and now 'tis near, 'tis lessened. _vent._ mark the end yet. _enter_ cleopatra, charmion, _and_ iras. _ant._ well, madam, we are met. _cleo._ is this a meeting? then, we must part? _ant._ we must. _cleo._ who says we must? _ant._ our own hard fates. _cleo._ we make those fates ourselves. _ant._ yes, we have made them; we have loved each other in our mutual ruin. _cleo._ the gods have seen my joys with envious eyes; i have no friends in heaven; and all the world, as 'twere the business of mankind to part us, is armed against my love: even you yourself join with the rest; you, you are armed against me. _ant._ i will be justified in all i do to late posterity, and therefore hear me. if i mix a lie with any truth, reproach me freely with it; else, favour me with silence. _cleo._ you command me, and i am dumb. _vent._ i like this well: he shews authority. _ant._ that i derive my ruin from you alone-- _cleo._ o heavens! i ruin you! _ant._ you promised me your silence, and you break it ere i have scarce begun. _cleo._ well, i obey you. _ant._ when i beheld you first, it was in egypt. ere cæsar saw your eyes, you gave me love, and were too young to know it; that i settled your father in his throne, was for your sake; i left the acknowledgment for time to ripen. cæsar stept in, and, with a greedy hand, plucked the green fruit, ere the first blush of red, yet cleaving to the bough. he was my lord, and was, beside, too great for me to rival; but, i deserved you first, though he enjoyed you. when, after, i beheld you in cilicia, an enemy to rome, i pardoned you. _cleo._ i cleared myself-- _ant._ again you break your promise. i loved you still, and took your weak excuses, took you into my bosom, stained by cæsar, and not half mine: i went to egypt with you, and hid me from the business of the world, shut out enquiring nations from my sight, to give whole years to you. _vent._ yes, to your shame be't spoken. [_aside._ _ant._ how i loved, witness, ye days and nights, and all ye hours, that danced away with down upon your feet, as all your business were to count my passion! one day past by, and nothing saw but love; another came, and still 'twas only love: the suns were wearied out with looking on, and i untired with loving. i saw you every day, and all the day; and every day was still but as the first, so eager was i still to see you more. _vent._ 'tis all too true. _ant._ fulvia, my wife, grew jealous, as she indeed had reason; raised a war in italy, to call me back. _vent._ but yet you went not. _ant._ while within your arms i lay, the world fell mouldering from my hands each hour, and left me scarce a grasp--i thank your love for't. _vent._ well pushed: that last was home. _cleo._ yet may i speak? _ant._ if i have urged a falsehood, yes; else, not. your silence says, i have not. fulvia died; (pardon, you gods, with my unkindness died.) to set the world at peace, i took octavia, this cæsar's sister; in her pride of youth, and flower of beauty, did i wed that lady, whom blushing i must praise, because i left her. you called; my love obeyed the fatal summons: this raised the roman arms; the cause was yours. i would have fought by land, where i was stronger; you hindered it: yet, when i fought at sea, forsook me fighting; and (oh stain to honour! oh lasting shame!) i knew not that i fled; but fled to follow you. _vent._ what haste she made to hoist her purple sails! and, to appear magnificent in flight, drew half our strength away. _ant._ all this you caused. and, would you multiply more ruins on me? this honest man, my best, my only friend, has gathered up the shipwreck of my fortunes; twelve legions i have left, my last recruits, and you have watched the news, and bring your eyes to seize them too. if you have aught to answer, now speak, you have free leave. _alex._ [_aside._] she stands confounded: despair is in her eyes. _vent._ now lay a sigh in the way to stop his passage: prepare a tear, and bid it for his legions; 'tis like they shall be sold. _cleo._ how shall i plead my cause, when you, my judge, already have condemned me? shall i bring the love you bore me for my advocate? that now is turned against me, that destroys me; for love, once past, is, at the best, forgotten; but oftener sours to hate: 'twill please my lord to ruin me, and therefore i'll be guilty. but, could i once have thought it would have pleased you, that you would pry, with narrow searching eyes into my faults, severe to my destruction, and watching all advantages with care, that serve to make me wretched? speak, my lord, for i end here. though i deserve this usage, was it like you to give it? _ant._ o you wrong me, to think i sought this parting, or desired to accuse you more than what will clear myself, and justify this breach. _cleo._ thus low i thank you; and, since my innocence will not offend, i shall not blush to own it. _vent._ after this, i think she'll blush at nothing. _cleo._ you seem grieved, (and therein you are kind) that cæsar first enjoyed my love, though you deserved it better: i grieve for that, my lord, much more than you; for, had i first been yours, it would have saved my second choice: i never had been his, and ne'er had been but yours. but cæsar first, you say, possessed my love. not so, my lord: he first possessed my person; you, my love: cæsar loved me; but i loved antony. if i endured him after, 'twas because i judged it due to the first name of men; and, half constrained, i gave, as to a tyrant, what he would take by force. _vent._ o syren! syren! yet grant that all the love she boasts were true, has she not ruined you? i still urge that, the fatal consequence. _cleo._ the consequence indeed; for i dare challenge him, my greatest foe, to say it was designed: 'tis true, i loved you, and kept you far from an uneasy wife,-- such fulvia was. yes, but he'll say, you left octavia for me;-- and, can you blame me to receive that love, which quitted such desert, for worthless me? how often have i wished some other cæsar, great as the first, and as the second young, would court my love, to be refused for you! _vent._ words, words; but actium, sir; remember actium. _cleo._ even there, i dare his malice. true, i counselled to fight at sea; but i betrayed you not. i fled, but not to the enemy. 'twas fear; would i had been a man, not to have feared! for none would then have envied me your friendship, who envy me your love. _ant._ we are both unhappy: if nothing else, yet our ill fortune parts us. speak; would you have me perish by my stay? _cleo._ if, as a friend, you ask my judgment, go; if, as a lover, stay. if you must perish-- 'tis a hard word--but stay. _vent._ see now the effects of her so boasted love! she strives to drag you down to ruin with her; but, could she 'scape without you, oh how soon would she let go her hold, and haste to shore, and never look behind! _cleo._ then judge my love by this. [_giving_ antony _a writing._ could i have borne a life or death, a happiness or woe, from yours divided, this had given me means. _ant._ by hercules, the writing of octavius! i know it well: 'tis that proscribing hand, young as it was, that led the way to mine, and left me but the second place in murder.-- see, see, ventidius! here he offers egypt, and joins all syria to it, as a present; so, in requital, she forsake my fortunes, and join her arms with his. _cleo._ and yet you leave me! you leave me, antony; and yet i love you, indeed i do: i have refused a kingdom; that is a trifle; for i could part with life, with any thing, but only you. o let me die but with you! is that a hard request? _ant._ next living with you, 'tis all that heaven can give. _alex._ he melts; we conquer. [_aside._ _cleo._ no; you shall go: your interest calls you hence; yes; your dear interest pulls too strong, for these weak arms to hold you here. [_takes his hand._ go; leave me, soldier; (for you're no more a lover:) leave me dying: push me, all pale and panting, from your bosom, and, when your march begins, let one run after, breathless almost for joy, and cry--she's dead: the soldiers shout; you then, perhaps, may sigh, and muster all your roman gravity: ventidius chides; and strait your brow clears up, as i had never been. _ant._ gods, 'tis too much; too much for man to bear. _cleo._ what is't for me then, a weak forsaken woman, and a lover?-- here let me breathe my last: envy me not this minute in your arms: i'll die apace, as fast as e'er i can; and end your trouble. _ant._ die! rather let me perish; loosened nature leap from its hinges, sink the props of heaven, and fall the skies, to crush the nether world! my eyes, my soul, my all!-- [_embraces her._ _vent._ and what's this toy, in balance with your fortune, honour, fame? _ant._ what is't, ventidius? it out-weighs them all; why, we have more than conquered cæsar now: my queen's not only innocent, but loves me. this, this is she, who drags me down to ruin! but, could she 'scape without me, with what haste would she let slip her hold, and make to shore, and never look behind! down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art, and ask forgiveness of wronged innocence. _vent._ i'll rather die, than take it. will you go? _ant._ go! whither? go from all that's excellent! faith, honour, virtue, all good things forbid, that i should go from her, who sets my love above the price of kingdoms. give, you gods, give to your boy, your cæsar, this rattle of a globe to play withal, this gewgaw world, and put him cheaply off: i'll not be pleased with less than cleopatra. _cleo._ she's wholly yours. my heart's so full of joy, that i shall do some wild extravagance of love, in public; and the foolish world, which knows not tenderness, will think me mad. _vent._ o women! women! women! all the gods have not such power of doing good to man, as you of doing harm. [_exit._ _ant._ our men are armed:-- unbar the gate that looks to cæsar's camp: i would revenge the treachery he meant me; and long security makes conquest easy. i'm eager to return before i go; for, all the pleasures i have known beat thick on my remembrance.--how i long for night! that both the sweets of mutual love may try, and triumph once o'er cæsar ere we die. [_exeunt._ act iii. scene i. _at one door, enter_ cleopatra, charmion, iras, _and_ alexas, _a train of egyptians: at the other,_ antony _and romans. the entrance on both sides is prepared by music; the trumpets first sounding on_ antony's _part: then answered by timbrels, &c. on_ cleopatra's. charmion _and_ iras _hold a laurel wreath betwixt them. a dance of egyptians. after the ceremony,_ cleopatra _crowns_ antony. _ant._ i thought how those white arms would fold me in, and strain me close, and melt me into love; so pleased with that sweet image, i sprung forwards, and added all my strength to every blow. _cleo._ come to me, come, my soldier, to my arms! you've been too long away from my embraces; but, when i have you fast, and all my own, with broken murmurs, and with amorous sighs, i'll say, you were unkind, and punish you, and mark you red with many an eager kiss. _ant._ my brighter venus! _cleo._ o my greater mars! _ant._ thou join'st us well, my love! suppose me come from the phlegræan plains, where gasping giants lay, cleft by my sword, and mountain tops pared off each other blow, to bury those i slew. receive me, goddess! let cæsar spread his subtile nets; like vulcan, in thy embraces i would be beheld by heaven and earth at once; and make their envy what they meant their sport. let those, who took us, blush; i would love on, with awful state, regardless of their frowns, as their superior god. there's no satiety of love in thee: enjoyed, thou still art new; perpetual spring is in thy arms; the ripened fruit but falls, and blossoms rise to fill its empty place; and i grow rich by giving. _enter_ ventidius, _and stands apart._ _alex._ o, now the danger's past, your general comes! he joins not in your joys, nor minds your triumphs; but, with contracted brows, looks frowning on, as envying your success. _ant._ now, on my soul, he loves me; truly loves me: he never flattered me in any vice, but awes me with his virtue: even this minute, methinks, he has a right of chiding me. lead to the temple: i'll avoid his presence; it checks too strong upon me. [_exeunt the rest._ [_as_ antony _is going,_ ventidius _pulls him by the robe._ _vent._ emperor! _ant._ 'tis the old argument; i pr'ythee, spare me. [_looking back._ _vent._ but this one hearing, emperor. _ant._ let go my robe; or, by my father hercules-- _vent._ by hercules' father, that's yet greater, i bring you somewhat you would wish to know. _ant._ thou see'st we are observed; attend me here, and i'll return. [_exit._ _vent._ i am waning in his favour, yet i love him; i love this man, who runs to meet his ruin; and sure the gods, like me, are fond of him; his virtues lie so mingled with his crimes, as would confound their choice to punish one, and not reward the other. _enter_ antony. _ant._ we can conquer, you see, without your aid. we have dislodged their troops; they look on us at distance, and, like curs 'scaped from the lion's paws, they bay far off, and lick their wounds, and faintly threaten war. five thousand romans, with their faces upward, lie breathless on the plain. _vent._ 'tis well; and he, who lost them, could have spared ten thousand more. yet if, by this advantage, you could gain an easier peace, while cæsar doubts the chance of arms-- _ant._ o think not on't, ventidius! the boy pursues my ruin, he'll no peace; his malice is considerate in advantage. o, he's the coolest murderer! so staunch, he kills, and keeps his temper. _vent._ have you no friend in all his army, who has power to move him? mecænas, or agrippa, might do much. _ant._ they're both too deep in cæsar's interests. we'll work it out by dint of sword, or perish. _vent._ fain i would find some other. _ant._ thank thy love. some four or five such victories as this will save thy farther pains. _vent._ expect no more; cæsar is on his guard: i know, sir, you have conquered against odds; but still you draw supplies from one poor town, and of egyptians: he has all the world, and, at his beck, nations come pouring in, to fill the gaps you make. pray, think again. _ant._ why dost thou drive me from myself, to search for foreign aids? to hunt my memory, and range all o'er a waste and barren place, to find a friend? the wretched have no friends. yet i had one, the bravest youth of rome, whom cæsar loves beyond the love of women: he could resolve his mind, as fire does wax, from that hard rugged image melt him down, and mould him in what softer form he pleased. _vent._ him would i see; that man, of all the world; just such a one we want. _ant._ he loved me too; i was his soul; he lived not but in me: we were so closed within each others breasts, the rivets were not found, that joined us first. that does not reach us yet: we were so mixt, as meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost; we were one mass; we could not give or take, but from the same; for he was i, i he. _vent._ he moves as i would wish him. [_aside._ _ant._ after this, i need not tell his name;--'twas dolabella. _vent._ he's now in cæsar's camp. _ant._ no matter where, since he's no longer mine. he took unkindly, that i forbade him cleopatra's sight, because i feared he loved her: he confest, he had a warmth, which, for my sake, he stifled; for 'twere impossible that two, so one, should not have loved the same. when he departed, he took no leave; and that confirmed my thoughts. _vent._ it argues, that he loved you more than her, else he had staid; but he perceived you jealous, and would not grieve his friend: i know he loves you. _ant._ i should have seen him, then, ere now. _vent._ perhaps he has thus long been labouring for your peace. _ant._ would he were here! _vent._ would you believe he loved you? i read your answer in your eyes, you would. not to conceal it longer, he has sent a messenger from cæsar's camp, with letters. _ant._ let him appear. _vent._ i'll bring him instantly. [_exit_ ventidius, _and re-enters immediately with_ dolabella. _ant._ 'tis he himself! himself, by holy friendship! [_runs to embrace him._ art thou returned at last, my better half? come, give me all myself! let me not live, if the young bridegroom, longing for his night, was ever half so fond. _dola._ i must be silent, for my soul is busy about a noble work: she's new come home, like a long-absent man, and wanders o'er each room, a stranger to her own, to look if all be safe. _ant._ thou hast what's left of me; for i am now so sunk from what i was, thou find'st me at my lowest water-mark. the rivers that ran in, and raised my fortunes, are all dried up, or take another course: what i have left is from my native spring; i've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate, and lifts me to my banks. _dola._ still you are lord of all the world to me. _ant._ why, then i yet am so; for thou art all. if i had any joy when thou wert absent, i grudged it to myself; methought i robbed thee of thy part. but, oh, my dolabella! thou hast beheld me other than i am. hast thou not seen my morning chambers filled with sceptered slaves, who waited to salute me? with eastern monarchs, who forgot the sun, to worship my uprising? menial kings ran coursing up and down my palace-yard, stood silent in my presence, watched my eyes, and, at my least command, all started out, like racers to the goal[ ]. _dola._ slaves to your fortune. _ant._ fortune is cæsar's now; and what am i? _vent._ what you have made yourself; i will not flatter. _ant._ is this friendly done? _dola._ yes; when his end is so, i must join with him; indeed i must, and yet you must not chide: why am i else your friend? _ant._ take heed, young man, how thou upbraid'st my love: the queen has eyes, and thou too hast a soul. canst thou remember, when, swelled with hatred, thou beheld'st her first as accessary to thy brother's death? _dola._ spare my remembrance; 'twas a guilty day, and still the blush hangs here. _ant._ to clear herself, for sending him no aid, she came from egypt. her galley down the silver cydnos rowed, the tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold; the gentle winds were lodged in purple sails: her nymphs, like nereids, round her couch were placed; where she, another sea-born venus, lay. _dola._ no more: i would not hear it. _ant._ o, you must! she lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand, and cast a look so languishingly sweet, as if, secure of all beholders' hearts, neglecting, she could take them: boys, like cupids, stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds, that played about her face: but if she smiled, a darting glory seemed to blaze abroad, that men's desiring eyes were never wearied, but hung upon the object: to soft flutes the silver oars kept time; and while they played, the hearing gave new pleasure to the sight; and both to thought. 'twas heaven, or somewhat more: for she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath to give their welcome voice. then, dolabella, where was then thy soul? was not thy fury quite disarmed with wonder? didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes and whisper in my ear,--oh, tell her not that i accused her of my brother's death? _dola._ and should my weakness be a plea for yours? mine was an age when love might be excused, when kindly warmth, and when my springing youth made it a debt to nature. yours-- _vent._ speak boldly. yours, he would say, in your declining age, when no more heat was left but what you forced, when all the sap was needful for the trunk, when it went down, then you constrained the course, and robbed from nature, to supply desire; in you (i would not use so harsh a word) 'tis but plain dotage. _ant._ ha! _dola._ 'twas urged too home.-- but yet the loss was private, that i made; 'twas but myself i lost: i lost no legions; i had no world to lose, no people's love. _ant._ this from a friend? _dola._ yes, antony, a true one; a friend so tender, that each word i speak stabs my own heart, before it reach your ear. o, judge me not less kind, because i chide! to cæsar i excuse you. _ant._ o ye gods! have i then lived to be excused to cæsar? _dola._ as to your equal. _ant._ well, he's but my equal: while i wear this, he never shall be more. _dola._ i bring conditions from him. _ant._ are they noble? methinks thou shouldst not bring them else; yet he is full of deep dissembling; knows no honour divided from his interest. fate mistook him; for nature meant him for an usurer: he's fit indeed to buy, not conquer kingdoms. _vent._ then, granting this, what power was theirs, who wrought so hard a temper to honourable terms? _ant._ it was my dolabella, or some god. _dola._ not i; nor yet mecænas, nor agrippa: they were your enemies; and i, a friend, too weak alone; yet 'twas a roman's deed. _ant._ 'twas like a roman done: show me that man, who has preserved my life, my love, my honour; let me but see his face. _vent._ that task is mine, and, heaven, thou know'st how pleasing. [_exit_ vent. _dola._ you'll remember to whom you stand obliged? _ant._ when i forget it, be thou unkind, and that's my greatest curse. my queen shall thank him too. _dola._ i fear she will not. _ant._ but she shall do it: the queen, my dolabella! hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever? _dola._ i would not see her lost. _ant._ when i forsake her, leave me, my better stars! for she has truth beyond her beauty. cæsar tempted her, at no less price than kingdoms, to betray me; but she resisted all: and yet thou chidest me for loving her too well. could i do so? _dola._ yes; there's my reason. _re-enter_ ventidius, _with_ octavia, _leading_ antony's _two little daughters._ _ant._ where?--octavia there! [_starting back._ _vent._ what, is she poison to you? a disease? look on her, view her well, and those she brings: are they all strangers to your eyes? has nature no secret call, no whisper they are yours? _dola._ for shame, my lord, if not for love, receive them with kinder eyes. if you confess a man, meet them, embrace them, bid them welcome to you. your arms should open, even without your knowledge, to clasp them in; your feet should turn to wings, to bear you to them; and your eyes dart out, and aim a kiss, ere you could reach the lips. _ant._ i stood amazed, to think how they came hither. _vent._ i sent for them; i brought them in, unknown. to cleopatra's guards. _dola._ yet, are you cold? _octav._ thus long i have attended for my welcome; which, as a stranger, sure i might expect. who am i? _ant._ cæsar's sister. _octav._ that's unkind. had i been nothing more than cæsar's sister, know, i had still remained in cæsar's camp: but your octavia, your much injured wife, though banished from your bed, driven from your house, in spite of cæsar's sister, still is yours. 'tis true, i have a heart disdains your coldness, and prompts me not to seek what you should offer; but a wife's virtue still surmounts that pride. i come to claim you as my own; to show my duty first; to ask, nay beg, your kindness: your hand, my lord; 'tis mine, and i will have it. [_taking his hand._ _vent._ do, take it; thou deserv'st it. _dola._ on my soul, and so she does: she's neither too submissive, nor yet too haughty; but so just a mean shows, as it ought, a wife and roman too. _ant._ i fear, octavia, you have begged my life. _octav._ begged it, my lord? _ant._ yes, begged it, my ambassadress; poorly and basely begged it of your brother. _octav._ poorly and basely i could never beg: nor could my brother grant. _ant._ shall i, who, to my kneeling slave, could say, rise up, and be a king; shall i fall down and cry,--forgive me, cæsar! shall i set a man, my equal, in the place of jove, as he could give me being? no; that word, forgive, would choke me up, and die upon my tongue. _dola._ you shall not need it. _ant._ i will not need it. come, you've all betrayed me,-- my friend too!--to receive some vile conditions. my wife has bought me, with her prayers and tears; and now i must become her branded slave. in every peevish mood, she will upbraid the life she gave: if i but look awry, she cries,--i'll tell my brother. _octav._ my hard fortune subjects me still to your unkind mistakes. but the conditions i have brought are such, you need not blush to take: i love your honour, because 'tis mine; it never shall be said, octavia's husband was her brother's slave. sir, you are free; free, even from her you loath; for, though my brother bargains for your love, makes me the price and cement of your peace, i have a soul like yours; i cannot take your love as alms, nor beg what i deserve. i'll tell my brother we are reconciled; he shall draw back his troops, and you shall march to rule the east: i may be dropt at athens; no matter where. i never will complain, but only keep the barren name of wife, and rid you of the trouble. _vent._ was ever such a strife of sullen honour! } both scorn to be obliged. } } _dola._ o, she has touched him in the tenderest part; } see how he reddens with despite and shame, } _apart._ to be out-done in generosity! } } _vent._ see, how he winks! how he dries up a tear, } that fain would fall! } _ant._ octavia, i have heard you, and must praise the greatness of your soul; but cannot yield to what you have proposed: for i can ne'er be conquered but by love; and you do all for duty. you would free me, and would be dropt at athens; was't not so? _octav._ it was, my lord. _ant._ then i must be obliged to one who loves me not; who, to herself, may call me thankless and ungrateful man:-- i'll not endure it; no. _vent._ i am glad it pinches there. [_aside._ _octav._ would you triumph o'er poor octavia's virtue? that pride was all i had to bear me up; that you might think you owed me for your life, and owed it to my duty, not my love. i have been injured, and my haughty soul could brook but ill the man, who slights my bed. _ant._ therefore you love me not. _octav._ therefore, my lord, i should not love you. _ant._ therefore you would leave me? _octav._ and therefore i should leave you--if i could. _dola._ her soul's too great, after such injuries, to say she loves; and yet she lets you see it. her modesty and silence plead her cause. _ant._ o, dolabella, which way shall i turn? i find a secret yielding in my soul; but cleopatra, who would die with me, must she be left? pity pleads for octavia; but does it not plead more for cleopatra? _vent._ justice and pity both plead for octavia; for cleopatra, neither. one would be ruined with you; but she first had ruined you: the other, you have ruined, and yet she would preserve you. in every thing their merits are unequal. _ant._ o, my distracted soul! _octav._ sweet heaven compose it!-- come, come, my lord, if i can pardon you, methinks you should accept it. look on these; are they not yours? or stand they thus neglected, as they are mine? go to him, children, go; kneel to him, take him by the hand, speak to him; for you may speak, and he may own you too, without a blush; and so he cannot all his children: go, i say, and pull him to me, and pull him to yourselves, from that bad woman. you, agrippina, hang upon his arms; and you, antonia, clasp about his waist: if he will shake you off, if he will dash you against the pavement, you must bear it, children; for you are mine, and i was born to suffer. [_here the children go to him, &c._ _vent._ was ever sight so moving?--emperor! _dola._ friend! _octav._ husband! _both child._ father! _ant._ i am vanquished: take me, octavia; take me, children; share me all. [_embracing them._ i've been a thriftless debtor to your loves, and run out much, in riot, from your stock; but all shall be amended. _octav._ o blest hour! _dola._ o happy change! _vent._ my joy stops at my tongue; but it has found two channels here for one, and bubbles out above. _ant._ [_to_ octav.] this is thy triumph; lead me where thou wilt; even to thy brother's camp. _octav._ all there are yours. _enter_ alexas _hastily._ _alex._ the queen, my mistress, sir, and yours-- _ant._ 'tis past.--octavia, you shall stay this night; to-morrow, cæsar and we are one. [_ex. leading_ octav. dol. _and the children follow._ _vent._ there's news for you; run, my officious eunuch, be sure to be the first; haste forward: haste, my dear eunuch, haste. [_exit._ _alex._ this downright fighting fool, this thick-skulled hero, this blunt unthinking instrument of death, with plain dull virtue has out-gone my wit. pleasure forsook my earliest infancy; the luxury of others robbed my cradle, and ravished thence the promise of a man cast out from nature, disinherited of what her meanest children claim by kind, yet greatness kept me from contempt: that's gone: had cleopatra followed my advice, then he had been betrayed, who now forsakes. she dies for love; but she has known its joys: gods, is this just, that i, who know no joys, must die, because she loves? _enter_ cleopatra, charmion, iras, _and train._ oh, madam, i have seen what blasts my eyes! octavia's here. _cleo._ peace with that raven's note. i know it too; and now am in the pangs of death. _alex._ you are no more a queen; egypt is lost. _cleo._ what tell'st thou me of egypt? my life, my soul is lost! octavia has him!-- o fatal name to cleopatra's love! my kisses, my embraces now are hers; while i--but thou hast seen my rival; speak. does she deserve this blessing? is she fair? bright as a goddess? and is all perfection confined to her? it is. poor i was made of that coarse matter, which, when she was finished, the gods threw by for rubbish. _alex._ she's indeed a very miracle. _cleo._ death to my hopes, a miracle! _alex._ a miracle; [_bowing._ i mean of goodness; for in beauty, madam, you make all wonders cease. _cleo._ i was too rash: take this in part of recompense. but, oh, [_giving a ring._ i fear thou flatterest me. _char._ she comes! she's here! _iras._ fly, madam, cæsar's sister! _cleo._ were she the sister of the thunderer jove, and bore her brother's lightning in her eyes, thus would i face my rival. _meets_ octavia _with_ ventidius. octavia _bears up to her. their trains come up on either side._ _octav._ i need not ask if you are cleopatra; your haughty carriage-- _cleo._ shows i am a queen: nor need i ask you, who you are. _octav._ a roman: a name, that makes and can unmake a queen. _cleo._ your lord, the man who serves me, is a roman. _octav._ he was a roman, till he lost that name, to be a slave in egypt; but i come to free him thence. _cleo._ peace, peace, my lover's juno. when he grew weary of that household-clog, he chose my easier bonds. _octav._ i wonder not your bonds are easy; you have long been practised in that lascivious art: he's not the first, for whom you spread your snares: let cæsar witness. _cleo._ i loved not cæsar; 'twas but gratitude i paid his love: the worst your malice can, is but to say, the greatest of mankind has been my slave. the next, but far above him in my esteem, is he whom law calls yours, but whom his love made mine. _octav._ i would view nearer [_coming up close to her._ that face, which has so long usurped my right, to find the inevitable charms, that catch mankind so sure, that ruined my dear lord. _cleo._ o, you do well to search; for had you known but half these charms, you had not lost his heart. _octav._ far be their knowledge from a roman lady, far from a modest wife! shame of your sex, dost thou not blush, to own those black endearments, that make sin pleasing? _cleo._ you may blush, who want them. if bounteous nature, if indulgent heaven have given me charms to please the bravest man, should i not thank them? should i be ashamed, and not be proud? i am, that he has loved me; and, when i love not him, heaven change this face for one like that. _octav._ thou lov'st him not so well. _cleo._ i love him better, and deserve him more. _octav._ you do not; cannot: you have been his ruin. who made him cheap at rome, but cleopatra? who made him scorned abroad, but cleopatra? at actium, who betrayed him? cleopatra. who made his children orphans, and poor me a wretched widow? only cleopatra. _cleo._ yet she, who loves him best, is cleopatra. if you have suffered, i have suffered more. you bear the specious title of a wife, to gild your cause, and draw the pitying world to favour it: the world condemns poor me; for i have lost my honour, lost my fame, and stained the glory of my royal house, and all to bear the branded name of mistress. there wants but life, and that too i would lose for him i love. _octav._ be't so then; take thy wish. [_exit with her train._ _cleo._ and 'tis my wish, now he is lost for whom alone i lived. my sight grows dim, and every object dances, and swims before me, in the maze of death. my spirits, while they were opposed, kept up; they could not sink beneath a rival's scorn: but now she's gone, they faint. _alex._ mine have had leisure to recollect their strength, and furnish counsel, to ruin her, who else must ruin you. _cleo._ vain promiser! lead me, my charmion; nay, your hand too, iras. my grief has weight enough to sink you both. conduct me to some solitary chamber, and draw the curtains round; then leave me to myself, to take alone my fill of grief: there i till death will his unkindness weep; as harmless infants moan themselves asleep. [_exeunt._ act iv. scene i. _enter_ antony _and_ dolabella. _dola._ why would you shift it from yourself, on me? can you not tell her, you must part? _ant._ i cannot. i could pull out an eye, and bid it go, and t'other should not weep. oh, dolabella, how many deaths are in this word, _depart_! i dare not trust my tongue to tell her so: one look of hers would thaw me into tears, and i should melt, till i were lost again. _dola._ then let ventidius; he's rough by nature. _ant._ oh, he'll speak too harshly; he'll kill her with the news: thou, only thou. _dola._ nature has cast me in so soft a mould, that but to hear a story, feigned for pleasure, of some sad lover's death, moistens my eyes, and robs me of my manhood. i should speak so faintly, with such fear to grieve her heart, she'd not believe it earnest. _ant._ therefore,--therefore thou only, thou art fit: think thyself me; and when thou speak'st, (but let it first be long) take off the edge from every sharper sound, and let our parting he as gently made, as other loves begin: wilt thou do this? _dola._ what you have said, so sinks into my soul, that, if i must speak, i shall speak just so. _ant._ i leave you then to your sad task: farewell. i sent her word to meet you. [_goes to the door, and comes back._ i forgot; let her be told, i'll make her peace with mine: her crown and dignity shall be preserved, if i have power with cæsar.--o, be sure to think on that. _dola._ fear not, i will remember. [antony _goes again to the door, and comes back._ _ant._ and tell her, too, how much i was constrained; i did not this, but with extremest force: desire her not to hate my memory, for i still cherish hers;--insist on that. _dola._ trust me, i'll not forget it. _ant._ then that's all. [_goes out, and returns again._ wilt thou forgive my fondness this once more? tell her, though we shall never meet again, if i should hear she took another love, the news would break my heart.--now i must go; for every time i have returned, i feel my soul more tender; and my next command would be, to bid her stay, and ruin both. [_exit._ _dola._ men are but children of a larger growth; our appetites as apt to change as theirs, and full as craving too, and full as vain; and yet the soul, shut up in her dark room, viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing; but, like a mole in earth, busy and blind, works all her folly up, and casts it outward to the world's open view: thus i discovered, and blamed the love of ruined antony; yet wish that i were he, to be so ruined. _enter_ ventidius _above._ _vent._ alone, and talking to himself? concerned too? perhaps my guess is right; he loved her once, and may pursue it still. _dola._ o friendship! friendship! ill canst thou answer this; and reason, worse: unfaithful in the attempt; hopeless to win; and, if i win, undone: mere madness all. and yet the occasion's fair. what injury to him, to wear the robe which he throws by? _vent._ none, none at all. this happens as i wish, to ruin her yet more with antony. _enter_ cleopatra, _talking with_ alexas; charmion, iras _on the other side._ _dola._ she comes! what charms have sorrow on that face! sorrow seems pleased to dwell with so much sweetness; yet, now and then, a melancholy smile breaks loose, like lightning in a winter's night, and shows a moment's day. _vent._ if she should love him too! her eunuch there! that porc'pisce bodes ill weather. draw, draw nearer, sweet devil, that i may hear. _alex._ believe me; try. [dolabella _goes over to_ charmion _and_ iras; _seems to talk with them._ to make him jealous; jealousy is like a polished glass held to the lips when life's in doubt; if there be breath, 'twill catch the damp, and show it. _cleo._ i grant you, jealousy's a proof of love, but 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine; it puts out the disease, and makes it show, but has no power to cure. _alex._ 'tis your last remedy, and strongest too: and then this dolabella, who so fit to practise on? he's handsome, valiant, young, and looks as he were laid for nature's bait, to catch weak woman's eyes. he stands already more than half suspected of loving you: the least kind word or glance, you give this youth, will kindle him with love: then, like a burning vessel set adrift, you'll send him down amain before the wind, to fire the heart of jealous antony. _cleo._ can i do this? ah, no; my love's so true, that i can neither hide it where it is, nor show it where it is not. nature meant me a wife; a silly, harmless, household dove, fond without art, and kind without deceit; but fortune, that has made a mistress of me, has thrust me out to the wide world, unfurnished of falsehood to be happy. _alex._ force yourself. the event will be, your lover will return, doubly desirous to possess the good, which once he feared to lose. _cleo._ i must attempt it; but oh with what regret! [_exit_ alex. _she comes up to_ dolabella. _vent._ so, now the scene draws near; they're in my reach. _cleo._ [_to_ dol.] discoursing with my women! might not i share in your entertainment? _char._ you have been the subject of it, madam. _cleo._ how! and how? _iras._ such praises of your beauty! _cleo._ mere poetry. your roman wits, your gallus and tibullus, have taught you this from cytheris and delia. _dola._ those roman wits have never been in egypt; cytheris and delia else had been unsung: i, who have seen--had i been born a poet, should choose a nobler name. _cleo._ you flatter me. but, 'tis your nation's vice: all of your country are flatterers, and all false. your friend's like you. i'm sure, he sent you not to speak these words. _dola._ no, madam; yet he sent me-- _cleo._ well, he sent you-- _dola._ of a less pleasing errand. _cleo._ how less pleasing? less to yourself, or me? _dola._ madam, to both; for you must mourn, and i must grieve to cause it. _cleo._ you, charmion, and your fellow, stand at distance.-- hold up my spirits. [_aside._]--well, now your mournful matter; for i'm prepared, perhaps can guess it too. _dola._ i wish you would; for 'tis a thankless office, to tell ill news: and i, of all your sex, most fear displeasing you. _cleo._ of all your sex, i soonest could forgive you, if you should. _vent._ most delicate advances! woman! woman! dear, damned, inconstant sex! _cleo._ in the first place, i am to be forsaken; is't not so? _dola._ i wish i could not answer to that question. _cleo._ then pass it o'er, because it troubles you: i should have been more grieved another time. next, i'm to lose my kingdom--farewell, egypt. yet, is there any more? _dola._ madam, i fear your too deep sense of grief has turned your reason. _cleo._ no, no, i'm not run mad; i can bear fortune: and love may be expelled by other love, as poisons are by poisons. _dola._ you o'erjoy me, madam, to find your griefs so moderately borne. you've heard the worst; all are not false like him. _cleo._ no; heaven forbid they should. _dola._ some men are constant. _cleo._ and constancy deserves reward, that's certain. _dola._ deserves it not; but give it leave to hope. _vent._ i'll swear thou hast my leave. i have enough: but how to manage this! well, i'll consider. [_exit._ _dola._ i came prepared to tell you heavy news; news, which i thought would fright the blood from your pale cheeks to hear: but you have met it with a cheerfulness, that makes my task more easy; and my tongue, which on another's message was employed, would gladly speak its own. _cleo._ hold, dolabella. first tell me, were you chosen by my lord? or sought you this employment? _dola._ he picked me out; and, as his bosom-friend, he charged me with his words. _cleo._ the message then i know was tender, and each accent smooth, to mollify that rugged word, _depart_. _dola._ oh, you mistake: he chose the harshest words; with fiery eyes, and with contracted brows, he coined his face in the severest stamp; and fury shook his fabric, like an earthquake; he heaved for vent, and burst like bellowing Ætna, in sounds scarce human,--hence away for ever! let her begone, the blot of my renown, and bane of all my hopes! [_all the time of this speech,_ cleopatra _seems more and more concerned, till she sinks quite down._ let her be driven, as far as men can think, from man's commerce! she'll poison to the center. _cleo._ oh, i can bear no more! _dola._ help, help:--oh wretch! o cursed, cursed wretch! what have i done! _char._ help, chafe her temples, iras. _iras._ bend, bend her forward quickly. _char._ heaven be praised, she comes again. _cleo._ o let him not approach me. why have you brought me back to this loathed being, the abode of falsehood, violated vows, and injured love? for pity, let me go; for, if there be a place of long repose, i'm sure i want it. my disdainful lord can never break that quiet; nor awake the sleeping soul, with hollowing in my tomb such words as fright her hence.--unkind, unkind! _dola._ believe me, 'tis against myself i speak; [_kneeling._ that sure desires belief; i injured him: my friend ne'er spoke those words. oh, had you seen how often he came back, and every time with something more obliging and more kind, to add to what he said; what dear farewells; how almost vanquished by his love he parted, and leaned to what unwillingly he left! i, traitor as i was, for love of you, (but what can you not do, who made me false!) i forged that lie; for whose forgiveness kneels this self-accused, self-punished criminal. _cleo._ with how much ease believe we what we wish! rise, dolabella; if you have been guilty, i have contributed, and too much love has made me guilty too. the advance of kindness, which i made, was feigned, to call back fleeting love by jealousy; but 'twould not last. oh, rather let me lose, than so ignobly trifle with his heart. _dola._ i find your breast fenced round from human reach, transparent as a rock of solid crystal; seen through, but never pierced. my friend, my friend! what endless treasure hast thou thrown away; and scattered, like an infant, in the ocean, vain sums of wealth, which none can gather thence! _cleo._ could you not beg an hour's admittance to his private ear? like one, who wanders through long barren wilds; and yet foreknows no hospitable inn is near to succour hunger, eats his fill, before his painful march: so would i feed a while my famished eyes before we part; for i have far to go, if death be far, and never must return. ventidius, _with_ octavia, _behind._ _vent._ from hence you may discover--oh, sweet, sweet! would you indeed? the pretty hand in earnest? _dola._ i will, for this reward. [_takes her hand._ draw it not back, 'tis all i e'er will beg. _vent._ they turn upon us. _octav._ what quick eyes has guilt! _vent._ seem not to have observed them, and go on. _they enter._ _dola._ saw you the emperor, ventidius? _vent._ no. i sought him; but i heard that he was private, none with him but hipparchus, his freedman. _dola._ know you his business? _vent._ giving him instructions, and letters to his brother cæsar. _dola._ well, he must be found. [_exeunt_ dola. _and_ cleo. _octav._ most glorious impudence! _vent._ she looked, methought, as she would say,--take your old man, octavia; thank you, i'm better here.-- well, but what use make we of this discovery? _octav._ let it die. _vent._ i pity dolabella; but she's dangerous: her eyes have power beyond thessalian charms, to draw the moon from heaven; for eloquence, the sea-green syrens taught her voice their flattery; and, while she speaks, night steals upon the day, unmarked of those that hear: then she's so charming age buds at sight of her, and swells to youth: the holy priests gaze on her when she smiles; and with heaved hands, forgetting gravity, they bless her wanton eyes: even i, who hate her, with a malignant joy behold such beauty; and, while i curse, desire it. antony must needs have some remains of passion still, which may ferment into a worse relapse, if now not fully cured. i know, this minute, with cæsar he's endeavouring her peace. _octav._ you have prevailed:--but for a farther purpose [_walks off._ i'll prove how he will relish this discovery. what, make a strumpet's peace! it swells my heart: it must not, shall not be. _vent._ his guards appear. let me begin, and you shall second me. _enter_ antony. _ant._ octavia, i was looking you, my love: what, are your letters ready? i have given my last instructions. _octav._ mine, my lord, are written. _ant._ ventidius. [_drawing him aside._ _vent._ my lord? _ant._ a word in private.-- when saw you dolabella? _vent._ now, my lord, he parted hence; and cleopatra with him. _ant._ speak softly.--'twas by my command he went, to bear my last farewell. _vent._ it looked indeed [_aloud._ like your farewell. _ant._ more softly.--my farewell? what secret meaning have you in those words of--my farewell? he did it by my order. _vent._ then he obeyed your order. i suppose [_aloud._ you bid him do it with all gentleness, all kindness, and all--love. _ant._ how she mourned, the poor forsaken creature! _vent._ she took it as she ought; she bore your parting as she did cæsar's, as she would another's, were a new love to come. _ant._ thou dost belie her; [_aloud._ most basely, and maliciously belie her. _vent._ i thought not to displease you; i have done. _octav._ you seem disturbed, my lord. [_coming up._ _ant._ a very trifle. retire, my love. _vent._ it was indeed a trifle. he sent-- _ant._ no more. look how thou disobeyest me; [_angrily._ thy life shall answer it. _octav._ then 'tis no trifle. _vent._ [_to_ octav.] 'tis less; a very nothing: you too saw it, as well as i, and therefore 'tis no secret. _ant._ she saw it! _vent._ yes: she saw young dolabella-- _ant._ young dolabella! _vent._ young, i think him young, and handsome too; and so do others think him. but what of that? he went by your command, indeed 'tis probable, with some kind message; for she received it graciously; she smiled; and then he grew familiar with her hand, squeezed it, and worried it with ravenous kisses; she blushed, and sighed, and smiled, and blushed again; at last she took occasion to talk softly, and brought her cheek up close, and leaned on his; at which, he whispered kisses back on hers; and then she cried aloud,--that constancy should be rewarded. _octav._ this i saw and heard. _ant._ what woman was it, whom you heard and saw so playful with my friend! not cleopatra? _vent._ even she, my lord. _ant._ my cleopatra? _vent._ your cleopatra; dolabella's cleopatra; every man's cleopatra[ ]. _ant._ thou liest. _vent._ i do not lie, my lord. is this so strange? should mistresses be left, and not provide against a time of change? you know she's not much used to lonely nights. _ant._ i'll think no more on't. i know 'tis false, and see the plot betwixt you.-- you needed not have gone this way, octavia. what harms it you that cleopatra's just? she's mine no more. i see, and i forgive: urge it no farther, love. _octav._ are you concerned, that she's found false? _ant._ i should be, were it so; for, though 'tis past, i would not that the world should tax my former choice, that i loved one of so light note; but i forgive you both. _vent._ what has my age deserved, that you should think i would abuse your ears with perjury? if heaven be true, she's false. _ant._ though heaven and earth should witness it, i'll not believe her tainted. _vent._ i'll bring you, then, a witness from hell, to prove her so.--nay, go not back; [_seeing_ alexas _just entering, and starting back._ for stay you must and shall. _alex._ what means my lord? _vent._ to make you do what most you hate,--speak truth. you are of cleopatra's private counsel, of her bed-counsel, her lascivious hours; are conscious of each nightly change she makes, and watch her, as chaldæans do the moon, can tell what signs she passes through, what day. _alex._ my noble lord! _vent._ my most illustrious pandar, no fine set speech, no cadence, no turned periods, but a plain home-spun truth, is what i ask: i did, myself, o'erhear your queen make love to dolabella. speak; for i will know, by your confession, what more past betwixt them; how near the business draws to your employment; and when the happy hour. _ant._ speak truth, alexas; whether it offend or please ventidius, care not: justify thy injured queen from malice: dare his worst. _octav._ [_aside._] see, how he gives him courage! how he fears to find her false! and shuts his eyes to truth, willing to be misled! _alex._ as far as love may plead for woman's frailty, urged by desert and greatness of the lover, so far, divine octavia, may my queen stand even excused to you, for loving him, who is your lord: so far, from brave ventidius, may her past actions hope a fair report. _ant._ 'tis well, and truly spoken: mark, ventidius. _alex._ to you, most noble emperor, her strong passion stands not excused, but wholly justified. her beauty's charms alone, without her crown, from ind and meroe drew the distant vows of sighing kings; and at her feet were laid the sceptres of the earth, exposed on heaps, to chuse where she would reign: she thought a roman only could deserve her, and, of all romans, only antony; and, to be less than wife to you, disdained their lawful passion. _ant._ 'tis but truth. _alex._ and yet, though love, and your unmatched desert, have drawn her from the due regard of honour, at last heaven opened her unwilling eyes to see the wrongs she offered fair octavia, whose holy bed she lawlessly usurped. the sad effects of this improsperous war confirmed those pious thoughts. _vent._ [_aside._] o, wheel you there? observe him now; the man begins to mend, and talk substantial reason.--fear not, eunuch; the emperor has given thee leave to speak. _alex._ else had i never dared to offend his ears with what the last necessity has urged on my forsaken mistress; yet i must not presume to say, her heart is wholly altered. _ant._ no, dare not for thy life, i charge thee dare not pronounce that fatal word! _octav._ must i bear this? good heaven, afford me patience. [_aside._ _vent._ on, sweet eunuch; my dear half man, proceed. _alex._ yet dolabella has loved her long; he, next my godlike lord, deserves her best; and should she meet his passion, rejected, as she is, by him she loved-- _ant._ hence from my sight! for i can bear no more: let furies drag thee quick to hell; let all the longer damned have rest; each torturing hand do thou employ, till cleopatra comes; then join thou too, and help to torture her! [_exit_ alexas, _thrust out by_ antony. _octav._ 'tis not well, indeed, my lord, 'tis much unkind to me, to show this passion, this extreme concernment, for an abandoned, faithless prostitute. _ant._ octavia, leave me; i am much disordered: leave me, i say. _octav._ my lord! _ant._ i bid you leave me. _vent._ obey him, madam: best withdraw a while. and see how this will work. _octav._ wherein have i offended you, my lord, that i am bid to leave you? am i false, or infamous? am i a cleopatra? were i she, base as she is, you would not bid me leave you: but hang upon my neck, take slight excuses, and fawn upon my falsehood. _ant._ 'tis too much, too much, octavia; i am prest with sorrows too heavy to be borne; and you add more: i would retire, and recollect what's left of man within, to aid me. _octav._ you would mourn, in private, for your love, who has betrayed you. you did but half return to me: your kindness lingered behind with her. i hear, my lord, you make conditions for her, and would include her treaty. wonderous proofs of love to me! _ant._ are you my friend, ventidius? or are you turned a dolabella too, and let this fury loose? _vent._ oh, be advised, sweet madam, and retire. _octav._ yes, i will go; but never to return. you shall no more be haunted with this fury. my lord, my lord, love will not always last, when urged with long unkindness and disdain: take her again, whom you prefer to me; she stays but to be called. poor cozened man! let a feigned parting give her back your heart, which a feigned love first got; for injured me, though my just sense of wrongs forbid my stay, my duty shall be yours. to the dear pledges of our former love, my tenderness and care shall be transferred, and they shall cheer, by turns, my widowed nights: so, take my last farewell; for i despair to have you whole, and scorn to take you half. [_exit._ _vent._ i combat heaven, which blasts my best designs: my last attempt must be to win her back; but oh, i fear in vain. [_exit._ _ant._ why was i framed with this plain honest heart, which knows not to disguise its griefs and weakness. but bears its workings outward to the world? i should have kept the mighty anguish in, and forced a smile at cleopatra's falsehood: octavia had believed it, and had staid. but i am made a shallow-forded stream, seen to the bottom: all my clearness scorned, and all my faults exposed.--see where he comes. _enter_ dolabella. who has profaned the sacred name of friend, and worn it into vileness! with how secure a brow, and specious form, he gilds the secret villain! sure that face was meant for honesty; but heaven mis-matched it, and furnished treason out with nature's pomp, to make its work more easy. _dola._ o, my friend! _ant._ well, dolabella, you performed my message? _dola._ i did, unwillingly. _ant._ unwillingly? was it so hard for you to bear our parting? you should have wished it. _dola._ why? _ant._ because you love me. and she received my message, with as true, with as unfeigned a sorrow, as you brought it? _dola._ she loves you, even to madness. _ant._ oh, i know it. you, dolabella, do not better know how much she loves me. and should i forsake this beauty? this all-perfect creature? _dola._ i could not, were she mine. _ant._ and yet you first persuaded me: how come you altered since? _dola._ i said at first i was not fit to go: i could not bear her sighs, and see her tears, but pity must prevail: and so, perhaps, it may again with you; for i have promised, that she should take her last farewell: and, see, she comes to claim my word. _enter_ cleopatra. _ant._ false dolabella! _dola._ what's false, my lord? _ant._ why, dolabella's false, and cleopatra's false; both false and faithless. draw near, you well-joined wickedness, you serpents whom i have in my kindly bosom warmed, till i am stung to death. _dola._ my lord, have i deserved to be thus used? _cleo._ can heaven prepare a newer torment? can it find a curse beyond our separation? _ant._ yes, if fate be just, much greater: heaven should be ingenious in punishing such crimes. the rolling-stone, and gnawing vulture, were slight pains, invented when jove was young, and no examples known of mighty ills; but you have ripened sin, to such a monstrous growth, 'twill pose the gods, to find an equal torture. two, two such!-- oh there's no farther name,--two such! to me, to me, who locked my soul within your breasts, had no desires, no joys, no life, but you; when half the globe was mine, i gave it you in dowry with my heart; i had no use, no fruit of all, but you: a friend and mistress, was what the world could give. oh, cleopatra! oh dolabella! how could you betray this tender heart, which with an infant fondness lay lulled betwixt your bosoms, and there slept, secure of injured faith? _dola._ if she has wronged you, heaven, hell, and you, revenge it. _ant._ if she has wronged me! thou would'st evade thy part of guilt; but swear thou lov'st not her. _dola._ not so as i love you. _ant._ not so! swear, swear, i say, thou dost not love her. _dola._ no more than friendship will allow. _ant._ no more? friendship allows thee nothing: thou art perjured-- and yet thou didst not swear thou lov'dst her not; but not so much, no more. oh, trifling hypocrite, who darest not own to her, thou dost not love, nor own to me, thou dost! ventidius heard it; octavia saw it. _cleo._ they are enemies. _ant._ alexas is not so: he, he confest it; he, who, next hell, best knew it, he avowed it why do i seek a proof beyond yourself? [_to_ dola. you, whom i sent to bear my last farewell, returned, to plead her stay. _dola._ what shall i answer? if to have loved be guilt, then i have sinned; but if to have repented of that love, can wash away my crime, i have repented. yet, if i have offended past forgiveness, let her not suffer: she is innocent. _cleo._ ah, what will not a woman do, who loves! what means will she refuse, to keep that heart, where all her joys are placed! 'twas i encouraged, 'twas i blew up the fire that scorched his soul, to make you jealous, and by that regain you. but all in vain; i could not counterfeit: in spite of all the dams, my love broke o'er, and drowned my heart again; fate took the occasion; and thus one minute's feigning has destroyed my whole life's truth. _ant._ thin cobweb arts of falsehood; seen, and broke through at first. _dola._ forgive your mistress. _cleo._ forgive your friend. _ant._ you have convinced yourselves. you plead each other's cause: what witness have you, that you but meant to raise my jealousy? _cleo._ ourselves, and heaven. _ant._ guilt witnesses for guilt. hence, love and friendship! you have no longer place in human breasts, these two have driven you out: avoid my sight! i would not kill the man whom i have loved, and cannot hurt the woman; but avoid me: i do not know how long i can be tame; for, if i stay one minute more, to think how i am wronged, my justice and revenge will cry so loud within me, that my pity will not be heard for either. _dola._ heaven has but our sorrow for our sins; and then delights to pardon erring man: sweet mercy seems its darling attribute, which limits justice; as if there were degrees in infinite, and infinite would rather want perfection, than punish to extent. _ant._ i can forgive a foe; but not a mistress, and a friend. treason is there in its most horrid shape, where trust is greatest; and the soul, resigned, is stabbed by its own guards: i'll hear no more; hence from my sight, for ever! _cleo._ how? for ever! i cannot go one moment from your sight, and must i go for ever? my joys, my only joys, are centered here: what place have i to go to? my own kingdom? that i have lost for you: or to the romans? they hate me for your sake: or must i wander the wide world o'er, a helpless, banished woman, banished for love of you; banished from you? ay, there's the banishment! oh hear me; hear me. with strictest justice: for i beg no favour; and if i have offended you, then kill me, but do not banish me. _ant._ i must not hear you. i have a fool within me, takes your part; but honour stops my ears. _cleo._ for pity hear me! would you cast off a slave who followed you? who crouched beneath your spurn?--he has no pity! see, if he gives one tear to my departure; one look, one kind farewell: oh iron heart! let all the gods look down, and judge betwixt us. if he did ever love! _ant._ no more: alexas! _dola._ a perjured villain! _ant._ [_to_ cleo.] your alexas; yours. _cleo._ o 'twas his plot; his ruinous design, to engage you in my love by jealousy. hear him; confront him with me; let him speak. _ant._ i have; i have. _cleo._ and if he clear me not-- _ant._ your creature! one, who hangs upon your smiles! watches your eye, to say or to unsay, whate'er you please! i am not to be moved. _cleo._ then must we part? farewell, my cruel lord! the appearance is against me; and i go, unjustified, for ever from your sight. how i have loved, you know; how yet i love, my only comfort is, i know myself: i love you more, even now you are unkind, than when you loved me most; so well, so truly, i'll never strive against it; but die pleased, to think you once were mine. _ant._ good heaven, they weep at parting. must i weep too? that calls them innocent. i must not weep; and yet i must, to think that i must not forgive.-- live, but live wretched; 'tis but just you should, who made me so: live from each other's sight: let me not hear you meet. set all the earth, and all the seas, betwixt your sundered loves: view nothing common but the sun and skies. now, all take several ways; and each your own sad fate, with mine, deplore; that you were false, and i could trust no more. [_exeunt severally._ act v. scene i. _enter_ cleopatra, charmion, _and_ iras. _char._ be juster, heaven; such virtue punished thus, will make us think that chance rules all above, and shuffles, with a random hand, the lots, which man is forced to draw. _cleo._ i could tear out these eyes, that gained his heart, and had not power to keep it. o the curse of doting on, even when i find it dotage! bear witness, gods, you heard him bid me go; you, whom he mocked with imprecating vows of promised faith!--i'll die; i will not bear it. you may hold me-- [_she pulls out her dagger, and they hold her._ but i can keep my breath; i can die inward, and choke this love. _enter_ alexas. _iras._ help, o alexas, help! the queen grows desperate; her soul struggles in her, with all the agonies of love and rage, and strives to force its passage. _cleo._ let me go. art thou there, traitor!--o, o for a little breath, to vent my rage! give, give me way, and let me loose upon him. _alex._ yes, i deserve it, for my ill-timed truth. was it for me to prop the ruins of a falling majesty? to place myself beneath the mighty flaw, thus to be crushed, and pounded into atoms, by its o'erwhelming weight? 'tis too presuming for subjects to preserve that wilful power, which courts its own destruction. _cleo._ i would reason more calmly with you. did not you o'er-rule, and force my plain, direct, and open love, into these crooked paths of jealousy? now, what's the event? octavia is removed; but cleopatra's banished. thou, thou villain, hast pushed my boat to open sea; to prove, at my sad cost, if thou canst steer it back. it cannot be; i'm lost too far; i'm ruined: hence, thou impostor, traitor, monster, devil!-- i can no more: thou, and my griefs, have sunk me down so low, that i want voice to curse thee. _alex._ suppose some shipwrecked seaman near the shore, dropping and faint, with climbing up the cliff, if, from above, some charitable hand pull him to safety, hazarding himself, to draw the other's weight; would he look back, and curse him for his pains? the case is yours; but one step more, and you have gained the height. _cleo._ sunk, never more to rise. _alex._ octavia's gone, and dolabella banished. believe me, madam, antony is yours. his heart was never lost; but started off to jealousy, love's last retreat and covert; where it lies hid in shades, watchful in silence, and listening for the sound that calls it back. some other, any man, ('tis so advanced) may perfect this unfinished work, which i (unhappy only to myself) have left so easy to his hand. _cleo._ look well thou do't; else-- _alex._ else, what your silence threatens.--antony is mounted up the pharos; from whose turret, he stands surveying our egyptian gallies, engaged with cæsar's fleet. now death or conquest! if the first happen, fate acquits my promise; if we o'ercome, the conqueror is yours. [_a distant shout within._ _char._ have comfort, madam: did you mark that shout? [_second shout nearer._ _iras._ hark! they redouble it. _alex._ 'tis from the port. the loudness shows it near: good news, kind heavens! _cleo._ osiris make it so! _enter_ serapion. _serap._ where, where's the queen? _alex._ how frightfully the holy coward stares! as if not yet recovered of the assault, when all his gods, and, what's more dear to him, his offerings, were at stake. _serap._ o horror, horror! egypt has been; our latest hour is come: the queen of nations, from her ancient seat, is sunk for ever in the dark abyss: time has unrolled her glories to the last, and now closed up the volume. _cleo._ be more plain: say, whence thou comest; though fate is in thy face, which from thy hagard eyes looks wildly out, and threatens ere thou speakest. _serap._ i came from pharos; from viewing (spare me, and imagine it) our land's last hope, your navy-- _cleo._ vanquished? _serap._ no; they fought not. _cleo._ then they fled. _serap._ nor that. i saw, with antony, your well-appointed fleet row out; and thrice he waved his hand on high, and thrice with cheerful cries they shouted back: 'twas then false fortune, like a fawning strumpet, about to leave the bankrupt prodigal, with a dissembled smile would kiss at parting, and flatter to the last; the well-timed oars now dipt from every bank, now smoothly run to meet the foe; and soon indeed they met, but not as foes. in few, we saw their caps on either side thrown up; the egyptian gallies, received like friends, past through, and fell behind the roman rear: and now, they all come forward, and ride within the port, _cleo._ enough, serapion: i've heard my doom.--this needed not, you gods: when i lost antony, your work was done; 'tis but superfluous malice.--where's my lord? how bears he this last blow? _serap._ his fury cannot be expressed by words: thrice he attempted headlong to have fallen full on his foes, and aimed at cæsar's galley: with-held, he raves on you; cries,--he's betrayed. should he now find you-- _alex._ shun him; seek your safety, till you can clear your innocence. _cleo._ i'll stay. _alex._ you must not; haste you to your monument, while i make speed to cæsar. _cleo._ cæsar! no, i have no business with him. _alex._ i can work him to spare your life, and let this madman perish. _cleo._ base fawning wretch! would'st thou betray him too? hence from my sight! i will not hear a traitor; 'twas thy design brought all this ruin on us.-- serapion, thou art honest; counsel me: but haste, each moment's precious. _serap._ retire; you must not yet see antony. he who began this mischief, 'tis just he tempt the danger; let him clear you: and, since he offered you his servile tongue, to gain a poor precarious life from cæsar, let him expose that fawning eloquence, and speak to antony. _alex._ o heavens! i dare not; i meet my certain death. _cleo._ slave, thou deservest it,-- not that i fear my lord, will i avoid him; i know him noble: when he banished me, and thought me false, he scorned to take my life; but i'll be justified, and then die with him. _alex._ o pity me, and let me follow you. _cleo._ to death, if thou stir hence. speak, if thou canst, now for thy life, which basely thou wouldst save; while mine i prize at this. come, good serapion. [_exeunt_ cleo. serap. char. _and_ iras. _alex._ o that i less could fear to lose this being, which, like a snow-ball in my coward hand, the more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away. poor reason! what a wretched aid art thou! for still, in spite of thee, these two long lovers, soul and body, dread their final separation. let me think: what can i say, to save myself from death? no matter what becomes of cleopatra. _ant._ which way? where? [_within._ _vent._ this leads to the monument. [_within._ _alex._ ah me! i hear him; yet i'm unprepared: my gift of lying's gone; and this court-devil, which i so oft have raised, forsakes me at my need. i dare not stay; yet cannot far go hence. [_exit._ _enter_ antony _and_ ventidius. _ant._ o happy cæsar! thou hast men to lead: think not 'tis thou hast conquered antony; but rome has conquered egypt. i'm betrayed. _vent._ curse on this treacherous train! their soil and heaven infect them all with baseness: and their young souls come tainted to the world with the first breath they draw. _ant._ the original villain sure no god created; he was a bastard of the sun, by nile, aped into man; with all his mother's mud crusted about his soul. _vent._ the nation is one universal traitor; and their queen the very spirit and extract of them all. _ant._ is there yet left a possibility of aid from valour? is there one god unsworn to my destruction? the least unmortgaged hope? for, if there be, methinks i cannot fall beneath the fate of such a boy as cæsar. the world's one half is yet in antony; and from each limb of it, that's hewed away, the soul comes back to me. _vent._ there yet remain three legions in the town. the last assault lopt off the rest: if death be your design,-- as i must wish it now,--these are sufficient to make a heap about us of dead foes, an honest pile for burial. _ant._ they are enough. we'll not divide our stars; but, side by side, fight emulous, and with malicious eyes survey each other's acts: so every death thou giv'st, i'll take on me, as a just debt, and pay thee back a soul. _vent._ now you shall see i love you. not a word of chiding more. by my few hours of life, i am so pleased with this brave roman fate, that i would not be cæsar, to outlive you. when we put off this flesh, and mount together, i shall be shown to all the etherial crowd,-- lo, this is he who died with antony! _ant._ who knows, but we may pierce through all their troops, and reach my veterans yet? 'tis worth the tempting, to o'erleap this gulph of fate, and leave our wandering destinies behind. _enter_ alexas, _trembling._ _vent._ see, see, that villain! see cleopatra stampt upon that face, with all her cunning, all her arts of falsehood! how she looks out through those dissembling eyes! how he sets his countenance for deceit, and promises a lie, before he speaks! let me dispatch him first. [_drawing._ _alex._ o spare me, spare me! _ant._ hold; he's not worth your killing.--on thy life, which thou may'st keep, because i scorn to take it, no syllable to justify thy queen; save thy base tongue its office. _alex._ sir, she is gone, where she shall never be molested more by love, or you. _ant._ fled to her dolabella! die, traitor! i revoke my promise; die! [_going to kill him._ _alex._ o hold! she is not fled. _ant._ she is: my eyes are open to her falsehood; my whole life has been a golden dream of love and friendship; but, now i wake, i'm like a merchant, roused from soft repose, to see his vessel sinking, and all his wealth cast over. ungrateful woman! who followed me, but as the swallow summer, hatching her young ones in my kindly beams, singing her flatteries to my morning wake: but, now my winter comes, she spreads her wings and seeks the spring of cæsar. _alex._ think not so: her fortunes have, in all things, mixt with yours. had she betrayed her naval force to rome, how easily might she have gone to cæsar, secure by such a bribe! _vent._ she sent it first, to be more welcome after. _ant._ 'tis too plain; else would she have appeared, to clear herself. _alex._ too fatally she has: she could not bear to be accused by you; but shut herself within her monument; looked down and sighed; while, from her unchanged face, the silent tears dropt, as they had not leave, but stole their parting. some undistinguished words she inly murmured; at last, she rais'd her eyes; and, with such looks as dying lucrece cast-- _ant._ my heart forebodes-- _vent._ all for the best:--go on. _alex._ she snatched her poniard, and, ere we could prevent the fatal blow, plunged it within her breast; then turned to me: go, bear my lord, said she, my last farewell; and ask him, if he yet suspect my faith. more she was saying, but death rushed betwixt. she half pronounced your name with her last breath, and buried half within her. _vent._ heaven be praised! _ant._ then art thou innocent, my poor dear love? and art thou dead? o those two words! their sound should be divided: hadst thou been false, and died; or hadst thou lived, and hadst been true--but innocence and death! this shows not well above. then what am i, the murderer of this truth, this innocence! thoughts cannot form themselves in words so horrid as can express my guilt! _vent._ is't come to this? the gods have been too gracious; and thus you thank them for it! _ant._ [_to_ alex.] why stayest thou here? is it for thee to spy upon my soul, and see its inward mourning? get thee hence; thou art not worthy to behold, what now becomes a roman emperor to perform. _alex._ he loves her still: his grief betrays it. good! the joy to find she's yet alive, completes the reconcilement. i've saved myself, and her. but, oh! the romans! fate comes too fast upon my wit, hunts me too hard, and meets me at each double. [_aside. exit._ _vent._ would she had died a little sooner though! before octavia went, you might have treated: now 'twill look tame, and would not be received. come, rouse yourself, and let's die warm together. _ant._ i will not fight: there's no more work for war. the business of my angry hours is done. _vent._ cæsar is at your gates. _ant._ why, let him enter; he's welcome now. _vent._ what lethargy has crept into your soul? _ant._ 'tis but a scorn of life, and just desire to free myself from bondage. _vent._ do it bravely. _ant._ i will; but not by fighting. o, ventidius! what should i fight for now? my queen is dead. i was but great for her; my power, my empire, were but my merchandise to buy her love; and conquered kings, my factors. now she's dead, let cæsar, take the world,-- an empty circle, since the jewel's gone which made it worth my strife: my being's nauseous; for all the bribes of life are gone away. _vent._ would you be taken? _ant._ yes, i would be taken; but, as a roman ought,--dead, my ventidius: for i'll convey my soul from cæsar's reach, and lay down life myself. 'tis time the world should have a lord, and know whom to obey. we two have kept its homage in suspence, and bent the globe, on whose each side we trod, till it was dented inwards. let him walk alone upon't: i'm weary of my part. my torch is out; and the world stands before me, like a black desert at the approach of night: i'll lay me down, and stray no farther on. _vent._ i could be grieved, but that i'll not out-live you: chuse your death; for, i have seen him in such various shapes, i care not which i take: i'm only troubled, the life i bear is worn to such a rag, 'tis scarce worth giving. i could wish, indeed, we threw it from us with a better grace; that, like two lions taken in the toils, we might at last thrust out our paws, and wound the hunters that inclose us. _ant._ i have thought on it. ventidius, you must live. _vent._ i must not, sir. _ant._ wilt thou not live, to speak some good of me? to stand by my fair fame, and guard the approaches from the ill tongues of men? _vent._ who shall guard mine, for living after you? _ant._ say, i command it. _vent._ if we die well, our deaths will speak themselves, and need no living witness. _ant._ thou hast loved me, and fain i would reward thee. i must die; kill me, and take the merit of my death, to make thee friends with cæsar. _vent._ thank your kindness. you said i loved you; and, in recompence, you bid me turn a traitor:--did i think you would have used me thus? that i should die with a hard thought of you? _ant._ forgive me, roman. since i have heard of cleopatra's death, my reason bears no rule upon my tongue, but lets my thoughts break all at random out. i've thought better; do not deny me twice. _vent._ by heaven i will not. let it not be to out-live you. _ant._ kill me first, and then die thou; for 'tis but just thou serve thy friend, before thyself. _vent._ give me your hand. we soon shall meet again. now, farewell, emperor!-- [_embrace._ methinks that word's too cold to be my last: since death sweeps all distinctions, farewell, friend! that's all-- i will not make a business of a trifle: and yet i cannot look on you, and kill you; pray turn your face. _ant._ i do: strike home, be sure. _vent._ home, as my sword will reach. [_kills himself._ _ant._ o thou mistak'st; that wound was none of thine: give it me back: thou robb'st me of my death. _vent._ i do indeed; but think 'tis the first time i e'er deceived you, if that may plead my pardon.--and you, gods, forgive me, if you will; for i die perjured, rather than kill my friend. [_dies._ _ant._ farewell! ever my leader, even in death! my queen and thou have got the start of me, and i'm the lag of honour.--gone so soon? is death no more? he used him carelessly, with a familiar kindness: ere he knocked, ran to the door, and took him in his arms, as who should say--you're welcome at all hours, a friend need give no warning. books had spoiled him; for all the learned are cowards by profession. 'tis not worth my farther thought; for death, for aught i know, is but to think no more. here's to be satisfied. [_falls on his sword._ i've mist my heart. o unperforming hand! thou never could'st have erred in a worse time. my fortune jades me to the last; and death, like a great man, takes state, and makes me wait for my admittance.-- [_trampling within._ some, perhaps, from cæsar: if he should find me living, and suspect that i played booty with my life! i'll mend my work, ere they can reach me. [_rises upon his knees._ _enter_ cleopatra, charmion, _and_ iras. _cleo._ where is my lord? where is he? _char._ there he lies, and dead ventidius by him. _cleo._ my fears were prophets; i am come too late. o that accursed alexas! [_runs to him._ _ant._ art thou living? or am i dead before i knew, and thou the first kind ghost that meets me? _cleo._ help me seat him. send quickly, send for help! [_they place him in a chair._ _ant._ i am answered. we live both. sit thee down, my cleopatra: i'll make the most i can of life, to stay a moment more with thee. _cleo._ how is it with you? _ant._ 'tis as with a man removing in a hurry; all packed up, but one dear jewel that his haste forgot; and he, for that, returns upon the spur: so i come back for thee. _cleo._ too long, ye heavens, you have been cruel to me: now show your mended faith, and give me back his fleeting life! _ant._ it will not be, my love; i keep my soul by force. say but, thou art not false. _cleo._ 'tis now too late to say i'm true: i'll prove it, and die with you. unknown to me, alexas feigned my death: which, when i knew, i hasted to prevent this fatal consequence. my fleet betrayed both you and me. _ant._ and dolabella-- _cleo._ scarce esteemed before he loved; but hated now. _ant._ enough: my life's not long enough for more. thou say'st, thou wilt come after: i believe thee; for i can now believe whate'er thou sayest, that we may part more kindly. _cleo._ i will come: doubt not, my life, i'll come, and quickly too: cæsar shall triumph o'er no part of thee. _ant._ but grieve not, while thou stayest, my last disastrous times: think we have had a clear and glorious day; and heaven did kindly to delay the storm, just till our close of evening. ten years love, and not a moment lost, but all improved to the utmost joys,--what ages have we liv'd? and now to die each others; and, so dying, while hand in hand we walk in groves below, whole troops of lovers' ghosts shall flock about us, and all the train be ours. _cleo._ your words are like the notes of dying swans, too sweet to last. were there so many hours for your unkindness, and not one for love? _ant._ no, not a minute.--this one kiss--more worth than all i leave to cæsar. [_dies._ _cleo._ o, tell me so again, and take ten thousand kisses for that word. my lord, my lord! speak, if you yet have being; sign to me, if you cannot speak; or cast one look! do any thing, that shows you live. _iras._ he's gone too far to hear you; and this you see, a lump of senseless clay, the leavings of a soul. _char._ remember, madam, he charged you not to grieve. _cleo._ and i'll obey him. i have not loved a roman, not to know what should become his wife; his wife, my charmion! for 'tis to that high title i aspire; and now i'll not die less. let dull octavia survive, to mourn him dead: my nobler fate shall knit our spousals with a tie, too strong for roman laws to break. _iras._ will you then die? _cleo._ why should'st thou make that question? _iras._ cæsar is most merciful. _cleo._ let him be so to those that want his mercy: my poor lord made no such covenant with him, to spare me when he was dead. yield me to cæsar's pride? what! to be led in triumph through the streets, a spectacle to base plebeian eyes; while some dejected friend of antony's, close in a corner, shakes his head, and mutters a secret curse on her, who ruined him! i'll none of that. _char._ whatever you resolve, i'll follow, even to death. _iras._ i only feared for you; but more should fear to live without you. _cleo._ why, now, 'tis as it should be. quick, my friends, despatch; ere this, the town's in cæsar's hands: my lord looks down concerned, and fears my stay, lest i should be surprised; keep him not waiting for his love too long. you, charmion, bring my crown and richest jewels; with them, the wreath of victory i made (vain augury!) for him, who now lies dead: you, iras, bring the cure of all our ills. _iras._ the aspicks, madam? _cleo._ must i bid you twice? [_ex._ char. _and_ iras. 'tis sweet to die, when they would force life on me, to rush into the dark abode of death, and seize him first; if he be like my love, he is not frightful, sure. we're now alone, in secresy and silence; and is not this like lovers? i may kiss these pale, cold lips; octavia does not see me: and, oh! 'tis better far to have him thus, than see him in her arms.--o welcome, welcome! _enter_ charmion _and_ iras. _char._ what must be done? _cleo._ short ceremony, friends; but yet it must be decent. first, this laurel shall crown my hero's head: he fell not basely, nor left his shield behind him.--only thou could'st triumph o'er thyself; and thou alone wert worthy so to triumph. _char._ to what end these ensigns of your pomp and royalty? _cleo._ dull, that thou art! why,'tis to meet my love; as when i saw him first, on cydnos' bank, all sparkling, like a goddess: so adorned, i'll find him once again; my second spousals shall match my first in glory. haste, haste, both, and dress the bride of antony. _char._ 'tis done. _cleo._ now seat me by my lord. i claim this place; for i must conquer cæsar too, like him, and win my share of the world.--hail, you dear relicks of my immortal love! o let no impious hand remove you hence; but rest for ever here! let egypt give his death that peace, which it denied his life.-- reach me the casket. _iras._ underneath the fruit the aspick lies. _cleo._ welcome, thou kind deceiver! [_putting aside the leaves._ thou best of thieves; who, with an easy key, dost open life, and, unperceived by us, even steal us from ourselves; discharging so death's dreadful office, better than himself; touching our limbs so gently into slumber, that death stands by, deceived by his own image, and thinks himself but sleep. _serap._ the queen, where is she? [_within._ the town is yielded, cæsar's at the gates. _cleo._ he comes too late to invade the rights of death. haste, bare my arm, and rouse the serpent's fury. [_holds out her arm, and draws it back._ coward flesh, would'st thou conspire with cæsar to betray me, as thou wert none of mine? i'll force thee to it, and not be sent by him, but bring myself, my soul, to antony. [_turns aside, and then shows her arm bloody._ take hence; the work is done. _serap._ break ope the door, [_within._ and guard the traitor well. _char._ the next is ours. _iras._ now, charmion, to be worthy of our great queen and mistress. [_they apply the aspicks._ _cleo._ already, death, i feel thee in my veins: i go with such a will to find my lord, that we shall quickly meet. a heavy numbness creeps through every limb, and now 'tis at my head: my eye-lids fall, and my dear love is vanished in a mist. where shall i find him, where? o turn me to him, and lay me on his breast!--cæsar, thy worst; now part us, if thou canst. [_dies._ [iras _sinks down at her feet, and dies;_ charmion _stands behind her chair, as dressing her head._ _enter_ serapion, _two priests,_ alexas _bound, egyptians._ _priest._ behold, serapion, what havock death has made! _serap._ 'twas what i feared.-- charmion, is this well done? _char._ yes, 'tis well done, and like a queen, the last of her great race: i follow her. [_sinks down; dies._ _alex._ 'tis true, she has done well: much better thus to die, than live to make a holiday in rome. _serap._ see, how the lovers sit in state together, as they were giving laws to half mankind! the impression of a smile, left in her face, shows she died pleased with him for whom she lived. and went to charm him in another cæsar's just entering: grief has now no leisure. secure that villain, as our pledge of safety, to grace the imperial triumph.--sleep, blest pair, secure from human chance, long ages out, while all the storms of fate fly o'er your tomb; and fame to late posterity shall tell, no lovers lived so great, or died so well. [_exeunt._ footnotes: . there was anciently some foolish idea about a wren soaring on an eagle's back. colley cibber, as dr johnson observed, converted the wren into a linnet: perched on the eagle's towering wing, the lowly linnet loves to sing. . approach there--ay, you kite!-- --now, gods and devils! authority melts from me: of late, when i cried ho! like boys unto a muss, kings would start forth and cry, your will.--have you no ears? i am antony yet.-- the same idea, which bursts from shakespeare's antony in a transport of passion, is used by dryden's hero. the one is goaded by the painful feeling of lost power; to the other, absorbed in his sentimental distresses, it only occurs as a subject of melancholy, but not of agitating reflection. . imitated, or rather copied, from shakespeare. _don john._ i came hither to tell you, and circumstances shortened (for she hath been too long a talking of) the lady is disloyal. _claudia._ who? hero? _don john._ even she; leonato's hero, your hero, every man's hero. epilogue. poets, like disputants, when reasons fail, have one sure refuge left--and that's to rail. fop, coxcomb, fool, are thundered through the pit; and this is all their equipage of wit. we wonder how the devil this difference grows, betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose: for, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood, 'tis civil war with their own flesh and blood. the thread-bare author hates the gaudy coat; and swears at the gilt coach, but swears a-foot; for 'tis observed of every scribbling man, he grows a fop as fast as e'er he can; prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass, if pink and purple best become his face. for our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays; nor likes your wit just as you like his plays; he has not yet so much of mr bayes. he does his best; and if he cannot please, would quietly sue out his _writ of ease_. yet, if he might his own grand jury call, by the fair sex he begs to stand or fall. let cæsar's power the men's ambition move, but grace you him, who lost the world for love! yet if some antiquated lady say, the last age is not copied in his play; heaven help the man who for that face must drudge, which only has the wrinkles of a judge. let not the young and beauteous join with those; for should you raise such numerous hosts of foes, young wits and sparks he to his aid must call; 'tis more than one man's work to please you all. * * * * * end of the fifth volume. edinburgh: printed by james ballantyne & co. the works of john dryden. the works of john dryden, now first collected _in eighteen volumes_. illustrated with notes, historical, critical, and explanatory, and a life of the author, by walter scott, esq. vol. xiii. london: printed for william miller, albemarle street, by james ballantyne and co. edinburgh. . contents of volume thirteenth. page. translations from juvenal. essay on satire; addressed to charles, earl of dorset and middlesex, the first satire of juvenal, the third satire of juvenal, the sixth satire of juvenal, the tenth satire of juvenal, the sixteenth satire of juvenal, translations from persius. the first satire of persius, notes, the second satire of persius, notes, the third satire of persius, notes, the fourth satire of persius, notes, the fifth satire of persius, inscribed to the rev. dr busby, notes, the sixth satire of persius, notes, the works of virgil, translated into english verse. names of subscribers to the cuts of virgil, recommendatory poems on the translation of virgil, the life of publius virgilius maro, by william walsh, pastorals. dedication of the pastorals, to lord clifford, baron of chudleigh, preface to the pastorals, with a short defence of virgil, by william walsh, pastoral i. or tityrus and meliboeus, ii. or alexis, iii. or palæmon, iv. or pollio, v. or daphnis, vi. or silenus, vii. or meliboeus, viii. or pharmaceutria, ix. or lycidas and mæris, x. or gallus, translations from juvenal. essay on satire: addressed to the right honourable charles, earl of dorset and middlesex, lord chamberlain of his majesty's household, knight of the most noble order of the garter, &c.[ ] my lord, the wishes and desires of all good men, which have attended your lordship from your first appearance in the world, are at length accomplished, from your obtaining those honours and dignities which you have so long deserved. there are no factions, though irreconcileable to one another, that are not united in their affection to you, and the respect they pay you. they are equally pleased in your prosperity, and would be equally concerned in your afflictions. titus vespasian was not more the delight of human kind. the universal empire made him only more known, and more powerful, but could not make him more beloved. he had greater ability of doing good, but your inclination to it is not less; and though you could not extend your beneficence to so many persons, yet you have lost as few days as that excellent emperor; and never had his complaint to make when you went to bed, that the sun had shone upon you in vain, when you had the opportunity of relieving some unhappy man. this, my lord, has justly acquired you as many friends as there are persons who have the honour to be known to you. mere acquaintance you have none; you have drawn them all into a nearer line; and they who have conversed with you are for ever after inviolably yours. this is a truth so generally acknowledged, that it needs no proof: it is of the nature of a first principle, which is received as soon as it is proposed; and needs not the reformation which descartes used to his; for we doubt not, neither can we properly say, we think we admire and love you above all other men; there is a certainty in the proposition, and we know it. with the same assurance i can say, you neither have enemies, nor can scarce have any; for they who have never heard of you, can neither love or hate you; and they who have, can have no other notion of you, than that which they receive from the public, that you are the best of men. after this, my testimony can be of no farther use, than to declare it to be day-light at high-noon; and all who have the benefit of sight, can look up as well, and see the sun. it is true, i have one privilege which is almost particular to myself, that i saw you in the east at your first arising above the hemisphere: i was as soon sensible as any man of that light, when it was but just shooting out, and beginning to travel upwards to the meridian. i made my early addresses to your lordship, in my "essay of dramatic poetry;" and therein bespoke you to the world, wherein i have the right of a first discoverer.[ ] when i was myself in the rudiments of my poetry, without name or reputation in the world, having rather the ambition of a writer, than the skill; when i was drawing the outlines of an art, without any living master to instruct me in it; an art which had been better praised than studied here in england, wherein shakespeare, who created the stage among us, had rather written happily, than knowingly and justly, and jonson, who, by studying horace, had been acquainted with the rules, yet seemed to envy to posterity that knowledge, and, like an inventor of some useful art, to make a monopoly of his learning; when thus, as i may say, before the use of the load-stone, or knowledge of the compass, i was sailing in a vast ocean, without other help than the pole-star of the ancients, and the rules of the french stage amongst the moderns, which are extremely different from ours, by reason of their opposite taste; yet even then, i had the presumption to dedicate to your lordship--a very unfinished piece, i must confess, and which only can be excused by the little experience of the author, and the modesty of the title--"an essay." yet i was stronger in prophecy than i was in criticism; i was inspired to foretell you to mankind, as the restorer of poetry, the greatest genius, the truest judge, and the best patron. good sense and good nature are never separated, though the ignorant world has thought otherwise. good nature, by which i mean beneficence and candour, is the product of right reason; which of necessity will give allowance to the failings of others, by considering that there is nothing perfect in mankind; and by distinguishing that which comes nearest to excellency, though not absolutely free from faults, will certainly produce a candour in the judge. it is incident to an elevated understanding, like your lordship's, to find out the errors of other men; but it is your prerogative to pardon them; to look with pleasure on those things, which are somewhat congenial, and of a remote kindred to your own conceptions; and to forgive the many failings of those, who, with their wretched art, cannot arrive to those heights that you possess, from a happy, abundant, and native genius: which are as inborn to you, as they were to shakespeare; and, for aught i know, to homer; in either of whom we find all arts and sciences, all moral and natural philosophy, without knowing that they ever studied them. there is not an english writer this day living, who is not perfectly convinced, that your lordship excels all others in all the several parts of poetry which you have undertaken to adorn. the most vain, and the most ambitious of our age, have not dared to assume so much, as the competitors of themistocles: they have yielded the first place without dispute; and have been arrogantly content to be esteemed as second to your lordship; and even that also, with a _longo, sed proximi intervallo_. if there have been, or are any, who go farther in their self-conceit, they must be very singular in their opinion; they must be like the officer in a play, who was called captain, lieutenant, and company. the world will easily conclude, whether such unattended generals can ever be capable of making a revolution in parnassus. i will not attempt, in this place, to say any thing particular of your lyric poems, though they are the delight and wonder of this age, and will be the envy of the next.[ ] the subject of this book confines me to satire; and in that, an author of your own quality, (whose ashes i will not disturb,) has given you all the commendation which his self-sufficiency could afford to any man: "the best good man, with the worst-natured muse."[ ] in that character, methinks, i am reading jonson's verses to the memory of shakespeare; an insolent, sparing, and invidious panegyric: where good nature, the most godlike commendation of a man, is only attributed to your person, and denied to your writings; for they are every where so full of candour, that, like horace, you only expose the follies of men, without arraigning their vices; and in this excel him, that you add that pointedness of thought, which is visibly wanting in our great roman. there is more of salt in all your verses, than i have seen in any of the moderns, or even of the ancients; but you have been sparing of the gall, by which means you have pleased all readers, and offended none. donne alone, of all our countrymen, had your talent; but was not happy enough to arrive at your versification; and were he translated into numbers, and english, he would yet be wanting in the dignity of expression. that which is the prime virtue, and chief ornament, of virgil, which distinguishes him from the rest of writers, is so conspicuous in your verses, that it casts a shadow on all your contemporaries; we cannot be seen, or but obscurely, while you are present. you equal donne in the variety, multiplicity, and choice of thoughts; you excel him in the manner and the words. i read you both with the same admiration, but not with the same delight. he affects the metaphysics, not only in his satires, but in his amorous verses, where nature only should reign; and perplexes the minds of the fair sex with nice speculations of philosophy, when he should engage their hearts, and entertain them with the softnesses of love. in this (if i may be pardoned for so bold a truth) mr cowley has copied him to a fault; so great a one, in my opinion, that it throws his mistress infinitely below his pindarics, and his latter compositions, which are undoubtedly the best of his poems, and the most correct. for my own part, i must avow it freely to the world, that i never attempted any thing in satire, wherein i have not studied your writings as the most perfect model. i have continually laid them before me; and the greatest commendation, which my own partiality can give to my productions, is, that they are copies, and no farther to be allowed, than as they have something more or less of the original. some few touches of your lordship, some secret graces which i have endeavoured to express after your manner, have made whole poems of mine to pass with approbation; but take your verses altogether, and they are inimitable. if therefore i have not written better, it is because you have not written more. you have not set me sufficient copy to transcribe; and i cannot add one letter of my own invention, of which i have not the example there. it is a general complaint against your lordship, and i must have leave to upbraid you with it, that, because you need not write, you will not. mankind, that wishes you so well in all things that relate to your prosperity, have their intervals of wishing for themselves, and are within a little of grudging you the fulness of your fortune: they would be more malicious if you used it not so well, and with so much generosity. fame is in itself a real good, if we may believe cicero, who was perhaps too fond of it; but even fame, as virgil tells us, acquires strength by going forward. let epicurus give indolency as an attribute to his gods, and place in it the happiness of the blest; the divinity which we worship has given us not only a precept against it, but his own example to the contrary. the world, my lord, would be content to allow you a seventh day for rest; or if you thought that hard upon you, we would not refuse you half your time: if you came out, like some great monarch, to take a town but once a year, as it were for your diversion, though you had no need to extend your territories. in short, if you were a bad, or, which is worse, an indifferent poet, we would thank you for our own quiet, and not expose you to the want of yours. but when you are so great and so successful, and when we have that necessity of your writing, that we cannot subsist entirely without it, any more (i may almost say) than the world without the daily course of ordinary providence, methinks this argument might prevail with you, my lord, to forego a little of your repose for the public benefit. it is not that you are under any force of working daily miracles, to prove your being; but now and then somewhat of extraordinary, that is, any thing of your production, is requisite to refresh your character. this, i think, my lord, is a sufficient reproach to you; and should i carry it as far as mankind would authorise me, would be little less than satire. and, indeed, a provocation is almost necessary, in behalf of the world, that you might be induced sometimes to write; and in relation to a multitude of scribblers, who daily pester the world with their insufferable stuff, that they might be discouraged from writing any more. i complain not of their lampoons and libels, though i have been the public mark for many years. i am vindictive enough to have repelled force by force, if i could imagine that any of them had ever reached me; but they either shot at rovers,[ ] and therefore missed, or their powder was so weak, that i might safely stand them, at the nearest distance. i answered not the "rehearsal," because i knew the author sat to himself when he drew the picture, and was the very bayes of his own farce: because also i knew, that my betters[ ] were more concerned than i was in that satire: and, lastly, because mr smith and mr johnson, the main pillars of it, were two such languishing gentlemen in their conversation, that i could liken them to nothing but to their own relations, those noble characters of men of wit and pleasure about the town. the like considerations have hindered me from dealing with the lamentable companions of their prose and doggrel. i am so far from defending my poetry against them, that i will not so much as expose theirs. and for my morals, if they are not proof against their attacks, let me be thought by posterity, what those authors would be thought, if any memory of them, or of their writings, could endure so long as to another age. but these dull makers of lampoons, as harmless as they have been to me, are yet of dangerous example to the public. some witty men may perhaps succeed to their designs, and, mixing sense with malice, blast the reputation of the most innocent amongst men, and the most virtuous amongst women. heaven be praised, our common libellers are as free from the imputation of wit as of morality; and therefore whatever mischief they have designed, they have performed but little of it. yet these ill writers, in all justice, ought themselves to be exposed; as persius has given us a fair example in his first satire, which is levelled particularly at them;[ ] and none is so fit to correct their faults, as he who is not only clear from any in his own writings, but is also so just, that he will never defame the good; and is armed with the power of verse, to punish and make examples of the bad. but of this i shall have occasion to speak further, when i come to give the definition and character of true satires. in the mean time, as a counsellor bred up in the knowledge of the municipal and statute laws, may honestly inform a just prince how far his prerogative extends; so i may be allowed to tell your lordship, who, by an undisputed title, are the king of poets, what an extent of power you have, and how lawfully you may exercise it, over the petulant scribblers of this age. as lord chamberlain, i know, you are absolute by your office, in all that belongs to the decency and good manners of the stage. you can banish from thence scurrility and profaneness, and restrain the licentious insolence of poets, and their actors, in all things that shock the public quiet, or the reputation of private persons, under the notion of humour. but i mean not the authority, which is annexed to your office; i speak of that only which is inborn and inherent to your person; what is produced in you by an excellent wit, a masterly and commanding genius over all writers: whereby you are empowered, when you please, to give the final decision of wit; to put your stamp on all that ought to pass for current; and set a brand of reprobation on clipped poetry, and false coin. a shilling dipped in the bath may go for gold amongst the ignorant, but the sceptres on the guineas show the difference.[ ] that your lordship is formed by nature for this supremacy, i could easily prove, (were it not already granted by the world,) from the distinguishing character of your writing: which is so visible to me, that i never could be imposed on to receive for yours, what was written by any others; or to mistake your genuine poetry for their spurious productions. i can farther add, with truth, (though not without some vanity in saying it,) that in the same paper, written by divers hands, whereof your lordship's was only part, i could separate your gold from their copper; and though i could not give back to every author his own brass, (for there is not the same rule for distinguishing betwixt bad and bad, as betwixt ill and excellently good,) yet i never failed of knowing what was yours, and what was not; and was absolutely certain, that this, or the other part, was positively yours, and could not possibly be written by any other. true it is, that some bad poems, though not all, carry their owners' marks about them. there is some peculiar awkwardness, false grammar, imperfect sense, or, at the least, obscurity; some brand or other on this buttock, or that ear, that it is notorious who are the owners of the cattle, though they should not sign it with their names. but your lordship, on the contrary, is distinguished, not only by the excellency of your thoughts, but by your style and manner of expressing them. a painter, judging of some admirable piece, may affirm, with certainty, that it was of holbein, or vandyck; but vulgar designs, and common draughts, are easily mistaken, and misapplied. thus, by my long study of your lordship, i am arrived at the knowledge of your particular manner. in the good poems of other men, like those artists, i can only say, this is like the draught of such a one, or like the colouring of another. in short, i can only be sure, that it is the hand of a good master; but in your performances, it is scarcely possible for me to be deceived. if you write in your strength, you stand revealed at the first view; and should you write under it, you cannot avoid some peculiar graces, which only cost me a second consideration to discover you: for i may say it, with all the severity of truth, that every line of yours is precious. your lordship's only fault is, that you have not written more; unless i could add another, and that yet greater, but i fear for the public the accusation would not be true,--that you have written, and out of a vicious modesty will not publish. virgil has confined his works within the compass of eighteen thousand lines, and has not treated many subjects; yet he ever had, and ever will have, the reputation of the best poet. martial says of him, that he could have excelled varius in tragedy, and horace in lyric poetry, but out of deference to his friends, he attempted neither.[ ] the same prevalence of genius is in your lordship, but the world cannot pardon your concealing it on the same consideration; because we have neither a living varius, nor a horace, in whose excellencies, both of poems, odes, and satires, you had equalled them, if our language had not yielded to the roman majesty, and length of time had not added a reverence to the works of horace. for good sense is the same in all or most ages; and course of time rather improves nature, than impairs her. what has been, may be again: another homer, and another virgil, may possibly arise from those very causes which produced the first; though it would be impudence to affirm, that any such have yet appeared. it is manifest, that some particular ages have been more happy than others in the production of great men, in all sorts of arts and sciences; as that of euripides, sophocles, aristophanes, and the rest, for stage poetry amongst the greeks; that of augustus, for heroic, lyric, dramatic, elegiac, and indeed all sorts of poetry, in the persons of virgil, horace, varius, ovid, and many others; especially if we take into that century the latter end of the commonwealth, wherein we find varo, lucretius, and catullus; and at the same time lived cicero, and sallust, and cæsar. a famous age in modern times, for learning in every kind, was that of lorenzo de medici, and his son leo the tenth; wherein painting was revived, and poetry flourished, and the greek language was restored. examples in all these are obvious: but what i would infer is this; that in such an age, it is possible some great genius may arise, to equal any of the ancients; abating only for the language. for great contemporaries whet and cultivate each other; and mutual borrowing, and commerce, makes the common riches of learning, as it does of the civil government. but suppose that homer and virgil were the only of their species, and that nature was so much worn out in producing them, that she is never able to bear the like again, yet the example only holds in heroic poetry: in tragedy and satire, i offer myself to maintain against some of our modern critics, that this age and the last, particularly in england, have excelled the ancients in both those kinds; and i would instance in shakespeare of the former, of your lordship in the latter sort.[ ] thus i might safely confine myself to my native country; but if i would only cross the seas, i might find in france a living horace and a juvenal, in the person of the admirable boileau; whose numbers are excellent, whose expressions are noble, whose thoughts are just, whose language is pure, whose satire is pointed, and whose sense is close; what he borrows from the ancients, he repays with usury of his own, in coin as good, and almost as universally valuable: for, setting prejudice and partiality apart, though he is our enemy, the stamp of a louis, the patron of all arts, is not much inferior to the medal of an augustus cæsar. let this be said without entering into the interests of factions and parties, and relating only to the bounty of that king to men of learning and merit; a praise so just, that even we, who are his enemies, cannot refuse it to him. now if it may be permitted me to go back again to the consideration of epic poetry, i have confessed, that no man hitherto has reached, or so much as approached, to the excellencies of homer, or of virgil; i must farther add, that statius, the best versificator next to virgil, knew not how to design after him, though he had the model in his eye; that lucan is wanting both in design and subject, and is besides too full of heat and affectation; that amongst the moderns, ariosto neither designed justly, nor observed any unity of action, or compass of time, or moderation in the vastness of his draught: his style is luxurious, without majesty or decency, and his adventures without the compass of nature and possibility. tasso, whose design was regular, and who observed the rules of unity in time and place more closely than virgil, yet was not so happy in his action; he confesses himself to have been too lyrical, that is, to have written beneath the dignity of heroic verse, in his episodes of sophronia, erminia, and armida. his story is not so pleasing as ariosto's; he is too flatulent sometimes, and sometimes too dry; many times unequal, and almost always forced; and, besides, is full of conceipts, points of epigram, and witticisms; all which are not only below the dignity of heroic verse, but contrary to its nature: virgil and homer have not one of them. and those who are guilty of so boyish an ambition in so grave a subject, are so far from being considered as heroic poets, that they ought to be turned down from homer to the anthologia, from virgil to martial and owen's epigrams, and from spenser to flecno; that is, from the top to the bottom of all poetry. but to return to tasso: he borrows from the invention of boiardo, and in his alteration of his poem, which is infinitely for the worse, imitates homer so very servilely, that (for example) he gives the king of jerusalem fifty sons, only because homer had bestowed the like number on king priam; he kills the youngest in the same manner, and has provided his hero with a patroclus, under another name, only to bring him back to the wars, when his friend was killed.[ ] the french have performed nothing in this kind which is not far below those two italians, and subject to a thousand more reflections, without examining their st lewis, their pucelle, or their alarique.[ ] the english have only to boast of spenser and milton, who neither of them wanted either genius or learning to have been perfect poets, and yet both of them are liable to many censures. for there is no uniformity in the design of spenser: he aims at the accomplishment of no one action; he raises up a hero for every one of his adventures; and endows each of them with some particular moral virtue, which renders them all equal, without subordination, or preference. every one is most valiant in his own legend: only we must do him that justice to observe, that magnanimity, which is the character of prince arthur, shines throughout the whole poem; and succours the rest, when they are in distress. the original of every knight was then living in the court of queen elizabeth; and he attributed to each of them that virtue, which he thought was most conspicuous in them; an ingenious piece of flattery, though it turned not much to his account. had he lived to finish his poem, in the six remaining legends, it had certainly been more of a piece; but could not have been perfect, because the model was not true. but prince arthur, or his chief patron sir philip sydney, whom he intended to make happy by the marriage of his gloriana, dying before him, deprived the poet both of means and spirit to accomplish his design.[ ] for the rest, his obsolete language,[ ] and the ill choice of his stanza, are faults but of the second magnitude; for, notwithstanding the first, he is still intelligible, at least after a little practice; and for the last, he is the more to be admired, that, labouring under such a difficulty, his verses are so numerous, so various, and so harmonious, that only virgil, whom he professedly imitated, has surpassed him among the romans; and only mr waller among the english. as for mr milton, whom we all admire with so much justice, his subject is not that of an heroic poem, properly so called. his design is the losing of our happiness; his event is not prosperous, like that of all other epic works; his heavenly machines are many, and his human persons are but two. but i will not take mr rymer's work out of his hands: he has promised the world a critique on that author;[ ] wherein, though he will not allow his poem for heroic, i hope he will grant us, that his thoughts are elevated, his words sounding, and that no man has so happily copied the manner of homer, or so copiously translated his grecisms, and the latin elegancies of virgil. it is true, he runs into a flat of thought, sometimes for a hundred lines together, but it is when he has got into a track of scripture. his antiquated words were his choice, not his necessity; for therein he imitated spenser, as spenser did chaucer. and though, perhaps, the love of their masters may have transported both too far, in the frequent use of them, yet, in my opinion, obsolete words may then be laudably revived, when either they are more sounding, or more significant, than those in practice; and when their obscurity is taken away, by joining other words to them, which clear the sense; according to the rule of horace, for the admission of new words.[ ] but in both cases a moderation is to be observed in the use of them: for unnecessary coinage, as well as unnecessary revival, runs into affectation; a fault to be avoided on either hand. neither will i justify milton for his blank verse, though i may excuse him, by the example of hannibal caro, and other italians, who have used it; for whatever causes he alleges for the abolishing of rhyme, (which i have not now the leisure to examine,) his own particular reason is plainly this, that rhyme was not his talent; he had neither the ease of doing it, nor the graces of it; which is manifest in his "juvenilia," or verses written in his youth, where his rhyme is always constrained and forced, and comes hardly from him, at an age when the soul is most pliant, and the passion of love makes almost every man a rhymer, though not a poet. by this time, my lord, i doubt not but that you wonder, why i have run off from my bias so long together, and made so tedious a digression from satire to heroic poetry. but if you will not excuse it, by the tattling quality of age, which, as sir william d'avenant says, is always narrative, yet i hope the usefulness of what i have to say on this subject will qualify the remoteness of it; and this is the last time i will commit the crime of prefaces, or trouble the world with my notions of any thing that relates to verse.[ ] i have then, as you see, observed the failings of many great wits amongst the moderns, who have attempted to write an epic poem. besides these, or the like animadversions of them by other men, there is yet a farther reason given, why they cannot possibly succeed so well as the ancients, even though we could allow them not to be inferior, either in genius or learning, or the tongue in which they write, or all those other wonderful qualifications which are necessary to the forming of a true accomplished heroic poet. the fault is laid on our religion; they say, that christianity is not capable of those embellishments which are afforded in the belief of those ancient heathens. and it is true, that, in the severe notions of our faith, the fortitude of a christian consists in patience, and suffering, for the love of god, whatever hardships can befall in the world; not in any great attempts, or in performance of those enterprizes which the poets call heroic, and which are commonly the effects of interest, ostentation, pride, and worldly honour: that humility and resignation are our prime virtues; and that these include no action, but that of the soul; when as, on the contrary, an heroic poem requires to its necessary design, and as its last perfection, some great action of war, the accomplishment of some extraordinary undertaking; which requires the strength and vigour of the body, the duty of a soldier, the capacity and prudence of a general, and, in short, as much, or more, of the active virtue, than the suffering. but to this the answer is very obvious. god has placed us in our several stations; the virtues of a private christian are patience, obedience, submission, and the like; but those of a magistrate, or general, or a king, are prudence, counsel, active fortitude, coercive power, awful command, and the exercise of magnanimity, as well as justice. so that this objection hinders not, but that an epic poem, or the heroic action of some great commander, enterprized for the common good, and honour of the christian cause, and executed happily, may be as well written now, as it was of old by the heathens; provided the poet be endued with the same talents; and the language, though not of equal dignity, yet as near approaching to it, as our modern barbarism will allow; which is all that can be expected from our own, or any other now extant, though more refined; and therefore we are to rest contented with that only inferiority, which is not possibly to be remedied. i wish i could as easily remove that other difficulty which yet remains. it is objected by a great french critic, as well as an admirable poet, yet living, and whom i have mentioned with that honour which his merit exacts from me, i mean boileau, that the machines of our christian religion, in heroic poetry, are much more feeble to support that weight than those of heathenism. their doctrine, grounded as it was on ridiculous fables, was yet the belief of the two victorious monarchies, the grecian and roman. their gods did not only interest themselves in the event of wars, (which is the effect of a superior providence,) but also espoused the several parties, in a visible corporeal descent, managed their intrigues, and fought their battles sometimes in opposition to each other: though virgil (more discreet than homer in that last particular) has contented himself with the partiality of his deities, their favours, their counsels or commands, to those whose cause they had espoused, without bringing them to the outrageousness of blows. now, our religion (says he) is deprived of the greatest part of those machines; at least the most shining in epic poetry. though st michael, in ariosto, seeks out discord, to send her among the pagans, and finds her in a convent of friars, where peace should reign, which indeed is fine satire; and satan, in tasso, excites solyman to an attempt by night on the christian camp, and brings an host of devils to his assistance; yet the archangel, in the former example, when discord was restive, and would not be drawn from her beloved monastery with fair words, has the whip-hand of her, drags her out with many stripes, sets her, on god's name, about her business, and makes her know the difference of strength betwixt a nuncio of heaven, and a minister of hell. the same angel, in the latter instance from tasso, (as if god had never another messenger belonging to the court, but was confined like jupiter to mercury, and juno to iris,) when he sees his time, that is, when half of the christians are already killed, and all the rest are in a fair way to be routed, stickles betwixt the remainders of god's host, and the race of fiends; pulls the devils backward by the tails, and drives them from their quarry; or otherwise the whole business had miscarried, and jerusalem remained untaken. this, says boileau, is a very unequal match for the poor devils, who are sure to come by the worst of it in the combat; for nothing is more easy, than for an almighty power to bring his old rebels to reason, when he pleases. consequently, what pleasure, what entertainment, can be raised from so pitiful a machine, where we see the success of the battle from the very beginning of it; unless that, as we are christians, we are glad that we have gotten god on our side, to maul our enemies, when we cannot do the work ourselves? for, if the poet had given the faithful more courage, which had cost him nothing, or at least have made them exceed the turks in number, he might have gained the victory for us christians, without interesting heaven in the quarrel, and that with as much ease, and as little credit to the conqueror, as when a party of a hundred soldiers defeats another which consists only of fifty. this, my lord, i confess, is such an argument against our modern poetry, as cannot be answered by those mediums which have been used. we cannot hitherto boast, that our religion has furnished us with any such machines, as have made the strength and beauty of the ancient buildings. but what if i venture to advance an invention of my own, to supply the manifest defect of our new writers? i am sufficiently sensible of my weakness; and it is not very probable that i should succeed in such a project, whereof i have not had the least hint from any of my predecessors, the poets, or any of their seconds and coadjutors, the critics. yet we see the art of war is improved in sieges, and new instruments of death are invented daily; something new in philosophy, and the mechanics, is discovered almost every year; and the science of former ages is improved by the succeeding. i will not detain you with a long preamble to that, which better judges will, perhaps, conclude to be little worth. it is this, in short--that christian poets have not hitherto been acquainted with their own strength. if they had searched the old testament as they ought, they might there have found the machines which are proper for their work; and those more certain in their effect, than it may be the new testament is, in the rules sufficient for salvation. the perusing of one chapter in the prophecy of daniel, and accommodating what there they find with the principles of platonic philosophy, as it is now christianized, would have made the ministry of angels as strong an engine, for the working up heroic poetry, in our religion, as that of the ancients has been to raise theirs by all the fables of their gods, which were only received for truths by the most ignorant and weakest of the people.[ ] it is a doctrine almost universally received by christians, as well protestants as catholics, that there are guardian angels, appointed by god almighty, as his vicegerents, for the protection and government of cities, provinces, kingdoms, and monarchies; and those as well of heathens, as of true believers. all this is so plainly proved from those texts of daniel, that it admits of no farther controversy. the prince of the persians, and that other of the grecians, are granted to be the guardians and protecting ministers of those empires. it cannot be denied, that they were opposite, and resisted one another. st michael is mentioned by his name as the patron of the jews,[ ] and is now taken by the christians, as the protector-general of our religion. these tutelar genii, who presided over the several people and regions committed to their charge, were watchful over them for good, as far as their commissions could possibly extend. the general purpose, and design of all, was certainly the service of their great creator. but it is an undoubted truth, that, for ends best known to the almighty majesty of heaven, his providential designs for the benefit of his creatures, for the debasing and punishing of some nations, and the exaltation and temporal reward of others, were not wholly known to these his ministers; else why those factious quarrels, controversies, and battles amongst themselves, when they were all united in the same design, the service and honour of their common master? but being instructed only in the general, and zealous of the main design; and, as finite beings, not admitted into the secrets of government, the last resorts of providence, or capable of discovering the final purposes of god, who can work good out of evil as he pleases, and irresistibly sways all manner of events on earth, directing them finally for the best, to his creation in general, and to the ultimate end of his own glory in particular; they must, of necessity, be sometimes ignorant of the means conducing to those ends, in which alone they can jar and oppose each other. one angel, as we may suppose--the prince of persia, as he is called, judging, that it would be more for god's honour, and the benefit of his people, that the median and persian monarchy, which delivered them from the babylonish captivity, should still be uppermost; and the patron of the grecians, to whom the will of god might be more particularly revealed, contending, on the other side, for the rise of alexander and his successors, who were appointed to punish the backsliding jews, and thereby to put them in mind of their offences, that they might repent, and become more virtuous, and more observant of the law revealed. but how far these controversies, and appearing enmities, of those glorious creatures may be carried; how these oppositions may be best managed, and by what means conducted, is not my business to show or determine; these things must be left to the invention and judgement of the poet: if any of so happy a genius be now living, or any future age can produce a man, who, being conversant in the philosophy of plato, as it is now accommodated to christian use, (for, as virgil gives us to understand by his example, that is the only proper, of all others, for an epic poem,) who, to his natural endowments, of a large invention, a ripe judgment, and a strong memory, has joined the knowledge of the liberal arts and sciences, and particularly moral philosophy, the mathematics, geography, and history, and with all these qualifications is born a poet; knows, and can practise the variety of numbers, and is master of the language in which he writes;--if such a man, i say, be now arisen, or shall arise, i am vain enough to think, that i have proposed a model to him, by which he may build a nobler, a more beautiful, and more perfect poem, than any yet extant since the ancients. there is another part of these machines yet wanting; but, by what i have said, it would have been easily supplied by a judicious writer. he could not have failed to add the opposition of ill spirits to the good; they have also their design, ever opposite to that of heaven; and this alone has hitherto been the practice of the moderns: but this imperfect system, if i may call it such, which i have given, will infinitely advance and carry farther that hypothesis of the evil spirits contending with the good. for, being so much weaker, since their fall, than those blessed beings, they are yet supposed to have a permitted power from god of acting ill, as, from their own depraved nature, they have always the will of designing it. a great testimony of which we find in holy writ, when god almighty suffered satan to appear in the holy synod of the angels, (a thing not hitherto drawn into example by any of the poets,) and also gave him power over all things belonging to his servant job, excepting only life. now, what these wicked spirits cannot compass, by the vast disproportion of their forces to those of the superior beings, they may, by their fraud and cunning, carry farther, in a seeming league, confederacy, or subserviency to the designs of some good angel, as far as consists with his purity to suffer such an aid, the end of which may possibly be disguised, and concealed from his finite knowledge. this is, indeed, to suppose a great error in such a being: yet since a devil can appear like an angel of light; since craft and malice may sometimes blind, for a while, a more perfect understanding; and, lastly, since milton has given us an example of the like nature, when satan, appearing like a cherub to uriel, the intelligence of the sun, circumvented him even in his own province, and passed only for a curious traveller through those new-created regions, that he might observe therein the workmanship of god, and praise him in his works,--i know not why, upon the same supposition, or some other, a fiend may not deceive a creature of more excellency than himself, but yet a creature; at least, by the connivance, or tacit permission, of the omniscient being. thus, my lord, i have, as briefly as i could, given your lordship, and by you the world, a rude draught of what i have been long labouring in my imagination, and what i had intended to have put in practice, (though far unable for the attempt of such a poem,) and to have left the stage, (to which my genius never much inclined me,) for a work which would have taken up my life in the performance of it. this, too, i had intended chiefly for the honour of my native country, to which a poet is particularly obliged. of two subjects, both relating to it, i was doubtful whether i should choose that of king arthur conquering the saxons, which, being farther distant in time, gives the greater scope to my invention; or that of edward, the black prince, in subduing spain, and restoring it to the lawful prince, though a great tyrant, don pedro the cruel: which, for the compass of time, including only the expedition of one year; for the greatness of the action, and its answerable event; for the magnanimity of the english hero, opposed to the ingratitude of the person whom he restored; and for the many beautiful episodes, which i had interwoven with the principal design, together with the characters of the chiefest english persons; (wherein, after virgil and spenser, i would have taken occasion to represent my living friends and patrons of the noblest families, and also shadowed the events of future ages, in the succession of our imperial line,)--with these helps, and those of the machines, which i have mentioned, i might perhaps have done as well as some of my predecessors, or at least chalked out a way for others to amend my errors in a like design; but being encouraged only with fair words by king charles ii., my little salary ill paid, and no prospect of a future subsistence, i was then discouraged in the beginning of my attempt; and now age has overtaken me, and want, a more insufferable evil, through the change of the times, has wholly disenabled me. though i must ever acknowledge, to the honour of your lordship, and the eternal memory of your charity, that, since this revolution, wherein i have patiently suffered the ruin of my small fortune, and the loss of that poor subsistence which i had from two kings, whom i had served more faithfully than profitably to myself,--then your lordship was pleased, out of no other motive but your own nobleness, without any desert of mine, or the least solicitation from me, to make me a most bountiful present, which, at that time, when i was most in want of it, came most seasonably and unexpectedly to my relief. that favour, my lord, is of itself sufficient to bind any grateful man to a perpetual acknowledgment, and to all the future service, which one of my mean condition can ever be able to perform. may the almighty god return it for me, both in blessing you here, and rewarding you hereafter! i must not presume to defend the cause for which i now suffer, because your lordship is engaged against it; but the more you are so, the greater is my obligation to you, for your laying aside all the considerations of factions and parties, to do an action of pure disinterested charity. this is one amongst many of your shining qualities, which distinguish you from others of your rank. but let me add a farther truth, that, without these ties of gratitude, and abstracting from them all, i have a most particular inclination to honour you; and, if it were not too bold an expression, to say, i love you. it is no shame to be a poet, though it is to be a bad one. augustus cæsar of old, and cardinal richlieu of late, would willingly have been such; and david and solomon were such. you who, without flattery, are the best of the present age in england, and would have been so, had you been born in any other country, will receive more honour in future ages, by that one excellency, than by all those honours to which your birth has entitled you, or your merits have acquired you. _ne, fortè, pudori sit tibi musa lyræ solers, et cantor apollo._ i have formerly said in this epistle, that i could distinguish your writings from those of any others; it is now time to clear myself from any imputation of self-conceit on that subject. i assume not to myself any particular lights in this discovery; they are such only as are obvious to every man of sense and judgment, who loves poetry, and understands it. your thoughts are always so remote from the common way of thinking, that they are, as i may say, of another species, than the conceptions of other poets; yet you go not out of nature for any of them. gold is never bred upon the surface of the ground, but lies so hidden, and so deep, that the mines of it are seldom found; but the force of waters casts it out from the bowels of mountains, and exposes it amongst the sands of rivers; giving us of her bounty, what we could not hope for by our search. this success attends your lordship's thoughts, which would look like chance, if it were not perpetual, and always of the same tenor. if i grant that there is care in it, it is such a care as would be ineffectual and fruitless in other men. it is the _curiosa felicitas_ which petronius ascribes to horace in his odes. we have not wherewithal to imagine so strongly, so justly, and so pleasantly; in short, if we have the same knowledge, we cannot draw out of it the same quintessence; we cannot give it such a turn, such a propriety, and such a beauty; something is deficient in the manner, or the words, but more in the nobleness of our conception. yet when you have finished all, and it appears in its full lustre, when the diamond is not only found, but the roughness smoothed, when it is cut into a form, and set in gold, then we cannot but acknowledge, that it is the perfect work of art and nature; and every one will be so vain, to think he himself could have performed the like, until he attempts it. it is just the description that horace makes of such a finished piece: it appears so easy, ----_ut sibi quivis speret idem, sudet multum, frustraque laboret, ausus idem._ and, besides all this, it is your lordship's particular talent to lay your thoughts so close together, that, were they closer, they would be crowded, and even a due connection would be wanting. we are not kept in expectation of two good lines, which are to come after a long parenthesis of twenty bad; which is the april poetry of other writers, a mixture of rain and sunshine by fits: you are always bright, even almost to a fault, by reason of the excess. there is continual abundance, a magazine of thought, and yet a perpetual variety of entertainment; which creates such an appetite in your reader, that he is not cloyed with any thing, but satisfied with all. it is that which the romans call, _cæna dubia_; where there is such plenty, yet withal so much diversity, and so good order, that the choice is difficult betwixt one excellency and another; and yet the conclusion, by a due climax, is evermore the best; that is, as a conclusion ought to be, ever the most proper for its place. see, my lord, whether i have not studied your lordship with some application; and, since you are so modest that you will not be judge and party, i appeal to the whole world, if i have not drawn your picture to a great degree of likeness, though it is but in miniature, and that some of the best features are yet wanting. yet what i have done is enough to distinguish you from any other, which is the proposition that i took upon me to demonstrate. and now, my lord, to apply what i have said to my present business. the satires of juvenal and persius appearing in this new english dress, cannot so properly be inscribed to any man as to your lordship, who are the first of the age in that way of writing. your lordship, amongst many other favours, has given me your permission for this address; and you have particularly encouraged me by your perusal and approbation of the sixth and tenth satires of juvenal, as i have translated them. my fellow-labourers have likewise commissioned me, to perform, in their behalf, this office of a dedication to you; and will acknowledge, with all possible respect and gratitude, your acceptance of their work. some of them have the honour to be known to your lordship already; and they who have not yet that happiness, desire it now. be pleased to receive our common endeavours with your wonted candour, without entitling you to the protection of our common failings in so difficult an undertaking. and allow me your patience, if it be not already tired with this long epistle, to give you, from the best authors, the origin, the antiquity, the growth, the change, and the completement of satire among the romans; to describe, if not define, the nature of that poem, with its several qualifications and virtues, together with the several sorts of it; to compare the excellencies of horace, persius, and juvenal, and show the particular manners of their satires; and, lastly, to give an account of this new way of version, which is attempted in our performance: all which, according to the weakness of my ability, and the best lights which i can get from others, shall be the subject of my following discourse. the most perfect work of poetry, says our master aristotle, is tragedy. his reason is, because it is the most united; being more severely confined within the rules of action, time, and place. the action is entire, of a piece, and one, without episodes; the time limited to a natural day; and the place circumscribed at least within the compass of one town, or city. being exactly proportioned thus, and uniform in all its parts, the mind is more capable of comprehending the whole beauty of it without distraction. but, after all these advantages, an heroic poem is certainly the greatest work of human nature. the beauties and perfections of the other are but mechanical; those of the epic are more noble: though homer has limited his place to troy, and the fields about it; his actions to forty-eight natural days, whereof twelve are holidays, or cessation from business, during the funeral of patroclus.--to proceed; the action of the epic is greater; the extention of time enlarges the pleasure of the reader, and the episodes give it more ornament, and more variety. the instruction is equal; but the first is only instructive, the latter forms a hero, and a prince. if it signifies any thing which of them is of the more ancient family, the best and most absolute heroic poem was written by homer long before tragedy was invented. but if we consider the natural endowments, and acquired parts, which are necessary to make an accomplished writer in either kind, tragedy requires a less and more confined knowledge; moderate learning, and observation of the rules, is sufficient, if a genius be not wanting. but in an epic poet, one who is worthy of that name, besides an universal genius, is required universal learning, together with all those qualities and acquisitions which i have named above, and as many more as i have, through haste or negligence, omitted. and, after all, he must have exactly studied homer and virgil, as his patterns; aristotle and horace, as his guides; and vida and bossu, as their commentators; with many others, both italian and french critics, which i want leisure here to recommend. in a word, what i have to say in relation to this subject, which does not particularly concern satire, is, that the greatness of an heroic poem, beyond that of a tragedy, may easily be discovered, by observing how few have attempted that work in comparison to those who have written dramas; and, of those few, how small a number have succeeded. but leaving the critics, on either side, to contend about the preference due to this or that sort of poetry, i will hasten to my present business, which is the antiquity and origin of satire, according to those informations which i have received from the learned casaubon, heinsius, rigaltius, dacier, and the dauphin's juvenal; to which i shall add some observations of my own. there has been a long dispute among the modern critics, whether the romans derived their satire from the grecians, or first invented it themselves. julius scaliger, and heinsius, are of the first opinion; casaubon, rigaltius, dacier, and the publisher of the dauphin's juvenal, maintain the latter. if we take satire in the general signification of the word, as it is used in all modern languages, for an invective, it is certain that it is almost as old as verse; and though hymns, which are praises of god, may be allowed to have been before it, yet the defamation of others was not long after it. after god had cursed adam and eve in paradise, the husband and wife excused themselves, by laying the blame on one another; and gave a beginning to those conjugal dialogues in prose, which the poets have perfected in verse. the third chapter of job is one of the first instances of this poem in holy scripture; unless we will take it higher, from the latter end of the second, where his wife advises him to curse his maker. this original, i confess, is not much to the honour of satire; but here it was nature, and that depraved: when it became an art, it bore better fruit. only we have learnt thus much already, that scoffs and revilings are of the growth of all nations: and, consequently, that neither the greek poets borrowed from other people their art of railing, neither needed the romans to take it from them. but, considering satire as a species of poetry, here the war begins amongst the critics. scaliger, the father, will have it descend from greece to rome; and derives the word satire from _satyrus_, that mixed kind of animal, or, as the ancients thought him, rural god, made up betwixt a man and a goat; with a human head, hooked nose, pouting lips, a bunch, or struma, under the chin, pricked ears, and upright horns; the body shagged with hair, especially from the waist, and ending in a goat, with the legs and feet of that creature. but casaubon, and his followers, with reason, condemn this derivation; and prove, that from _satyrus_, the word _satira_, as it signifies a poem, cannot possibly descend. for _satira_ is not properly a substantive, but an adjective; to which the word _lanx_ (in english, a charger, or large platter) is understood; so that the greek poem, made according to the manners of a satyr, and expressing his qualities, must properly be called satyrical, and not satire. and thus far it is allowed that the grecians had such poems; but that they were wholly different in species from that to which the romans gave the name of satire. aristotle divides all poetry, in relation to the progress of it, into nature without art, art begun, and art completed. mankind, even the most barbarous, have the seeds of poetry implanted in them. the first specimen of it was certainly shown in the praises of the deity, and prayers to him; and as they are of natural obligation, so they are likewise of divine institution: which milton observing, introduces adam and eve every morning adoring god in hymns and prayers. the first poetry was thus begun, in the wild notes of natural poetry, before the invention of feet, and measures. the grecians and romans had no other original of their poetry. festivals and holidays soon succeeded to private worship, and we need not doubt but they were enjoined by the true god to his own people, as they were afterwards imitated by the heathens; who, by the light of reason, knew they were to invoke some superior being in their necessities, and to thank him for his benefits. thus, the grecian holidays were celebrated with offerings to bacchus, and ceres, and other deities, to whose bounty they supposed they were owing for their corn and wine, and other helps of life; and the ancient romans, as horace tells us, paid their thanks to mother earth, or vesta, to silvanus, and their genius, in the same manner. but as all festivals have a double reason of their institution, the first of religion, the other of recreation, for the unbending of our minds, so both the grecians and romans agreed, after their sacrifices were performed, to spend the remainder of the day in sports and merriments; amongst which, songs and dances, and that which they called wit, (for want of knowing better,) were the chiefest entertainments. the grecians had a notion of satyrs, whom i have already described; and taking them, and the sileni, that is, the young satyrs and the old, for the tutors, attendants, and humble companions of their bacchus, habited themselves like those rural deities, and imitated them in their rustic dances, to which they joined songs, with some sort of rude harmony, but without certain numbers; and to these they added a kind of chorus. the romans, also, (as nature is the same in all places,) though they knew nothing of those grecian demi-gods, nor had any communication with greece, yet had certain young men, who, at their festivals, danced and sung, after their uncouth manner, to a certain kind of verse, which they called saturnian. what it was, we have no certain light from antiquity to discover; but we may conclude, that, like the grecian, it was void of art, or, at least, with very feeble beginnings of it. those ancient romans, at these holidays, which were a mixture of devotion and debauchery, had a custom of reproaching each other with their faults, in a sort of extempore poetry, or rather of tunable hobbling verse; and they answered in the same kind of gross raillery; their wit and their music being of a piece. the grecians, says casaubon, had formerly done the same, in the persons of their petulant satyrs. but i am afraid he mistakes the matter, and confounds the singing and dancing of the satyrs, with the rustical entertainments of the first romans. the reason of my opinion is this; that casaubon, finding little light from antiquity of these beginnings of poetry amongst the grecians, but only these representations of satyrs, who carried canisters and cornucopias full of several fruits in their hands, and danced with them at their public feasts; and afterwards reading horace, who makes mention of his homely romans jesting at one another in the same kind of solemnities, might suppose those wanton satyrs did the same; and especially because horace possibly might seem to him, to have shown the original of all poetry in general, including the grecians as well as romans; though it is plainly otherwise, that he only described the beginning, and first rudiments, of poetry in his own country. the verses are these, which he cites from the first epistle of the second book, which was written to augustus: _agricolæ prisci, fortes, parvoque beati, condita post frumenta, levantes tempore festo corpus, et ipsum animum spe finis dura ferentem, cum sociis operum, et pueris, et conjuge fidâ, tellurem porco, silvanum lacte piabant; floribus et vino genium memorem brevis ævi. fescennina per hunc inventa licentia morem versibus alternis opprobria rustica fudit._ our brawny clowns, of old, who turned the soil, content with little, and inured to toil, at harvest-home, with mirth and country cheer, restored their bodies for another year; refreshed their spirits, and renewed their hope of such a future feast, and future crop. then, with their fellow-joggers of the ploughs, their little children, and their faithful spouse, a sow they slew to vesta's deity, and kindly milk, silvanus, poured to thee; with flowers, and wine, their genius they adored; a short life, and a merry, was the word. from flowing cups, defaming rhymes ensue, and at each other homely taunts they threw. yet since it is a hard conjecture, that so great a man as casaubon should misapply what horace writ concerning ancient rome, to the ceremonies and manners of ancient greece, i will not insist on this opinion; but rather judge in general, that since all poetry had its original from religion, that of the grecians and rome had the same beginning. both were invented at festivals of thanksgiving, and both were prosecuted with mirth and raillery, and rudiments of verses: amongst the greeks, by those who represented satyrs; and amongst the romans, by real clowns. for, indeed, when i am reading casaubon on these two subjects, methinks i hear the same story told twice over with very little alteration. of which dacier taking notice, in his interpretation of the latin verses which i have translated, says plainly, that the beginning of poetry was the same, with a small variety, in both countries; and that the mother of it, in all nations, was devotion. but, what is yet more wonderful, that most learned critic takes notice also, in his illustrations on the first epistle of the second book, that as the poetry of the romans, and that of the grecians, had the same beginning, (at feasts and thanksgiving, as it has been observed,) and the old comedy of the greeks, which was invective, and the satire of the romans, which was of the same nature, were begun on the very same occasion, so the fortune of both, in process of time, was just the same; the old comedy of the grecians was forbidden, for its too much licence in exposing of particular persons; and the rude satire of the romans was also punished by a law of the decemviri, as horace tells us, in these words: _libertasque recurrentes accepta per annos lusit amabiliter; donec jam sævus apertam in rabiem verti coepit jocus, et per honestas ire domos impune minax: doluere cruento dente lacessiti; fuit intactis quoque cura conditione super communi: quinetiam lex, poenaque lata, malo quæ nollet carmine quenquam describi: vertere modum, formidine fustis ad benedicendum delectandumque redacti._ the law of the decemviri was this: _siquis occentassit malum carmen, sive condidisit, quod infamiam faxit, flagitiumve alteri, capital esto_.--a strange likeness, and barely possible; but the critics being all of the same opinion, it becomes me to be silent, and to submit to better judgments than my own. but, to return to the grecians, from whose satiric dramas the elder scaliger and heinsius will have the roman satire to proceed, i am to take a view of them first, and see if there be any such descent from them as those authors have pretended. thespis, or whoever he were that invented tragedy, (for authors differ,) mingled with them a chorus and dances of satyrs, which had before been used in the celebration of their festivals; and there they were ever afterwards retained. the character of them was also kept, which was mirth and wantonness; and this was given, i suppose, to the folly of the common audience, who soon grow weary of good sense, and, as we daily see in our own age and country, are apt to forsake poetry, and still ready to return to buffoonery and farce. from hence it came, that, in the olympic games, where the poets contended for four prizes, the satiric tragedy was the last of them; for, in the rest, the satyrs were excluded from the chorus. among the plays of euripides which are yet remaining, there is one of these satyrics, which is called "the cyclops;" in which we may see the nature of those poems, and from thence conclude, what likeness they have to the roman satire. the story of this cyclops, whose name was polyphemus, so famous in the grecian fables, was, that ulysses, who, with his company, was driven on the coast of sicily, where those cyclops inhabited, coming to ask relief from silenus, and the satyrs, who were herdsmen to that one-eyed giant, was kindly received by them, and entertained; till, being perceived by polyphemus, they were made prisoners against the rites of hospitality, (for which ulysses eloquently pleaded,) were afterwards put down into the den, and some of them devoured; after which ulysses, having made him drunk, when he was asleep, thrust a great firebrand into his eye, and so, revenging his dead followers, escaped with the remaining party of the living; and silenus and the satyrs were freed from their servitude under polyphemus, and remitted to their first liberty of attending and accompanying their patron, bacchus. this was the subject of the tragedy; which, being one of those that end with a happy event, is therefore, by aristotle, judged below the other sort, whose success is unfortunate. notwithstanding which, the satyrs, who were part of the _dramatis personæ_, as well as the whole chorus, were properly introduced into the nature of the poem, which is mixed of farce and tragedy. the adventure of ulysses was to entertain the judging part of the audience; and the uncouth persons of silenus, and the satyrs, to divert the common people with their gross railleries. your lordship has perceived by this time, that this satiric tragedy, and the roman satire, have little resemblance in any of their features. the very kinds are different; for what has a pastoral tragedy to do with a paper of verses satirically written? the character and raillery of the satyrs is the only thing that could pretend to a likeness, were scaliger and heinsius alive to maintain their opinion. and the first farces of the romans, which were the rudiments of their poetry, were written before they had any communication with the greeks, or indeed any knowledge of that people. and here it will be proper to give the definition of the greek satyric poem from casaubon, before i leave this subject. "the satiric," says he, "is a dramatic poem, annexed to a tragedy, having a chorus, which consists of satyrs. the persons represented in it are illustrious men; the action of it is great; the style is partly serious, and partly jocular; and the event of the action most commonly is happy." the grecians, besides these satiric tragedies, had another kind of poem, which they called silli, which were more of kin to the roman satire. those silli were indeed invective poems, but of a different species from the roman poems of ennius, pacuvius, lucilius, horace, and the rest of their successors. they were so called, says casaubon in one place, from silenus, the foster-father of bacchus; but, in another place, bethinking himself better, he derives their name, #apo tou sillainein#, from their scoffing and petulancy. from some fragments of the silli, written by timon, we may find, that they were satiric poems, full of parodies; that is, of verses patched up from great poets, and turned into another sense than their author intended them. such, amongst the romans, is the famous cento of ausonius; where the words are virgil's, but, by applying them to another sense, they are made a relation of a wedding-night; and the act of consummation fulsomely described in the very words of the most modest amongst all poets. of the same manner are our songs, which are turned into burlesque, and the serious words of the author perverted into a ridiculous meaning. thus in timon's silli the words are generally those of homer, and the tragic poets; but he applies them, satirically, to some customs and kinds of philosophy, which he arraigns. but the romans, not using any of these parodies in their satires,--sometimes, indeed, repeating verses of other men, as persius cites some of nero's, but not turning them into another meaning,--the silli cannot be supposed to be the original of roman satire. to these silli, consisting of parodies, we may properly add the satires which were written against particular persons; such as were the iambics of archilochus against lycambes, which horace undoubtedly imitated in some of his odes and epodes, whose titles bear sufficient witness of it. i might also name the invective of ovid against ibis, and many others; but these are the under-wood of satire, rather than the timber-trees: they are not of general extension, as reaching only to some individual person. and horace seems to have purged himself from those splenetic reflections in those odes and epodes, before he undertook the noble work of satires, which were properly so called. thus, my lord, i have at length disengaged myself from those antiquities of greece; and have proved, i hope, from the best critics, that the roman satire was not borrowed from thence, but of their own manufacture. i am now almost gotten into my depth; at least, by the help of dacier, i am swimming towards it. not that i will promise always to follow him, any more than he follows casaubon; but to keep him in my eye, as my best and truest guide; and where i think he may possibly mislead me, there to have recourse to my own lights, as i expect that others should do by me. quintilian says, in plain words, _satira quidem tota nostra est_; and horace had said the same thing before him, speaking of his predecessor in that sort of poetry,--_et græcis intacti carminis auctor_. nothing can be clearer than the opinion of the poet, and the orator, both the best critics of the two best ages of the roman empire, that satire was wholly of latin growth, and not transplanted to rome from athens.[ ] yet, as i have said, scaliger, the father, according to his custom, that is, insolently enough, contradicts them both; and gives no better reason, than the derivation of _satyrus_ from #sathy#, _salacitas_; and so, from the lechery of those fauns, thinks he has sufficiently proved, that satire is derived from them: as if wantonness and lubricity were essential to that sort of poem, which ought to be avoided in it. his other allegation, which i have already mentioned, is as pitiful; that the satyrs carried platters and canisters full of fruit in their hands. if they had entered empty-handed, had they been ever the less satyrs? or were the fruits and flowers, which they offered, any thing of kin to satire? or any argument that this poem was originally grecian? casaubon judged better, and his opinion is grounded on sure authority, that satire was derived from _satura_, a roman word, which signifies--full and abundant, and full also of variety, in which nothing is wanting to its due perfection. it is thus, says dacier, that we say--a full colour, when the wool has taken the whole tincture, and drunk in as much of the dye as it can receive. according to this derivation, from _satur_ comes _satura_, or _satyra_, according to the new spelling; as _optumus_ and _maxumus_ are now spelled _optimus_ and _maximus_. _satura_, as i have formerly noted, is an adjective, and relates to the word _lanx_ which is understood; and this _lanx_, in english a charger, or large platter, was yearly filled with all sorts of fruits, which were offered to the gods at their festivals, as the _premices_, or first gatherings. these offerings of several sorts thus mingled, it is true, were not unknown to the grecians, who called them #pankarpon thysian#, a sacrifice of all sorts of fruits; and #panpermian#, when they offered all kinds of grain. virgil has mentioned these sacrifices in his "georgics:" _lancibus et pandis fumantia reddimus exta_: and in another place, _lancesque et liba feremus_: that is, we offer the smoaking entrails in great platters, and we will offer the chargers and the cakes. the word _satura_ has been afterwards applied to many other sort of mixtures; as festus calls it a kind of _olla_, or hotchpotch, made of several sorts of meats. laws were also called _leges saturæ_, when they were of several heads and titles, like our tacked bills of parliament: and _per saturam legem ferre_, in the roman senate, was to carry a law without telling the senators, or counting voices, when they were in haste. sallust uses the word,--_per saturam sententias exquirere_; when the majority was visible on one side. from hence it may probably be conjectured, that the discourses, or satires, of ennius, lucilius, and horace, as we now call them, took their name; because they are full of various matters, and are also written on various subjects, as porphyrius says. but dacier affirms, that it is not immediately from thence that these satires are so called; for that name had been used formerly for other things, which bore a nearer resemblance to those discourses of horace. in explaining of which, continues dacier, a method is to be pursued, of which casaubon himself has never thought, and which will put all things into so clear a light, that no farther room will be left for the least dispute. during the space of almost four hundred years, since the building of their city, the romans had never known any entertainments of the stage. chance and jollity first found out those verses which they called _saturnian_, and _fescennine_; or rather human nature, which is inclined to poetry, first produced them, rude and barbarous, and unpolished, as all other operations of the soul are in their beginnings, before they are cultivated with art and study. however, in occasions of merriment they were first practised; and this rough-cast unhewn poetry was instead of stage-plays, for the space of an hundred and twenty years together. they were made _extempore_, and were, as the french call them, _impromptùs_; for which the tarsians of old were much renowned; and we see the daily examples of them in the italian farces of harlequin and scaramucha. such was the poetry of that savage people, before it was turned into numbers, and the harmony of verse. little of the saturnian verses is now remaining; we only know from authors, that they were nearer prose than poetry, without feet, or measure. they were #enrythmoi#, but not #emmetroi#. perhaps they might be used in the solemn part of their ceremonies; and the fescennine, which were invented after them, in the afternoon's debauchery, because they were scoffing and obscene. the fescennine and saturnian were the same; for as they were called saturnian from their ancientness, when saturn reigned in italy, they were also called fescennine, from fescennia, a town in the same country, where they were first practised. the actors, with a gross and rustic kind of raillery, reproached each other with their failings; and at the same time were nothing sparing of it to their audience. somewhat of this custom was afterwards retained in the saturnalia, or feasts of saturn, celebrated in december; at least all kind of freedom in speech was then allowed to slaves, even against their masters; and we are not without some imitation of it in our christmas gambols. soldiers also used those fescennine verses, after measure and numbers had been added to them, at the triumph of their generals: of which we have an example, in the triumph of julius cæsar over gaul, in these expressions: _cæsar gallias subegit, nicomedes cæsarem. ecce cæsar nunc triumphat, qui subegit gallias: nicomedes non triumphat, qui subegit cæsarem_. the vapours of wine made those first satirical poets amongst the romans; which, says dacier, we cannot better represent, than by imagining a company of clowns on a holiday, dancing lubberly, and upbraiding one another, in _extempore_ doggrel, with their defects and vices, and the stories that were told of them in bake houses and barbers' shops. when they began to be somewhat better bred, and were entering, as i may say, into the first rudiments of civil conversation, they left these hedge-notes for another sort of poem, somewhat polished, which was also full of pleasant raillery, but without any mixture of obscenity. this sort of poetry appeared under the name of satire, because of its variety; and this satire was adorned with compositions of music, and with dances; but lascivious postures were banished from it. in the tuscan language, says livy, the word _hister_ signifies a player; and therefore those actors, which were first brought from etruria to rome, on occasion of a pestilence, when the romans were admonished to avert the anger of the gods by plays, in the year _ab urbe condita_ cccxc.,--those actors, i say, were therefore called _histriones_; and that name has since remained, not only to actors roman born, but to all others of every nation. they played not the former _extempore_ stuff of fescennine verses, or clownish jests; but what they acted was a kind of civil, cleanly farce, with music and dances, and motions that were proper to the subject. in this condition livius andronicus found the stage, when he attempted first, instead of farces, to supply it with a nobler entertainment of tragedies and comedies. this man was a grecian born, and being made a slave by livius salinator, and brought to rome, had the education of his patron's children committed to him; which trust he discharged so much to the satisfaction of his master, that he gave him his liberty. andronicus, thus become a freeman of rome, added to his own name that of livius his master; and, as i observed, was the first author of a regular play in that commonwealth. being already instructed, in his native country, in the manners and decencies of the athenian theatre, and conversant in the _archæa comoedia_, or old comedy of aristophanes, and the rest of the grecian poets, he took from that model his own designing of plays for the roman stage; the first of which was represented in the year cccccxiv., since the building of rome, as tully, from the commentaries of atticus, has assured us: it was after the end of the first punic war, the year before ennius was born. dacier has not carried the matter altogether thus far; he only says, that one livius andronicus was the first stage-poet at rome. but i will adventure on this hint, to advance another proposition, which i hope the learned will approve. and though we have not any thing of andronicus remaining to justify my conjecture, yet it is exceedingly probable, that, having read the works of those grecian wits, his countrymen, he imitated not only the ground work, but also the manner of their writing; and how grave soever his tragedies might be, yet, in his comedies, he expressed the way of aristophanes, eupolis, and the rest, which was to call some persons by their own names, and to expose their defects to the laughter of the people: the examples of which we have in the forementioned aristophanes, who turned the wise socrates into ridicule, and is also very free with the management of cleon, alcibiades, and other ministers of the athenian government. now, if this be granted, we may easily suppose, that the first hint of satirical plays on the roman stage was given by the greeks: not from the satirica, for that has been reasonably exploded in the former part of this discourse: but from their old comedy, which was imitated first by livius andronicus. and then quintilian and horace must be cautiously interpreted, where they affirm, that satire is wholly roman, and a sort of verse, which was not touched on by the grecians. the reconcilement of my opinion to the standard of their judgment is not, however, very difficult, since they spoke of satire, not as in its first elements, but as it was formed into a separate work; begun by ennius, pursued by lucilius, and completed afterwards by horace. the proof depends only on this _postulatum_,--that the comedies of andronicus, which were imitations of the greek, were also imitations of their railleries, and reflections on particular persons. for, if this be granted me, which is a most probable supposition, it is easy to infer, that the first light which was given to the roman theatrical satire, was from the plays of livius andronicus; which will be more manifestly discovered, when i come to speak of ennius. in the meantime i will return to dacier. the people, says he, ran in crowds to these new entertainments of andronicus, as to pieces which were more noble in their kind, and more perfect than their former satires, which for some time they neglected and abandoned. but not long after, they took them up again, and then they joined them to their comedies; playing them at the end of every drama, as the french continue at this day to act their farces, in the nature of a separate entertainment from their tragedies. but more particularly they were joined to the _atellane_ fables, says casaubon; which were plays invented by the osci. those fables, says valerius maximus, out of livy, were tempered with the italian severity, and free from any note of infamy, or obsceneness; and, as an old commentator of juvenal affirms, the _exodiarii_, which were singers and dancers, entered to entertain the people with light songs, and mimical gestures, that they might not go away oppressed with melancholy, from those serious pieces of the theatre. so that the ancient satire of the romans was in _extempore_ reproaches; the next was farce, which was brought from tuscany; to that succeeded the plays of andronicus, from the old comedy of the grecians; and out of all these sprung two several branches of new roman satire, like different scions from the same root, which i shall prove with as much brevity as the subject will allow. a year after andronicus had opened the roman stage with his new dramas, ennius was born; who, when he was grown to man's estate, having seriously considered the genius of the people, and how eagerly they followed the first satires, thought it would be worth his pains to refine upon the project, and to write satires, not to be acted on the theatre, but read. he preserved the ground-work of their pleasantry, their venom, and their raillery on particular persons, and general vices; and by this means, avoiding the danger of any ill success in a public representation, he hoped to be as well received in the cabinet, as andronicus had been upon the stage. the event was answerable to his expectation. he made discourses in several sorts of verse, varied often in the same paper; retaining still in the title their original name of satire. both in relation to the subjects, and the variety of matters contained in them, the satires of horace are entirely like them; only ennius, as i said, confines not himself to one sort of verse, as horace does; but, taking example from the greeks, and even from homer himself in his margites, which is a kind of satire, as scaliger observes, gives himself the licence, when one sort of numbers comes not easily, to run into another, as his fancy dictates. for he makes no difficulty to mingle hexameter with iambick trimeters, or with trochaick tetrameters; as appears by those fragments which are yet remaining of him. horace has thought him worthy to be copied; inserting many things of his into his own satires, as virgil has done into his Æneids. here we have dacier making out that ennius was the first satirist in that way of writing, which was of his invention; that is, satire abstracted from the stage, and new modelled into papers of verses on several subjects. but he will have ennius take the ground-work of satire from the first farces of the romans, rather than from the formed plays of livius andronicus, which were copied from the grecian comedies. it may possibly be so; but dacier knows no more of it than i do. and it seems to me the more probable opinion, that he rather imitated the fine railleries of the greeks, which he saw in the pieces of andronicus, than the coarseness of his old countrymen, in their clownish extemporary way of jeering. but besides this, it is universally granted, that ennius, though an italian, was excellently learned in the greek language. his verses were stuffed with fragments of it, even to a fault; and he himself believed, according to the pythagorean opinion, that the soul of homer was transfused into him; which persius observes, in his sixth satire:--_postquam destertuit esse mæonides_. but this being only the private opinion of so inconsiderable a man as i am, i leave it to the farther disquisition of the critics, if they think it worth their notice. most evident it is, that whether he imitated the roman farce, or the greek comedies, he is to be acknowledged for the first author of roman satire, as it is properly so called, and distinguished from any sort of stage-play. of pacuvius, who succeeded him, there is little to be said, because there is so little remaining of him; only that he is taken to be the nephew of ennius, his sister's son; that in probability he was instructed by his uncle, in his way of satire, which we are told he has copied: but what advances he made we know not. lucilius came into the world, when pacuvius flourished most. he also made satires after the manner of ennius, but he gave them a more graceful turn, and endeavoured to imitate more closely the _vetus comoedia_ of the greeks, of the which the old original roman satire had no idea, till the time of livius andronicus. and though horace seems to have made lucilius the first author of satire in verse amongst the romans, in these words,-- ----_quid? cum est lucilius ausus primus in hunc, operis componere carmina morem_,-- he is only thus to be understood; that lucilius had given a more graceful turn to the satire of ennius and pacuvius, not that he invented a new satire of his own: and quintilian seems to explain this passage of horace in these words: _satira quidem tota nostra est; in quâ primus insignem laudem adeptus est lucilius_. thus, both horace and quintilian give a kind of primacy of honour to lucilius, amongst the latin satirists.[ ] for, as the roman language grew more refined, so much more capable it was of receiving the grecian beauties, in his time. horace and quintilian could mean no more, than that lucilius writ better than ennius and pacuvius; and on the same account we prefer horace to lucilius. both of them imitated the old greek comedy; and so did ennius and pacuvius before them. the polishing of the latin tongue, in the succession of times, made the only difference; and horace himself, in two of his satires, written purposely on this subject, thinks the romans of his age were too partial in their commendations of lucilius; who writ not only loosely, and muddily, with little art, and much less care, but also in a time when the latin tongue was not yet sufficiently purged from the dregs of barbarism; and many significant and sounding words, which the romans wanted, were not admitted even in the times of lucretius and cicero, of which both complain. but to proceed:--dacier justly taxes casaubon, saying, that the satires of lucilius were wholly different in specie, from those of ennius and pacuvius. casaubon was led into that mistake by diomedes the grammarian, who in effect says this: "satire amongst the romans, but not amongst the greeks, was a biting invective poem, made after the model of the ancient comedy, for the reprehension of vices; such as were the poems of lucilius, of horace, and of persius. but in former times, the name of satire was given to poems, which were composed of several sorts of verses, such as were made by ennius and pacuvius; more fully expressing the etymology of the word satire, from _satura_, which we have observed." here it is manifest, that diomedes makes a specifical distinction betwixt the satires of ennius, and those of lucilius. but this, as we say in english, is only a distinction without a difference; for the reason of it is ridiculous, and absolutely false. this was that which cozened honest casaubon, who, relying on diomedes, had not sufficiently examined the origin and nature of those two satires; which were entirely the same, both in the matter and the form: for all that lucilius performed beyond his predecessors, ennius and pacuvius, was only the adding of more politeness, and more salt, without any change in the substance of the poem. and though lucilius put not together in the same satire several sorts of verses, as ennius did, yet he composed several satires, of several sorts of verses, and mingled them with greek verses: one poem consisted only of hexameters, and another was entirely of iambicks; a third of trochaicks; as is visible by the fragments yet remaining of his works. in short, if the satires of lucilius are therefore said to be wholly different from those of ennius, because he added much more of beauty and polishing to his own poems, than are to be found in those before him, it will follow from hence, that the satires of horace are wholly different from those of lucilius, because horace has not less surpassed lucilius in the elegancy of his writing, than lucilius surpassed ennius in the turn and ornament of his. this passage of diomedes has also drawn dousa, the son, into the same error of casaubon, which i say, not to expose the little failings of those judicious men, but only to make it appear, with how much diffidence and caution we are to read their works, when they treat a subject of so much obscurity, and so very ancient, as is this of satire. having thus brought down the history of satire from its original to the times of horace, and shown the several changes of it, i should here discover some of those graces which horace added to it, but that i think it will be more proper to defer that undertaking, till i make the comparison betwixt him and juvenal. in the mean while, following the order of time, it will be necessary to say somewhat of another kind of satire, which also was descended from the ancients; it is that which we call the varronian satire, (but which varro himself calls the menippean,) because varro, the most learned of the romans, was the first author of it, who imitated, in his works, the manner of menippus the gadarenian, who professed the philosophy of the cynicks. this sort of satire was not only composed of several sorts of verse, like those of ennius, but was also mixed with prose; and greek was sprinkled amongst the latin. quintilian, after he had spoken of the satire of lucilius, adds what follows; "there is another and former kind of satire, composed by terentius varro, the most learned of the romans; in which he was not satisfied alone with mingling in it several sorts of verse." the only difficulty of this passage is, that quintilian tells us, that this satire of varro was of a former kind. for how can we possibly imagine this to be, since varro, who was contemporary to cicero, must consequently be after lucilius? but quintilian meant not, that the satire of varro was in order of time before lucilius; he would only give us to understand, that the varronian satire, with mixture of several sorts of verses, was more after the manner of ennius and pacuvius, than that of lucilius, who was more severe, and more correct; and gave himself less liberty in the mixture of his verses in the same poem. we have nothing remaining of those varronian satires, excepting some inconsiderable fragments, and those for the most part much corrupted. the titles of many of them are indeed preserved, and they are generally double; from whence, at least, we may understand, how many various subjects were treated by that author. tully, in his "academics," introduces varro himself giving us some light concerning the scope and design of those works. wherein, after he had shown his reasons why he did not _ex professo_ write of philosophy, he adds what follows: "notwithstanding," says he, "that those pieces of mine, wherein i have imitated menippus, though i have not translated him, are sprinkled with a kind of mirth and gaiety, yet many things are there inserted, which are drawn from the very entrails of philosophy, and many things severely argued; which i have mingled with pleasantries on purpose, that they may more easily go down with the common sort of unlearned readers." the rest of the sentence is so lame, that we can only make thus much out of it,--that in the composition of his satires, he so tempered philology with philosophy, that his work was a mixture of them both.[ ] and tully himself confirms us in this opinion, when a little after he addresses himself to varro in these words:--"and you yourself have composed a most elegant and complete poem; you have begun philosophy in many places; sufficient to incite us, though too little to instruct us." thus it appears, that varro was one of those writers whom they called #spoudogeloioi#, studious of laughter; and that, as learned as he was, his business was more to divert his reader, than to teach him. and he entitled his own satires--menippean; not that menippus had written any satires, (for his were either dialogues or epistles,) but that varro imitated his style, his manner, his facetiousness. all that we know farther of menippus and his writings, which are wholly lost, is, that by some he is esteemed, as, amongst the rest, by varro; by others he is noted of cynical impudence, and obscenity: that he was much given to those parodies, which i have already mentioned; that is, he often quoted the verses of homer and the tragic poets, and turned their serious meaning into something that was ridiculous; whereas varro's satires are by tully called absolute, and most elegant, and various poems. lucian, who was emulous of this menippus, seems to have imitated both his manners and his style in many of his dialogues; where menippus himself is often introduced as a speaker in them, and as a perpetual buffoon; particularly his character is expressed in the beginning of that dialogue, which is called #nekyomantia#. but varro, in imitating him, avoids his impudence and filthiness, and only expresses his witty pleasantry. this we may believe for certain,--that as his subjects were various, so most of them were tales or stories of his own invention. which is also manifest from antiquity, by those authors who are acknowledged to have written varronian satires, in imitation of his; of whom the chief is petronius arbiter, whose satire, they say, is now printed in holland, wholly recovered, and made complete: when it is made public, it will easily be seen by any one sentence, whether it be supposititious, or genuine.[ ] many of lucian's dialogues may also properly be called varronian satires, particularly his true history; and consequently the "golden ass" of apuleius, which is taken from him. of the same stamp is the mock deification of claudius, by seneca: and the symposium or "cæsars" of julian, the emperor. amongst the moderns, we may reckon the "encomium moriæ" of erasmus, barclay's "euphormio," and a volume of german authors, which my ingenious friend, mr charles killegrew, once lent me.[ ] in the english, i remember none which are mixed with prose, as varro's were; but of the same kind is "mother hubbard's tale" in spenser; and (if it be not too vain to mention any thing of my own,) the poems of "absalom" and "mac flecnoe."[ ] this is what i have to say in general of satire: only, as dacier has observed before me, we may take notice, that the word satire is of a more general signification in latin, than in french, or english. for amongst the romans it was not only used for those discourses which decried vice, or exposed folly, but for others also, where virtue was recommended. but in our modern languages we apply it only to invective poems, where the very name of satire is formidable to those persons, who would appear to the world what they are not in themselves; for in english, to say satire, is to mean reflection, as we use that word in the worst sense; or as the french call it, more properly, _medisance_. in the criticism of spelling, it ought to be with _i_, and not with _y_, to distinguish its true derivation from _satura_, not from _satyrus_. and if this be so, then it is false spelled throughout this book; for here it is written satyr: which having not considered at the first, i thought it not worth correcting afterwards. but the french are more nice, and never spell it any other way than satire. i am now arrived at the most difficult part of my undertaking, which is, to compare horace with juvenal and persius. it is observed by rigaltius, in his preface before juvenal, written to thuanus, that these three poets have all their particular partisans, and favourers. every commentator, as he has taken pains with any of them, thinks himself obliged to prefer his author to the other two; to find out their failings, and decry them, that he may make room for his own darling.[ ] such is the partiality of mankind, to set up that interest which they have once espoused, though it be to the prejudice of truth, morality, and common justice; and especially in the productions of the brain. as authors generally think themselves the best poets, because they cannot go out of themselves to judge sincerely of their betters; so it is with critics, who, having first taken a liking to one of these poets, proceed to comment on him, and to illustrate him; after which, they fall in love with their own labours, to that degree of blind fondness, that at length they defend and exalt their author, not so much for his sake as for their own. it is a folly of the same nature, with that of the romans themselves, in the games of the circus. the spectators were divided in their factions, betwixt the veneti and the prasini; some were for the charioteer in blue, and some for him in green. the colours themselves were but a fancy; but when once a man had taken pains to set out those of his party, and had been at the trouble of procuring voices for them, the case was altered; he was concerned for his own labour, and that so earnestly, that disputes and quarrels, animosities, commotions, and bloodshed, often happened; and in the declension of the grecian empire, the very sovereigns themselves engaged in it, even when the barbarians were at their doors; and stickled for the preference of colours, when the safety of their people was in question. i am now myself on the brink of the same precipice; i have spent some time on the translation of juvenal and persius; and it behoves me to be wary, lest, for that reason, i should be partial to them, or take a prejudice against horace. yet, on the other side, i would not be like some of our judges, who would give the cause for a poor man, right or wrong; for though that be an error on the better hand, yet it is still a partiality: and a rich man, unheard, cannot be concluded an oppressor. i remember a saying of king charles ii. on sir matthew hale, (who was doubtless an uncorrupt and upright man,) that his servants were sure to be cast on a trial, which was heard before him; not that he thought the judge was possibly to be bribed, but that his integrity might be too scrupulous; and that the causes of the crown were always suspicious, when the privileges of subjects were concerned.[ ] it had been much fairer, if the modern critics, who have embarked in the quarrels of their favourite authors, had rather given to each his proper due; without taking from another's heap, to raise their own. there is praise enough for each of them in particular, without encroaching on his fellows, and detracting from them, or enriching themselves with the spoils of others. but to come to particulars. heinsius and dacier are the most principal of those, who raise horace above juvenal and persius. scaliger the father, rigaltius, and many others, debase horace, that they may set up juvenal; and casaubon,[ ] who is almost single, throws dirt on juvenal and horace, that he may exalt persius, whom he understood particularly well, and better than any of his former commentators; even stelluti, who succeeded him. i will begin with him, who, in my opinion, defends the weakest cause, which is that of persius; and labouring, as tacitus professes of his own writing, to divest myself of partiality, or prejudice, consider persius, not as a poet whom i have wholly translated, and who has cost me more labour and time than juvenal, but according to what i judge to be his own merit; which i think not equal, in the main, to that of juvenal or horace, and yet in some things to be preferred to both of them. first, then, for the verse; neither casaubon himself, nor any for him, can defend either his numbers, or the purity of his latin. casaubon gives this point for lost, and pretends not to justify either the measures, or the words of persius; he is evidently beneath horace and juvenal in both. then, as his verse is scabrous, and hobbling, and his words not every where well chosen, the purity of latin being more corrupted than in the time of juvenal,[ ] and consequently of horace, who writ when the language was in the height of its perfection, so his diction is hard, his figures are generally too bold and daring, and his tropes, particularly his metaphors, insufferably strained. in the third place, notwithstanding all the diligence of casaubon, stelluti, and a scotch gentleman,[ ] whom i have heard extremely commended for his illustrations of him, yet he is still obscure: whether he affected not to be understood, but with difficulty; or whether the fear of his safety under nero compelled him to this darkness in some places; or that it was occasioned by his close way of thinking, and the brevity of his style, and crowding of his figures; or lastly, whether, after so long a time, many of his words have been corrupted, and many customs, and stories relating to them, lost to us: whether some of these reasons, or all, concurred to render him so cloudy, we may be bold to affirm, that the best of commentators can but guess at his meaning, in many passages; and none can be certain that he has divined rightly. after all, he was a young man, like his friend and contemporary lucan; both of them men of extraordinary parts, and great acquired knowledge, considering their youth:[ ] but neither of them had arrived to that maturity of judgment, which is necessary to the accomplishing of a formed poet. and this consideration, as, on the one hand, it lays some imperfections to their charge, so, on the other side, it is a candid excuse for those failings, which are incident to youth and inexperience; and we have more reason to wonder how they, who died before the thirtieth year of their age, could write so well, and think so strongly, than to accuse them of those faults, from which human nature, and more especially in youth, can never possibly be exempted. to consider persius yet more closely: he rather insulted over vice and folly, than exposed them, like juvenal and horace; and as chaste and modest as he is esteemed, it cannot be denied, but that in some places he is broad and fulsome, as the latter verses of the fourth satire, and of the sixth, sufficiently witnessed. and it is to be believed that he who commits the same crime often, and without necessity, cannot but do it with some kind of pleasure. to come to a conclusion: he is manifestly below horace, because he borrows most of his greatest beauties from him; and casaubon is so far from denying this, that he has written a treatise purposely concerning it; wherein he shews a multitude of his translations from horace, and his imitations of him, for the credit of his author; which he calls _imitatio horatiana_.[ ] to these defects, which i casually observed, while i was translating this author, scaliger has added others; he calls him, in plain terms, a silly writer, and a trifler, full of ostentation of his learning, and, after all, unworthy to come into competition with juvenal and horace. after such terrible accusations, it is time to hear what his patron casaubon can allege in his defence. instead of answering, he excuses for the most part; and, when he cannot, accuses others of the same crimes. he deals with scaliger, as a modest scholar with a master. he compliments him with so much reverence, that one would swear he feared him as much at least as he respected him. scaliger will not allow persius to have any wit; casaubon interprets this in the mildest sense, and confesses his author was not good at turning things into a pleasant ridicule; or, in other words, that he was not a laughable writer. that he was _ineptus_, indeed, but that was _non aptissimus ad jocandum_; but that he was ostentatious of his learning, that, by scaliger's good favour, he denies. persius shewed his learning, but was no boaster of it; he did _ostendere_, but not _ostentare_; and so, he says, did scaliger:--where, methinks, casaubon turns it handsomely upon that supercilious critic, and silently insinuates that he himself was sufficiently vain-glorious, and a boaster of his own knowledge. all the writings of this venerable censor, continues casaubon, which are #chrysou chrysotera#, more golden than gold itself, are every where smelling of that thyme, which, like a bee, he has gathered from ancient authors; but far be ostentation and vain-glory from a gentleman so well born, and so nobly educated as scaliger. but, says scaliger, he is so obscure, that he has got himself the name of scotinus, a dark writer; now, says casaubon, it is a wonder to me that any thing could be obscure to the divine wit of scaliger, from which nothing could be hidden. this is indeed a strong compliment, but no defence; and casaubon, who could not but be sensible of his author's blind side, thinks it time to abandon a post that was untenable. he acknowledges that persius is obscure in some places; but so is plato, so is thucydides; so are pindar, theocritus, and aristophanes, amongst the greek poets; and even horace and juvenal, he might have added, amongst the romans. the truth is, persius is not sometimes, but generally, obscure; and therefore casaubon, at last, is forced to excuse him, by alledging that it was _se defendendo_, for fear of nero; and that he was commanded to write so cloudily by cornutus,[ ] in virtue of holy obedience to his master. i cannot help my own opinion; i think cornutus needed not to have read many lectures to him on that subject. persius was an apt scholar; and when he was bidden to be obscure in some places, where his life and safety were in question, took the same counsel for all his books; and never afterwards wrote ten lines together clearly. casaubon, being upon this chapter, has not failed, we may be sure, of making a compliment to his own dear comment. if persius, says he, be in himself obscure, yet my interpretation has made him intelligible. there is no question but he deserves that praise, which he has given to himself; but the nature of the thing, as lucretius says, will not admit of a perfect explanation. besides many examples which i could urge, the very last verse of his last satire, upon which he particularly values himself in his preface, is not yet sufficiently explicated. it is true, holyday has endeavoured to justify his construction; but stelluti is against it; and, for my part, i can have but a very dark notion of it. as for the chastity of his thoughts, casaubon denies not but that one particular passage, in the fourth satire, _at si unctus cesses_, &c. is not only the most obscure, but the most obscene of all his works. i understood it; but for that reason turned it over. in defence of his boisterous metaphors, he quotes longinus, who accounts them as instruments of the sublime; fit to move and stir up the affections, particularly in narration. to which it may be replied, that where the trope is far fetched and hard, it is fit for nothing but to puzzle the understanding; and may be reckoned amongst those things of demosthenes which Æschines called #thaumata#, not #rhêmata#, that is, prodigies, not words. it must be granted to casaubon, that the knowledge of many things is lost in our modern ages, which were of familiar notice to the ancients; and that satire is a poem of a difficult nature in itself, and is not written to vulgar readers: and through the relation which it has to comedy, the frequent change of persons makes the sense perplexed, when we can but divine who it is that speaks; whether persius himself, or his friend and monitor; or, in some places, a third person. but casaubon comes back always to himself, and concludes, that if persius had not been obscure, there had been no need of him for an interpreter. yet when he had once enjoined himself so hard a task, he then considered the greek proverb, that he must #chelônes phagein ê mê phagein#, either eat the whole snail, or let it quite alone; and so he went through with his laborious task, as i have done with my difficult translation. thus far, my lord, you see it has gone very hard with persius: i think he cannot be allowed to stand in competition either with juvenal or horace. yet for once i will venture to be so vain, as to affirm, that none of his hard metaphors, or forced expressions, are in my translation. but more of this in its proper place, where i shall say somewhat in particular, of our general performance, in making these two authors english. in the mean time, i think myself obliged to give persius his undoubted due, and to acquaint the world, with casaubon, in what he has equalled, and in what excelled, his two competitors. a man who is resolved to praise an author, with any appearance of justice, must be sure to take him on the strongest side, and where he is least liable to exceptions. he is therefore obliged to chuse his mediums accordingly. casaubon, who saw that persius could not laugh with a becoming grace, that he was not made for jesting, and that a merry conceit was not his talent, turned his feather, like an indian, to another light, that he might give it the better gloss. moral doctrine, says he, and urbanity, or well-mannered wit, are the two things which constitute the roman satire; but of the two, that which is most essential to this poem, and is, as it were, the very soul which animates it, is the scourging of vice, and exhortation to virtue. thus wit, for a good reason, is already almost out of doors; and allowed only for an instrument, a kind of tool, or a weapon, as he calls it, of which the satirist makes use in the compassing of his design. the end and aim of our three rivals is consequently the same. but by what methods they have prosecuted their intention, is farther to be considered. satire is of the nature of moral philosophy, as being instructive: he, therefore, who instructs most usefully, will carry the palm from his two antagonists. the philosophy in which persius was educated, and which he professes through his whole book, is the stoick; the most noble, most generous, most beneficial to human kind, amongst all the sects, who have given us the rules of ethics, thereby to form a severe virtue in the soul; to raise in us an undaunted courage against the assaults of fortune; to esteem as nothing the things that are without us, because they are not in our power; not to value riches, beauty, honours, fame, or health, any farther than as conveniencies, and so many helps to living as we ought, and doing good in our generation: in short, to be always happy, while we possess our minds with a good conscience, are free from the slavery of vices, and conform our actions and conversations to the rules of right reason. see here, my lord, an epitome of epictetus; the doctrine of zeno, and the education of our persius: and this he expressed, not only in all his satires, but in the manner of his life. i will not lessen this commendation of the stoick philosophy, by giving you an account of some absurdities in their doctrine, and some perhaps impieties, if we consider them by the standard of christian faith. persius has fallen into none of them; and therefore is free from those imputations. what he teaches might be taught from pulpits, with more profit to the audience, than all the nice speculations of divinity, and controversies concerning faith; which are more for the profit of the shepherd, than for the edification of the flock. passions, interest, ambition, and all their bloody consequences of discord, and of war, are banished from this doctrine. here is nothing proposed but the quiet and tranquillity of the mind; virtue lodged at home, and afterwards diffused in her general effects, to the improvement and good of human kind. and therefore i wonder not that the present bishop of salisbury[ ] has recommended this our author, and the tenth satire of juvenal, in his pastoral letter, to the serious perusal and practice of the divines in his diocese, as the best common-places for their sermons, as the store-houses and magazines of moral virtues, from whence they may draw out, as they have occasion, all manner of assistance for the accomplishment of a virtuous life, which the stoicks have assigned for the great end and perfection of mankind. herein then it is, that persius has excelled both juvenal and horace. he sticks to his own philosophy; he shifts not sides, like horace, who is sometimes an epicurean, sometimes a stoick, sometimes an eclectic, as his present humour leads him; nor declaims like juvenal against vices, more like an orator, than a philosopher. persius is every where the same; true to the dogmas of his master. what he has learnt, he teaches vehemently; and what he teaches, that he practises himself. there is a spirit of sincerity in all he says; you may easily discern that he is in earnest, and is persuaded of that truth which he inculcates. in this i am of opinion that he excels horace, who is commonly in jest, and laughs while he instructs; and is equal to juvenal, who was as honest and serious as persius, and more he could not be. hitherto i have followed casaubon, and enlarged upon him, because i am satisfied that he says no more than truth; the rest is almost all frivolous. for he says that horace, being the son of a tax-gatherer, or a collector, as we call it, smells every where of the meanness of his birth and education: his conceipts are vulgar, like the subjects of his satires; that he does _plebeium sapere_, and writes not with that elevation, which becomes a satirist: that persius, being nobly born, and of an opulent family, had likewise the advantage of a better master; cornutus being the most learned of his time, a man of the most holy life, the chief of the stoick sect at rome, and not only a great philosopher, but a poet himself, and in probability a coadjutor of persius: that, as for juvenal, he was long a declaimer, came late to poetry, and has not been much conversant in philosophy. it is granted that the father of horace was _libertinus_, that is, one degree removed from his grandfather, who had been once a slave. but horace, speaking of him, gives him the best character of a father, which i ever read in history; and i wish a witty friend of mine, now living, had such another.[ ] he bred him in the best school, and with the best company of young noblemen; and horace, by his gratitude to his memory, gives a certain testimony that his education was ingenuous. after this, he formed himself abroad, by the conversation of great men. brutus found him at athens, and was so pleased with him, that he took him thence into the army, and made him _tribunus militum_, a colonel in a legion, which was the preferment of an old soldier. all this was before his acquaintance with mecænas, and his introduction into the court of augustus, and the familiarity of that great emperor; which, had he not been well-bred before, had been enough to civilize his conversation, and render him accomplished and knowing in all the arts of complacency and good behaviour; and, in short, an agreeable companion for the retired hours and privacies of a favourite, who was first minister. so that, upon the whole matter, persius may be acknowledged to be equal with him in those respects, though better born, and juvenal inferior to both. if the advantage be any where, it is on the side of horace; as much as the court of augustus cæsar was superior to that of nero. as for the subjects which they treated, it will appear hereafter, that horace writ not vulgarly on vulgar subjects, nor always chose them. his style is constantly accommodated to his subject, either high or low. if his fault be too much lowness, that of persius is the fault of the hardness of his metaphors, and obscurity: and so they are equal in the failings of their style; where juvenal manifestly triumphs over both of them. the comparison betwixt horace and juvenal is more difficult; because their forces were more equal. a dispute has always been, and ever will continue, betwixt the favourers of the two poets. _non nostrum est tantas componere lites._ i shall only venture to give my own opinion, and leave it for better judges to determine. if it be only argued in general, which of them was the better poet, the victory is already gained on the side of horace. virgil himself must yield to him in the delicacy of his turns, his choice of words, and perhaps the purity of his latin. he who says that pindar is inimitable, is himself inimitable in his odes. but the contention betwixt these two great masters, is for the prize of satire; in which controversy, all the odes and epodes of horace are to stand excluded. i say this, because horace has written many of them satyrically, against his private enemies; yet these, if justly considered, are somewhat of the nature of the greek silli, which were invectives against particular sects and persons. but horace has purged himself of this choler, before he entered on those discourses, which are more properly called the roman satire. he has not now to do with a lyce, a canidia, a cassius severus, or a menas; but is to correct the vices and the follies of his time, and to give the rules of a happy and virtuous life. in a word, that former sort of satire, which is known in england by the name of lampoon, is a dangerous sort of weapon, and for the most part unlawful. we have no moral right on the reputation of other men. it is taking from them what we cannot restore to them. there are only two reasons, for which we may be permitted to write lampoons; and i will not promise that they can always justify us. the first is revenge, when we have been affronted in the same nature, or have been any ways notoriously abused, and can make ourselves no other reparation. and yet we know, that, in christian charity, all offences are to be forgiven, as we expect the like pardon for those which we daily commit against almighty god. and this consideration has often made me tremble when i was saying our saviour's prayer; for the plain condition of the forgiveness which we beg, is the pardoning of others the offences which they have done to us; for which reason i have many times avoided the commission of that fault, even when i have been notoriously provoked. let not this, my lord, pass for vanity in me; for it is truth. more libels have been written against me, than almost any man now living; and i had reason on my side, to have defended my own innocence. i speak not of my poetry, which i have wholly given up to the critics: let them use it as they please: posterity, perhaps, may be more favourable to me; for interest and passion will lie buried in another age, and partiality and prejudice be forgotten. i speak of my morals, which have been sufficiently aspersed: that only sort of reputation ought to be dear to every honest man, and is to me. but let the world witness for me, that i have been often wanting to myself in that particular; i have seldom answered any scurrilous lampoon, when it was in my power to have exposed my enemies: and, being naturally vindicative, have suffered in silence, and possessed my soul in quiet. any thing, though never so little, which a man speaks of himself, in my opinion, is still too much; and therefore i will wave this subject, and proceed to give the second reason which may justify a poet when he writes against a particular person; and that is, when he is become a public nuisance. all those, whom horace in his satires, and persius and juvenal have mentioned in theirs, with a brand of infamy, are wholly such. it is an action of virtue to make examples of vicious men. they may and ought to be upbraided with their crimes and follies; both for their amendment, if they are not yet incorrigible, and for the terror of others, to hinder them from falling into those enormities, which they see are so severely punished in the persons of others. the first reason was only an excuse for revenge; but this second is absolutely of a poet's office to perform: but how few lampooners are now living, who are capable of this duty![ ] when they come in my way, it is impossible sometimes to avoid reading them. but, good god! how remote they are, in common justice, from the choice of such persons as are the proper subject of satire! and how little wit they bring for the support of their injustice! the weaker sex is their most ordinary theme; and the best and fairest are sure to be the most severely handled. amongst men, those who are prosperously unjust, are entitled to panegyric; but afflicted virtue is insolently stabbed with all manner of reproaches; no decency is considered, no fulsomeness omitted; no venom is wanting, as far as dulness can supply it: for there is a perpetual dearth of wit; a barrenness of good sense and entertainment. the neglect of the readers will soon put an end to this sort of scribbling. there can be no pleasantry where there is no wit; no impression can be made, where there is no truth for the foundation. to conclude: they are like the fruits of the earth in this unnatural season; the corn which held up its head is spoiled with rankness; but the greater part of the harvest is laid along, and little of good income and wholesome nourishment is received into the barns. this is almost a digression, i confess to your lordship; but a just indignation forced it from me. now i have removed this rubbish, i will return to the comparison of juvenal and horace. i would willingly divide the palm betwixt them, upon the two heads of profit and delight, which are the two ends of poetry in general. it must be granted, by the favourers of juvenal, that horace is the more copious and profitable in his instructions of human life; but, in my particular opinion, which i set not up for a standard to better judgements, juvenal is the more delightful author. i am profited by both, i am pleased with both; but i owe more to horace for my instruction, and more to juvenal for my pleasure. this, as i said, is my particular taste of these two authors: they who will have either of them to excel the other in both qualities, can scarce give better reasons for their opinion than i for mine. but all unbiassed readers will conclude, that my moderation is not to be condemned: to such impartial men i must appeal; for they who have already formed their judgment, may justly stand suspected of prejudice; and though all who are my readers will set up to be my judges, i enter my _caveat_ against them, that they ought not so much as to be of my jury; or, if they be admitted, it is but reason that they should first hear what i have to urge in the defence of my opinion. that horace is somewhat the better instructor of the two, is proved from hence,--that his instructions are more general, juvenal's more limited. so that, granting that the counsels which they give are equally good for moral use, horace, who gives the most various advice, and most applicable to all occasions which can occur to us in the course of our lives,--as including in his discourses, not only all the rules of morality, but also of civil conversation,--is undoubtedly to be preferred to him who is more circumscribed in his instructions, makes them to fewer people, and on fewer occasions, than the other. i may be pardoned for using an old saying, since it is true, and to the purpose: _bonum quò communis, eò melius_. juvenal, excepting only his first satire, is in all the rest confined to the exposing of some particular vice; that he lashes, and there he sticks. his sentences are truly shining and instructive; but they are sprinkled here and there. horace is teaching us in every line, and is perpetually moral: he had found out the skill of virgil, to hide his sentences; to give you the virtue of them, without shewing them in their full extent; which is the ostentation of a poet, and not his art: and this petronius charges on the authors of his time, as a vice of writing which was then growing on the age: _ne sententiæ extra corpus orationis emineant_: he would have them weaved into the body of the work, and not appear embossed upon it, and striking directly on the reader's view. folly was the proper quarry of horace, and not vice; and as there are but few notoriously wicked men, in comparison with a shoal of fools and fops, so it is a harder thing to make a man wise than to make him honest; for the will is only to be reclaimed in the one, but the understanding is to be informed in the other. there are blind sides and follies, even in the professors of moral philosophy; and there is not any one sect of them that horace has not exposed: which, as it was not the design of juvenal, who was wholly employed in lashing vices, some of them the most enormous that can be imagined, so, perhaps, it was not so much his talent. _omne vafer vitium ridenti flaccus amico tangit, et admissus circum præcordia ludit._ this was the commendation which persius gave him: where, by _vitium_, he means those little vices which we call follies, the defects of human understanding, or, at most, the peccadillos of life, rather than the tragical vices, to which men are hurried by their unruly passions and exorbitant desires. but, in the word _omne_, which is universal, he concludes with me, that the divine wit of horace left nothing untouched; that he entered into the inmost recesses of nature; found out the imperfections even of the most wise and grave, as well as of the common people; discovering, even in the great trebatius, to whom he addresses the first satire, his hunting after business, and following the court, as well as in the persecutor crispinus, his impertinence and importunity. it is true, he exposes crispinus openly, as a common nuisance; but he rallies the other, as a friend, more finely. the exhortations of persius are confined to noblemen; and the stoick philosophy is that alone which he recommends to them; juvenal exhorts to particular virtues, as they are opposed to those vices against which he declaims; but horace laughs to shame all follies, and insinuates virtue, rather by familiar examples than by the severity of precepts. this last consideration seems to incline the balance on the side of horace, and to give him the preference to juvenal, not only in profit, but in pleasure. but, after all, i must confess, that the delight which horace gives me is but languishing. be pleased still to understand, that i speak of my own taste only: he may ravish other men; but i am too stupid and insensible to be tickled. where he barely grins himself, and, as scaliger says, only shows his white teeth, he cannot provoke me to any laughter. his urbanity, that is, his good manners, are to be commended, but his wit is faint; and his salt, if i may dare to say so, almost insipid. juvenal is of a more vigorous and masculine wit; he gives me as much pleasure as i can bear; he fully satisfies my expectation; he treats his subject home: his spleen is raised, and he raises mine: i have the pleasure of concernment in all he says; he drives his reader along with him; and when he is at the end of his way, i willingly stop with him. if he went another stage, it would be too far; it would make a journey of a progress, and turn delight into fatigue. when he gives over, it is a sign the subject is exhausted, and the wit of man can carry it no farther. if a fault can be justly found in him, it is, that he is sometimes too luxuriant, too redundant; says more than he needs, like my friend the _plain-dealer_,[ ] but never more than pleases. add to this, that his thoughts are as just as those of horace, and much more elevated. his expressions are sonorous and more noble; his verse more numerous, and his words are suitable to his thoughts, sublime and lofty. all these contribute to the pleasure of the reader; and the greater the soul of him who reads, his transports are the greater. horace is always on the amble, juvenal on the gallop; but his way is perpetually on carpet-ground. he goes with more impetuosity than horace, but as securely; and the swiftness adds a more lively agitation to the spirits. the low style of horace is according to his subject, that is, generally grovelling. i question not but he could have raised it; for the first epistle of the second book, which he writes to augustus, (a most instructive satire concerning poetry,) is of so much dignity in the words, and of so much elegancy in the numbers, that the author plainly shows, the _sermo pedestris_, in his other satires, was rather his choice than his necessity. he was a rival to lucilius, his predecessor, and was resolved to surpass him in his own manner. lucilius, as we see by his remaining fragments, minded neither his style, nor his numbers, nor his purity of words, nor his run of verse. horace therefore copes with him in that humble way of satire, writes under his own force, and carries a dead-weight, that he may match his competitor in the race. this, i imagine, was the chief reason why he minded only the clearness of his satire, and the cleanness of expression, without ascending to those heights to which his own vigour might have carried him. but, limiting his desires only to the conquest of lucilius, he had his ends of his rival, who lived before him; but made way for a new conquest over himself, by juvenal, his successor. he could not give an equal pleasure to his reader, because he used not equal instruments. the fault was in the tools, and not in the workman. but versification and numbers are the greatest pleasures of poetry: virgil knew it, and practised both so happily, that, for aught i know, his greatest excellency is in his diction. in all other parts of poetry, he is faultless; but in this he placed his chief perfection. and give me leave, my lord, since i have here an apt occasion, to say, that virgil could have written sharper satires than either horace or juvenal, if he would have employed his talent that way. i will produce a verse and half of his, in one of his eclogues, to justify my opinion; and with commas after every word, to show, that he has given almost as many lashes as he has written syllables: it is against a bad poet, whose ill verses he describes: ----_non tu, in triviis, indocte, solebas stridenti, miserum, stipulâ, disperdere carmen?_ but, to return to my purpose. when there is any thing deficient in numbers and sound, the reader is uneasy and unsatisfied; he wants something of his complement, desires somewhat which he finds not: and this being the manifest defect of horace, it is no wonder that, finding it supplied in juvenal, we are more delighted with him. and, besides this, the sauce of juvenal is more poignant, to create in us an appetite of reading him. the meat of horace is more nourishing; but the cookery of juvenal more exquisite: so that, granting horace to be the more general philosopher, we cannot deny that juvenal was the greater poet, i mean in satire. his thoughts are sharper; his indignation against vice is more vehement; his spirit has more of the commonwealth genius; he treats tyranny, and all the vices attending it, as they deserve, with the utmost rigour: and consequently, a noble soul is better pleased with a zealous vindicator of roman liberty, than with a temporising poet, a well-mannered court-slave, and a man who is often afraid of laughing in the right place; who is ever decent, because he is naturally servile. after all, horace had the disadvantage of the times in which he lived; they were better for the man, but worse for the satirist. it is generally said, that those enormous vices which were practised under the reign of domitian, were unknown in the time of augustus cæsar; that therefore juvenal had a larger field than horace. little follies were out of doors, when oppression was to be scourged instead of avarice: it was no longer time to turn into ridicule the false opinions of philosophers, when the roman liberty was to be asserted. there was more need of a brutus in domitian's days, to redeem or mend, than of a horace, if he had then been living, to laugh at a fly-catcher.[ ] this reflection at the same time excuses horace, but exalts juvenal.--i have ended, before i was aware, the comparison of horace and juvenal, upon the topics of instruction and delight; and, indeed, i may safely here conclude that common-place; for, if we make horace our minister of state in satire, and juvenal of our private pleasures, i think the latter has no ill bargain of it. let profit have the pre-eminence of honour, in the end of poetry. pleasure, though but the second in degree, is the first in favour. and who would not chuse to be loved better, rather than to be more esteemed? but i am entered already upon another topic, which concerns the particular merits of these two satirists. however, i will pursue my business where i left it, and carry it farther than that common observation of the several ages in which these authors flourished. when horace writ his satires, the monarchy of his cæsar was in its newness, and the government but just made easy to the conquered people. they could not possibly have forgotten the usurpation of that prince upon their freedom, nor the violent methods which he had used, in the compassing that vast design: they yet remembered his proscriptions, and the slaughter of so many noble romans, their defenders: amongst the rest, that horrible action of his, when he forced livia from the arms of her husband, who was constrained to see her married, as dion relates the story, and, big with child as she was, conveyed to the bed of his insulting rival. the same dion cassius gives us another instance of the crime before mentioned; that cornelius sisenna being reproached, in full senate, with the licentious conduct of his wife, returned this answer, "that he had married her by the counsel of augustus;" intimating, says my author, that augustus had obliged him to that marriage, that he might, under that covert, have the more free access to her. his adulteries were still before their eyes: but they must be patient where they had not power. in other things that emperor was moderate enough: propriety was generally secured; and the people entertained with public shows and donatives, to make them more easily digest their lost liberty. but augustus, who was conscious to himself of so many crimes which he had committed, thought, in the first place, to provide for his own reputation, by making an edict against lampoons and satires, and the authors of those defamatory writings, which my author tacitus, from the law-term, calls _famosos libellos_. in the first book of his annals, he gives the following account of it, in these words: _primus augustus cognitionem de famosis libellis, specie legis ejus, tractavit; commotus cassii severi libidine, quâ viros fæminasque illustres, procacibus scriptis diffamaverat_. thus in english: "augustus was the first, who under the colour of that law took cognisance of lampoons; being provoked to it, by the petulancy of cassius severus, who had defamed many illustrious persons of both sexes, in his writings." the law to which tacitus refers, was _lex læsæ majestatis_; commonly called, for the sake of brevity, _majestas_; or, as we say, high treason. he means not, that this law had not been enacted formerly: for it had been made by the decemviri, and was inscribed amongst the rest in the twelve tables; to prevent the aspersion of the roman majesty, either of the people themselves, or their religion, or their magistrates: and the infringement of it was capital; that is, the offender was whipt to death, with the _fasces_, which were borne before their chief officers of rome. but augustus was the first, who restored that intermitted law. by the words, _under colour of that law_, he insinuates that augustus caused it to be executed, on pretence of those libels, which were written by cassius severus, against the nobility; but, in truth, to save himself from such defamatory verses. suetonius likewise makes mention of it thus: _sparsos de se in curiâ famosos libellos, nec expavit, et magnâ curâ redarguit. ac ne requisitis quidem auctoribus, id modo censuit, cognoscendum posthac de iis qui libellos aut carmina ad infamiam cujuspiam sub alieno nomine edant_. "augustus was not afraid of libels," says that author; "yet he took all care imaginable to have them answered; and then decreed, that for the time to come, the authors of them should be punished." but aurelius makes it yet more clear, according to my sense, that this emperor for his own sake durst not permit them: _fecit id augustus in speciem, et quasi gratificaretur populo romano, et primoribus urbis; sed revera ut sibi consuleret: nam habuit in animo, comprimere nimiam quorundam procacitatem in loquendo, à quâ nec ipse exemptus fuit. nam suo nomine compescere erat invidiosum, sub alieno facile et utile. ergo specie legis tractavit, quasi populi romani majestas infamaretur._ this, i think, is a sufficient comment on that passage of tacitus. i will add only by the way, that the whole family of the cæsars, and all their relations, were included in the law; because the majesty of the romans, in the time of the empire, was wholly in that house; _omnia cæsar erat_: they were all accounted sacred who belonged to him. as for cassius severus, he was contemporary with horace; and was the same poet against whom he writes in his epodes, under this title, _in cassium severum maledicum poetam_; perhaps intending to kill two crows, according to our proverb, with one stone, and revenge both himself and his emperor together. from hence i may reasonably conclude, that augustus, who was not altogether so good as he was wise, had some by-respect in the enacting of this law; for to do any thing for nothing, was not his maxim. horace, as he was a courtier, complied with the interest of his master; and, avoiding the lashing of greater crimes, confined himself to the ridiculing of petty vices and common follies; excepting only some reserved cases, in his odes and epodes, of his own particular quarrels, which either with permission of the magistrate, or without it, every man will revenge, though i say not that he should; for _prior læsit_ is a good excuse in the civil law, if christianity had not taught us to forgive. however, he was not the proper man to arraign great vices, at least if the stories which we hear of him are true,--that he practised some, which i will not here mention, out of honour to him. it was not for a clodius to accuse adulterers, especially when augustus was of that number; so that though his age was not exempted from the worst of villanies, there was no freedom left to reprehend them by reason of the edict; and our poet was not fit to represent them in an odious character, because himself was dipt in the same actions. upon this account, without farther insisting on the different tempers of juvenal and horace, i conclude, that the subjects which horace chose for satire, are of a lower nature than those of which juvenal has written. thus i have treated, in a new method, the comparison betwixt horace, juvenal, and persius; somewhat of their particular manner belonging to all of them is yet remaining to be considered. persius was grave, and particularly opposed his gravity to lewdness, which was the predominant vice in nero's court, at the time when he published his satires, which was before that emperor fell into the excess of cruelty. horace was a mild admonisher, a court-satirist, fit for the gentle times of augustus, and more fit, for the reasons which i have already given. juvenal was as proper for his times, as they for theirs; his was an age that deserved a more severe chastisement; vices were more gross and open, more flagitious, more encouraged by the example of a tyrant, and more protected by his authority. therefore, wheresoever juvenal mentions nero, he means domitian, whom he dares not attack in his own person, but scourges him by proxy. heinsius urges in praise of horace, that, according to the ancient art and law of satire, it should be nearer to comedy than tragedy; not declaiming against vice, but only laughing at it. neither persius nor juvenal were ignorant of this, for they had both studied horace. and the thing itself is plainly true. but as they had read horace, they had likewise read lucilius, of whom persius says,--_secuit urbem; ... et genuinum fregit in illis_; meaning mutius and lupus; and juvenal also mentions him in these words: _ense velut stricto, quoties lucilius ardens infremuit, rubet auditor, cui frigida mens est criminibus, tacitâ sudant præcordia culpa_. so that they thought the imitation of lucilius was more proper to their purpose than that of horace. "they changed satire, (says holyday) but they changed it for the better; for the business being to reform great vices, chastisement goes farther than admonition; whereas a perpetual grin, like that of horace, does rather anger than amend a man." thus far that learned critic, barten holyday,[ ] whose interpretation and illustrations of juvenal are as excellent, as the verse of his translation and his english are lame and pitiful. for it is not enough to give us the meaning of a poet, which i acknowledge him to have performed most faithfully, but he must also imitate his genius, and his numbers, as far as the english will come up to the elegance of the original. in few words, it is only for a poet to translate a poem. holyday and stapylton[ ] had not enough considered this, when they attempted juvenal: but i forbear reflections; only i beg leave to take notice of this sentence, where holyday says, "a perpetual grin, like that of horace, rather angers than amends a man." i cannot give him up the manner of horace in low satire so easily. let the chastisement of juvenal be never so necessary for his new kind of satire; let him declaim as wittily and sharply as he pleases; yet still the nicest and most delicate touches of satire consist in fine raillery. this, my lord, is your particular talent, to which even juvenal could not arrive. it is not reading, it is not imitation of an author, which can produce this fineness; it must be inborn; it must proceed from a genius, and particular way of thinking, which is not to be taught; and therefore not to be imitated by him who has it not from nature. how easy is it to call rogue and villain, and that wittily! but how hard to make a man appear a fool, a blockhead, or a knave, without using any of those opprobrious terms! to spare the grossness of the names, and to do the thing yet more severely, is to draw a full face, and to make the nose and cheeks stand out, and yet not to employ any depth of shadowing. this is the mystery of that noble trade, which yet no master can teach to his apprentice; he may give the rules, but the scholar is never the nearer in his practice. neither is it true, that this fineness of raillery is offensive. a witty man is tickled while he is hurt in this manner, and a fool feels it not. the occasion of an offence may possibly be given, but he cannot take it. if it be granted, that in effect this way does more mischief; that a man is secretly wounded, and though he be not sensible himself, yet the malicious world will find it out for him; yet there is still a vast difference betwixt the slovenly butchering of a man, and the fineness of a stroke that separates the head from the body, and leaves it standing in its place. a man may be capable, as jack ketch's[ ] wife said of his servant, of a plain piece of work, a bare hanging; but to make a malefactor die sweetly, was only belonging to her husband. i wish i could apply it to myself, if the reader would be kind enough to think it belongs to me. the character of zimri in my "absalom," is, in my opinion, worth the whole poem: it is not bloody, but it is ridiculous enough; and he, for whom it was intended, was too witty to resent it as an injury.[ ] if i had railed, i might have suffered for it justly; but i managed my own work more happily, perhaps more dexterously. i avoided the mention of great crimes, and applied myself to the representing of blind-sides, and little extravagancies; to which, the wittier a man is, he is generally the more obnoxious. it succeeded as i wished; the jest went round, and he was laughed at in his turn who began the frolic. and thus, my lord, you see i have preferred the manner of horace, and of your lordship, in this kind of satire, to that of juvenal, and i think, reasonably. holyday ought not to have arraigned so great an author, for that which was his excellency and his merit: or if he did, on such a palpable mistake, he might expect that some one might possibly arise, either in his own time, or after him, to rectify his error, and restore to horace that commendation, of which he has so unjustly robbed him. and let the manes of juvenal forgive me, if i say, that this way of horace was the best for amending manners, as it is the most difficult. his was an _ense rescindendum_; but that of horace was a pleasant cure, with all the limbs preserved entire; and, as our mountebanks tell us in their bills, without keeping the patient within doors for a day. what they promise only, horace has effectually performed: yet i contradict not the proposition which i formerly advanced. juvenal's times required a more painful kind of operation; but if he had lived in the age of horace, i must needs affirm, that he had it not about him. he took the method which was prescribed him by his own genius, which was sharp and eager; he could not rally, but he could declaim; and as his provocations were great, he has revenged them tragically. this notwithstanding, i am to say another word, which, as true as it is, will yet displease the partial admirers of our horace. i have hinted it before, but it is time for me now to speak more plainly. this manner of horace is indeed the best; but horace has not executed it altogether so happily, at least not often. the manner of juvenal is confessed to be inferior to the former, but juvenal has excelled him in his performance. juvenal has railed more wittily than horace has rallied. horace means to make his readers laugh, but he is not sure of his experiment. juvenal always intends to move your indignation, and he always brings about his purpose. horace, for aught i know, might have tickled the people of his age; but amongst the moderns he is not so successful. they, who say he entertains so pleasantly, may perhaps value themselves on the quickness of their own understandings, that they can see a jest farther off than other men; they may find occasion of laughter in the wit-battle of the two buffoons, sarmentus and cicerrus; and hold their sides for fear of bursting, when rupilius and persius are scolding. for my own part, i can only like the characters of all four, which are judiciously given; but for my heart i cannot so much as smile at their insipid raillery. i see not why persius should call upon brutus to revenge him on his adversary; and that because he had killed julius cæsar, for endeavouring to be a king, therefore he should be desired to murder rupilius, only because his name was mr king.[ ] a miserable clench, in my opinion, for horace to record: i have heard honest mr swan[ ] make many a better, and yet have had the grace to hold my countenance. but it may be puns were then in fashion, as they were wit in the sermons of the last age, and in the court of king charles ii. i am sorry to say it, for the sake of horace; but certain it is, he has no fine palate who can feed so heartily on garbage. but i have already wearied myself, and doubt not but i have tired your lordship's patience, with this long, rambling, and, i fear, trivial discourse. upon the one half of the merits, that is, pleasure, i cannot but conclude that juvenal was the better satirist. they, who will descend into his particular praises, may find them at large in the dissertation of the learned rigaltius to thuanus. as for persius, i have given the reasons why i think him inferior to both of them; yet i have one thing to add on that subject. barten holyday, who translated both juvenal and persius, has made this distinction betwixt them, which is no less true than witty,--that in persius the difficulty is to find a meaning, in juvenal to chuse a meaning: so crabbed is persius, and so copious is juvenal; so much the understanding is employed in one, and so much the judgment in the other; so difficult it is to find any sense in the former, and the best sense of the latter. if, on the other side, any one suppose i have commended horace below his merit, when i have allowed him but the second place, i desire him to consider, if juvenal, a man of excellent natural endowments, besides the advantages of diligence and study, and coming after him, and building upon his foundations, might not probably, with all these helps, surpass him; and whether it be any dishonour to horace to be thus surpassed, since no art or science is at once begun and perfected, but that it must pass first through many hands, and even through several ages. if lucilius could add to ennius, and horace to lucilius, why, without any diminution to the fame of horace, might not juvenal give the last perfection to that work? or, rather, what disreputation is it to horace, that juvenal excels in the tragical satire, as horace does in the comical? i have read over attentively both heinsius and dacier, in their commendations of horace; but i can find no more in either of them, for the preference of him to juvenal, than the instructive part; the part of wisdom, and not that of pleasure; which, therefore, is here allowed him, notwithstanding what scaliger and rigaltius have pleaded to the contrary for juvenal. and, to show that i am impartial, i will here translate what dacier has said on that subject. "i cannot give a more just idea of the two books of satires made by horace, than by comparing them to the statues of the sileni, to which alcibiades compares socrates in the symposium. they were figures, which had nothing of agreeable, nothing of beauty, on their outside; but when any one took the pains to open them, and search into them, he there found the figures of all the deities. so, in the shape that horace presents himself to us in his satires, we see nothing, at the first view, which deserves our attention: it seems that he is rather an amusement for children, than for the serious consideration of men. but, when we take away his crust, and that which hides him from our sight, when we discover him to the bottom, then we find all the divinities in a full assembly; that is to say, all the virtues which ought to be the continual exercise of those, who seriously endeavour to correct their vices." it is easy to observe, that dacier, in this noble similitude, has confined the praise of his author wholly to the instructive part; the commendation turns on this, and so does that which follows. "in these two books of satire, it is the business of horace to instruct us how to combat our vices, to regulate our passions, to follow nature, to give bounds to our desires, to distinguish betwixt truth and falsehood, and betwixt our conceptions of things, and things themselves; to come back from our prejudicate opinions, to understand exactly the principles and motives of all our actions; and to avoid the ridicule, into which all men necessarily fall, who are intoxicated with those notions which they have received from their masters, and which they obstinately retain, without examining whether or no they be founded on right reason. "in a word, he labours to render us happy in relation to ourselves; agreeable and faithful to our friends; and discreet, serviceable, and well-bred, in relation to those with whom we are obliged to live, and to converse. to make his figures intelligible, to conduct his readers through the labyrinth of some perplexed sentence, or obscure parenthesis, is no great matter; and, as epictetus says, there is nothing of beauty in all this, or what is worthy of a prudent man. the principal business, and which is of most importance to us, is to show the use, the reason, and the proof of his precepts. "they who endeavour not to correct themselves, according to so exact a model, are just like the patients who have open before them a book of admirable receipts for their diseases, and please themselves with reading it, without comprehending the nature of the remedies, or how to apply them to their cure." let horace go off with these encomiums, which he has so well deserved. to conclude the contention betwixt our three poets, i will use the words of virgil, in his fifth Æneid, where Æneas proposes the rewards of the foot-race to the three first who should reach the goal. ----_tres præmia primi accipient, flavâque caput nectentur olivâ._ let these three ancients be preferred to all the moderns, as first arriving at the goal; let them all be crowned, as victors, with the wreath that properly belongs to satire; but, after that, with this distinction amongst themselves, _primus equum phaleris insignem victor habeto._ let juvenal ride first in triumph; _alter amazoniam pharetram, plenamque sagittis threiciis, lato quam circumplectitur auro balteus, et tereti subnectit fibula gemmâ._ let horace, who is the second, and but just the second, carry off the quivers and the arrows, as the badges of his satire, and the golden belt, and the diamond button; _tertius argolico hoc clypeo contentus abito._ and let persius, the last of the first three worthies, be contented with this grecian shield, and with victory, not only over all the grecians, who were ignorant of the roman satire, but over all the moderns in succeeding ages, excepting boileau and your lordship. and thus i have given the history of satire, and derived it as far as from ennius to your lordship; that is, from its first rudiments of barbarity to its last polishing and perfection; which is, with virgil, in his address to augustus,-- ----_nomen famâ tot ferre per annos, tithoni primâ quot abest ab origine cæsar._ i said only from ennius; but i may safely carry it higher, as far as livius andronicus, who, as i have said formerly, taught the first play at rome, in the year _ab urbe condita_ cccccxiv. i have since desired my learned friend, mr maidwell,[ ] to compute the difference of times, betwixt aristophanes and livius andronicus; and he assures me, from the best chronologers, that "plutus," the last of aristophanes's plays, was represented at athens, in the year of the th olympiad; which agrees with the year _urbis conditæ_ ccclxiv. so that the difference of years betwixt aristophanes and andronicus is ; from whence i have probably deduced, that livius andronicus, who was a grecian, had read the plays of the old comedy, which were satirical, and also of the new; for menander was fifty years before him, which must needs be a great light to him in his own plays, that were of the satirical nature. that the romans had farces before this it is true; but then they had no communication with greece; so that andronicus was the first who wrote after the manner of the old comedy in his plays: he was imitated by ennius, about thirty years afterwards. though the former writ fables, the latter, speaking properly, began the roman satire; according to that description, which juvenal gives of it in his first: _quicquid agunt homines, votum, timor, ira, voluptas, gaudia, discursus, nostri est farrago libelli._ this is that in which i have made bold to differ from casaubon, rigaltius, dacier, and indeed from all the modern critics,--that not ennius, but andronicus was the first, who, by the _archæa comoedia_ of the greeks, added many beauties to the first rude and barbarous roman satire: which sort of poem, though we had not derived from rome, yet nature teaches it mankind in all ages, and in every country. it is but necessary, that after so much has been said of satire, some definition of it should be given. heinsius, in his "dissertations on horace," makes it for me, in these words: "satire is a kind of poetry, without a series of action, invented for the purging of our minds; in which human vices, ignorance, and errors, and all things besides, which are produced from them in every man, are severely reprehended; partly dramatically, partly simply, and sometimes in both kinds of speaking; but, for the most part, figuratively, and occultly; consisting in a low familiar way, chiefly in a sharp and pungent manner of speech; but partly, also, in a facetious and civil way of jesting; by which either hatred, or laughter, or indignation, is moved."--where i cannot but observe, that this obscure and perplexed definition, or rather description, of satire, is wholly accommodated to the horatian way; and excluding the works of juvenal and persius, as foreign from that kind of poem. the clause in the beginning of it ("without a series of action") distinguishes satire properly from stage-plays, which are all of one action, and one continued series of action. the end or scope of satire is to purge the passions; so far it is common to the satires of juvenal and persius. the rest which follows is also generally belonging to all three; till he comes upon us, with the excluding clause--"consisting in a low familiar way of speech,"--which is the proper character of horace; and from which, the other two, for their honour be it spoken, are far distant. but how come lowness of style, and the familiarity of words, to be so much the propriety of satire, that without them a poet can be no more a satirist, than without risibility he can be a man? is the fault of horace to be made the virtue and standing rule of this poem? is the _grande sophos_[ ] of persius, and the sublimity of juvenal, to be circumscribed with the meanness of words and vulgarity of expression? if horace refused the pains of numbers, and the loftiness of figures, are they bound to follow so ill a precedent? let him walk a-foot, with his pad in his hand, for his own pleasure; but let not them be accounted no poets, who chuse to mount, and show their horsemanship. holyday is not afraid to say, that there was never such a fall, as from his odes to his satires, and that he, injuriously to himself, untuned his harp. the majestic way of persius and juvenal was new when they began it, but it is old to us; and what poems have not, with time, received an alteration in their fashion? "which alteration," says holyday, "is to after times as good a warrant as the first." has not virgil changed the manners of homer's heroes in his Æneid? certainly he has, and for the better: for virgil's age was more civilized, and better bred; and he writ according to the politeness of rome, under the reign of augustus cæsar, not to the rudeness of agamemnon's age, or the times of homer. why should we offer to confine free spirits to one form, when we cannot so much as confine our bodies to one fashion of apparel? would not donne's satires, which abound with so much wit, appear more charming, if he had taken care of his words, and of his numbers? but he followed horace so very close, that of necessity he must fall with him; and i may safely say it of this present age, that if we are not so great wits as donne, yet, certainly, we are better poets. but i have said enough, and it may be too much, on this subject. will your lordship be pleased to prolong my audience, only so far, till i tell you my own trivial thoughts, how a modern satire should be made. i will not deviate in the least from the precepts and examples of the ancients, who were always our best masters. i will only illustrate them, and discover some of the hidden beauties in their designs, that we thereby may form our own in imitation of them. will you please but to observe, that persius, the least in dignity of all the three, has notwithstanding been the first, who has discovered to us this important secret, in the designing of a perfect satire,--that it ought only to treat of one subject;--to be confined to one particular theme; or, at least, to one principally. if other vices occur in the management of the chief, they should only be transiently lashed, and not be insisted on, so as to make the design double. as in a play of the english fashion, which we call a tragi-comedy, there is to be but one main design; and though there be an underplot, or second walk of comical characters and adventures, yet they are subservient to the chief fable, carried along under it, and helping to it; so that the drama may not seem a monster with two heads. thus, the copernican system of the planets makes the moon to be moved by the motion of the earth, and carried about her orb, as a dependent of her's. mascardi, in his discourse of the _doppia favola_, or double tale in plays, gives an instance of it in the famous pastoral of guarini, called _il pastor fido_; where corisca and the satyr are the under parts; yet we may observe, that corisca is brought into the body of the plot, and made subservient to it. it is certain, that the divine wit of horace was not ignorant of this rule,--that a play, though it consists of many parts, must yet be one in the action, and must drive on the accomplishment of one design; for he gives this very precept,--_sit quodvis simplex duntaxat et unum_; yet he seems not much to mind it in his satires, many of them consisting of more arguments than one; and the second without dependence on the first. casaubon has observed this before me, in his preference of persius to horace; and will have his own beloved author to be the first who found out and introduced this method of confining himself to one subject. i know it may be urged in defence of horace, that this unity is not necessary; because the very word _satura_ signifies a dish plentifully stored with all variety of fruit and grains. yet juvenal, who calls his poems a _farrago_, which is a word of the same signification with _satura_, has chosen to follow the same method of persius, and not of horace; and boileau, whose example alone is a sufficient authority, has wholly confined himself, in all his satires, to this unity of design. that variety, which is not to be found in any one satire, is, at least, in many, written on several occasions. and if variety be of absolute necessity in every one of them, according to the etymology of the word, yet it may arise naturally from one subject, as it is diversely treated, in the several subordinate branches of it, all relating to the chief. it may be illustrated accordingly with variety of examples in the subdivisions of it, and with as many precepts as there are members of it; which, altogether, may complete that _olla_, or hotchpotch, which is properly a satire. under this unity of theme, or subject, is comprehended another rule for perfecting the design of true satire. the poet is bound, and that _ex officio_, to give his reader some one precept of moral virtue, and to caution him against some one particular vice or folly. other virtues, subordinate to the first, may be recommended under that chief head; and other vices or follies may be scourged, besides that which he principally intends. but he is chiefly to inculcate one virtue, and insist on that. thus juvenal, in every satire excepting the first, ties himself to one principal instructive point, or to the shunning of moral evil. even in the sixth, which seems only an arraignment of the whole sex of womankind, there is a latent admonition to avoid ill women, by showing how very few, who are virtuous and good, are to be found amongst them. but this, though the wittiest of all his satires, has yet the least of truth or instruction in it. he has run himself into his old declamatory way, and almost forgotten that he was now setting up for a moral poet. persius is never wanting to us in some profitable doctrine, and in exposing the opposite vices to it. his kind of philosophy is one, which is the stoick; and every satire is a comment on one particular dogma of that sect, unless we will except the first, which is against bad writers; and yet even there he forgets not the precepts of the porch. in general, all virtues are every where to be praised and recommended to practice; and all vices to be reprehended, and made either odious or ridiculous; or else there is a fundamental error in the whole design. i have already declared who are the only persons that are the adequate object of private satire, and who they are that may properly be exposed by name for public examples of vices and follies; and therefore i will trouble your lordship no farther with them. of the best and finest manner of satire, i have said enough in the comparison betwixt juvenal and horace: it is that sharp, well-mannered way of laughing a folly out of countenance, of which your lordship is the best master in this age. i will proceed to the versification, which is most proper for it, and add somewhat to what i have said already on that subject. the sort of verse which is called burlesque, consisting of eight syllables, or four feet, is that which our excellent hudibras has chosen. i ought to have mentioned him before, when i spoke of donne: but by a slip of an old man's memory he was forgotten. the worth of his poem is too well known to need my commendation, and he is above my censure. his satire is of the varronian kind, though unmixed with prose. the choice of his numbers is suitable enough to his design, as he has managed it; but in any other hand, the shortness of his verse, and the quick returns of rhyme, had debased the dignity of style. and besides, the double rhyme, (a necessary companion of burlesque writing,) is not so proper for manly satire; for it turns earnest too much to jest, and gives us a boyish kind of pleasure. it tickles aukwardly with a kind of pain, to the best sort of readers: we are pleased ungratefully, and, if i may say so, against our liking. we thank him not for giving us that unseasonable delight, when we know he could have given us a better, and more solid. he might have left that task to others, who, not being able to put in thought, can only make us grin with the excrescence of a word of two or three syllables in the close. it is, indeed, below so great a master to make use of such a little instrument.[ ] but his good sense is perpetually shining through all he writes; it affords us not the time of finding faults. we pass through the levity of his rhyme, and are immediately carried into some admirable useful thought. after all, he has chosen this kind of verse, and has written the best in it: and had he taken another, he would always have excelled: as we say of a court-favourite, that whatsoever his office be, he still makes it uppermost, and most beneficial to himself. the quickness of your imagination, my lord, has already prevented me; and you know before-hand, that i would prefer the verse of ten syllables, which we call the english heroic, to that of eight. this is truly my opinion; for this sort of number is more roomy; the thought can turn itself with greater ease in a larger compass. when the rhyme comes too thick upon us, it straitens the expression; we are thinking of the close, when we should be employed in adorning the thought. it makes a poet giddy with turning in a space too narrow for his imagination; he loses many beauties, without gaining one advantage. for a burlesque rhyme i have already concluded to be none; or, if it were, it is more easily purchased in ten syllables than in eight. in both occasions it is as in a tennis-court, when the strokes of greater force are given, when we strike out and play at length. tassoni and boileau have left us the best examples of this way, in the "secchia rapita," and the "lutrin;" and next them merlin cocaius in his "baldus." i will speak only of the two former, because the last is written in latin verse. the "secchia rapita" is an italian poem, a satire of the varronian kind. it is written in the stanza of eight, which is their measure for heroic verse. the words are stately, the numbers smooth, the turn both of thoughts and words is happy. the first six lines of the stanza seem majestical and severe; but the two last turn them all into a pleasant ridicule. boileau, if i am not much deceived, has modelled from hence his famous "lutrin." he had read the burlesque poetry of scarron,[ ] with some kind of indignation, as witty as it was, and found nothing in france that was worthy of his imitation; but he copied the italian so well, that his own may pass for an original. he writes it in the french heroic verse, and calls it an heroic poem; his subject is trivial, but his verse is noble. i doubt not but he had virgil in his eye, for we find many admirable imitations of him, and some parodies; as particularly this passage in the fourth of the Æneids: _nec tibi diva parens, generis nec dardanus auctor, perfide; sed duris genuit te cautibus horrens caucasus; hyrcanæque admorûnt ubera tigres_: which he thus translates, keeping to the words, but altering the sense: non, ton pere a paris, ne fut point boulanger: et tu n'es point du sang de gervais, l'horloger: ta mere ne fut point la maitresse d'un coché; caucase dans ses flancs te forma d'une roché: une tigresse affreuse, en quelque antre écarté, te fit, avec son lait, succer sa cruauté. and, as virgil in his fourth georgick, of the bees, perpetually raises the lowness of his subject, by the loftiness of his words, and ennobles it by comparisons drawn from empires, and from monarchs;-- _admiranda tibi levium spectacula rerum, magnanimosque duces, totiusque ordine gentis mores et studia, et populos, et proelia dicam._ and again: _at genus immortale manet; multosque per annos stat fortuna domus, et avi numerantur avorum;_-- we see boileau pursuing him in the same flights, and scarcely yielding to his master. this, i think, my lord, to be the most beautiful, and most noble kind of satire. here is the majesty of the heroic, finely mixed with the venom of the other; and raising the delight which otherwise would be flat and vulgar, by the sublimity of the expression. i could say somewhat more of the delicacy of this and some other of his satires; but it might turn to his prejudice, if it were carried back to france. i have given your lordship but this bare hint, in what verse and in what manner this sort of satire may be best managed. had i time, i could enlarge on the beautiful turns of words and thoughts, which are as requisite in this, as in heroic poetry itself, of which the satire is undoubtedly a species. with these beautiful turns, i confess myself to have been unacquainted, till about twenty years ago, in a conversation which i had with that noble wit of scotland, sir george mackenzie,[ ] he asked me why i did not imitate in my verses the turns of mr waller and sir john denham; of which he repeated many to me. i had often read with pleasure, and with some profit, those two fathers of our english poetry; but had not seriously enough considered those beauties which give the last perfection to their works. some sprinklings of this kind i had also formerly in my plays; but they were casual, and not designed. but this hint, thus seasonably given me, first made me sensible of my own wants, and brought me afterwards to seek for the supply of them in other english authors. i looked over the darling of my youth, the famous cowley; there i found, instead of them, the points of wit, and quirks of epigram, even in the "davideis," an heroic poem, which is of an opposite nature to those puerilities; but no elegant turns either on the word or on the thought. then i consulted a greater genius, (without offence to the manes of that noble author,) i mean milton; but as he endeavours every where to express homer, whose age had not arrived to that fineness, i found in him a true sublimity, lofty thoughts, which were cloathed with admirable grecisms, and ancient words, which he had been digging from the mines of chaucer and spenser, and which, with all their rusticity, had somewhat of venerable in them. but i found not there neither that for which i looked. at last i had recourse to his master, spenser, the author of that immortal poem, called the "fairy queen;" and there i met with that which i had been looking for so long in vain. spenser had studied virgil to as much advantage as milton had done homer; and amongst the rest of his excellencies had copied that. looking farther into the italian, i found tasso had done the same; nay more, that all the sonnets in that language are on the turn of the first thought; which mr walsh, in his late ingenious preface to his poems, has observed. in short, virgil and ovid are the two principal fountains of them in latin poetry. and the french at this day are so fond of them, that they judge them to be the first beauties: _delicate et bien tourné_, are the highest commendations which they bestow, on somewhat which they think a master-piece. an example of the turn on words, amongst a thousand others, is that in the last book of ovid's "metamorphoses:" _heu! quantum scelus est, in viscera, viscera condi! congestoque avidum pinguescere corpore corpus; alteriusque animantem animantis vivere leto._ an example on the turn both of thoughts and words, is to be found in catullus, in the complaint of ariadne, when she was left by theseus; _tum jam nulla viro juranti fæmina credat; nulla viri speret sermones esse fideles; qui, dum aliquid cupiens animus prægestit apisci, nil metuunt jurare, nihil promittere parcunt: sed simul ac cupidæ mentis satiata libido est, dicta nihil metuere, nihil perjuria curant._ an extraordinary turn upon the words, is that in ovid's "epistolæ heroidum," of sappho to phaon. _si, nisi quæ formâ poterit te digna videri, nulla futura tua est, nulla futura tua est._ lastly: a turn, which i cannot say is absolutely on words, for the thought turns with them, is in the fourth georgick of virgil; where orpheus is to receive his wife from hell, on express condition not to look on her till she was come on earth: _cùm subita incautum dementia cepit amantem; ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere manes._ i will not burthen your lordship with more of them; for i write to a master who understands them better than myself. but i may safely conclude them to be great beauties.--i might descend also to the mechanic beauties of heroic verse; but we have yet no english _prosodia_, not so much as a tolerable dictionary, or a grammar; so that our language is in a manner barbarous; and what government will encourage any one, or more, who are capable of refining it, i know not: but nothing under a public expence can go through with it. and i rather fear a declination of the language, than hope an advancement of it in the present age. i am still speaking to you, my lord, though, in all probability, you are already out of hearing. nothing, which my meanness can produce, is worthy of this long attention. but i am come to the last petition of abraham; if there be ten righteous lines, in this vast preface, spare it for their sake; and also spare the next city, because it is but a little one. i would excuse the performance of this translation, if it were all my own; but the better, though not the greater part, being the work of some gentlemen, who have succeeded very happily in their undertaking, let their excellencies atone for my imperfections, and those of my sons. i have perused some of the satires, which are done by other hands; and they seem to me as perfect in their kind, as any thing i have seen in english verse. the common way which we have taken, is not a literal translation, but a kind of paraphrase; or somewhat, which is yet more loose, betwixt a paraphrase and imitation. it was not possible for us, or any men, to have made it pleasant any other way. if rendering the exact sense of those authors, almost line for line, had been our business, barten holyday had done it already to our hands: and, by the help of his learned notes and illustrations, not only juvenal and persius, but, what yet is more obscure, his own verses, might be understood. but he wrote for fame, and wrote to scholars: we write only for the pleasure and entertainment of those gentlemen and ladies, who, though they are not scholars, are not ignorant: persons of understanding and good sense, who, not having been conversant in the original, or at least not having made latin verse so much their business as to be critics in it, would be glad to find, if the wit of our two great authors be answerable to their fame and reputation in the world. we have, therefore, endeavoured to give the public all the satisfaction we are able in this kind. and if we are not altogether so faithful to our author, as our predecessors holyday and stapylton, yet we may challenge to ourselves this praise, that we shall be far more pleasing to our readers. we have followed our authors at greater distance, though not step by step, as they have done: for oftentimes they have gone so close, that they have trod on the heels of juvenal and persius, and hurt them by their too near approach. a noble author would not be pursued too close by a translator. we lose his spirit, when we think to take his body. the grosser part remains with us, but the soul is flown away in some noble expression, or some delicate turn of words, or thought. thus holyday, who made this way his choice, seized the meaning of juvenal; but the poetry has always escaped him. they who will not grant me, that pleasure is one of the ends of poetry, but that it is only a means of compassing the only end, which is instruction, must yet allow, that, without the means of pleasure, the instruction is but a bare and dry philosophy: a crude preparation of morals, which we may have from aristotle and epictetus, with more profit than from any poet. neither holyday nor stapylton have imitated juvenal in the poetical part of him--his diction and his elocution. nor had they been poets, as neither of them were, yet, in the way they took, it was impossible for them to have succeeded in the poetic part. the english verse, which we call heroic, consists of no more than ten syllables; the latin hexameter sometimes rises to seventeen; as, for example, this verse in virgil: _pulverulenta putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum._ here is the difference of no less than seven syllables in a line, betwixt the english and the latin. now the medium of these is about fourteen syllables; because the dactyle is a more frequent foot in hexameters than the spondee. but holyday, without considering that he wrote with the disadvantage of four syllables less in every verse, endeavours to make one of his lines to comprehend the sense of one of juvenal's. according to the falsity of the proposition was the success. he was forced to crowd his verse with ill-sounding monosyllables, of which our barbarous language affords him a wild plenty; and by that means he arrived at his pedantic end, which was to make a literal translation. his verses have nothing of verse in them, but only the worst part of it--the rhyme; and that, into the bargain, is far from good. but, which is more intolerable, by cramming his ill-chosen, and worse-sounding monosyllables so close together, the very sense which he endeavours to explain, is become more obscure than that of his author; so that holyday himself cannot be understood, without as large a commentary as that which he makes on his two authors. for my own part, i can make a shift to find the meaning of juvenal without his notes: but his translation is more difficult than his author. and i find beauties in the latin to recompense my pains; but, in holyday and stapylton, my ears, in the first place, are mortally offended; and then their sense is so perplexed, that i return to the original, as the more pleasing task, as well as the more easy.[ ] this must be said for our translation, that, if we give not the whole sense of juvenal, yet we give the most considerable part of it: we give it, in general, so clearly, that few notes are sufficient to make us intelligible. we make our author at least appear in a poetic dress. we have actually made him more sounding, and more elegant, than he was before in english; and have endeavoured to make him speak that kind of english, which he would have spoken had he lived in england, and had written to this age. if sometimes any of us (and it is but seldom) make him express the customs and manners of our native country rather than of rome, it is, either when there was some kind of analogy betwixt their customs and ours, or when, to make him more easy to vulgar understandings, we give him those manners which are familiar to us. but i defend not this innovation, it is enough if i can excuse it. for, to speak sincerely, the manners of nations and ages are not to be confounded; we should either make them english, or leave them roman. if this can neither be defended nor excused, let it be pardoned at least, because it is acknowledged; and so much the more easily, as being a fault which is never committed without some pleasure to the reader. thus, my lord, having troubled you with a tedious visit, the best manners will be shewn in the least ceremony. i will slip away while your back is turned, and while you are otherwise employed; with great confusion for having entertained you so long with this discourse, and for having no other recompence to make you, than the worthy labours of my fellow-undertakers in this work, and the thankful acknowledgments, prayers, and perpetual good wishes, of, my lord, your lordship's most obliged, most humble, and most obedient servant, john dryden. _aug. , ._ footnotes: [ ] our author's connection with this witty and accomplished nobleman is fully traced in dryden's life. he was created earl of middlesex in , and after the revolution became lord chamberlain, and a knight of the garter. dryden alludes to these last honours in the commencement of the dedication, which was prefixed to a version of the satires of juvenal by our author and others, published in . [ ] see introduction to the "essay on dramatic poetry." [ ] these lyrical pieces, after all, are only a few smooth songs, where wit is sufficiently overbalanced by indecency. [ ] alluding to rochester's well-known couplet: for pointed satire i would buckhurst chuse; the best good man, with the worst-natured muse. _allusion to horace's th satire, book i._ the satires of lord dorset seem to have consisted in short lampoons, if we may judge of those which have been probably lost, from such as are known to us. his mock "address to mr edward howard, on his incomparable and incomprehensible poem, called the british princes;" another to the same on his plays; a lampoon on an irish lady; and one on lady dorchester,--are the only satires of his lordship's which have been handed down to us. he probably wrote other light occasional pieces of the same nature. [ ] shooting at rovers, in archery, is opposed to shooting at butts: in the former exercise the bowman shoots at random, merely to show how far he can send an arrow. [ ] probably meaning sir robert howard, with whom our author was now reconciled, and perhaps sir william d'avenant. [ ] the first satire of persius is doubtless levelled against bad poets; but that author rather engages in the defence of satire, opposed to the silly or bombastic verses of his contemporaries, than in censuring freedoms used with private characters. [ ] the four sceptres were placed saltier-wise upon the reverse of guineas, till the gold coinage of his present majesty. [ ] _sic maro nec calabri tentavit carmina flacci, pindaricos posset cum superare modos; et vario cessit romani laude cothurni, cum posset tragico fortius ore loqui._ mart. _lib. viii. epig. xviii._ [ ] "would it be imagined," says dr johnson, "that, of this rival to antiquity, all the satires were little personal invectives, and that his longest composition was a song of eleven stanzas? the blame, however, of this exaggerated praise falls on the encomiast, not upon the author; whose performances are, what they pretend to be, the effusions of a man of wit; gay, vigorous, and airy." [ ] dryden's recollection seems here deficient. there is, no doubt, a close imitation of the iliad throughout the jerusalem; but the death of the swedish prince was so far from being the motive of rinaldo's return to the wars, that rinaldo seems never to have heard either of that person or of his fate until he was delivered from the garden of armida, and on his voyage to join godfrey's army. [ ] epic poems by le moyne, chapelain, and scuderi; of which it may be enough to say, that they are in the stale, weary, flat, and unprofitable taste of all french heroics. [ ] this passage is certainly inaccurate in one particular, and probably in the rest. sir philip sydney was killed at the battle of zutphen, th october, , and the "faery queen" was then only commenced. for, in a dialogue written by bryskett, as mr malone conjectures, betwixt and , spenser is introduced describing himself as having undertaken a work in heroical verse, under the title of a "faerie queene;" and it is clear that he continued to labour in that task till , when we learn, from his th sonnet, that he had just composed six books: after so long a race as i have run through faery land, which those six books compile, give leave to rest me, being half foredonne, and gather to myself new breath awhile; then, as a steed refreshed after toyle, out of my prison will i break anew, and stoutly will that second work assoyle, with strong endevour, and attention due. it was not, therefore, the death of sir philip sydney which deprived him of spirit to continue his captivating poem, since the greater part was written after that event; but the poet's domestic misfortunes, occasioned by tyrone's rebellion, which seem at once to have ruined his fortune, and broken his heart. see todd's _life of spenser_, and malone's note on this passage. it seems unlikely, that sydney was spenser's prince arthur. upton more justly considers leicester, a worthless character, but the favourite of gloriana, (queen elizabeth,) and who aspired to share her bed and throne, as depicted under that character. see todd's _spenser_, vol. i. life, p. clxviii. [ ] this was a charge brought against spenser so early as the days of ben jonson; who says, in his discoveries, "spenser, in affecting the ancients, writ no language; yet i would have him read for his matter, but as virgil read ennius." this has been generally supposed to apply only to spenser's "pastorals;" but as in these he imitates rather a coarse and provincial than an obsolete dialect, the limitation of jonson's censure is probably imaginary. it is probable, that, as the style of poetry in the latter part of queen elizabeth's reign, and in that of her successor, had become laboured and ornate, spenser's imitations of the old metrical romances had to his contemporaries an antique air of rude and naked simplicity, although his "faery queen" seems more intelligible to us than the compositions of jonson himself. dryden, whose charge was afterwards echoed by pope, probably adopted it without very accurate investigation. our idea of what is ancient does not necessarily imply obscurity; on the contrary, i am afraid that to modern ears the style of addison sounds more antiquated than that of dr johnson; so that simplicity may produce the same effect as unintelligibility. [ ] mr rymer, who was pleased to call himself a critic, had promised to favour the public with "some reflections on that paradise lost of milton, which some are pleased to call a poem, and to assert rhime against the slender sophistry wherewith he attacks it." but this promise, which is given in the end of his "remarks on the tragedies of the last age," he never filled up the measure of his presumption, by attempting to fulfil. [ ] _dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum reddiderit junctura novum_---- this passage, as our author observes, (p. . vol. iv.) is variously construed by expositors; and the meaning which he there adopts, that of "applying received words to a new signification," seems fully as probable as that adopted in the text. mr malone has given the opinions of hurd, beattie, and de nores, upon this disputed passage. [ ] this resolution our author fortunately did not adhere to. [ ] the passages of scripture, on which dryden founds his idea of the machinery of guardian angels, are the following, which i insert for the benefit of such readers as may not have at hand the old-fashioned book in which they occur. "then i lifted up mine eyes, and looked, and, behold, a certain man clothed in linen, whose loins were girded with fine gold of uphaz: his body also was like the beryl, and his face as the appearance of lightning, and his eyes as lamps of fire, and his arms and his feet like in colour to polished brass, and the voice of his words like the voice of a multitude. and i daniel alone saw the vision; for the men that were with me saw not the vision; but a great quaking fell upon them, so that they fled to hide themselves. therefore i was left alone, and saw this great vision, and there remained no strength in me: for my comeliness was turned in me into corruption, and i retained no strength. yet heard i the voice of his words: and when i heard the voice of his words, then was i in a deep sleep on my face, and my face towards the ground. "and, behold, an hand touched me, which set me upon my knees and upon the palms of my hands: and he said unto me, o daniel, a man greatly beloved, understand the words that i speak unto thee, and stand upright: for unto thee am i now sent. and, when he had spoken this word unto me, i stood trembling. then said he unto me, fear not, daniel: for from the first day that thou didst set thine heart to understand, and to chasten thyself before thy god, thy words were heard, and i am come for thy words. but the prince of the kingdom of persia withstood me one and twenty days: but, lo, michael, one of the chief princes, came to help me; and i remained there with the kings of persia. now i am come to make thee understand what shall befall thy people in the latter days: for yet the vision is for many days. and when he had spoken such words unto me, i set my face toward the ground, and i became dumb. and, behold, one like the similitude of the sons of men touched my lips: then i opened my mouth, and spake, and said unto him that stood before me, o my lord, by the vision my sorrows are turned upon me, and i have retained no strength. for how can the servant of this my lord talk with this my lord? for, as for me, straightway there remained no strength in me, neither is there breath left in me. then there came again and touched me one like the appearance of a man, and he strengthened me. and said, o man greatly beloved, fear not; peace be unto thee, be strong, yea, be strong. and, when he had spoken unto me, i was strengthened, and said, let my lord speak; for thou hast strengthened me. then said he, knowest thou wherefore i come unto thee? and now will i return to fight with the prince of persia: and when i am gone forth, lo, the prince of grecia shall come. but i will shew thee that which is noted in the scripture of truth: and there is none that holdeth with me in these things, but michael your prince."--dan. x. - . it may, however, be doubted, whether any poetical use could be made of the guardian angels here mentioned; since our ideas of their powers are too obscure and indefinite to afford any scope for description. [ ] in the beginning of the th chapter, as well as in the passage quoted, michael is distinguished as "the great prince which standeth up for the children of daniel's people." [ ] i shall imitate my predecessor, mr malone, in presenting the reader with spanheim's summary of the notes of distinction between the greek satirical drama, and the satirical poetry of the romans. "la premiére différence, qui est içi à remarquer et dont on ne peut disconvenir, c'est que les satyres ou poëmes satyriques des grecs, etoient des piéces dramatiques, ou de théatre; ce qu'on ne peut point dire des satires romaines, prises dans tous ces trois genres, dont je viens de parler, et auxquelles on a appliqué ce mot. il y auroit peut-être plus de sujet d'en douter, à l'égard de ces premiéres satires des anciens romains, dont il a été fait mention, et dont il ne nous est rien resté, si les passages de deux auteurs latins et de t. live entre autres, qui en parlent, ne marquoient en termes exprès, qu'elles avoient précedé parmi eux les piéces dramatiques, et etoient en effet d'une autre espéce. d'ou vient aussi, que les latins, quand ils font mention de la poësie grecque, et d'ailleurs se contentent de donner aux premiéres ce nom de _poëme_, comme ciceron le donne aux satires de varron, et d'autres un nom pareil à celles de lucilius ou d'horace. "la seconde différence entre les poëmes satyriques des grecs, et les satires des latins, vient de ce qu'il y a même quelque diversité dans le nom, laquelle ne paroit pas autrement dans les langues vulgaires. c'est qu'en effet les grecs donnoient aux leurs le nom de satyrus ou satiri, de satyriques, de piéces satyriques, par rapport, s'entend, aux satyres, ces hostes de bois, et ces compagnons de baccus, qui y jouoient leur rôle: et d'ou vient aussi, qu'horace, comme nous avons déja vû, les appelle _agrestes satyros_, et ceux, qui en étoient les auteurs, du nom de _satyrorum scriptor._ au lieu que les romains ont dit _satira_ ou _satura_ de ces poëmes, auxquels ils en ont appliqué et restraint le nom; que leurs auteurs et leurs grammairiens donnent une autre origine, et une autre signification de ce mot, comme celle d'un mélange de plusieurs fruits de la terre, ou bien de plusieurs mets dans un plat; delà celle d'un mélange de plusieurs loix comprises dans une, ou enfin la signification d'un poëme mêlé de plusieurs choses. "la troisiéme différence entre ces mêmes satires et les piéces satyriques des grecs est, qu'en effet l'introduction des silénes et des satyres, qui composoient les choeurs de ces derniéres, etoient tellement de leur essence, que sans eux elles ne pouvoient plus porter le nom de _satyres_. tellement qu'horace, parlant entre autres de la nature de ces satyres ou poëmes satyriques des grecs, s'arrête a montrer, en quelle maniére on y doit faire parler siléne, ou les satyres; ce qu'on leur doit faire éviter ou observer. ce qu'l n'auroit pas fait avec tant de soin, s'il avoit cru, que la présence des satyres ne fut pas de la nature et de l'essence, comme je viens de dire, de ces sortes de piéces, qui en portoient le nom. "c'est à quoi on peut ajouter l'action de ces mêmes satyres, et qui etoient propres aux piéces, qui en portoient le nom. c'est qu'en effet les danses etoient si fort de leur essence, que non seulement aristote, comme nous avons déja veu, joint ensemble la _poësie satyrique et faite pour la danse_; mais qu'un autre auteur grec [_lucianus_ #peri orchêseôs#] parle nommément des trois différentes sortes de danses attachés au théatre, _la tragique, la comique, et la satyrique_. d'où vient aussi, comme il le remarque ailleurs, que les satires en prirent le nom de _sicynnistes_; c'est à dire d'une sorte de danse, qui leur etoit particuliére, comme on peut voir entre autres de ce qu'en dit siléne dans le cyclope, à la veuë des satyres; et ainsi d'ou on peut assés comprendre la force de l'épithéte de _saltantes satyros_, que virgile leur donne en quelque endroit; ou de ce qu'horace, dans sa premiére ode, parle des danses des nymphes et des satyres, _nympharumque leues cum satyris chori_. tout cela, comme chacun voit, n'avoit aucun raport avec les satires romaines, et il n'est pas nécessaire, d'en dire davantage, pour le faire entendre. "la quatriéme différence resulte des sujets assés divers des uns et des autres. les satyres des grecs, comme il a déja été remarqué, et qu'on peut juger par les titres, qui nous en restent, prenoient d'ordinaire, non seulement des sujets connus, mais fabuleux; ce qui fait dire là-dessus à horace, _ex noto carmen fictum sequar_; des heros, par exemple, ou des demi-dieux des siécles passés, à quoi le même poëte venoit de faire allusion. les satires romaines, comme leurs auteurs en parlent eux-mêmes, et qu'ils le pratiquent, s'attachoient á reprendre les vices ou les erreurs de leur siécle et de leur patrie; à y jouer des particuliers de rome, un mutius entre autres, et un lupus, avec lucilius; un milonius et un nomentanus, avec horace; un crispinus et un locustus, avec juvenal; c'est à dire des gens, qui nous seroient peu connus aujourdhui, sans la mention, qu'ils ont trouvé à propos d'en faire dans leurs satires. "la cinquiéme différence paroit encore dans la maniére, de laquelle les uns et les autres traitent leurs sujets, et dans le but principal, qu'ils s'y proposent. celui de la poësie satyrique des grecs, etoit de tourner en ridicule des actions sérieuses, comme l'enseigne le même horace, _vertere seria ludo_; de travêstir pour ce sujet leurs dieux ou leurs héros, d'en changer le caractére, selon le besoin; de faire par exemple d'un achille un homme mol, suivant qu'un autre poëte latin y fait allusion, _nec nocet autori, qui mollem fecit achillem_. c'étoit en un mot leur but principal, de rire et de plaisanter; et d'ou vient non seulement le mot de _risus_, comme il a déja été remarqué, qu'on a appliqué à ces sortes d'ouvrages, mais aussi ceux en grec de _jeux_, ou même de jouëts, et de _joci_ en latin, comme fait encore horace, où il parle de l'auteur tragique, qui parmi les grecs fut le premier, qui composa de ces piéces satyriques, et suivant qu'il dit, _incolumi gravitate jocum tentavit_. nons pouvons même comprendre de ce qu'il ajoute dans la suite et des epithétes, que d'autres leur donnent de ris obscénes, que cette gravité, avec laquelle on avoit d'abord temperé ces sortes d'ouvrages, en fut bannie dans la suite; que les régles de la pudeur n'y furent guéres observées; et qu'on en fit des spectacles assés conformes à l'humeur et à la conduite de tels acteurs que des satires petulans ou _protervi_, comme horace les appelle sur ce même sujet. et c'est à quoi contribuerent d'ailleurs leurs danses et leurs postures, dont il à été parlé, de même que celles des pantomimes parmi les romains. au lieu que les satires romaines, temoin celles qui nous restent, et á qui d'ailleurs ce nom est demeuré comme propre et attaché, avoient moins pour but de plaisanter que d'exciter ou de l'indignation, ou de la haine, _facit indignatio versum_, ou du mépris; qu'elles s'attachent plus à reprendre et à mordre, qu'à faire rire ou à folâtrer. d'ou vient aussi le nom de _poëme medisant_, que les grammairiens leur donnent, ou celui de _vers mordans_, comme en parle ovide dans un passage, où je trouve qu'il se défend de n'avoir point écrit de satyres. _non ego mordaci distrinxi carmine quemquam, nec meus ullius crimina versus habet._ "je ne touche pas enfin la différence, qu'on pourroit encore alléguer de la composition diverse des unes et des autres; les satires romaines, dont il est ici proprement question et qui ont été conservées jusques à nous, ayant été écrites en vers héroiques, et les poëmes satyriques des grecs en vers jambiques. ce qui devroit néanmoins être d'autant plus remarqué, qu'horace ne trouve point d'autre différence entre l'inventeur des satires romaines et les auteurs de l'ancienne comédie, comme cratinus et eupolis, si non que les satires du premier étoient écrites dans un autre genre de vers."--see baron spanheim's dissertation, _sur les_ cesars _de_ julien, _et en général sur les ouvrages satyriques des anciens_, prefixed to his translation of julian's work, amsterdam, , to. and malone's "dryden," vol. iv. p. . [ ] horace, in the beginning of the fourth satire of his first book, introduces lucilius as imitating the ancient greek comedians: _hinc omnis pendet lucilius, hosce secutus, mutatis tantum pedibus numerisque; facetus, emunctæ naris, durus componere versus. nam fuit hoc vitiosus: in hora sæpe ducentos, ut magnum, versus dictabat stans pede in uno. cum flueret lutulentus, erat quod tollere velles; garrulus, atque piger scribendi ferre laborem; scribendi recte; nam ut multum, non moror._-- towards the end of the tenth satire, the poet resumes the subject, and vindicates his character of lucilius against those who had accused him of too much severity towards the ancient satirist; and again accuses him of carelessness, though he acknowledges his superiority to the more ancient models: ----_fuerit lucilius, inquam, comis et urbanus; fuerit limatior idem, quam rudis, et græcis intacti carminis auctor, quamque poetarum seniorum turba: sed ille, si foret hoc nostrum fato dilatus in ævum, detereret sibi multa: recideret omne, quod ultra perfectum traheretur: et in versu faciendo sæpe caput scaberet, vivos et roderet ungues._ [ ] the original runs thus: "_et tamen in illis veteribus nostris quæ menippum imitati, non interpretati, quadam hilaritate conspersimus, multa admis admista ex intima philosophia, multa dicta dialectice, quæ quo facilius minus docti intelligerent jucunditate quadam ad legendum invitati; in laudationibus, in iis ipsis antiquitatum proæmiis, philosophice scribere voluimus si modo consecuti sumus_."--academic lib. iii. sect. . the sense of the last clause seems to be, that varro had attempted, even in panegyrics, and studied imitations of the ancient satirists, to write philosophically, although he modestly affects to doubt of his having been able to accomplish his purpose. [ ] this pretended continuation of petronius arbiter was published at paris in , and proved to be a forgery by one nodot, a frenchman. [ ] perhaps the satires of raübner. [ ] from this classification we may infer, that dryden's idea of a varronian satire was, that, instead of being merely didactic, it comprehended a fable or series of imaginary and ludicrous incidents, in which the author engaged the objects of his satire. such being his definition, it is surprising he should have forgotten hudibras, the best satire of this kind that perhaps ever was written; but this he afterwards apologizes for, as a slip of an old man's memory. [ ] _horatii persiique satyras isaacus casaubonus et daniel heinsius certatim laudibus extulere, ac persium ille suum tantopere adornavit, ut nihil horatio, nihil juvenali præter indignationem reliquisse videatur; hic verò horatium curiosè considerando tam admirabilem esse docuit, ut plerisque jam in persio nimia stoici supercilii morositas jure displiceat. juvenalis ingenium ambo quidem certè laudaverunt, sic tamen ut in eo sæpe etiam rhetoricæ arrogantiæ quasi lasciviam, ac denique declamationem potiùs quàm satyram esse pronunciaverunt._ [ ] north has left the following account of this great lawyer's prejudices. "he was an upright judge, if taken within himself; and when he appeared, as he often did, and really was, partial, his inclination or prejudice, insensibly to himself, drew his judgment aside. his bias lay strangely for, and against, characters and denominations; and sometimes, the very habits of persons. if one party was a courtier, and well dressed, and the other a sort of puritan, with a black cap and plain clothes, he insensibly thought the justice of the cause with the latter. if the dissenting, or anti-court party was at the back of a cause, he was very seldom impartial; and the loyalists had always a great disadvantage before him. and he ever sat hard upon his lordship, in his practice, in causes of that nature, as may be observed in the cases of cuts and pickering, just before, and of soams and bernardiston elsewhere, related. it is said he was once caught. a courtier, who had a cause to be tried before him, got one to go to him, as from the king, to speak for favour to his adversary, and so carried his point; for the chief justice could not think any person to be in the right, that came so unduly recommended." _life of lord keeper guilford_, p. . [ ] casaubon published an edition of "persius," with notes, and a commentary. francesco stelluti's version was published at rome in . [ ] this is a strange mistake in an author, who translated persius entirely, and great part of juvenal. the satires of persius were written during the reign of nero, and those of juvenal in that of domitian. this error is the more extraordinary, as dryden mentions, a little lower, the very emperors under whom these poets flourished. [ ] david wedderburn of aberdeen, whose edition of "persius," with a commentary, was published in vo. at amsterdam, . [ ] persius died in his th year, in the th year of nero's reign. lucan died before he was twenty-seven. [ ] casaubon's edition is accompanied, "_cum persiana horatii imitatione_." [ ] a stoic philosopher to whom persius addresses his th satire. [ ] the famous gilbert burnet, the buzzard of our author's "hind and panther," but for whom he seems now disposed to entertain some respect. [ ] dryden alludes to the beautiful description which horace has given of his father's paternal and watchful affection in the th satire of the st book. wycherley, the friend for whom he wishes a father of equal tenderness, after having been gayest of the gay, applauded by theatres, and the object of a monarch's jealousy, was finally thrown into jail for debt, and lay there seven long years, his father refusing him any assistance. and, although in , he was probably at liberty, for king james had interposed in his favour and paid a great part of his debts, he continued to labour under pecuniary embarrassments untill his father's death and even after he had succeeded to his entailed property. [ ] the abuse of personal satires, or lampoons, as they were called, was carried to a prodigious extent in the days of dryden, when every man of fashion was obliged to write verses; and those who had neither poetry nor wit, had recourse to ribaldry and libelling. some observations on these lampoons may be found prefixed to the epistle to julian, among the pieces ascribed to dryden. [ ] wycherley, author of the witty comedy so called. [ ] the precise dates of juvenal's birth and death are disputed; but it is certain he flourished under domitian, famous for his cruelty against men and insects. juvenal was banished by the tyrant, in consequence of reflecting upon the actor paris. he is generally said to have died of grief; but lepsius contends, that he survived even the accession of hadrian. [ ] the learned barten holyday was born at oxford, in the end of the th century. wood says, he was second to none for his poetry and sublime fancy, and brings in witness his "smooth translation of rough persius," made before he was twenty years of age. he wrote a play called "technogamia, or the marriage of the arts," which was acted at christ church college, before james i., and, though extremely dull and pedantic, was ill received by his majesty. holyday's version of juvenal was not published till after his death, when, in , it was inscribed to the dean and canons of christ church. as he had adopted the desperate resolution of comprising every latin line within an english one, the modern reader has often reason to complain, with the embarrassed gentleman in the "critic," that the interpreter is the harder to be understood of the two. [ ] sir robert stapylton, a gentleman of an ancient family in yorkshire, who followed the fortune of charles i. in the civil war, besides several plays and poems, published a version of juvenal, under the title of "the manners of men described in sixteen satires by juvenal." there are two editions, the first published in , and the last and most perfect in . sir robert stapylton died in . his verse is as harsh and uncouth as that of holyday, who indeed charged him with plagiary; though one would have thought the nature of the commodity would have set theft at defiance. [ ] i presume, this celebrated finisher of the law, who bequeathed his name to his successors in office, was a contemporary of our poet. in the time of the rebellion, that operator was called gregory, and is supposed, with some probability, to have beheaded charles i. see the evidence for the prisoner in hulet's trial after the restoration. _state trials_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] this is a strange averment, considering the "reflections upon absalom and achitophel, by a person of honour," in composing and publishing which, the duke of buckingham, our author's zimri, shewed much resentment and very little wit. see vol. ix. p. . [ ] _persius exclamat, per magnos, brute, deos te oro, qui regis consueris tollere, cur non hunc regem jugulas? operum hoc mihi crede tuorum est._ hor. satire . lib. i. [ ] this gentleman, who was as great a gambler as a punster, regaled with his quibbles the minor class of the frequenters of will's coffee-house, who, having neither wit enough to entitle them to mix with the critics who associated with dryden, and were called _the witty club_, or gravity enough to discuss politics with those who formed the grave club, were content to laugh heartily at the puns and conundrums of captain swan. [ ] mr lewis maidwell, the author of a comedy called "the generous enemies," represented by the duke's company . in the prologue, as mr malone informs us, there is an allusion to rochester's mean assault on dryden: who dares be witty now, and with just rage disturb the vice and follies of the age? with knaves and fools, satire's a dangerous fault; they will not let you rub their sores with salt: else _rose street ambuscades_ shall break your head, and life in verse shall lay the poet dead. it is only farther known of this gentleman, that he was a friend of shadwell, who gave him the epilogue for his comedy, and that he taught a private school. [ ] the roman exclamation of high contentment at a recitation, like our _bravo! bravissimo!_ [ ] dryden, in his epistle to sir george etherege, has shewn, however, how completely he was master even of a measure he despised. [ ] scarron's _virgile travesti_. [ ] sir george mackenzie of rosehaugh was lord advocate for scotland, during the reigns of charles ii. and his successor. his works are voluminous, and upon various subjects, but chiefly historical and juridical. he left, however, one poem called "cælia's country-house," and some essays on moral subjects. the memory of sir george mackenzie is not in high estimation as a lawyer, and his having been the agent of the crown, during the cruel persecution of the fanatical cameronians, renders him still execrated among the common people of scotland. but he was an accomplished scholar, of lively talents, and ready elocution, and very well deserved the appellation of a "noble wit of scotland." [ ] in illustration of holyday's miserable success in his desperate attempt, we need only take the lines with which he opens: shall i be still an auditor, and ne'er repay that have so often had mine eare vexed with hoarse codrus theseads? shall one sweat while his gownd comique sceane he does repeat, another while his elegies soft strain the reader? and shall not i vex them again? shall mighty telephus be unrequited, that spends a day in being all recited? or volume-swoln orestes, that does fill the margin of an ample booke; yet still, as if the book were mad too, is extended upon the very back, nor yet is ended. the first satire of juvenal. the argument. _the poet gives us first a kind of humorous reason for his writing: that being provoked by hearing so many ill poets rehearse their works, he does himself justice on them, by giving them as bad as they bring. but since no man will rank himself with ill writers, it is easy to conclude, that if such wretches could draw an audience, he thought it no hard matter to excel them, and gain a greater esteem with the public. next, he informs us more openly, why he rather addicts himself to satire than any other kind of poetry. and here he discovers, that it is not so much his indignation to ill poets as to ill men, which has prompted him to write. he, therefore, gives us a summary and general view of the vices and follies reigning in his time. so that this first satire is the natural ground-work of all the rest. herein he confines himself to no one subject, but strikes indifferently at all men in his way. in every following satire he has chosen some particular moral which he would inculcate; and lashes some particular vice or folly, (an art with which our lampooners are not much acquainted). but our poet being desirous to reform his own age, and not daring to attempt it by an overt-act of naming living persons, inveighs only against those who were infamous in the times immediately preceding his, whereby he not only gives a fair warning to great men, that their memory lies at the mercy of future poets and historians, but also, with a finer stroke of his pen, brands even the living, and personates them under dead men's names._ _i have avoided, as much as i could possibly, the borrowed learning of marginal notes and illustrations, and for that reason have translated this satire somewhat largely; and freely own, (if it be a fault,) that i have likewise omitted most of the proper names, because i thought they would not much edify the reader. to conclude, if in two or three places i have deserted all the commentators, it is because i thought they first deserted my author, or at least have left him in so much obscurity, that too much room is left for guessing._ still shall i hear, and never quit the score, stunned with hoarse codrus'[ ] theseid, o'er and o'er? shall this man's elegies and t'other's play unpunished murder a long summer's day? huge telephus,[ ] a formidable page, cries vengeance; and orestes'[ ] bulky rage, unsatisfied with margins closely writ, foams o'er the covers, and not finished yet. no man can take a more familiar note of his own home, than i of vulcan's grott, or mars his grove,[ ] or hollow winds that blow from Ætna's top, or tortured ghosts below. i know by rote the famed exploits of greece, the centaurs' fury, and the golden fleece; through the thick shades the eternal scribbler bawls, and shakes the statues on their pedestals. the best and worst[ ] on the same theme employs his muse, and plagues us with an equal noise. provoked by these incorrigible fools, i left declaiming in pedantic schools; where, with men-boys, i strove to get renown, advising sylla to a private gown.[ ] but, since the world with writing is possest, } i'll versify in spite; and do my best, } to make as much waste paper as the rest. } but why i lift aloft the satire's rod, and tread the path which famed lucilius[ ] trod, attend the causes which my muse have led:-- when sapless eunuchs mount the marriage-bed; when mannish mævia,[ ] that two-handed whore, astride on horseback hunts the tuscan boar; when all our lords are by his wealth outvied, whose razor on my callow beard was tried;[ ] when i behold the spawn of conquered nile, crispinus, both in birth and manners vile,[ ] pacing in pomp, with cloak of tyrian dye, changed oft a-day for needless luxury; and finding oft occasion to be fanned, ambitious to produce his lady-hand; charged with light summer-rings his fingers sweat,[ ] unable to support a gem of weight: such fulsome objects meeting every where, 'tis hard to write, but harder to forbear. to view so lewd a town, and to refrain, what hoops of iron could my spleen contain! when pleading matho, borne abroad for air,[ ] with his fat paunch fills his new-fashioned chair, and after him the wretch in pomp conveyed, whose evidence his lord and friend betrayed, and but the wished occasion does attend } from the poor nobles the last spoils to rend, } whom even spies dread as their superior fiend, } and bribe with presents; or, when presents fail, they send their prostituted wives for bail: when night-performance holds the place of merit, and brawn and back the next of kin disherit; (for such good parts are in preferment's way,) the rich old madam never fails to pay her legacies, by nature's standard given, one gains an ounce, another gains eleven: a dear-bought bargain, all things duly weighed, for which their thrice concocted blood is paid. with looks as wan, as he who in the brake at unawares has trod upon a snake; or played at lyons a declaiming prize, for which the vanquished rhetorician dies.[ ] what indignation boils within my veins, } when perjured guardians, proud with impious gains, } choke up the streets, too narrow for their trains! } whose wards, by want betrayed, to crimes are led too foul to name, too fulsome to be read! when he who pilled his province 'scapes the laws, and keeps his money, though he lost his cause; his fine begged off, contemns his infamy, can rise at twelve, and get him drunk ere three; enjoys his exile, and, condemned in vain, leaves thee, prevailing province, to complain.[ ] such villanies roused horace into wrath; and tis more noble to pursue his path,[ ] than an old tale of diomede to repeat, } or labouring after hercules to sweat, } or wandering in the winding maze of crete; } or with the winged smith aloft to fly, or fluttering perish with his foolish boy. with what impatience must the muse behold the wife, by her procuring husband sold? for though the law makes null the adulterer's deed of lands to her, the cuckold may succeed, who his taught eyes up to the ceiling throws, and sleeps all over but his wakeful nose. when he dares hope a colonel's command, whose coursers kept, ran out his father's land; who yet a stripling, nero's chariot drove, } whirled o'er the streets, while his vain master strove } with boasted art to please his eunuch love[ ] } would it not make a modest author dare to draw his table-book within the square, and fill with notes, when, lolling at his ease, mecænas-like,[ ] the happy rogue he sees borne by six wearied slaves in open view, who cancelled an old will, and forged a new; made wealthy at the small expence of signing with a wet seal, and a fresh interlining? the lady, next, requires a lashing line, who squeezed a toad into her husband's wine: so well the fashionable medicine thrives, that now 'tis practised even by country wives; poisoning, without regard of fame or fear, and spotted corpse are frequent on the bier. wouldst thou to honours and preferments climb? be bold in mischief, dare some mighty crime, which dungeons, death, or banishment deserves; for virtue is but dryly praised, and starves. great men to great crimes owe their plate embost, } fair palaces, and furniture of cost, } and high commands; a sneaking sin is lost. } who can behold that rank old letcher keep his son's corrupted wife, and hope to sleep?[ ] or that male-harlot, or that unfledged boy, eager to sin, before he can enjoy? if nature could not, anger would indite such woful stuff as i or sh----ll[ ] write. count from the time, since old deucalion's boat, raised by the flood, did on parnassus float,[ ] and, scarcely mooring on the cliff, implored an oracle how man might be restored; when softened stones and vital breath ensued, and virgins naked were by lovers viewed; what ever since that golden age was done, what human kind desires, and what they shun; rage, passions, pleasures, impotence of will, shall this satirical collection fill. what age so large a crop of vices bore, or when was avarice extended more? when were the dice with more profusion thrown? the well-filled fob not emptied now alone, but gamesters for whole patrimonies play; the steward brings the deeds which must convey the lost estate: what more than madness reigns, when one short sitting many hundreds drains, and not enough is left him to supply } board-wages, or a footman's livery? } what age so many summer-seats did see? } or which of our forefathers fared so well, as on seven dishes at a private meal? clients of old were feasted; now, a poor divided dole is dealt at the outward door; which by the hungry rout is soon dispatched: the paltry largess, too, severely watched, ere given; and every face observed with care, that no intruding guest usurp a share. known, you receive; the crier calls aloud } our old nobility of trojan blood, } who gape among the crowd for their precarious food. } the prætor's and the tribune's voice is heard; the freedman jostles, and will be preferred; first come, first served, he cries; and i, in spite of your great lordships, will maintain my right; though born a slave, though my torn ears are bored,[ ] 'tis not the birth, 'tis money makes the lord. the rents of five fair houses i receive; what greater honours can the purple give? the poor patrician is reduced to keep, in melancholy walks, a grazier's sheep: not pallus nor licinius[ ] had my treasure; then let the sacred tribunes wait my leisure. once a poor rogue, 'tis true, i trod the street, and trudged to rome upon my naked feet: gold is the greatest god; though yet we see no temples raised to money's majesty; no altars fuming to her power divine, such as to valour, peace, and virtue shine, and faith, and concord; where the stork on high[ ] } seems to salute her infant progeny, } presaging pious love with her auspicious cry.-- } but since our knights and senators account, to what their sordid begging vails amount, judge what a wretched share the poor attends, whose whole subsistence on those alms depends! their household fire, their raiment, and their food, prevented by those harpies;[ ] when a wood of litters thick besiege the donor's gate, and begging lords and teeming ladies wait the promised dole; nay, some have learned the trick to beg for absent persons; feign them sick, close mewed in their sedans, for fear of air; } and for their wives produce an empty chair. } this is my spouse; dispatch her with her share; } 'tis galla.--let her ladyship but peep.-- no, sir, 'tis pity to disturb her sleep.[ ] such fine employments our whole days divide: the salutations of the morning tide call up the sun; those ended, to the hall we wait the patron, hear the lawyers bawl; then to the statues; where amidst the race } of conquering rome, some arab shows his face, } inscribed with titles, and profanes the place;[ ] } fit to be pissed against, and somewhat more. the great man, home conducted, shuts his door. old clients, wearied out with fruitless care, dismiss their hopes of eating, and despair; though much against the grain, forced to retire, buy roots for supper, and provide a fire. meantime his lordship lolls within at ease, pampering his paunch with foreign rarities; both sea and land are ransacked for the feast, and his own gut the sole invited guest. such plate, such tables, dishes dressed so well, that whole estates are swallowed at a meal. even parasites are banished from his board; (at once a sordid and luxurious lord;) prodigious throat, for which whole boars are drest; (a creature formed to furnish out a feast.) but present punishment pursues his maw, when, surfeited and swelled, the peacock raw he bears into the bath; whence want of breath, repletions, apoplex, intestate death. his fate makes table-talk, divulged with scorn, and he, a jest, into his grave is borne. no age can go beyond us; future times can add no farther to the present crimes. our sons but the same things can wish and do; } vice is at stand, and at the highest flow. } then, satire, spread thy sails, take all the winds can blow! } some may, perhaps, demand what muse can yield sufficient strength for such a spacious field? from whence can be derived so large a vein, bold truths to speak, and spoken to maintain, when godlike freedom is so far bereft the noble mind, that scarce the name is left? ere _scandalum magnatum_ was begot, no matter if the great forgave or not; but if that honest licence now you take, } if into rogues omnipotent you rake, } death is your doom, impaled upon a stake; } smeared o'er with wax, and set on fire, to light the streets, and make a dreadful blaze by night. shall they, who drenched three uncles in a draught of poisonous juice, be then in triumph brought, make lanes among the people where they go, } and, mounted high on downy chariots, throw } disdainful glances on the crowd below? } be silent, and beware, if such you see; 'tis defamation but to say, that's he! against bold turnus the great trojan arm, amidst their strokes the poet gets no harm: achilles may in epic verse be slain, and none of all his myrmidons complain: hylas may drop his pitcher, none will cry, not if he drown himself for company; but when lucilius brandishes his pen, and flashes in the face of guilty men, a cold sweat stands in drops on every part, and rage succeeds to tears, revenge to smart.[ ] muse, be advised; 'tis past considering time, when entered once the dangerous lists of rhime; since none the living villains dare implead, arraign them in the persons of the dead. footnotes: [ ] codrus, or it may be cordus, a bad poet, who wrote the life and actions of theseus.--[this and almost all the following notes are taken from dryden's first edition. those which are supplied by the present editor, are distinguished by the letter e.] [ ] the name of a tragedy. [ ] another tragedy. [ ] some commentators take this grove to be a place where poets were used to repeat their works to the people; but more probably, both this and vulcan's grott, or cave, and the rest of the places and names here mentioned, are only meant for the common places of homer in his iliads and odyssies. [ ] that is, the best and the worst poets. [ ] this was one of the themes given in the schools of rhetoricians, in the deliberative kind; whether sylla should lay down the supreme power of dictatorship, or still keep it? [ ] lucilius, the first satirist of the romans, who wrote long before horace. [ ] mævia, a name put for any impudent or mannish woman. [ ] juvenal's barber, now grown wealthy. [ ] crispinus, an egyptian slave; now, by his riches, transformed into a nobleman. [ ] the romans were grown so effeminate in juvenal's time, that they wore light rings in the summer, and heavier in the winter. [ ] matho, a famous lawyer, mentioned in other places by juvenal and martial. [ ] lyons, a city in france, where annual sacrifices and games were made in honour of augustus cæsar. [ ] here the poet complains, that the governors of provinces being accused for their unjust exactions, though they were condemned at their trials, yet got off by bribery. [ ] horace, who wrote satires; it is more noble, says our author, to imitate him in that way, than to write the labours of hercules, the sufferings of diomedes and his followers, or the flight of dædalus, who made the labyrinth, and the death of his son icarus. [ ] nero married sporus, an eunuch; though it may be, the poet meant nero's mistress in man's apparel. [ ] mecænas is often taxed by seneca and others for his effeminacy. [ ] the meaning is, that the very consideration of such a crime will hinder a virtuous man from taking his repose. [ ] shadwell, our author's old enemy.--e. [ ] deucalion and pyrrha, when the world was drowned, escaped to the top of mount parnassus, and were commanded to restore mankind, by throwing stones over their heads; the stones he threw became men, and those she threw became women. [ ] the ears of all slaves were bored, as a mark of their servitude; which custom is still usual in the east indies, and in other parts, even for whole nations, who bore prodigious holes in their ears, and wear vast weights at them. [ ] pallus, a slave freed by claudius cæsar, and raised by his favour to great riches. licinius was another wealthy freedman belonging to augustus. [ ] perhaps the storks were used to build on the top of the temple dedicated to concord. [ ] he calls the roman knights, &c. harpies, or devourers. in those days, the rich made doles intended for the poor; but the great were either so covetous, or so needy, that they came in their litters to demand their shares of the largess; and thereby prevented, and consequently starved, the poor. [ ] the meaning is, that noblemen would cause empty litters to be carried to the giver's door, pretending their wives were within them. "'tis galla," that is, my wife; the next words, "let her ladyship but peep," are of the servant who distributes the dole; "let me see her, that i may be sure she is within the litter." the husband answers, "she is asleep, and to open the litter would disturb her rest." [ ] the poet here tells you how the idle passed their time; in going first to the levees of the great; then to the hall, that is, to the temple of apollo, to hear the lawyers plead; then to the market-place of augustus, where the statues of the famous romans were set in ranks on pedestals; amongst which statues were seen those of foreigners, such as arabs, &c. who, for no desert, but only on account of their wealth or favour, were placed amongst the noblest. [ ] a poet may safely write an heroic poem, such as that of virgil, who describes the duel of turnus and Æneas; or of homer, who writes of achilles and hector; or the death of hylas, the catamite of hercules, who, stooping for water, dropt his pitcher, and fell into the well after it: but it is dangerous to write satire, like lucilius. the third satire of juvenal. the argument. _the story of this satire speaks itself. umbritius, the supposed friend of juvenal, and himself a poet, is leaving rome, and retiring to cumæ. our author accompanies him out of town. before they take leave of each other, umbritius tells his friend the reasons which oblige him to lead a private life, in an obscure place. he complains, that an honest man cannot get his bread at rome; that none but flatterers make their fortunes there; that grecians, and other foreigners, raise themselves by those sordid arts which he describes, and against which he bitterly inveighs. he reckons up the several inconveniences which arise from a city life, and the many dangers which attend it; upbraids the noblemen with covetousness, for not rewarding good poets; and arraigns the government for starving them. the great art of this satire is particularly shown in common-places; and drawing in as many vices, as could naturally fall into the compass of it._ grieved though i am an ancient friend to lose, } i like the solitary seat he chose, } in quiet cumæ[ ] fixing his repose: } where, far from noisy rome, secure he lives, and one more citizen to sybil gives; the road to baiæ,[ ] and that soft recess which all the gods with all their bounty bless; though i in prochyta[ ] with greater ease could live, than in a street of palaces. what scene so desert, or so full of fright, } as towering houses, tumbling in the night, } and rome on fire beheld by its own blazing light? } but worse than all the clattering tiles, and worse than thousand padders, is the poet's curse; rogues, that in dog-days cannot rhyme forbear,[ ] but without mercy read, and make you hear. now while my friend, just ready to depart, was packing all his goods in one poor cart, he stopt a little at the conduit-gate, where numa modelled once the roman state,[ ] in mighty councils with his nymph retired;[ ] though now the sacred shades and founts are hired by banished jews, who their whole wealth can lay in a small basket, on a wisp of hay;[ ] yet such our avarice is, that every tree pays for his head, nor sleep itself is free; nor place, nor persons, now are sacred held, from their own grove the muses are expelled. into this lonely vale our steps we bend, i and my sullen discontented friend; the marble caves and aqueducts we view; but how adulterate now, and different from the true! how much more beauteous had the fountain been embellished with her first created green, where crystal streams through living turf had run, contented with an urn of native stone! then thus umbritius, with an angry frown, and looking back on this degenerate town:-- since noble arts in rome have no support, and ragged virtue not a friend at court, no profit rises from the ungrateful stage, my poverty encreasing with my age; 'tis time to give my just disdain a vent, and, cursing, leave so base a government. where dædalus his borrowed wings laid by,[ ] to that obscure retreat i chuse to fly: while yet few furrows on my face are seen, } while i walk upright, and old age is green, } and lachesis has somewhat left to spin.[ ] } now, now 'tis time to quit this cursed place, and hide from villains my too honest face: here let arturius live,[ ] and such as he; such manners will with such a town agree. knaves, who in full assemblies have the knack of turning truth to lies, and white to black, can hire large houses, and oppress the poor by farmed excise; can cleanse the common-shore, and rent the fishery; can bear the dead, } and teach their eyes dissembled tears to shed; } all this for gain; for gain they sell their very head. } these fellows (see what fortune's power can do!) were once the minstrels of a country show; followed the prizes through each paltry town, by trumpet-cheeks and bloated faces known. but now, grown rich, on drunken holidays, at their own costs exhibit public plays; where, influenced by the rabble's bloody will, with thumbs bent back, they popularly kill.[ ] from thence returned, their sordid avarice rakes in excrements again, and hires the jakes. why hire they not the town, not every thing, since such as they have fortune in a string, who, for her pleasure, can her fools advance, and toss them topmost on the wheel of chance? what's rome to me, what business have i there? i who can neither lie, nor falsely swear? nor praise my patron's undeserving rhymes, nor yet comply with him, nor with his times? unskilled in schemes by planets to foreshow, like canting rascals, how the wars will go: i neither will, nor can, prognosticate to the young gaping heir, his father's fate; nor in the entrails of a toad have pried, nor carried bawdy presents to a bride: for want of these town-virtues, thus alone i go, conducted on my way by none; like a dead member from the body rent, maimed, and unuseful to the government. who now is loved, but he who loves the times, conscious of close intrigues, and dipt in crimes, labouring with secrets which his bosom burn, yet never must to public light return? they get reward alone, who can betray; for keeping honest counsels none will pay. he who can verres[ ] when he will accuse, the purse of verres may at pleasure use: but let not all the gold which tagus hides, and pays the sea in tributary tides,[ ] be bribe sufficient to corrupt thy breast, or violate with dreams thy peaceful rest. great men with jealous eyes the friend behold, whose secrecy they purchase with their gold. i haste to tell thee,--nor shall shame oppose,-- what confidents our wealthy romans chose; and whom i must abhor: to speak my mind, i hate, in rome, a grecian town to find; to see the scum of greece transplanted here, received like gods, is what i cannot bear. nor greeks alone, but syrians here abound; obscene orontes,[ ] diving under ground, conveys his wealth to tyber's hungry shores, and fattens italy with foreign whores: hither their crooked harps and customs come; all find receipt in hospitable rome. the barbarous harlots crowd the public place:-- } go, fools, and purchase an unclean embrace; } the painted mitre court, and the more painted face. } old romulus,[ ] and father mars, look down! } your herdsman primitive, your homely clown, } is turned a beau in a loose tawdry gown. } his once unkem'd and horrid locks, behold 'stilling sweet oil; his neck enchained with gold; aping the foreigners in every dress, which, bought at greater cost, becomes him less. meantime they wisely leave their native land; from sycion, samos, and from alaband, and amydon, to rome they swarm in shoals: so sweet and easy is the gain from fools. poor refugees at first, they purchase here; and, soon as denizened, they domineer; grow to the great, a flattering, servile rout, work themselves inward, and their patrons out. quick-witted, brazen-faced, with fluent tongues, patient of labours, and dissembling wrongs. riddle me this, and guess him if you can, who bears a nation in a single man? a cook, a conjurer, a rhetorician, } a painter, pedant, a geometrician, } a dancer on the ropes, and a physician; } all things the hungry greek exactly knows, and bid him go to heaven, to heaven he goes. in short, no scythian, moor, or thracian born, but in that town which arms and arts adorn.[ ] shall he be placed above me at the board, in purple clothed, and lolling like a lord? shall he before me sign, whom t'other day } a small-craft vessel hither did convey, } where, stowed with prunes, and rotten figs, he lay? } how little is the privilege become of being born a citizen of rome! the greeks get all by fulsome flatteries; a most peculiar stroke they have at lies. they make a wit of their insipid friend, his blubber-lips and beetle-brows commend, his long crane-neck and narrow shoulders praise,-- you'd think they were describing hercules. a creaking voice for a clear treble goes; though harsher than a cock, that treads and crows. we can as grossly praise; but, to our grief, no flattery but from grecians gains belief. besides these qualities, we must agree, they mimic better on the stage than we: the wife, the whore, the shepherdess, they play, in such a free, and such a graceful way, that we believe a very woman shown, and fancy something underneath the gown. but not antiochus, nor stratocles,[ ] } our ears and ravished eyes can only please; } the nation is composed of such as these. } all greece is one comedian; laugh, and they return it louder than an ass can bray; grieve, and they grieve; if you weep silently, } there seems a silent echo in their eye; } they cannot mourn like you, but they can cry. } call for a fire, their winter clothes they take; begin but you to shiver, and they shake; in frost and snow, if you complain of heat, they rub the unsweating brow, and swear they sweat. we live not on the square with such as these; such are our betters who can better please; who day and night are like a looking-glass, still ready to reflect their patron's face; the panegyric hand, and lifted eye, prepared for some new piece of flattery. even nastiness occasions will afford; they praise a belching, or well-pissing lord. besides, there's nothing sacred, nothing free from bold attempts of their rank lechery. through the whole family their labours run; } the daughter is debauched, the wife is won; } nor 'scapes the bridegroom, or the blooming son. } if none they find for their lewd purpose fit, they with the walls and very floors commit. they search the secrets of the house, and so are worshipped there, and feared for what they know. and, now we talk of grecians, cast a view } on what, in schools, their men of morals do. } a rigid stoick his own pupil slew; } a friend, against a friend of his own cloth, turned evidence, and murdered on his oath.[ ] what room is left for romans in a town where grecians rule, and cloaks controul the gown? some diphilus, or some protogenes,[ ] look sharply out, our senators to seize; engross them wholly, by their native art, and fear no rivals in their bubbles' heart: one drop of poison in my patron's ear, one slight suggestion of a senseless fear, infused with cunning, serves to ruin me; disgraced, and banished from the family. in vain forgotten services i boast; my long dependence in an hour is lost. look round the world, what country will appear, where friends are left with greater ease than here? at rome (nor think me partial to the poor) all offices of ours are out of door: in vain we rise, and to the levees run; my lord himself is up before, and gone: the prætor bids his lictors mend their pace, lest his colleague outstrip him in the race. the childless matrons are, long since, awake, and for affronts the tardy visits take. 'tis frequent here to see a free-born son on the left hand of a rich hireling run; because the wealthy rogue can throw away, for half a brace of bouts, a tribune's pay; but you, poor sinner, though you love the vice, and like the whore, demur upon the price; and, frighted with the wicked sum, forbear to lend a hand, and help her from the chair. produce a witness of unblemished life, holy as numa, or as numa's wife, or him who bid the unhallowed flames retire, and snatched the trembling goddess from the fire;[ ] the question is not put how far extends his piety, but what he yearly spends; quick, to the business; how he lives and eats; how largely gives; how splendidly he treats; how many thousand acres feed his sheep; what are his rents; what servants does he keep? the account is soon cast up; the judges rate our credit in the court by our estate. swear by our gods, or those the greeks adore, thou art as sure forsworn, as thou art poor: the poor must gain their bread by perjury; } and e'en the gods, that other means deny, } in conscience must absolve them, when they lie. } add, that the rich have still a gibe in store, and will be monstrous witty on the poor; for the torn surtout and the tattered vest, the wretch and all his wardrobe, are a jest; the greasy gown, sullied with often turning, gives a good hint, to say,--the man's in mourning; or, if the shoe be ripped, or patches put,-- he's wounded! see the plaister on his foot. want is the scorn of every wealthy fool, and wit in rags is turned to ridicule. pack hence, and from the covered benches rise, (the master of the ceremonies cries,) this is no place for you, whose small estate is not the value of the settled rate; the sons of happy punks, the pandar's heir, } are privileged to sit in triumph there, } to clap the first, and rule the theatre. } up to the galleries, for shame, retreat; for, by the roscian law,[ ] the poor can claim no seat.-- who ever brought to his rich daughter's bed, the man that polled but twelve pence for his head? who ever named a poor man for his heir, or called him to assist the judging chair? the poor were wise, who, by the rich oppressed, withdrew, and sought a secret place of rest.[ ] once they did well, to free themselves from scorn; but had done better, never to return. rarely they rise by virtue's aid, who lie plunged in the depth of helpless poverty. at rome 'tis worse, where house-rent by the year, } and servants' bellies, cost so devilish dear, } and tavern-bills run high for hungry cheer. } to drink or eat in earthen-ware we scorn, } which cheaply country-cupboards does adorn, } and coarse blue hoods on holidays are worn. } some distant parts of italy are known, where none but only dead men wear a gown;[ ] on theatres of turf, in homely state, old plays they act, old feasts they celebrate; the same rude song returns upon the crowd, and, by tradition, is for wit allowed. the mimic yearly gives the same delights; and in the mother's arms the clownish infant frights. their habits (undistinguished by degree) } are plain, alike; the same simplicity, } both on the stage, and in the pit, you see. } in his white cloak the magistrate appears; the country bumpkin the same livery wears. but here attired beyond our purse we go, for useless ornament and flaunting show; we take on trust, in purple robes to shine, and poor, are yet ambitious to be fine. this is a common vice, though all things here are sold, and sold unconscionably dear. what will you give that cossus[ ] may but view your face, and in the crowd distinguish you; may take your incense like a gracious god, and answer only with a civil nod? to please our patrons, in this vicious age, we make our entrance by the favourite page; shave his first down, and when he polls his hair, the consecrated locks to temples bear; pay tributary cracknels, which he sells, and with our offerings help to raise his vails. who fears in country-towns a house's fall, or to be caught betwixt a riven wall? but we inhabit a weak city here, which buttresses and props but scarcely bear; and 'tis the village-mason's daily calling, to keep the world's metropolis from falling, to cleanse the gutters, and the chinks to close, and, for one night, secure his lord's repose. at cumæ we can sleep quite round the year, nor falls, nor fires, nor nightly dangers fear; while rolling flames from roman turrets fly, and the pale citizens for buckets cry. thy neighbour has removed his wretched store, few hands will rid the lumber of the poor; thy own third story smokes, while thou, supine, art drenched in fumes of undigested wine. for if the lowest floors already burn, cock-lofts and garrets soon will take the turn, where thy tame pigeons next the tiles were bred,[ ] which, in their nests unsafe, are timely fled. codrus[ ] had but one bed, so short to boot, that his short wife's short legs hung dangling out; his cupboard's head six earthen pitchers graced, beneath them was his trusty tankard placed; and, to support this noble plate, there lay a bending chiron cast from honest clay; his few greek books a rotten chest contained, whose covers much of mouldiness complained; where mice and rats devoured poetic bread, and with heroic verse luxuriously were fed. 'tis true, poor codrus nothing had to boast, and yet poor codrus all that nothing lost; begged naked through the streets of wealthy rome, and found not one to feed, or take him home. but, if the palace of arturius burn, the nobles change their clothes, the matrons mourn; the city-prætor will no pleadings hear; } the very name of fire we hate and fear, } and look aghast, as if the gauls were here. } while yet it burns, the officious nation flies, some to condole, and some to bring supplies. one sends him marble to rebuild, and one white naked statues of the parian stone, the work of polyclete, that seem to live; while others images for altars give; one books and skreens, and pallas to the breast; another bags of gold, and he gives best. childless arturius, vastly rich before, thus, by his losses, multiplies his store; suspected for accomplice to the fire, that burnt his palace but to build it higher. but, could you be content to bid adieu to the dear playhouse, and the players too, sweet country-seats are purchased every where, } with lands and gardens, at less price than here } you hire a darksome dog-hole by the year. } a small convenience decently prepared, a shallow well, that rises in your yard, that spreads his easy crystal streams around, and waters all the pretty spot of ground. there, love the fork, thy garden cultivate, and give thy frugal friends a pythagorean treat;[ ] 'tis somewhat to be lord of some small ground, in which a lizard may, at least, turn round. 'tis frequent here, for want of sleep, to die, } which fumes of undigested feasts deny, } and, with imperfect heat, in languid stomachs fry. } what house secure from noise the poor can keep, when even the rich can scarce afford to sleep? so dear it costs to purchase rest in rome, and hence the sources of diseases come. the drover, who his fellow-drover meets in narrow passages of winding streets; the waggoners, that curse their standing teams, would wake even drowsy drusus from his dreams. and yet the wealthy will not brook delay, but sweep above our heads, and make their way, in lofty litters borne, and read and write, or sleep at ease, the shutters make it night; yet still he reaches first the public place. the press before him stops the client's pace; the crowd that follows crush his panting sides, and trip his heels; he walks not, but he rides. one elbows him, one jostles in the shole, a rafter breaks his head, or chairman's pole; stocking'd with loads of fat town-dirt he goes, } and some rogue-soldier, with his hob-nailed shoes, } indents his legs behind in bloody rows. } see, with what smoke our doles we celebrate: } a hundred guests, invited, walk in state; } a hundred hungry slaves, with their dutch kitchens, wait. } huge pans the wretches on their heads must bear, which scarce gigantic corbulo[ ] could rear; yet they must walk upright beneath the load, nay run, and, running, blow the sparkling flames abroad. their coats, from botching newly brought, are torn. unwieldy timber-trees, in waggons borne, stretched at their length, beyond their carriage lie, that nod, and threaten ruin from on high; for, should their axle break, its overthrow } would crush, and pound to dust, the crowd below; } nor friends their friends, nor sires their sons could know; } nor limbs, nor bones, nor carcase, would remain, but a mashed heap, a hotchpotch of the slain; one vast destruction; not the soul alone, but bodies, like the soul, invisible are flown. meantime, unknowing of their fellow's fate, the servants wash the platter, scower the plate, then blow the fire, with puffing cheeks, and lay } the rubbers, and the bathing-sheets display, } and oil them first; and each is handy in his way. } but he, for whom this busy care they take, poor ghost! is wandering by the stygian lake; affrighted with the ferryman's grim face, new to the horrors of that uncouth place, his passage begs, with unregarded prayer, and wants two farthings to discharge his fare. return we to the dangers of the night.-- and, first, behold our houses' dreadful height; from whence come broken potsherds tumbling down, } and leaky ware from garret-windows thrown; } well may they break our heads, that mark the flinty stone. } 'tis want of sense to sup abroad too late, unless thou first hast settled thy estate; as many fates attend thy steps to meet, as there are waking windows in the street. bless the good gods, and think thy chance is rare, to have a piss-pot only for thy share. the scouring drunkard, if he does not fight before his bed-time, takes no rest that night; passing the tedious hours in greater pain than stern achilles, when his friend was slain; 'tis so ridiculous, but so true withal, a bully cannot sleep without a brawl. yet, though his youthful blood be fired with wine, he wants not wit the danger to decline; is cautious to avoid the coach and six, and on the lacquies will no quarrel fix. his train of flambeaux, and embroidered coat, may privilege my lord to walk secure on foot; but me, who must by moon-light homeward bend, or lighted only with a candle's end, poor me he fights, if that be fighting, where he only cudgels, and i only bear. he stands, and bids me stand; i must abide, for he's the stronger, and is drunk beside. where did you whet your knife to-night, he cries, and shred the leeks that in your stomach rise? whose windy beans have stuft your guts, and where have your black thumbs been dipt in vinegar? with what companion-cobler have you fed, on old ox-cheeks, or he-goat's tougher head? what, are you dumb? quick, with your answer, quick, before my foot salutes you with a kick. say, in what nasty cellar, under ground, or what church-porch, your rogueship may be found?-- answer, or answer not, 'tis all the same, he lays me on, and makes me bear the blame. before the bar for beating him you come; this is a poor man's liberty in rome. you beg his pardon; happy to retreat with some remaining teeth, to chew your meat. nor is this all; for when, retired, you think to sleep securely, when the candles wink, when every door with iron chains is barred, and roaring taverns are no longer heard; the ruffian robbers, by no justice awed, and unpaid cut-throat soldiers, are abroad; those venal souls, who, hardened in each ill, to save complaints and prosecution, kill. chased from their woods and bogs, the padders come } to this vast city, as their native home, } to live at ease, and safely skulk in rome. } the forge in fetters only is employed; our iron mines exhausted and destroyed in shackles; for these villains scarce allow goads for the teams, and plough-shares for the plough. oh, happy ages of our ancestors, beneath the kings and tribunitial powers! one jail did all their criminals restrain, which now the walls of rome can scarce contain. more i could say, more causes i could show for my departure, but the sun is low; the waggoner grows weary of my stay, and whips his horses forwards on their way. farewell! and when, like me, o'erwhelmed with care, } you to your own aquinam[ ] shall repair, } to take a mouthful of sweet country air, } be mindful of your friend; and send me word, what joys your fountains and cool shades afford. then, to assist your satires, i will come, and add new venom when you write of rome. footnotes: [ ] cumæ, a small city in campania, near puteoli, or puzzolo, as it is called. the habitation of the cumæan sybil. [ ] baiæ, another little town in campania, near the sea: a pleasant place. [ ] prochyta, a small barren island belonging to the kingdom of naples. [ ] the poets in juvenal's time used to rehearse their poetry in august. [ ] numa, the second king of rome, who made their laws, and instituted their religion. [ ] Ægeria, a nymph, or goddess, with whom numa feigned to converse by night; and to be instructed by her, in modelling his superstitions. [ ] we have a similar account of the accommodation of these vagabond israelites, in the sixth satire, where the prophetic jewess plies her customers: ----_cophino, fænoque relicto._ her goods a basket, and old hay her bed; she strolls, and telling fortunes, gains her bread.--editor. [ ] dædalus, in his flight from crete, alighted at cumæ. [ ] lachesis is one of the three destinies, whose office was to spin the life of every man; as it was of clotho to hold the distaff, and atropos to cut the thread. [ ] arturius means any debauched wicked fellow, who gains by the times. [ ] in a prize of sword-players, when one of the fencers had the other at his mercy, the vanquished party implored the clemency of the spectators. if they thought he deserved it not, they held up their thumbs, and bent them backwards in sign of death. [ ] verres, præter in sicily, contemporary with cicero, by whom accused of oppressing the province, he was condemned: his name is used here for any rich vicious man. [ ] tagus, a famous river in spain, which discharges itself into the ocean near lisbon, in portugal. it was held of old to be full of golden sands. [ ] orontes, the greatest river of syria. the poet here puts the river for the inhabitants of syria. [ ] romulus was the first king of rome, and son of mars, as the poets feign. the first romans were herdsmen. [ ] athens, of which pallas, the goddess of arms and arts, was patroness. [ ] antiochus and stratocles, two famous grecian mimics, or actors, in the poet's time. [ ] publius egnatius, a stoick, falsely accused bareas soranus, as tacitus tells us. [ ] grecians living in rome. [ ] lucius metellus, the high priest, who, when the temple of vesta was on fire, saved the palladium. [ ] roscius, a tribune, ordered the distinction of places at public shows, betwixt the noblemen of rome and the plebeians. [ ] alluding to the secession of the plebeians to the mons sacer, or sacred hill, as it was called, when they were persecuted by the aristocracy. this very extraordinary resignation of their faculty, on the part of the common people, was not singular in the roman history. it argues a much more inconsiderable population than the ancient writers would have us believe. editor. [ ] the meaning is, that men in some parts of italy never wore a gown, the usual habit of the romans, till they were buried in one. [ ] any wealthy man. [ ] the romans used to breed their tame pigeons in their garrets. [ ] codrus, a learned man, very poor: by his books, supposed to be a poet; for, in all probability, the heroic verses here mentioned, which rats and mice devoured, were homer's works. [ ] herbs, roots, fruits, and sallads. [ ] corbulo was a famous general, in nero's time, who conquered armenia, and was afterwards put to death by that tyrant, when he was in greece, in reward of his great services. his stature was not only tall above the ordinary size, but he was also proportionably strong. [ ] the birth-place of juvenal. the sixth satire of juvenal. the argument. _this satire, of almost double length to any of the rest, is a bitter invective against the fair sex. it is, indeed, a common-place, from whence all the moderns have notoriously stolen their sharpest railleries. in his other satires, the poet has only glanced on some particular women, and generally scourged the men; but this he reserved wholly for the ladies. how they had offended him, i know not; but, upon the whole matter, he is not to be excused for imputing to all, the vices of some few amongst them. neither was it generously done of him, to attack the weakest, as well as the fairest, part of the creation; neither do i know what moral he could reasonably draw from it. it could not be to avoid the whole sex, if all had been true which he alleges against them; for that had been to put an end to human kind. and to bid us beware of their artifices, is a kind of silent acknowledgment, that they have more wit than men; which turns the satire upon us, and particularly upon the poet, who thereby makes a compliment, where he meant a libel. if he intended only to exercise his wit, he has forfeited his judgment, by making the one half of his readers his mortal enemies; and amongst the men, all the happy lovers, by their own experience, will disprove his accusations. the whole world must allow this to be the wittiest of his satires; and truly he had need of all his parts, to maintain, with so much violence, so unjust a charge. i am satisfied he will bring but few over to his opinion; and on that consideration chiefly i ventured to trans late him. though there wanted not another reason, which was, that no one else would undertake it; at least, sir c. s., who could have done more right to the author, after a long delay, at length absolutely refused so ungrateful an employment; and every one will grant, that the work must have been imperfect and lame, if it had appeared without one of the principal members belonging to it. let the poet, therefore, bear the blame of his own invention; and let me satisfy the world, that i am not of his opinion. whatever his roman ladies were, the english are free from all his imputations. they will read with wonder and abhorrence the vices of an age, which was the most infamous of any on record. they will bless themselves when they behold those examples, related of domitian's time; they will give back to antiquity those monsters it produced, and believe, with reason, that the species of those women is extinguished, or, at least, that they were never here propagated. i may safely, therefore, proceed to the argument of a satire, which is no way relating to them; and first observe, that my author makes their lust the most heroic of their vices; the rest are in a manner but digression. he skims them over, but he dwells on this; when he seems to have taken his last leave of it, on the sudden he returns to it: it is one branch of it in hippia, another in messalina, but lust is the main body of the tree. he begins with this text in the first line, and takes it up, with intermissions, to the end of the chapter. every vice is a loader, but that is a ten. the fillers, or intermediate parts, are--their revenge; their contrivances of secret crimes; their arts to hide them; their wit to excuse them; and their impudence to own them, when they can no longer be kept secret. then the persons to whom they are most addicted, and on whom they commonly bestow the last favours, as stage-players, fiddlers, singing-boys, and fencers. those who pass for chaste amongst them, are not really so; but only, for their vast doweries, are rather suffered, than loved, by their own husbands. that they are imperious, domineering, scolding wives; set up for learning, and criticism in poetry; but are false judges: love to speak greek, (which was then the fashionable tongue, as french is now with us). that they plead causes at the bar, and play prizes at the bear-garden: that they are gossips and newsmongers; wrangle with their neighbours abroad, and beat their servants at home: that they lie-in for new faces once a month; are sluttish with their husbands in private, and paint and dress in public for their lovers: that they deal with jews, diviners, and fortune-tellers; learn the arts of miscarrying and barrenness; buy children, and produce them for their own; murder their husbands' sons, if they stand in their way to his estate, and make their adulterers his heirs. from hence the poet proceeds to show the occasions of all these vices, their original, and how they were introduced in rome by peace, wealth, and luxury. in conclusion, if we will take the word of our malicious author, bad women are the general standing rule; and the good, but some few exceptions to it._ in saturn's reign, at nature's early birth, there was that thing called chastity on earth; when in a narrow cave, their common shade, the sheep, the shepherds, and their gods were laid; when reeds, and leaves, and hides of beasts, were spread, } by mountain-housewives, for their homely bed, } and mossy pillows raised, for the rude husband's head. } unlike the niceness of our modern dames, (affected nymphs, with new-affected names,) the cynthias, and the lesbias of our years, who for a sparrow's death dissolve in tears, those first unpolished matrons, big and bold, gave suck to infants of gigantic mould; rough as their savage lords, who ranged the wood, and, fat with acorns, belched their windy food. for when the world was buxom, fresh, and young, her sons were undebauched, and therefore strong; and whether born in kindly beds of earth, or struggling from the teeming oaks to birth, or from what other atoms they begun, no sires they had, or, if a sire, the sun. some thin remains of chastity appeared even under jove,[ ] but jove without a beard; before the servile greeks had learnt to swear by heads of kings; while yet the bounteous year her common fruits in open plains exposed; ere thieves were feared, or gardens were inclosed. at length uneasy justice upwards flew, and both the sisters to the stars withdrew;[ ] from that old æra whoring did begin, so venerably ancient is the sin. adulterers next invade the nuptial state, and marriage-beds creaked with a foreign weight; all other ills did iron times adorn, but whores and silver in one age were born. yet thou, they say, for marriage dost provide; is this an age to buckle with a bride? they say thy hair the curling art is taught, the wedding-ring perhaps already bought; a sober man like thee to change his life! what fury would possess thee with a wife? art thou of every other death bereft, no knife, no ratsbane, no kind halter left? (for every noose compared to her's is cheap.) is there no city-bridge from whence to leap? would'st thou become her drudge, who dost enjoy a better sort of bedfellow, thy boy? he keeps thee not awake with nightly brawls, nor, with a begged reward, thy pleasure palls; nor, with insatiate heavings, calls for more, when all thy spirits were drained out before. but still ursidius courts the marriage-bait, longs for a son to settle his estate, and takes no gifts, though every gaping heir would gladly grease the rich old bachelor. what revolution can appear so strange, as such a lecher such a life to change? a rank, notorious whoremaster, to choose to thrust his neck into the marriage-noose? he who so often, in a dreadful fright, had, in a coffer, 'scaped the jealous cuckold's sight; that he, to wedlock dotingly betrayed, should hope, in this lewd town, to find a maid!-- the man's grown mad! to ease his frantic pain, run for the surgeon, breathe the middle vein; but let a heifer, with gilt horns, be led to juno, regent of the marriage-bed; and let him every deity adore, } if his new bride prove not an arrant whore, } in head, and tail, and every other pore. } on ceres' feast,[ ] restrained from their delight, few matrons there, but curse the tedious night; few whom their fathers dare salute, such lust their kisses have, and come with such a gust. with ivy now adorn thy doors, and wed; such is thy bride, and such thy genial bed. think'st thou one man is for one woman meant? she sooner with one eye would be content. and yet, 'tis noised, a maid did once appear in some small village, though fame says not where. 'tis possible; but sure no man she found; 'twas desart all about her father's ground. and yet some lustful god might there make bold; are jove and mars grown impotent and old? many a fair nymph has in a cave been spread, and much good love without a feather-bed. whither would'st thou, to chuse a wife, resort, the park, the mall, the playhouse, or the court? which way soever thy adventures fall, secure alike of chastity in all. one sees a dancing-master capering high, and raves, and pisses, with pure extacy; another does with all his motions move, and gapes, and grins, as in the feat of love; a third is charmed with the new opera notes, admires the song, but on the singer dotes. the country lady in the box appears, } softly she warbles over all she hears, } and sucks in passion both at eyes and ears. } the rest (when now the long vacation's come, the noisy hall and theatres grown dumb) their memories to refresh, and cheer their hearts, in borrowed breeches, act the players' parts. the poor, that scarce have wherewithal to eat, will pinch, to make the singing-boy a treat; the rich, to buy him, will refuse no price, and stretch his quail-pipe, till they crack his voice. tragedians, acting love, for lust are sought, though but the parrots of a poet's thought. the pleading lawyer, though for counsel used, in chamber-practice often is refused. still thou wilt have a wife, and father heirs, the product of concurring theatres. perhaps a fencer did thy brows adorn, and a young swordsman to thy lands is born. thus hippia loathed her old patrician lord, and left him for a brother of the sword. to wondering pharos[ ] with her love she fled, to show one monster more than afric bred; forgetting house and husband left behind, } even children too, she sails before the wind; } false to them all, but constant to her kind. } but, stranger yet, and harder to conceive, she could the playhouse and the players leave. born of rich parentage, and nicely bred, she lodged on down, and in a damask bed; yet daring now the dangers of the deep, on a hard mattress is content to sleep. ere this, 'tis true, she did her fame expose; but that great ladies with great ease can lose. the tender nymph could the rude ocean bear, so much her lust was stronger than her fear. but had some honest cause her passage prest, the smallest hardship had disturbed her breast. each inconvenience makes their virtue cold; but womankind in ills is ever bold. were she to follow her own lord to sea, what doubts and scruples would she raise to stay? her stomach sick, and her head giddy grows, the tar and pitch are nauseous to her nose; but in love's voyage nothing can offend, women are never sea-sick with a friend. amidst the crew she walks upon the board, } she eats, she drinks, she handles every cord; } and if she spews, 'tis thinking of her lord. } now ask, for whom her friends and fame she lost? what youth, what beauty, could the adulterer boast? what was the face, for which she could sustain to be called mistress to so base a man? the gallant of his days had known the best; } deep scars were seen indented on his breast, } and all his battered limbs required their needful rest; } a promontory wen, with grisly grace, stood high upon the handle of his face: his blear-eyes ran in gutters to his chin; his beard was stubble, and his cheeks were thin. but 'twas his fencing did her fancy move; 'tis arms, and blood, and cruelty, they love. but should he quit his trade, and sheath his sword, her lover would begin to be her lord. this was a private crime; but you shall hear what fruits the sacred brows of monarchs bear:[ ] the good old sluggard but began to snore, when, from his side, up rose the imperial whore; she, who preferred the pleasures of the night to pomps, that are but impotent delight, strode from the palace, with an eager pace, to cope with a more masculine embrace. muffled she marched, like juno in a cloud, of all her train but one poor wench allowed; one whom in secret-service she could trust, the rival and companion of her lust. to the known brothel-house she takes her way, } and for a nasty room gives double pay; } that room in which the rankest harlot lay. } prepared for fight, expectingly she lies, with heaving breasts, and with desiring eyes. still as one drops, another takes his place, and, baffled, still succeeds to like disgrace. at length, when friendly darkness is expired, and every strumpet from her cell retired, she lags behind and, lingering at the gate, with a repining sigh submits to fate; all filth without, and all a fire within, tired with the toil, unsated with the sin. old cæsar's bed the modest matron seeks, the steam of lamps still hanging on her cheeks in ropy smut; thus foul, and thus bedight, she brings him back the product of the night. now, should i sing what poisons they provide, with all their trumpery of charms beside, and all their arts of death,--it would be known, lust is the smallest sin the sex can own. cæsinia still, they say, is guiltless found } of every vice, by her own lord renowned; } and well she may, she brought ten thousand pound. } she brought him wherewithal to be called chaste; his tongue is tied in golden fetters fast: he sighs, adores, and courts her every hour; who would not do as much for such a dower? she writes love-letters to the youth in grace, nay, tips the wink before the cuckold's face; and might do more, her portion makes it good; wealth has the privilege of widowhood.[ ] these truths with his example you disprove, who with his wife is monstrously in love: but know him better; for i heard him swear, 'tis not that she's his wife, but that she's fair. let her but have three wrinkles in her face, let her eyes lessen, and her skin unbrace, soon you will hear the saucy steward say,-- pack up with all your trinkets, and away; you grow offensive both at bed and board; your betters must be had to please my lord. meantime she's absolute upon the throne, and, knowing time is precious, loses none. she must have flocks of sheep, with wool more fine than silk, and vineyards of the noblest wine; whole droves of pages for her train she craves, and sweeps the prisons for attending slaves. in short, whatever in her eyes can come, or others have abroad, she wants at home. when winter shuts the seas, and fleecy snows make houses white, she to the merchant goes; rich crystals of the rock she takes up there, huge agate vases, and old china ware; then berenice's ring[ ] her finger proves, more precious made by her incestuous loves, and infamously dear; a brother's bribe, even god's anointed, and of judah's tribe; where barefoot they approach the sacred shrine, and think it only sin to feed on swine. but is none worthy to be made a wife } in all this town? suppose her free from strife, } rich, fair, and fruitful, of unblemished life; } chaste as the sabines, whose prevailing charms, dismissed their husbands' and their brothers' arms; grant her, besides, of noble blood, that ran in ancient veins, ere heraldry began; suppose all these, and take a poet's word, a black swan is not half so rare a bird. a wife, so hung with virtues, such a freight, what mortal shoulders could support the weight! some country girl, scarce to a curtsey bred, would i much rather than cornelia[ ] wed; if supercilious, haughty, proud, and vain, she brought her father's triumphs in her train. away with all your carthaginian state; } let vanquished hannibal without doors wait, } too burly, and too big, to pass my narrow gate. } o pæan! cries amphion,[ ] bend thy bow } against my wife, and let my children go!-- } but sullen pæan shoots at sons and mothers too. } his niobe and all his boys he lost; even her, who did her numerous offspring boast, as fair and fruitful as the sow that carried the thirty pigs, at one large litter farrowed.[ ] what beauty, or what chastity, can bear so great a price, if, stately and severe, she still insults, and you must still adore? grant that the honey's much, the gall is more. upbraided with the virtues she displays, seven hours in twelve you loath the wife you praise. some faults, though small, intolerable grow; for what so nauseous and affected too, as those that think they due perfection want, who have not learnt to lisp the grecian cant?[ ] in greece, their whole accomplishments they seek: their fashion, breeding, language, must be greek; but, raw in all that does to rome belong, they scorn to cultivate their mother-tongue. in greek they flatter, all their fears they speak; tell all their secrets; nay, they scold in greek: even in the feat of love, they use that tongue. such affectations may become the young; but thou, old hag, of three score years and three, is showing of thy parts in greek for thee? #zôê kai psychê!# all those tender words the momentary trembling bliss affords; the kind soft murmurs of the private sheets are bawdy, while thou speak'st in public streets. those words have fingers; and their force is such, they raise the dead, and mount him with a touch. but all provocatives from thee are vain; no blandishment the slackened nerve can strain. if then thy lawful spouse thou canst not love, what reason should thy mind to marriage move? why all the charges of the nuptial feast, wine and deserts, and sweet-meats to digest? the endowing gold that buys the dear delight, given for thy first and only happy night? if thou art thus uxoriously inclined, to bear thy bondage with a willing mind, prepare thy neck, and put it in the yoke; but for no mercy from thy woman look. for though, perhaps, she loves with equal fires, to absolute dominion she aspires, joys in the spoils, and triumphs o'er thy purse; the better husband makes the wife the worse. nothing is thine to give, or sell, or buy, } all offices of ancient friendship die, } nor hast thou leave to make a legacy.[ ] } by thy imperious wife thou art bereft a privilege, to pimps and panders left; thy testament's her will; where she prefers } her ruffians, drudges, and adulterers, } adopting all thy rivals for thy heirs. } go drag that slave to death!--your reason? why should the poor innocent be doomed to die? what proofs? for, when man's life is in debate, the judge can ne'er too long deliberate.-- call'st thou that slave a man? the wife replies; proved, or unproved, the crime, the villain dies. i have the sovereign power to save, or kill, and give no other reason but my will.-- thus the she-tyrant reigns, till, pleased with change, her wild affections to new empires range; another subject-husband she desires; divorced from him, she to the first retires, while the last wedding-feast is scarcely o'er, and garlands hang yet green upon the door. so still the reckoning rises; and appears in total sum, eight husbands in five years. the title for a tomb-stone might be fit, but that it would too commonly be writ. her mother living, hope no quiet day; } she sharpens her, instructs her how to flay } her husband bare, and then divides the prey. } she takes love-letters, with a crafty smile, and, in her daughter's answer, mends the style. in vain the husband sets his watchful spies; she cheats their cunning, or she bribes their eyes. the doctor's called; the daughter, taught the trick, pretends to faint, and in full health is sick. the panting stallion, at the closet-door, hears the consult, and wishes it were o'er. canst thou, in reason, hope, a bawd so known, should teach her other manners than her own? her interest is in all the advice she gives; 'tis on the daughter's rents the mother lives. no cause is tried at the litigious bar, but women plaintiffs or defendants are; they form the process, all the briefs they write, } the topics furnish, and the pleas indict, } and teach the toothless lawyer how to bite. } they turn viragos too; the wrestler's toil they try, and smear the naked limbs with oil; against the post their wicker shields they crush, flourish the sword, and at the flastron push. of every exercise the mannish crew fulfils the parts, and oft excels us too; prepared not only in feigned fights to engage, but rout the gladiators on the stage. what sense of shame in such a breast can lie, inured to arms, and her own sex to fly? yet to be wholly man she would disclaim; } to quit her tenfold pleasure at the game, } for frothy praises and an empty name. } oh what a decent sight 'tis to behold all thy wife's magazine by auction sold! the belt, the crested plume, the several suits of armour, and the spanish leather boots! yet these are they, that cannot bear the heat of figured silks, and under sarcenet sweat. behold the strutting amazonian whore, she stands in guard with her right foot before; her coats tucked up, and all her motions just, she stamps, and then cries,--hah! at every thrust; but laugh to see her, tired with many a bout, call for the pot, and like a man piss out. the ghosts of ancient romans, should they rise, would grin to see their daughters play a prize. besides, what endless brawls by wives are bred? the curtain-lecture makes a mournful bed. then, when she has thee sure within the sheets, her cry begins, and the whole day repeats. conscious of crimes herself, she teazes first; thy servants are accused; thy whore is curst; she acts the jealous, and at will she cries; for womens' tears are but the sweat of eyes. poor cuckold fool! thou think'st that love sincere, and sucks between her lips the falling tear; but search her cabinet, and thou shalt find each tiller there with love-epistles lined. suppose her taken in a close embrace, } this you would think so manifest a case, } no rhetoric could defend, no impudence outface; } and yet even then she cries,--the marriage-vow a mental reservation must allow; and there's a silent bargain still implied, } the parties should be pleased on either side, } and both may for their private needs provide. } though men yourselves, and women us you call, yet _homo_ is a common name for all.-- there's nothing bolder than a woman caught; guilt gives them courage to maintain their fault. you ask, from whence proceed these monstrous crimes? once poor, and therefore chaste, in former times our matrons were; no luxury found room, in low-roofed houses, and bare walls of loam; their hands with labour hardened while 'twas light, and frugal sleep supplied the quiet night; while pinched with want, their hunger held them straight, when hannibal was hovering at the gate: but wanton now, and lolling at our ease, we suffer all the inveterate ills of peace, and wasteful riot; whose destructive charms, revenge the vanquished world of our victorious arms. no crime, no lustful postures are unknown, since poverty, our guardian god, is gone; pride, laziness, and all luxurious arts, pour, like a deluge, in from foreign parts: since gold obscene, and silver found the way, } strange fashions, with strange bullion, to convey, } and our plain simple manners to betray. } what care our drunken dames to whom they spread? wine no distinction makes of tail or head. who lewdly dancing at a midnight ball, for hot eringoes and fat oysters call: full brimmers to their fuddled noses thrust, brimmers, the last provocatives of lust; when vapours to their swimming brains advance, and double tapers on the table dance. now think what bawdy dialogues they have, what tullia talks to her confiding slave, at modesty's old statue; when by night they make a stand, and from their litters light; the good man early to the levee goes, and treads the nasty paddle of his spouse. the secrets of the goddess named the good,[ ] are even by boys and barbers understood; where the rank matrons, dancing to the pipe, gig with their bums, and are for action ripe; with music raised, they spread abroad their hair, and toss their heads like an enamoured mare; laufella lays her garland by, and proves the mimic lechery of manly loves. ranked with the lady the cheap sinner lies; for here not blood, but virtue, gives the prize. nothing is feigned in this venereal strife; 'tis downright lust, and acted to the life. so full, so fierce, so vigorous, and so strong, that looking on would make old nestor young. impatient of delay, a general sound, } an universal groan of lust goes round; } for then, and only then, the sex sincere is found. } now is the time of action; now begin, they cry, and let the lusty lovers in. the whoresons are asleep; then bring the slaves, and watermen, a race of strong-backed knaves. i wish, at least, our sacred rites were free from those pollutions of obscenity: but 'tis well known what singer,[ ] how disguised, a lewd audacious action enterprized; into the fair, with women mixed, he went, armed with a huge two-handed instrument; a grateful present to those holy choirs, where the mouse, guilty of his sex, retires, and even male pictures modestly are veiled: yet no profaneness in that age prevailed; no scoffers at religious rites were found, though now at every altar they abound. i hear your cautious counsel; you would say, keep close your women under lock and key:-- but, who shall keep those keepers? women, nurst in craft; begin with those, and bribe them first. the sex is turned all whore; they love the game, and mistresses and maids are both the same. the poor ogulnia, on the poet's day, will borrow clothes and chair to see the play; she, who before had mortgaged her estate, and pawned the last remaining piece of plate. some are reduced their utmost shifts to try; but women have no shame of poverty. they live beyond their stint, as if their store the more exhausted, would encrease the more: some men, instructed by the labouring ant, provide against the extremities of want; but womankind, that never knows a mean, down to the dregs their sinking fortune drain: hourly they give, and spend, and waste, and wear, and think no pleasure can be bought too dear. there are, who in soft eunuchs place their bliss, to shun the scrubbing of a bearded kiss, and 'scape abortion; but their solid joy is when the page, already past a boy, is caponed late, and to the gelder shown, with his two-pounders to perfection grown; when all the navel-string could give, appears; all but the beard, and that's the barber's loss, not theirs. seen from afar, and famous for his ware, he struts into the bath among the fair; the admiring crew to their devotions fall, and, kneeling, on their new priapus call. kerved for his lady's use, with her he lies; and let him drudge for her, if thou art wise, rather than trust him with thy favourite boy; he proffers death, in proffering to enjoy. if songs they love, the singer's voice they force beyond his compass, 'till his quail-pipe's hoarse. his lute and lyre with their embrace is worn; with knots they trim it, and with gems adorn; run over all the strings, and kiss the case, and make love to it in the master's place. a certain lady once, of high degree, to janus vowed, and vesta's deity, that pollio[ ] might, in singing, win the prize; pollio, the dear, the darling of her eyes: she prayed, and bribed; what could she more have done for a sick husband, or an only son? with her face veiled, and heaving up her hands, the shameless suppliant at the altar stands; the forms of prayer she solemnly pursues, and, pale with fear, the offered entrails views. answer, ye powers; for, if you heard her vow, your godships, sure, had little else to do. this is not all; for actors[ ] they implore; an impudence unknown to heaven before. the aruspex,[ ] tired with this religious rout, is forced to stand so long, he gets the gout. but suffer not thy wife abroad to roam: if she loves singing, let her sing at home; not strut in streets with amazonian pace, for that's to cuckold thee before thy face. their endless itch of news comes next in play; they vent their own, and hear what others say; know what in thrace, or what in france is done; the intrigues betwixt the stepdame and the son; tell who loves who, what favours some partake, and who is jilted for another's sake; what pregnant widow in what month was made; how oft she did, and, doing, what she said. she first beholds the raging comet rise, knows whom it threatens, and what lands destroys; still for the newest news she lies in wait, and takes reports just entering at the gate. wrecks, floods, and fires, whatever she can meet, she spreads, and is the fame of every street. this is a grievance; but the next is worse; a very judgment, and her neighbours' curse; for, if their barking dog disturb her ease, no prayer can bend her, no excuse appease. the unmannered malefactor is arraigned; but first the master, who the cur maintained, must feel the scourge. by night she leaves her bed, by night her bathing equipage is led, that marching armies a less noise create; she moves in tumult, and she sweats in state. meanwhile, her guests their appetites must keep; some gape for hunger, and some gasp for sleep. at length she comes, all flushed; but ere she sup, } swallows a swinging preparation-cup, } and then, to clear her stomach, spews it up. } the deluge-vomit all the floor o'erflows, and the sour savour nauseates every nose. she drinks again, again she spews a lake; her wretched husband sees, and dares not speak; but mutters many a curse against his wife, and damns himself for choosing such a life. but of all plagues, the greatest is untold; the book-learned wife, in greek and latin bold; the critic-dame, who at her table sits, } homer and virgil quotes, and weighs their wits, } and pities dido's agonizing fits. } she has so far the ascendant of the board, the prating pedant puts not in one word; the man of law is non-plust in his suit, nay, every other female tongue is mute. hammers, and beating anvils, you would swear, and vulcan, with his whole militia, there. tabors and trumpets, cease; for she alone is able to redeem the labouring moon.[ ] even wit's a burthen, when it talks too long; but she, who has no continence of tongue, should walk in breeches, and should wear a beard, and mix among the philosophic herd. o what a midnight curse has he, whose side is pestered with a mood and figure bride! let mine, ye gods! (if such must be my fate,) no logic learn, nor history translate, but rather be a quiet, humble fool; i hate a wife to whom i go to school, who climbs the grammar-tree, distinctly knows where noun, and verb, and participle grows; corrects her country-neighbour; and, a-bed, for breaking priscian's breaks her husband's head.[ ] the gaudy gossip, when she's set agog, in jewels drest, and at each ear a bob, goes flaunting out, and, in her trim of pride, thinks all she says or does is justified. when poor, she's scarce a tolerable evil; but rich, and fine, a wife's a very devil. she duly, once a month, renews her face; meantime, it lies in daub, and hid in grease. those are the husband's nights; she craves her due, he takes fat kisses, and is stuck in glue. but to the loved adulterer when she steers, fresh from the bath, in brightness she appears: for him the rich arabia sweats her gum, } and precious oils from distant indies come, } how haggardly soe'er she looks at home. } the eclipse then vanishes, and all her face is opened, and restored to every grace; the crust removed, her cheeks, as smooth as silk, are polished with a wash of asses milk; and should she to the farthest north be sent, a train of these[ ] attend her banishment. but hadst thou seen her plaistered up before, 'twas so unlike a face, it seemed a sore. 'tis worth our while, to know what all the day they do, and how they pass their time away; for, if o'er-night the husband has been slack, } or counterfeited sleep, and turned his back, } next day, be sure, the servants go to wrack. } the chamber-maid and dresser are called whores, the page is stript, and beaten out of doors; the whole house suffers for the master's crime, and he himself is warned to wake another time. she hires tormentors by the year; she treats her visitors, and talks, but still she beats; beats while she paints her face, surveys her gown, casts up the day's account, and still beats on: tired out, at length, with an outrageous tone, she bids them in the devil's name be gone. compared with such a proud, insulting dame, sicilian tyrants[ ] may renounce their name. for, if she hastes abroad to take the air, or goes to isis' church, (the bawdy house of prayer,) she hurries all her handmaids to the task; her head, alone, will twenty dressers ask. psecas, the chief, with breast and shoulders bare, trembling, considers every sacred hair; if any straggler from his rank be found, a pinch must for the mortal sin compound. psecas is not in fault; but in the glass, the dame's offended at her own ill face. that maid is banished; and another girl, more dexterous, manages the comb and curl. the rest are summoned on a point so nice, and, first, the grave old woman gives advice; the next is called, and so the turn goes round, as each for age, or wisdom, is renowned: such counsel, such deliberate care they take, as if her life and honour lay at stake: with curls on curls, they build her head before, and mount it with a formidable tower. a giantess she seems; but look behind, and then she dwindles to the pigmy kind. duck-legged, short-waisted, such a dwarf she is, that she must rise on tip-toes for a kiss. meanwhile, her husband's whole estate is spent! he may go bare, while she receives his rent. she minds him not; she lives not as a wife, but, like a bawling neighbour, full of strife: near him in this alone, that she extends her hate to all his servants and his friends. bellona's priests,[ ] an eunuch at their head, about the streets a mad procession lead; the venerable gelding, large, and high, o'erlooks the herd of his inferior fry. his aukward clergymen about him prance, and beat the timbrels to their mystic dance; guiltless of testicles, they tear their throats, and squeak, in treble, their unmanly notes. meanwhile, his cheeks the mitred prophet swells, and dire presages of the year foretels; unless with eggs (his priestly hire) they haste to expiate, and avert the autumnal blast; and add beside a murrey-coloured vest,[ ] which, in their places, may receive the pest, and, thrown into the flood, their crimes may bear, to purge the unlucky omens of the year. the astonished matrons pay, before the rest; that sex is still obnoxious to the priest. through ye they beat, and plunge into the stream, if so the god has warned them in a dream. weak in their limbs, but in devotion strong, } on their bare hands and feet they crawl along } a whole field's length, the laughter of the throng. } should io (io's priest, i mean) command a pilgrimage to meroe's burning sand, through deserts they would seek the secret spring, and holy water for lustration bring. how can they pay their priests too much respect, who trade with heaven, and earthly gains neglect! with him domestic gods discourse by night; by day, attended by his choir in white, the bald pate tribe runs madding through the street, and smile to see with how much ease they cheat. the ghostly sire forgives the wife's delights, who sins, through frailty, on forbidden nights, and tempts her husband in the holy time, when carnal pleasure is a mortal crime. the sweating image shakes his head, but he, with mumbled prayers, atones the deity. the pious priesthood the fat goose receive, and, they once bribed, the godhead must forgive. no sooner these remove, but full of fear, a gipsey jewess whispers in your ear, and begs an alms; an high-priest's daughter she, } versed in their talmud, and divinity, } and prophesies beneath a shady tree. } her goods a basket, and old hay her bed, she strolls, and, telling fortunes, gains her bread: farthings, and some small monies, are her fees; yet she interprets all your dreams for these, foretels the estate, when the rich uncle dies, and sees a sweetheart in the sacrifice. such toys, a pigeon's entrails can disclose, which yet the armenian augur far outgoes; in dogs, a victim more obscene, he rakes; and murdered infants for inspection takes: for gain his impious practice he pursues; for gain will his accomplices accuse. more credit yet is to chaldeans[ ] given; what they foretel, is deemed the voice of heaven. their answers, as from hammon's altar, come; since now the delphian oracles are dumb, and mankind, ignorant of future fate, believes what fond astrologers relate. of these the most in vogue is he, who, sent beyond seas, is returned from banishment; his art who to aspiring otho[ ] sold, and sure succession to the crown foretold; for his esteem is in his exile placed; the more believed, the more he was disgraced. no astrologic wizard honour gains, who has not oft been banished, or in chains. he gets renown, who, to the halter near, but narrowly escapes, and buys it dear. from him your wife enquires the planets' will, when the black jaundice shall her mother kill; her sister's and her uncle's end would know, but, first, consults his art, when you shall go; and,--what's the greatest gift that heaven can give,-- if after her the adulterer shall live. she neither knows, nor cares to know, the rest, if mars and saturn[ ] shall the world infest; or jove and venus, with their friendly rays, will interpose, and bring us better days. beware the woman too, and shun her sight, who in these studies does herself delight, by whom a greasy almanack is born, with often handling, like chaft amber worn: not now consulting, but consulted, she of the twelve houses, and their lords, is free. she, if the scheme a fatal journey show, stays safe at home, but lets her husband go. if but a mile she travel out of town, the planetary hour must first be known, and lucky moment; if her eye but aches, or itches, its decumbiture she takes; no nourishment receives in her disease, but what the stars and ptolemy[ ] shall please. the middle sort, who have not much to spare, } to chiromancers' cheaper art repair, } who clap the pretty palm, to make the lines more fair. } but the rich matron, who has more to give, her answers from the brachman[ ] will receive; skilled in the globe and sphere, he gravely stands, and, with his compass, measures seas and lands. the poorest of the sex have still an itch to know their fortunes, equal to the rich. the dairy-maid enquires, if she shall take the trusty tailor, and the cook forsake. yet these, though poor, the pain of childbed bear, and without nurses their own infants rear: you seldom hear of the rich mantle spread for the babe, born in the great lady's bed. such is the power of herbs, such arts they use to make them barren, or their fruit to lose. but thou, whatever slops she will have bought, be thankful, and supply the deadly draught; help her to make man-slaughter; let her bleed, and never want for savin at her need. for, if she holds till her nine months be run, thou may'st be father to an ethiop's son;[ ] a boy, who, ready gotten to thy hands, by law is to inherit all thy lands; one of that hue, that, should he cross the way, his omen would discolour all the day.[ ] i pass the foundling by, a race unknown, at doors exposed, whom matrons make their own; and into noble families advance a nameless issue, the blind work of chance. indulgent fortune does her care employ, and, smiling, broods upon the naked boy: her garment spreads, and laps him in the fold, and covers with her wings from nightly cold: gives him her blessing, puts him in a way, sets up the farce, and laughs at her own play. him she promotes; she favours him alone, and makes provision for him as her own. the craving wife the force of magic tries, and filters for the unable husband buys; the potion works not on the part designed, but turns his brains, and stupifies his mind. the sotted moon-calf gapes, and, staring on, sees his own business by another done: a long oblivion, a benumbing frost, constrains his head, and yesterday is lost. some nimbler juice would make him foam and rave, like that cæsonia[ ] to her caius gave, who, plucking from the forehead of the foal his mother's love,[ ] infused it in the bowl; the boiling blood ran hissing in his veins, till the mad vapour mounted to his brains. the thunderer was not half so much on fire, when juno's girdle kindled his desire. what woman will not use the poisoning trade, when cæsar's wife the precedent has made? let agrippina's mushroom[ ] be forgot, given to a slavering, old, unuseful sot; that only closed the driv'ling dotard's eyes, and sent his godhead downward to the skies; but this fierce potion calls for fire and sword, nor spares the commons, when it strikes the lord. so many mischiefs were in one combined; so much one single poisoner cost mankind. if step-dames seek their sons-in-law to kill, 'tis venial trespass--let them have their will; but let the child, entrusted to the care of his own mother, of her bread beware; beware the food she reaches with her hand,-- the morsel is intended for thy land. thy tutor be thy taster, ere thou eat; there's poison in thy drink and in thy meat. you think this feigned; the satire, in a rage, struts in the buskins of the tragic stage; forgets his business is to laugh and bite, and will of deaths and dire revenges write. would it were all a fable that you read! but drymon's wife[ ] pleads guilty to the deed. i, she confesses, in the fact was caught, two sons dispatching at one deadly draught. what, two! two sons, thou viper, in one day! yes, seven, she cries, if seven were in my way. medea's legend is no more a lie, our age adds credit to antiquity. great ills, we grant, in former times did reign, and murders then were done, but not for gain. less admiration to great crimes is due, which they through wrath, or through revenge pursue; for, weak of reason, impotent of will, the sex is hurried headlong into ill; and like a cliff, from its foundations torn by raging earthquakes, into seas is borne. but those are fiends, who crimes from thought begin, and, cool in mischief, meditate the sin. they read the example of a pious wife, redeeming, with her own, her husband's life; yet if the laws did that exchange afford, would save their lap-dog sooner than their lord. where'er you walk the belides[ ] you meet, and clytemnestras grow in every street; but here's the difference,--agamemnon's wife was a gross butcher with a bloody knife; but murder now is to perfection grown, and subtle poisons are employed alone; unless some antidote prevents their arts, and lines with balsam all the nobler parts. in such a case, reserved for such a need, rather than fail, the dagger does the deed. footnotes: [ ] when jove had driven his father into banishment, the silver age began, according to the poets. [ ] the poet makes justice and chastity sisters; and says, that they fled to heaven together, and left earth for ever. [ ] when the roman women were forbidden to bed with their husbands. [ ] she fled to egypt, which wondered at the enormity of her crime. [ ] he tells the famous story of messalina, wife to the emperor claudius. [ ] his meaning is, that a wife, who brings a large dowry, may do what she pleases, and has all the privileges of a widow. [ ] a ring of great price, which herod agrippa gave to his sister berenice. he was king of the jews, but tributary to the romans. [ ] cornelia was mother to the gracchi, of the family of the cornelii, from whence scipio the african was descended, who triumphed over hannibal. [ ] he alludes to the known fable of niobe, in ovid. amphion was her husband. pæan was apollo; who with his arrows killed her children, because she boasted that she was more fruitful than latona, apollo's mother. [ ] he alludes to the white sow in virgil, who farrowed thirty pigs. [ ] women then learned greek, as ours speak french. [ ] all the romans, even the most inferior, and most infamous sort of them, had the power of making wills. [ ] the _bona dea_, or good goddess, at whose feasts no men were to be present. [ ] he alludes to the story of p. clodius, who, disguised in the habit of a singing woman, went into the house of cæsar, where the feast of the good goddess was celebrated, to find an opportunity with cæsar's wife, pompeia. [ ] a famous singing boy. [ ] that such an actor, whom they love, might obtain the prize. [ ] he who inspects the entrails of the sacrifice, and from thence foretels the success of the prayer. [ ] the ancients endeavoured to help the moon, during an eclipse, by sounding trumpets. [ ] a woman-grammarian, who corrects her husband for speaking false latin, which is called breaking priscian's head. [ ] _i. e._ of the milk asses. [ ] sicilian tyrants were grown to a proverb, in latin, for their cruelty. [ ] bellona's priests were a sort of fortune-tellers; and their high priest an eunuch. [ ] a garment was given to the priest, which he threw, or was supposed to throw, into the river; and that, they thought, bore all the sins of the people, which were drowned with it. [ ] chaldeans are thought to have been the first astrologers. [ ] otho succeeded galba in the empire, which was foretold him by an astrologer. [ ] mars and saturn are the two unfortunate planets; jupiter and venus the two fortunate. [ ] a famous astrologer; an egyptian. [ ] the brachmans are indian philosophers, who remain to this day; and hold, after pythagoras, the translation of souls from one body to another. [ ] juvenal's meaning is, help her to any kind of slops which may cause her to miscarry, for fear she may be brought to bed of a black moor, which thou, being her husband, art bound to father; and that bastard may, by law, inherit thy estate. [ ] the romans thought it ominous to see a black moor in the morning, if he were the first man they met. [ ] cæsonia, wife to caius caligula, the great tyrant. it is said she gave him a love-potion, which, flying up into his head, distracted him, and was the occasion of his committing so many acts of cruelty. [ ] the hippomanes, a fleshy excrescence, which the ancients supposed grew in the forehead of a foal, and which the mare bites off when it is born. it was supposed to be a sovereign ingredient in philtres. editor. [ ] agrippina was the mother of the tyrant nero, who poisoned her husband claudius, that nero might succeed, who was her son, and not britannicus, who was the son of claudius, by a former wife. [ ] the widow of drymon poisoned her sons, that she might succeed to their estate: this was done in the poet's time, or just before it. [ ] the belides were fifty sisters, married to fifty young men, their cousin-germans; and killed them all on their wedding-night, excepting hipermnestra, who saved her husband linus. the tenth satire of juvenal. the argument. _the poet's design, in this divine satire, is, to represent the various wishes and desires of mankind, and to set out the folly of them. he runs through all the several heads, of riches, honours, eloquence, fame for martial achievements, long life, and beauty; and gives instances in each, how frequently they have proved the ruin of those that owned them. he concludes, therefore, that, since we generally choose so ill for ourselves, we should do better to leave it to the gods to make the choice for us. all we can safely ask of heaven, lies within a very small compass--it is but health of body and mind; and if we have these, it is not much matter what we want besides; for we have already enough to make us happy._ look round the habitable world, how few know their own good, or, knowing it, pursue. how void of reason are our hopes and fears! what in the conduct of our life appears so well designed, so luckily begun, but when we have our wish, we wish undone? whole houses, of their whole desires possest, are often ruined at their own request. in wars and peace things hurtful we require, when made obnoxious to our own desire. with laurels some have fatally been crowned; } some, who the depths of eloquence have found, } in that unnavigable stream were drowned. } the brawny fool, who did his vigour boast; in that presuming confidence was lost;[ ] but more have been by avarice opprest, and heaps of money crowded in the chest: unwieldy sums of wealth, which higher mount than files of marshalled figures can account; to which the stores of croesus, in the scale, } would look like little dolphins, when they sail } in the vast shadow of the british whale. } for this, in nero's arbitrary time, when virtue was a guilt, and wealth a crime, a troop of cut-throat guards were sent to seize the rich men's goods, and gut their palaces: the mob, commissioned by the government, are seldom to an empty garret sent. the fearful passenger, who travels late, charged with the carriage of a paltry plate, shakes at the moonshine shadow of a rush, and sees a red-coat rise from every bush; the beggar sings, even when he sees the place beset with thieves, and never mends his pace. of all the vows, the first and chief request of each, is--to be richer than the rest: and yet no doubts the poor man's draught controul, he dreads no poison in his homely bowl; then fear the deadly drug, when gems divine enchase the cup, and sparkle in the wine. will you not now the pair of sages praise, who the same end pursued by several ways? one pitied, one contemned, the woeful times; one laughed at follies, one lamented crimes. laughter is easy; but the wonder lies, what stores of brine supplied the weeper's eyes. democritus could feed his spleen, and shake his sides and shoulders, till he felt them ache; though in his country town no lictors were, nor rods, nor axe, nor tribune, did appear; nor all the foppish gravity of show, which cunning magistrates on crowds bestow. what had he done, had he beheld on high our prætor seated in mock majesty; his chariot rolling o'er the dusty place, while, with dumb pride, and a set formal face, he moves, in the dull ceremonial track, with jove's embroidered coat upon his back! a suit of hangings had not more opprest his shoulders, than that long laborious vest; a heavy gewgaw, called a crown, that spread about his temples, drowned his narrow head, and would have crushed it with the massy freight, but that a sweating slave sustained the weight; a slave, in the same chariot seen to ride, to mortify the mighty madman's pride. add now the imperial eagle, raised on high, with golden beak, the mark of majesty; trumpets before, and on the left and right a cavalcade of nobles, all in white; in their own natures false and flattering tribes, but made his friends by places and by bribes. in his own age, democritus could find sufficient cause to laugh at human kind: learn from so great a wit; a land of bogs, with ditches fenced, a heaven fat with fogs, may form a spirit fit to sway the state, and make the neighbouring monarchs fear their fate. he laughs at all the vulgar cares and fears; at their vain triumphs, and their vainer tears: an equal temper in his mind he found, when fortune flattered him, and when she frowned. 'tis plain, from hence, that what our vows request are hurtful things, or useless at the best. some ask for envied power; which public hate pursues, and hurries headlong to their fate: down go the titles; and the statue crowned, is by base hands in the next river drowned. the guiltless horses, and the chariot wheel, the same effects of vulgar fury feel: the smith prepares his hammer for the stroke, while the lung'd bellows hissing fire provoke. sejanus, almost first of roman names,[ ] the great sejanus crackles in the flames: formed in the forge, the pliant brass is laid } on anvils; and of head and limbs are made, } pans, cans, and piss-pots, a whole kitchen trade. } adorn your doors with laurels; and a bull, milk white, and large, lead to the capitol; sejanus with a rope is dragged along, the sport and laughter of the giddy throng! good lord! they cry, what ethiop lips he has; how foul a snout, and what a hanging face! by heaven, i never could endure his sight! but say, how came his monstrous crimes to light? what is the charge, and who the evidence, (the saviour of the nation and the prince?) nothing of this; but our old cæsar sent a noisy letter to his parliament. nay, sirs, if cæsar writ, i ask no more; he's guilty, and the question's out of door. how goes the mob? (for that's a mighty thing,) when the king's trump, the mob are for the king: they follow fortune, and the common cry is still against the rogue condemned to die. but the same very mob, that rascal crowd, had cried sejanus, with a shout as loud, had his designs (by fortune's favour blest) succeeded, and the prince's age opprest. but long, long since, the times have changed their face, the people grown degenerate and base; not suffered now the freedom of their choice to make their magistrates, and sell their voice. our wise forefathers, great by sea and land, had once the power and absolute command; all offices of trust themselves disposed; raised whom they pleased, and whom they pleased deposed: but we, who give our native rights away, and our enslaved posterity betray, are now reduced to beg an alms, and go on holidays to see a puppet-show. there was a damned design, cries one, no doubt, for warrants are already issued out: i met brutidius in a mortal fright, he's dipt for certain, and plays least in sight; i fear the rage of our offended prince, who thinks the senate slack in his defence. come, let us haste, our loyal zeal to show, and spurn the wretched corpse of cæsar's foe: but let our slaves be present there; lest they accuse their masters, and for gain betray.-- such were the whispers of those jealous times, about sejanus' punishment and crimes. now, tell me truly, wouldst thou change thy fate, to be, like him, first minister of state? to have thy levees crowded with resort, of a depending, gaping, servile court; dispose all honours of the sword and gown, grace with a nod, and ruin with a frown; to hold thy prince in pupillage, and sway that monarch, whom the mastered world obey? while he, intent on secret lusts alone, lives to himself, abandoning the throne; cooped in a narrow isle,[ ] observing dreams with flattering wizards, and erecting schemes! i well believe thou wouldst be great as he, for every man's a fool to that degree: all wish the dire prerogative to kill; even they would have the power, who want the will: but wouldst thou have thy wishes understood, to take the bad together with the good? wouldst thou not rather choose a small renown, to be the mayor of some poor paltry town; bigly to look, and barbarously to speak; to pound false weights, and scanty measures break? then, grant we that sejanus went astray in every wish, and knew not how to pray; for he, who grasped the world's exhausted store, yet never had enough, but wished for more, raised a top-heavy tower, of monstrous height, which, mouldering, crushed him underneath the weight. what did the mighty pompey's fall beget, and ruined him, who, greater than the great,[ ] the stubborn pride of roman nobles broke, and bent their haughty necks beneath his yoke: what else but his immoderate lust of power, prayers made and granted in a luckless hour? for few usurpers to the shades descend by a dry death, or with a quiet end. the boy, who scarce has paid his entrance down to his proud pedant, or declined a noun, (so small an elf, that, when the days are foul, he and his satchel must be borne to school,) yet prays, and hopes, and aims at nothing less, to prove a tully, or demosthenes: but both those orators, so much renowned, in their own depths of eloquence were drowned:[ ] the hand and head were never lost of those who dealt in doggrel, or who punned in prose. "fortune foretuned the dying notes of rome, till i, thy consul sole, consoled thy doom."[ ] his fate had crept below the lifted swords, had all his malice been to murder words. i rather would be mævius, thrash for rhymes like his, the scorn and scandal of the times, than that philippic[ ], fatally divine, which is inscribed the second, should be mine. nor he, the wonder of the grecian throng, who drove them with the torrent of his tongue, who shook the theatres, and swayed the state of athens, found a more propitious fate. whom, born beneath a boding horoscope, his sire, the blear-eyed vulcan of a shop, from mars his forge, sent to minerva's schools, to learn the unlucky art of wheedling fools. with itch of honour, and opinion vain, all things beyond their native worth we strain; the spoils of war, brought to feretrian jove, an empty coat of armour hung above the conqueror's chariot and in triumph borne, a streamer from a boarded galley torn, a chap-fallen beaver loosely hanging by the cloven helm, an arch of victory; on whose high convex sits a captive foe, and, sighing, casts a mournful look below;[ ]-- of every nation each illustrious name, such toys as these have cheated into fame; exchanging solid quiet, to obtain the windy satisfaction of the brain. so much the thirst of honour fires the blood; so many would be great, so few be good: for who would virtue for herself regard, or wed, without the portion of reward? yet this mad chace of fame, by few pursued, has drawn destruction on the multitude; this avarice of praise in times to come, those long inscriptions crowded on the tomb; should some wild fig-tree take her native bent, and heave below the gaudy monument, would crack the marble titles, and disperse the characters of all the lying verse. for sepulchres themselves must crumbling fall in time's abyss, the common grave of all. great hannibal within the balance lay, and tell how many pounds his ashes weigh; whom afric was not able to contain, whose length runs level with the atlantic main, and wearies fruitful nilus, to convey his sun-beat waters by so long a way; which ethiopia's double clime divides, and elephants in other mountains hides. spain first he won, the pyreneans past, and steepy alps, the mounds that nature cast; and with corroding juices, as he went, a passage through the living rocks he rent: then, like a torrent rolling from on high, he pours his headlong rage on italy, in three victorious battles over-run; yet, still uneasy, cries,--there's nothing done, till level with the ground their gates are laid, and punic flags on roman towers displayed. ask what a face belonged to this high fame, his picture scarcely would deserve a frame: a sign-post dauber would disdain to paint the one-eyed hero on his elephant. now, what's his end, o charming glory! say, what rare fifth act to crown this huffing play? in one deciding battle overcome, he flies, is banished from his native home; begs refuge in a foreign court, and there attends, his mean petition to prefer; repulsed by surly grooms, who wait before the sleeping tyrant's interdicted door. what wonderous sort of death has heaven designed, } distinguished from the herd of human kind, } for so untamed, so turbulent a mind? } nor swords at hand, nor hissing darts afar, are doomed to avenge the tedious bloody war; but poison, drawn through a ring's hollow plate, must finish him--a sucking infant's fate. go, climb the rugged alps, ambitious fool, to please the boys, and be a theme at school. one world sufficed not alexander's mind; cooped up, he seemed in earth and seas confined, and, struggling, stretched his restless limbs about the narrow globe, to find a passage out: yet entered in the brick-built town,[ ] he tried the tomb, and found the strait dimensions wide. death only this mysterious truth unfolds, the mighty soul how small a body holds. old greece a tale of athos would make out,[ ] cut from the continent, and sailed about; seas hid with navies, chariots passing o'er the channel, on a bridge from shore to shore: rivers, whose depth no sharp beholder sees, drunk at an army's dinner to the lees; with a long legend of romantic things, which in his cups the bowsy poet sings. but how did he return, this haughty brave, who whipt the winds, and made the sea his slave? (though neptune took unkindly to be bound, } and eurus never such hard usage found } in his Æolian prison under ground;) } what god so mean, even he who points the way,[ ] so merciless a tyrant to obey! but how returned he, let us ask again? } in a poor skiff he passed the bloody main, } choked with the slaughtered bodies of his train. } for fame he prayed, but let the event declare he had no mighty penn'worth of his prayer. jove, grant me length of life, and years good store heap on my bending back! i ask no more.-- both sick and healthful, old and young, conspire in this one silly mischievous desire. mistaken blessing, which old age they call, 'tis a long, nasty, darksome hospital: a ropy chain of rheums; a visage rough, deformed, unfeatured, and a skin of buff; a stitch-fallen cheek, that hangs below the jaw; such wrinkles as a skilful hand would draw for an old grandame ape, when, with a grace, she sits at squat, and scrubs her leathern face. in youth, distinctions infinite abound; no shape, or feature, just alike are found; the fair, the black, the feeble, and the strong: } but the same foulness does to age belong. } the self-same palsy, both in limbs and tongue; } the skull and forehead one bald barren plain, and gums unarmed to mumble meat in vain; besides, the eternal drivel, that supplies the dropping beard, from nostrils, mouth, and eyes. his wife and children lothe him, and, what's worse, himself does his offensive carrion curse! flatterers forsake him too; for who would kill himself, to be remembered in a will? his taste not only pall'd to wine and meat, but to the relish of a nobler treat. the limber nerve, in vain provoked to rise, inglorious from the field of battle flies; poor feeble dotard! how could he advance with his blue head-piece, and his broken lance? add, that, endeavouring still, without effect, a lust more sordid justly we suspect. those senses lost, behold a new defeat, the soul dislodging from another seat. what music, or enchanting voice, can cheer a stupid, old, impenetrable ear? no matter in what place, or what degree of the full theatre he sits to see; cornets and trumpets cannot reach his ear; under an actor's nose he's never near. his boy must bawl, to make him understand the hour o'the day, or such a lord's at hand; the little blood that creeps within his veins, is but just warmed in a hot fever's pains. in fine, he wears no limb about him sound, with sores and sicknesses beleaguered round ask me their names, i sooner could relate how many drudges on salt hippia wait; what crowds of patients the town doctor kills, or how, last fall, he raised the weekly bills; what provinces by basilus were spoiled; what herds of heirs by guardians are beguiled; how many bouts a-day that bitch has tried; how many boys that pedagogue can ride; what lands and lordships for their owner know my quondam barber, but his worship now. this dotard of his broken back complains; one his legs fail, and one his shoulder pains: another is of both his eyes bereft, and envies who has one for aiming left; a fifth, with trembling lips expecting stands as in his childhood, crammed by others hands; one, who at sight of supper opened wide } his jaws before, and whetted grinders tried, } now only yawns, and waits to be supplied; } like a young swallow, when, with weary wings, expected food her fasting mother brings. his loss of members is a heavy curse, but all his faculties decayed, a worse. his servants' names he has forgotten quite; knows not his friend who supped with him last night: not even the children he begot and bred; or his will knows them not; for, in their stead, in form of law, a common hackney jade, sole heir, for secret services, is made: so lewd, and such a battered brothel whore, that she defies all comers at her door. well, yet suppose his senses are his own, he lives to be chief mourner for his son: before his face, his wife and brother burns; he numbers all his kindred in their urns. these are the fines he pays for living long, and dragging tedious age in his own wrong; griefs always green, a household still in tears, } sad pomps, a threshold thronged with daily biers, } and liveries of black for length of years. } next to the raven's age, the pylian king[ ] was longest lived of any two-legged thing. blest, to defraud the grave so long, to mount his numbered years, and on his right hand count![ ] three hundred seasons, guzzling must of wine!-- but hold a while, and hear himself repine at fate's unequal laws, and at the clue which, merciless in length, the midmost sister drew.[ ] when his brave son upon the funeral pyre he saw extended, and his beard on fire, he turned, and, weeping, asked his friends, what crime had cursed his age to this unhappy time? thus mourned old peleus for achilles slain, and thus ulysses' father did complain. how fortunate an end had priam made, among his ancestors a mighty shade, while troy yet stood; when hector, with the race of royal bastards, might his funeral grace; amidst the tears of trojan dames inurned, and by his loyal daughters truly mourned! had heaven so blest him, he had died before the fatal fleet to sparta paris bore: but mark what age produced,--he lived to see his town in flames, his falling monarchy. in fine, the feeble sire, reduced by fate, to change his sceptre for a sword, too late, his last effort before jove's altar tries, a soldier half, and half a sacrifice: falls like an ox that waits the coming blow, old and unprofitable to the plough.[ ] at least he died a man; his queen survived, to howl, and in a barking body lived.[ ] i hasten to our own; nor will relate great mithridates,[ ] and rich croesus' fate;[ ] whom solon wisely counselled to attend the name of happy, till he knew his end. that marius was an exile, that he fled, was ta'en, in ruined carthage begged his bread; all these were owing to a life too long: for whom had rome beheld so happy, young? high in his chariot, and with laurel crowned, when he had led the cimbrian captives round the roman streets, descending from his state, in that blest hour he should have begged his fate; then, then, he might have died of all admired, and his triumphant soul with shouts expired. campania, fortune's malice to prevent, to pompey an indulgent fever sent; but public prayers imposed on heaven to give their much loved leader an unkind reprieve; the city's fate and his conspired to save the head reserved for an egyptian slave.[ ] cethegus, though a traitor to the state, and tortured, 'scaped this ignominious fate;[ ] and sergius, who a bad cause bravely tried, all of a piece, and undiminished, died.[ ] to venus, the fond mother makes a prayer, that all her sons and daughters may be fair: true, for the boys a mumbling vow she sends, but for the girls the vaulted temple rends: they must be finished pieces; 'tis allowed diana's beauty made latona proud, and pleased to see the wondering people pray to the new-rising sister of the day. and yet lucretia's fate would bar that vow; and fair virginia[ ] would her fate bestow on rutila, and change her faultless make for the foul rumple of her camel back. but, for his mother's boy, the beau, what frights his parents have by day, what anxious nights! form joined with virtue is a sight too rare; chaste is no epithet to suit with fair. suppose the same traditionary strain of rigid manners in the house remain; inveterate truth, an old plain sabine's heart; suppose that nature too has done her part, infused into his soul a sober grace, and blushed a modest blood into his face, (for nature is a better guardian far than saucy pedants, or dull tutors are;) yet still the youth must ne'er arrive at man, (so much almighty bribes and presents can;) even with a parent, where persuasions fail, money is impudent, and will prevail. we never read of such a tyrant king, who gelt a boy deformed, to hear him sing; nor nero, in his more luxurious rage, e'er made a mistress of an ugly page: sporus, his spouse, nor crooked was, nor lame, } with mountain back, and belly, from the game } cross-barred; but both his sexes well became. } go, boast your springal, by his beauty curst to ills, nor think i have declared the worst; his form procures him journey-work; a strife betwixt town-madams, and the merchant's wife: guess, when he undertakes this public war, what furious beasts offended cuckolds are. adulterers are with dangers round beset; born under mars, they cannot 'scape the net; and, from revengeful husbands, oft have tried worse handling than severest laws provide: one stabs, one slashes, one, with cruel art, makes colon suffer for the peccant part. but your endymion, your smooth smock-faced boy, unrivalled, shall a beauteous dame enjoy. not so: one more salacious, rich, and old, outbids, and buys her pleasure for her gold: now, he must moil, and drudge, for one he lothes; she keeps him high in equipage and clothes; she pawns her jewels, and her rich attire, and thinks the workman worthy of his hire. in all things else immoral, stingy, mean, but, in her lusts, a conscionable quean. she may be handsome, yet be chaste, you say;-- good observator, not so fast away; did it not cost the modest youth his life, who shunned the embraces of his father's wife?[ ] and was not t'other stripling forced to fly, } who coldly did his patron's queen deny, } and pleaded laws of hospitality?[ ] } the ladies charged them home, and turned the tale; with shame they reddened, and with spite grew pale. 'tis dangerous to deny the longing dame; she loses pity, who has lost her shame. now silius wants thy counsel, give advice; wed cæsar's wife, or die--the choice is nice.[ ] her comet-eyes she darts on every grace, and takes a fatal liking to his face. adorned with bridal pomp, she sits in state; the public notaries and aruspex wait; the genial bed is in the garden dressed, } the portion paid, and every rite expressed, } which in a roman marriage is professed. } 'tis no stolen wedding this; rejecting awe, she scorns to marry, but in form of law: in this moot case, your judgment to refuse is present death, besides the night you lose: if you consent, 'tis hardly worth your pain, a day or two of anxious life you gain; till loud reports through all the town have past, and reach the prince--for cuckolds hear the last. indulge thy pleasure, youth, and take thy swing, for not to take is but the self-same thing; inevitable death before thee lies, but looks more kindly through a lady's eyes. what then remains? are we deprived of will; must we not wish, for fear of wishing ill? receive my counsel, and securely move;-- intrust thy fortune to the powers above; leave them to manage for thee, and to grant what their unerring wisdom sees thee want: in goodness, as in greatness, they excel; ah, that we loved ourselves but half so well! we, blindly by our head-strong passions led, are hot for action, and desire to wed; then wish for heirs; but to the gods alone } our future offspring, and our wives, are known; } the audacious strumpet, and ungracious son. } yet, not to rob the priests of pious gain, that altars be not wholly built in vain, forgive the gods the rest, and stand confined to health of body, and content of mind; a soul, that can securely death defy, and count it nature's privilege to die; serene and manly, hardened to sustain the load of life, and exercised in pain; guiltless of hate, and proof against desire, that all things weighs, and nothing can admire; that dares prefer the toils of hercules, to dalliance, banquet, and ignoble ease. the path to peace is virtue: what i show, thyself may freely on thyself bestow; fortune was never worshipped by the wise, but, set aloft by fools, usurps the skies. footnotes: [ ] milo, of crotona; who, for a trial of his strength, going to rend an oak, perished in the attempt; for his arms were caught in the trunk of it, and he was devoured by wild beasts. [ ] sejanus was tiberius's first favourite; and, while he continued so, had the highest marks of honour bestowed on him. statues and triumphal chariots were every where erected to him. but, as soon as he fell into disgrace with the emperor, these were all immediately dismounted; and the senate and common people insulted over him as meanly as they had fawned on him before. [ ] the island of caprea, which lies about a league out at sea from the campanian shore, was the scene of tiberius's pleasures in the latter part of his reign. there he lived, for some years, with diviners, soothsayers, and worse company; and from thence dispatched all his orders to the senate. [ ] julius cæsar, who got the better of pompey, that was styled, the great. [ ] demosthenes and tully both died for their oratory; demosthenes gave himself poison, to avoid being carried to antipater, one of alexander's captains, who had then made himself master of athens. tully was murdered by m. antony's order, in return for those invectives he made against him. [ ] the latin of this couplet is a famous verse of tully's, in which he sets out the happiness of his own consulship, famous for the vanity and the ill poetry of it; for tully, as he had a good deal of the one, so he had no great share of the other. [ ] the orations of tully against m. antony were styled by him "philippics," in imitation of demosthenes; who had given that name before to those he made against philip of macedon. [ ] this is a mock account of a roman triumph. [ ] babylon, where alexander died. [ ] xerxes is represented in history after a very romantic manner: affecting fame beyond measure, and doing the most extravagant things to compass it. mount athos made a prodigious promontory in the Ægean sea; he is said to have cut a channel through it, and to have sailed round it. he made a bridge of boats over the hellespont, where it was three miles broad; and ordered a whipping for the winds and seas, because they had once crossed his designs; as we have a very solemn account of it in herodotus. but, after all these vain boasts, he was shamefully beaten by themistocles at salamis; and returned home, leaving most of his fleet behind him. [ ] mercury, who was a god of the lowest size, and employed always in errands between heaven and hell, and mortals used him accordingly; for his statues were anciently placed where roads met, with directions on the fingers of them, pointing out the several ways to travellers. [ ] nestor, king of pylus; who was three hundred years old, according to homer's account; at least as he is understood by his expositors. [ ] the ancients counted by their fingers; their left hands served them till they came up to an hundred; after that they used their right, to express all greater numbers. [ ] the fates were three sisters, who had all some peculiar business assigned them by the poets, in relation to the lives of men. the first held the distaff, the second spun the thread, and the third cut it. [ ] whilst troy was sacked by the greeks, old king priam is said to have buckled on his armour to oppose them; which he had no sooner done, but he was met by pyrrhus, and slain before the altar of jupiter, in his own palace; as we have the story finely told in virgil's second Æneid. [ ] hecuba, his queen, escaped the swords of the grecians, and outlived him. it seems, she behaved herself so fiercely and uneasily to her husband's murderers, while she lived, that the poets thought fit to turn her into a bitch when she died. [ ] mithridates, after he had disputed the empire of the world for forty years together, with the romans, was at last deprived of life and empire by pompey the great. [ ] croesus, in the midst of his prosperity, making his boast to solon, how happy he was, received this answer from the wise man,--that no one could pronounce himself happy, till he saw what his end should be. the truth of this croesus found, when he was put in chains by cyrus, and condemned to die. [ ] pompey, in the midst of his glory, fell into a dangerous fit of sickness, at naples. a great many cities then made public supplications for him. he recovered; was beaten at pharsalia; fled to ptolemy, king of egypt; and, instead of receiving protection at his court, had his head struck off by his order, to please cæsar. [ ] cethegus was one that conspired with catiline, and was put to death by the senate. [ ] sergius catiline died fighting. [ ] virginia was killed by her own father, to prevent her being exposed to the lust of appius claudius, who had ill designs upon her. the story at large is in livy's third book; and it is a remarkable one, as it gave occasion to the putting down the power of the decemviri, of whom appius was one. [ ] hippolytus, the son of theseus, was loved by his mother-in-law, phædria; but he not complying with her, she procured his death. [ ] bellerophon, the son of king glaucus, residing some time at the court of pætus, king of the argives, the queen, sthenobæa, fell in love with him; but he refusing her, she turned the accusation upon him, and he narrowly escaped pætus's vengeance. [ ] messalina, wife to the emperor claudius, infamous for her lewdness. she set her eyes upon c. silius, a fine youth; forced him to quit his own wife, and marry her, with all the formalities of a wedding, whilst claudius cæsar was sacrificing at hostia. upon his return, he put both silius and her to death. the sixteenth satire of juvenal. the argument. _the poet in this satire proves, that the condition of a soldier is much better than that of a countryman; first, because a countryman, however affronted, provoked, and struck himself, dares not strike a soldier, who is only to be judged by a court-martial; and, by the law of camillus, which obliges him not to quarrel without the trenches, he is also assured to have a speedy hearing, and quick dispatch; whereas, the townsman, or peasant, is delayed in his suit by frivolous pretences, and not sure of justice when he is heard in the court. the soldier is also privileged to make a will, and to give away his estate, which he got in war, to whom he pleases, without consideration of parentage, or relations, which is denied to all other romans. this satire was written by juvenal, when he was a commander in egypt: it is certainly his, though i think it not finished. and if it be well observed, you will find he intended an invective against a standing army._ what vast prerogatives, my gallus, are accruing to the mighty man of war! for if into a lucky camp i light, } though raw in arms, and yet afraid to fight, } befriend me my good stars, and all goes right. } one happy hour is to a soldier better, than mother juno's[ ] recommending letter, or venus, when to mars she would prefer my suit, and own the kindness done to her.[ ] see what our common privileges are; as, first, no saucy citizen shall dare to strike a soldier, nor, when struck, resent the wrong, for fear of farther punishment. not though his teeth are beaten out, his eyes hang by a string, in bumps his forehead rise, shall he presume to mention his disgrace, or beg amends for his demolished face. a booted judge shall sit to try his cause, not by the statute, but by martial laws; which old camillus ordered, to confine the brawls of soldiers to the trench and line: a wise provision; and from thence 'tis clear, that officers a soldier's cause should hear; and taking cognizance of wrongs received, an honest man may hope to be relieved. so far 'tis well; but with a general cry, the regiment will rise in mutiny, the freedom of their fellow-rogue demand, and, if refused, will threaten to disband. withdraw thy action, and depart in peace, the remedy is worse than the disease. this cause is worthy him, who in the hall would for his fee, and for his client, bawl:[ ] but would'st thou, friend, who hast two legs alone, (which, heaven be praised, thou yet may'st call thy own,) would'st thou to run the gauntlet these expose to a whole company of hob-nailed shoes?[ ] sure the good-breeding of wise citizens should teach them more good-nature to their shins. besides, whom canst thou think so much thy friend, who dares appear thy business to defend? dry up thy tears, and pocket up the abuse, } nor put thy friend to make a bad excuse; } the judge cries out, "your evidence produce." } will he, who saw the soldier's mutton-fist, and saw thee mauled, appear within the list, to witness truth? when i see one so brave, the dead, think i, are risen from the grave; and with their long spade beards, and matted hair, our honest ancestors are come to take the air. against a clown, with more security, a witness may be brought to swear a lie, than, though his evidence be full and fair, to vouch a truth against a man of war. more benefits remain, and claimed as rights, which are a standing army's perquisites. if any rogue vexatious suits advance against me for my known inheritance, enter by violence my fruitful grounds, or take the sacred land-mark[ ] from my bounds, those bounds, which with procession and with prayer, and offered cakes, have been my annual care; or if my debtors do not keep their day, deny their hands, and then refuse to pay; i must with patience all the terms attend, among the common causes that depend, till mine is called; and that long-looked-for day is still encumbered with some new delay; perhaps the cloth of state is only spread,[ ] some of the quorum may be sick a-bed; that judge is hot, and doffs his gown, while this o'er night was bowsy, and goes out to piss: so many rubs appear, the time is gone for hearing, and the tedious suit goes on; but buft and beltmen never know these cares, no time, nor trick of law, their action bars: their cause they to an easier issue put; they will be heard, or they lug out, and cut. another branch of their revenue still } remains, beyond their boundless right to kill,-- } their father yet alive, impowered to make a will.[ ] } for what their prowess gained, the law declares is to themselves alone, and to their heirs: no share of that goes back to the begetter, but if the son fights well, and plunders better, like stout coranus, his old shaking sire does a remembrance in his will desire, inquisitive of fights, and longs in vain to find him in the number of the slain: but still he lives, and rising by the war, enjoys his gains, and has enough to spare; for 'tis a noble general's prudent part to cherish valour, and reward desert; let him be daub'd with lace, live high, and whore; sometimes be lousy, but be never poor. footnotes: [ ] juno was mother to mars, the god of war; venus was his mistress. [ ] camillus, (who being first banished by his ungrateful countrymen the romans, afterwards returned, and freed them from the gauls,) made a law, which prohibited the soldiers from quarrelling without the camp, lest upon that pretence they might happen to be absent when they ought to be on duty. [ ] the poet names a modenese lawyer, whom he calls vagellius, who was so impudent, that he would plead any cause, right or wrong, without shame or fear. [ ] the roman soldiers wore plates of iron under their shoes, or stuck them with nails, as countrymen do now. [ ] land-marks were used by the romans, almost in the same manner as now; and as we go once a year in procession about the bounds of parishes, and renew them, so they offered cakes upon the stone, or land-mark. [ ] the courts of judicature were hung, and spread, as with us; but spread only before the hundred judges were to sit, and judge public causes, which were called by lot. [ ] the roman soldiers had the privilege of making a will, in their father's life-time, of what they had purchased in the wars, as being no part of their patrimony. by this will, they had power of excluding their own parents, and giving the estate so gotten to whom they pleased: therefore, says the poet, coranus, (a soldier contemporary with juvenal, who had raised his fortune by the wars,) was courted by his own father, to make him his heir. translations from persius. the first satire of persius. argument of the prologue to the first satire. _the design of the author was to conceal his name and quality. he lived in the dangerous times of the tyrant nero, and aims particularly at him in most of his satires. for which reason, though he was a roman knight, and of a plentiful fortune, he would appear in this prologue but a beggarly poet, who writes for bread. after this, he breaks into the business of the first satire; which is chiefly to decry the poetry then in fashion, and the impudence of those who were endeavouring to pass their stuff upon the world._ prologue to the first satire. i never did on cleft parnassus dream, nor taste the sacred heliconian stream;[ ] nor can remember when my brain, inspired, was by the muses into madness fired. my share in pale pyrene[ ] i resign, and claim no part in all the mighty nine. statues, with winding ivy crowned,[ ] belong to nobler poets, for a nobler song; heedless of verse, and hopeless of the crown, } scarce half a wit, and more than half a clown, } before the shrine[ ] i lay my rugged numbers down. } who taught the parrot human notes to try, or with a voice endued the chattering pye? 'twas witty want, fierce hunger to appease; want taught their masters, and their masters these. let gain, that gilded bait, be hung on high, the hungry witlings have it in their eye; pyes, crows, and daws, poetic presents bring; you say they squeak, but they will swear they sing. the first satire. in dialogue betwixt the poet and his friend, or monitor. argument. _i need not repeat, that the chief aim of the author is against bad poets in this satire. but i must add, that he includes also bad orators, who began at that time (as petronius in the beginning of his book tells us) to enervate manly eloquence by tropes and figures, ill placed, and worse applied. amongst the poets, persius covertly strikes at nero; some of whose verses he recites with scorn and indignation. he also takes notice of the noblemen, and their abominable poetry, who, in the luxury of their fortunes, set up for wits and judges. the satire is in dialogue betwixt the author, and his friend, or monitor; who dissuades him from this dangerous attempt of exposing great men. but persius, who is of a free spirit, and has not forgotten that rome was once a commonwealth, breaks through all those difficulties, and boldly arraigns the false judgment of the age in which he lives. the reader may observe, that our poet was a stoic philosopher; and that all his moral sentences, both here and in all the rest of his satires, are drawn from the dogmas of that sect._ persius. how anxious are our cares, and yet how vain the bent of our desires! friend. thy spleen contain; for none will read thy satires.? persius. this to me? friend. none, or, what's next to none, but two or three. 'tis hard, i grant. persius. 'tis nothing; i can bear, that paltry scribblers have the public ear; that this vast universal fool, the town, should cry up labeo's stuff,[ ] and cry me down. they damn themselves; nor will my muse descend to clap with such, who fools and knaves commend: their smiles and censures are to me the same; i care not what they praise, or what they blame. in full assemblies let the crowd prevail; i weigh no merit by the common scale. the conscience is the test of every mind; "seek not thyself, without thyself, to find." but where's that roman----somewhat i would say, but fear----let fear, for once, to truth give way. truth lends the stoic courage; when i look on human acts, and read in nature's book, from the first pastimes of our infant age, to elder cares, and man's severer page; when stern as tutors, and as uncles hard, we lash the pupil, and defraud the ward, then, then i say--or would say, if i durst-- but, thus provoked, i must speak out, or burst. friend. once more forbear. persius. i cannot rule my spleen; my scorn rebels, and tickles me within. first, to begin at home:--our authors write in lonely rooms, secured from public sight; whether in prose, or verse, 'tis all the same, the prose is fustian, and the numbers lame; all noise, and empty pomp, a storm of words, labouring with sound, that little sense affords. they comb, and then they order every hair; } a gown, or white, or scoured to whiteness, wear, } a birth-day jewel bobbing at their ear;[ ] } next, gargle well their throats; and, thus prepared, they mount, a god's name, to be seen and heard; from their high scaffold, with a trumpet cheek, and ogling all their audience ere they speak. the nauseous nobles, even the chief of rome, with gaping mouths to these rehearsals come, and pant with pleasure, when some lusty line the marrow pierces, and invades the chine; at open fulsome bawdry they rejoice, and slimy jests applaud with broken voice. base prostitute! thus dost thou gain thy bread? thus dost thou feed their ears, and thus art fed? at his own filthy stuff he grins and brays, and gives the sign where he expects their praise. why have i learned, sayst thou, if thus confined, i choke the noble vigour of my mind? know, my wild fig-tree, which in rocks is bred, will split the quarry, and shoot out the head.[ ] fine fruits of learning! old ambitious fool, darest thou apply that adage of the school, as if 'tis nothing worth that lies concealed, and "science is not science till revealed?" oh, but 'tis brave to be admired, to see the crowd, with pointing fingers, cry,--that's he; that's he, whose wonderous poem is become a lecture for the noble youth of rome! who, by their fathers, is at feasts renowned, and often quoted when the bowls go round. full gorged and flushed, they wantonly rehearse, and add to wine the luxury of verse. one, clad in purple, not to lose his time, eats and recites some lamentable rhyme; some senseless phillis, in a broken note, snuffling at nose, and croaking in his throat. then graciously the mellow audience nod; is not the immortal author made a god? are not his manes blest, such praise to have? lies not the turf more lightly on his grave? and roses (while his loud applause they sing) stand ready from his sepulchre to spring? all these, you cry, but light objections are, mere malice, and you drive the jest too far: for does there breathe a man, who can reject a general fame, and his own lines neglect? in cedar tablets[ ] worthy to appear, } that need not fish, or frankincense, to fear? } thou, whom i make the adverse part to bear, } be answered thus:--if i by chance succeed in what i write, (and that's a chance indeed,) know, i am not so stupid, or so hard, not to feel praise, or fame's deserved reward; but this i cannot grant, that thy applause is my work's ultimate, or only cause. prudence can ne'er propose so mean a prize; for mark what vanity within it lies. like labeo's iliads, in whose verse is found nothing but trifling care, and empty sound; such little elegies as nobles write, who would be poets, in apollo's spite. them and their woeful works the muse defies; products of citron beds,[ ] and golden canopies. to give thee all thy due, thou hast the heart } to make a supper, with a fine desert, } and to thy thread-bare friend a cast old suit impart. } thus bribed, thou thus bespeak'st him--tell me, friend, (for i love truth, nor can plain speech offend,) what says the world of me and of my muse? the poor dare nothing tell but flattering news; but shall i speak? thy verse is wretched rhyme, and all thy labours are but loss of time. thy strutting belly swells, thy paunch is high; thou writ'st not, but thou pissest poetry. all authors to their own defects are blind; hadst thou but, janus-like,[ ] a face behind, to see the people, what splay-mouths they make; to mark their fingers, pointed at thy back; their tongues lolled out, a foot beyond the pitch, when most athirst, of an apulian bitch: but noble scribblers are with flattery fed, for none dare find their faults, who eat their bread. to pass the poets of patrician blood, what is't the common reader takes for good? the verse in fashion is, when numbers flow, soft without sense, and without spirit slow; so smooth and equal, that no sight can find the rivet, where the polished piece was joined; so even all, with such a steady view, as if he shut one eye to level true. whether the vulgar vice his satire stings, the people's riots, or the rage of kings, the gentle poet is alike in all; his reader hopes no rise, and fears no fall. friend. hourly we see some raw pin-feathered thing attempt to mount, and fights and heroes sing; who for false quantities was whipt at school but t'other day, and breaking grammar-rule; whose trivial art was never tried above the bare description of a native grove; who knows not how to praise the country store, } the feasts, the baskets, nor the fatted boar, } nor paint the flowery fields that paint themselves before; } where romulus was bred, and quintius born,[ ] whose shining plough-share was in furrows worn, met by his trembling wife returning home, and rustically joyed, as chief of rome: she wiped the sweat from the dictator's brow, } and o'er his back his robe did rudely throw; } the lictors bore in state their lord's triumphant plough. } some love to hear the fustian poet roar, and some on antiquated authors pore; rummage for sense, and think those only good who labour most, and least are understood. when thou shalt see the blear-eyed fathers teach their sons this harsh and mouldy sort of speech, or others new affected ways to try, of wanton smoothness, female poetry; one would enquire from whence this motley style did first our roman purity defile. for our old dotards cannot keep their seat, but leap and catch at all that's obsolete. others, by foolish ostentation led, when called before the bar, to save their head, bring trifling tropes, instead of solid sense, and mind their figures more than their defence; are pleased to hear their thick-skulled judges cry, well moved, oh finely said, and decently! theft (says the accuser) to thy charge i lay, o pedius: what does gentle pedius say? studious to please the genius of the times, with periods, points, and tropes,[ ] he slurs his crimes: "he robbed not, but he borrowed from the poor, and took but with intention to restore." he lards with flourishes his long harangue; 'tis fine, say'st thou;--what, to be praised, and hang? effeminate roman, shall such stuff prevail to tickle thee, and make thee wag thy tail? say, should a shipwrecked sailor sing his woe, wouldst thou be moved to pity, or bestow an alms? what's more preposterous than to see a merry beggar? mirth in misery? persius. he seems a trap for charity to lay, and cons, by night, his lesson for the day. friend. but to raw numbers, and unfinished verse, sweet sound is added now, to make it terse: "'tis tagged with rhyme, like berecynthian atys, the mid-part chimes with art, which never flat is.[ ] the dolphin brave, that cuts the liquid wave, or he who in his line can chine the long-ribbed appennine." persius. all this is doggrel stuff. friend. what if i bring a nobler verse? "arms and the man i sing." persius. why name you virgil with such fops as these? he's truly great, and must for ever please: not fierce, but aweful, is his manly page; bold is his strength, but sober is his rage. friend. what poems think you soft, and to be read with languishing regards, and bending head? persius. "their crooked horns the mimallonian crew with blasts inspired;[ ] and bassaris, who slew the scornful calf, with sword advanced on high, made from his neck his haughty head to fly: and mænas, when with ivy bridles bound, } she led the spotted lynx, then evion rung around; } evion from woods and floods repairing echo's sound." } could such rude lines a roman mouth become, were any manly greatness left in rome? mænas and atys[ ] in the mouth were bred, and never hatched within the labouring head; no blood from bitten nails those poems drew, but churned, like spittle, from the lips they flew. friend. 'tis fustian all; 'tis execrably bad; but if they will be fools, must you be mad? your satires, let me tell you, are too fierce; the great will never bear so blunt a verse. their doors are barred against a bitter flout; snarl, if you please, but you shall snarl without. expect such pay as railing rhymes deserve; you're in a very hopeful way to starve. persius. rather than so, uncensured let them be; all, all is admirably well, for me. my harmless rhyme shall 'scape the dire disgrace of common-shoars, and every pissing-place. two painted serpents[ ] shall on high appear; 'tis holy ground; you must not urine here. this shall be writ, to fright the fry away, who draw their little baubles when they play. yet old lucilius[ ] never feared the times, but lashed the city, and dissected crimes. mutius and lupus both by name he brought; he mouthed them, and betwixt his grinders caught. unlike in method, with concealed design, did crafty horace his low numbers join; and, with a sly insinuating grace, laughed at his friend, and looked him in the face; would raise a blush where secret vice he found, and tickle while he gently probed the wound; with seeming innocence the crowd beguiled, but made the desperate passes when he smiled. could he do this, and is my muse controuled by servile awe? born free, and not be bold? at least, i'll dig a hole within the ground, and to the trusty earth commit the sound; the reeds shall tell you what the poet fears, "king midas has a snout, and asses ears."[ ] this mean conceit, this darling mystery, which thou think'st nothing, friend, thou shalt not buy; nor will i change for all the flashy wit, that flattering labeo in his iliads writ. thou, if there be a thou in this base town, who dares, with angry eupolis, to frown; he who, with bold cratinus, is inspired with zeal,[ ] and equal indignation fired; who at enormous villainy turns pale, and steers against it with a full-blown sail, like aristophanes, let him but smile on this my honest work, though writ in homely style; and if two lines or three in all the vein appear less drossy, read those lines again. may they perform their author's just intent, glow in thy ears, and in thy breast ferment! but from the reading of my book and me, be far, ye foes of virtuous poverty; who fortune's fault upon the poor can throw,[ ] point at the tattered coat, and ragged shoe; lay nature's failings to their charge, and jeer the dim weak eye-sight when the mind is clear; when thou thyself, thus insolent in state, art but, perhaps, some country magistrate, whose power extends no farther than to speak big on the bench, and scanty weights to break. him also for my censor i disdain, who thinks all science, as all virtue, vain; who counts geometry, and numbers toys, and with his foot the sacred dust destroys;[ ] whose pleasure is to see a strumpet tear a cynick's beard, and lug him by the hair. such all the morning to the pleadings run; } but when the business of the day is done, } on dice, and drink, and drabs, they spend their afternoon. } footnotes: [ ] parnassus and helicon were hills consecrated to the muses, and the supposed place of their abode. parnassus was forked on the top; and from helicon ran a stream, the spring of which was called the muses' well. [ ] pyrene, a fountain in corinth, consecrated also to the muses. [ ] the statues of the poets were crowned with ivy about their brows. [ ] before the shrine; that is, before the shrine of apollo, in his temple at rome, called the palatine. [ ] note i. [ ] note ii. [ ] note iii. [ ] note iv. [ ] note v. [ ] note vi. [ ] note vii. [ ] note viii. [ ] note ix. [ ] note x. [ ] note xi. [ ] note xii. [ ] note xiii. [ ] note xiv. [ ] note xv. [ ] note xvi. [ ] note xvii. notes on translations from persius. satire i. note i. _should cry up labeo's stuff, and cry me down._--p. . nothing is remaining of atticus labeo (so he is called by the learned casaubon); nor is he mentioned by any other poet, besides persius. casaubon, from an old commentator on persius, says, that he made a very foolish translation of homer's iliads. note ii. _they comb, and then they order every hair; a gown, or white, or scoured to whiteness, wear; a birth-day jewel bobbing at their ear._--p. . he describes a poet, preparing himself to rehearse his works in public, which was commonly performed in august. a room was hired, or lent, by some friend; a scaffold was raised, and a pulpit placed for him who was to hold forth; who borrowed a new gown, or scoured his old one, and adorned his ears with jewels, &c. note iii. _know, my wild fig-tree, which in rocks is bred, will split the quarry, and shoot out the head._--p. . trees of that kind grow wild in many parts of italy, and make their way through rocks, sometimes splitting the tomb-stones. note iv. _in cedar tablets worthy to appear._--p. . the romans wrote on cedar and cypress tables, in regard of the duration of the wood. ill verses might justly be afraid of frankincense; for the papers in which they were written, were fit for nothing but to wrap it up. note v. _products of citron beds._--p. . writings of noblemen, whose bedsteads were of the wood of citron. note vi. _hadst thou but, janus-like, a face behind._--p. . janus was the first king of italy, who refuged saturn when he was expelled, by his son jupiter, from crete (or, as we now call it, candia). from his name the first month of the year is called january. he was pictured with two faces, one before and one behind; as regarding the past time and the future. some of the mythologists think he was noah, for the reason given above. note vii. _where romulus was bred, and quintius born._--p. . he speaks of the country in the foregoing verses; the praises of which are the most easy theme for poets, but which a bad poet cannot naturally describe: then he makes a digression to romulus, the first king of rome, who had a rustical education; and enlarges upon quintius cincinnatus, a roman senator, who was called from the plough to be dictator of rome. note viii. _with periods, points, and tropes, he slurs his crimes._ p. . persius here names antitheses, or seeming contradictions; which, in this place, are meant for rhetorical flourishes, as i think, with casaubon. note ix. _'tis tagged with rhyme, like berecynthian atys, the mid-part chimes with art, which never flat is._ p. . foolish verses of nero, which the poet repeats; and which cannot be translated, properly, into english. note x. _their crooked horns the mimallonian crew with blasts inspired._--p. . other verses of nero, that were mere bombast. i only note, that the repetition of these and the former verses of nero, might justly give the poet a caution to conceal his name. note xi. _mænas and atys._--p. . poems on the mænades, who were priestesses of bacchus; and of atys, who made himself an eunuch to attend on the sacrifices of cybele, called berecynthia by the poets. she was mother of the gods. note xii. _two painted serpents shall on high appear._--p. . two snakes, twined with each other, were painted on the walls, by the ancients, to show the place was holy. note xiii. _old lucilius._--p. . lucilius wrote long before horace, who imitates his manner of satire, but far excels him in the design. note xiv. _king midas has a snout, and asses ears._--p. . the story is vulgar, that midas, king of phrygia, was made judge betwixt apollo and pan, who was the best musician: he gave the prize to pan; and apollo, in revenge, gave him asses ears. he wore his hair long to hide them; but his barber discovering them, and not daring to divulge the secret, dug a hole in the ground, and whispered into it: the place was marshy; and, when the reeds grew up, they repeated the words which were spoken by the barber. by midas, the poet meant nero. note xv. _who dares, with angry eupolis, to frown; he who, with bold cratinus, is inspired with zeal._--p. . eupolis and cratinus, as also aristophanes, mentioned afterwards, were all athenian poets; who wrote that sort of comedy which was called the old comedy, where the people were named who were satirized by those authors. note xvi. _who fortune's fault upon the poor can throw._--p. . the people of rome, in the time of persius, were apt to scorn the grecian philosophers, particularly the cynics and stoics, who were the poorest of them. note xvii. _who counts geometry, and numbers toys, and with his foot the sacred dust destroys._--p. . arithmetic and geometry were taught on floors, which were strewed with dust, or sand; in which the numbers and diagrams were made and drawn, which they might strike out at pleasure. the second satire of persius. dedicated to his friend plotius macrinus, on his birth-day. the argument. _this satire contains a most grave and philosophical argument, concerning prayers and wishes. undoubtedly it gave occasion to juvenal's tenth satire; and both of them had their original from one of plato's dialogues, called the "second alcibiades." our author has induced it with great mystery of art, by taking his rise from the birth-day of his friend; on which occasions, prayers were made, and sacrifices offered by the native. persius, commending, first, the purity of his friend's vows, descends to the impious and immoral requests of others. the satire is divided into three parts. the first is the exordium to macrinus, which the poet confines within the compass of four verses: the second relates to the matter of the prayers and vows, and an enumeration of those things, wherein men commonly sinned against right reason, and offended in their requests: the third part consists in showing the repugnances of those prayers and wishes, to those of other men, and inconsistencies with themselves. he shows the original of these vows, and sharply inveighs against them; and, lastly, not only corrects the false opinion of mankind concerning them, but gives the true doctrine of all addresses made to heaven, and how they may be made acceptable to the powers above, in excellent precepts, and more worthy of a christian than a heathen._ let this auspicious morning be exprest with a white stone,[ ] distinguished from the rest, white as thy fame, and as thy honour clear, and let new joys attend on thy new added year. indulge thy genius, and o'erflow thy soul, till thy wit sparkle, like the cheerful bowl. pray; for thy prayers the test of heaven will bear, nor need'st thou take the gods aside to hear; while others, even the mighty men of rome, big swelled with mischief, to the temples come, and in low murmurs, and with costly smoke, heaven's help to prosper their black vows, invoke: so boldly to the gods mankind reveal what from each other they, for shame, conceal. give me good fame, ye powers, and make me just; thus much the rogue to public ears will trust: in private then,--when wilt thou, mighty jove; my wealthy uncle from this world remove? or, o thou thunderer's son, great hercules, that once thy bounteous deity would please to guide my rake upon the chinking sound of some vast treasure, hidden under ground![ ] o were my pupil fairly knocked o' the head, i should possess the estate if he were dead! he's so far gone with rickets, and with the evil, that one small dose would send him to the devil. this is my neighbour nerius his third spouse, of whom in happy time he rids his house; but my eternal wife!--grant, heaven, i may survive to see the fellow of this day! thus, that thou may'st the better bring about thy wishes, thou art wickedly devout; in tyber ducking thrice, by break of day, to wash the obscenities of night away.[ ] but, pr'ythee, tell me, ('tis a small request,) with what ill thoughts of jove art thou possest? wouldst thou prefer him to some man? suppose i dipped among the worst, and staius chose? which of the two would thy wise head declare the trustier tutor to an orphan heir? or, put it thus:--unfold to staius, straight, what to jove's ear thou didst impart of late: he'll stare, and o, good jupiter! will cry, canst thou indulge him in this villainy? and think'st thou jove himself with patience then can hear a prayer condemned by wicked men? that, void of care, he lolls supine in state, and leaves his business to be done by fate, because his thunder splits some burly tree, and is not darted at thy house and thee; or that his vengeance falls not at the time, just at the perpetration of thy crime, and makes thee a sad object of our eyes, fit for ergenna's prayer and sacrifice?[ ] what well-fed offering to appease the god, what powerful present to procure a nod, hast thou in store? what bribe hast thou prepared, to pull him, thus unpunished, by the beard? our superstitions with our life begin;[ ] the obscene old grandam, or the next of kin, the new-born infant from the cradle takes, and, first, of spittle a lustration makes; then in the spawl her middle-finger dips, anoints the temples, forehead, and the lips, pretending force of magic to prevent, by virtue of her nasty excrement; then dandles him with many a muttered prayer, that heaven would make him some rich miser's heir, lucky to ladies, and in time a king; which to ensure, she adds a length of navel-string. but no fond nurse is fit to make a prayer, and jove, if jove be wise, will never hear; not though she prays in white, with lifted hands. a body made of brass the crone demands for her loved nursling, strung with nerves of wire, tough to the last, and with no toil to tire; unconscionable vows, which, when we use, we teach the gods, in reason, to refuse. suppose they were indulgent to thy wish, yet the fat entrails in the spacious dish would stop the grant; the very over-care and nauseous pomp, would hinder half the prayer. thou hop'st with sacrifice of oxen slain to compass wealth, and bribe the god of gain to give thee flocks and herds, with large increase; fool! to expect them from a bullock's grease! and think'st that when the fattened flames aspire, thou see'st the accomplishment of thy desire! now, now, my bearded harvest gilds the plain, } the scanty folds can scarce my sheep contain, } and showers of gold come pouring in amain! } thus dreams the wretch, and vainly thus dreams on, till his lank purse declares his money gone. should i present them with rare figured plate, or gold as rich in workmanship as weight; o how thy rising heart would throb and beat, and thy left side, with trembling pleasure, sweat! thou measur'st by thyself the powers divine; thy gods are burnished gold, and silver is their shrine. the puny godlings of inferior race, whose humble statues are content with brass, should some of these, in visions purged from phlegm, foretel events, or in a morning dream;[ ] even those thou would'st in veneration hold, and, if not faces, give them beards of gold. the priests in temples now no longer care for saturn's brass,[ ] or numa's earthen ware;[ ] or vestal urns, in each religious rite; this wicked gold has put them all to flight. o souls, in whom no heavenly fire is found, fat minds, and ever grovelling on the ground! we bring our manners to the blest abodes, and think what pleases us must please the gods. of oil and cassia one the ingredients takes, and, of the mixture, a rich ointment makes; another finds the way to dye in grain, and makes calabrian wool[ ] receive the tyrian stain; or from the shells their orient treasure takes, or for their golden ore in rivers rakes, then melts the mass. all these are vanities, yet still some profit from their pains may rise: but tell me, priest, if i may be so bold, what are the gods the better for this gold? the wretch, that offers from his wealthy store these presents, bribes the powers to give him more; as maids to venus offer baby-toys,[ ] to bless the marriage-bed with girls and boys. but let us for the gods a gift prepare, which the great man's great chargers cannot bear; a soul, where laws, both human and divine, in practice more than speculation shine; a genuine virtue, of a vigorous kind, pure in the last recesses of the mind: when with such offerings to the gods i come, a cake, thus given, is worth a hecatomb.[ ] footnotes: [ ] note i. [ ] note ii. [ ] note iii. [ ] note iv. [ ] note v. [ ] note vi. [ ] note vii. [ ] note viii. [ ] note ix. [ ] note x. [ ] note xi. notes on translations from persius. satire ii. note i. _let this auspicious morning be exprest with a white stone._----p. . the romans were used to mark their fortunate days, or any thing that luckily befel them, with a white stone, which they had from the island creta, and their unfortunate with a coal. note ii. ----_great hercules, that once thy bounteous deity would please to guide my rake upon the chinking sound of some vast treasure, hidden under ground._--p. . hercules was thought to have the key and power of bestowing all hidden treasure. note iii. _in tyber ducking thrice, by break of day, to wash the obscenities of night away._--p. . the ancients thought themselves tainted and polluted by night itself, as well as bad dreams in the night; and therefore purified themselves by washing their heads and hands every morning, which custom the turks observe to this day. note iv. _fit for ergenna's prayer and sacrifice_.--p. . when any one was thunderstruck, the soothsayer (who is here called ergenna) immediately repaired to the place, to expiate the displeasure of the gods, by sacrificing two sheep. note v. _our superstitions with our life begin_.--p. . the poet laughs at the superstitious ceremonies which the old women made use of in their lustration, or purification days, when they named their children, which was done on the eighth day to females, and on the ninth to males. note vi. _should some of these, in visions purged from phlegm, foretel events, or in a morning dream._--p. . it was the opinion both of grecians and romans, that the gods, in visions and dreams, often revealed to their favourites a cure for their diseases, and sometimes those of others. thus alexander dreamed of an herb which cured ptolemy. these gods were principally apollo and esculapius; but, in aftertimes, the same virtue and good-will was attributed to isis and osiris. which brings to my remembrance an odd passage in sir thomas brown's religio medici, or in his vulgar errors; the sense whereof is, that we are beholden, for many of our discoveries in physic, to the courteous revelation of spirits. by the expression, of "visions purged from phlegm," our author means such dreams or visions as proceed not from natural causes, or humours of the body, but such as are sent from heaven; and are, therefore, certain remedies. note vii. _the priests in temples, now no longer care for saturn's brass._--p. . brazen vessels, in which the public treasures of the romans were kept: it may be the poet means only old vessels, which were called #kronia#, from the greek name of saturn. note also, that the roman treasury was in the temple of saturn. note viii. ----_or numa's earthen ware._--p. . under numa, the second king of rome, and for a long time after him, the holy vessels for sacrifice were of earthen-ware; according to the superstitious rites which were introduced by the same numa: though afterwards, when memmius had taken corinth, and paulus emilius had conquered macedonia, luxury began amongst the romans, and then their utensils of devotion were of gold and silver, &c. note ix. _and makes calabrian wool, &c._--p. . the wool of calabria was of the finest sort in italy, as juvenal also tells us. the tyrian stain is the purple colour dyed at tyrus; and i suppose, but dare not positively affirm, that the richest of that dye was nearest our crimson, and not scarlet, or that other colour more approaching to the blue. i have not room to justify my conjecture. note x. _as maids to venus offer baby-toys._--p. . those baby-toys were little babies, or poppets, as we call them; in latin, pupæ; which the girls, when they came to the age of puberty, or child bearing, offered to venus; as the boys, at fourteen or fifteen, offered their _bullæ_, or bosses. note xi. _a cake, thus given, is worth a hecatomb._--p. . a cake of barley, or coarse wheat-meal, with the bran in it. the meaning is, that god is pleased with the pure and spotless heart of the offerer, and not with the riches of the offering. laberius, in the fragments of his "mimes," has a verse like this--_puras, deus, non plenas aspicit manus_.--what i had forgotten before, in its due place, i must here tell the reader, that the first half of this satire was translated by one of my sons, now in italy; but i thought so well of it, that i let it pass without any alteration. the third satire of persius. the argument. _our author has made two satires concerning study, the first and the third: the first related to men; this to young students, whom he desired to be educated in the stoic philosophy. he himself sustains the person of the master, or preceptor, in this admirable satire, where he upbraids the youth of sloth, and negligence in learning. yet he begins with one scholar reproaching his fellow-students with late rising to their books. after which, he takes upon him the other part of the teacher; and, addressing himself particularly to young noblemen, tells them, that, by reason of their high birth, and the great possessions of their fathers, they are careless of adorning their minds with precepts of moral philosophy: and, withal, inculcates to them the miseries which will attend them in the whole course of their life, if they do not apply themselves betimes to the knowledge of virtue, and the end of their creation, which he pathetically insinuates to them. the title of this satire, in some ancient manuscripts, was, "the reproach of idleness;" though in others of the scholiasts it is inscribed, "against the luxury and vices of the rich." in both of which, the intention of the poet is pursued, but principally in the former._ [i remember i translated this satire when i was a king's scholar at westminster school, for a thursday-night's exercise; and believe, that it, and many other of my exercises of this nature in english verse, are still in the hands of my learned master, the rev. dr busby.] is this thy daily course? the glaring sun } breaks in at every chink; the cattle run } to shades, and noon-tide rays of summer shun; } yet plunged in sloth we lie, and snore supine, as filled with fumes of undigested wine. this grave advice some sober student bears, and loudly rings it in his fellow's ears. the yawning youth, scarce half awake, essays his lazy limbs and dozy head to raise; then rubs his gummy eyes, and scrubs his pate, and cries,--i thought it had not been so late! my clothes, make haste!--why then, if none be near, he mutters, first, and then begins to swear; and brays aloud, with a more clamorous note, than an arcadian ass can stretch his throat. with much ado, his book before him laid, and parchment with the smoother side displayed,[ ] he takes the papers; lays them down again, and with unwilling fingers tries the pen. some peevish quarrel straight he strives to pick, his quill writes double, or his ink's too thick; infuse more water,--now 'tis grown so thin, it sinks, nor can the characters be seen. o wretch, and still more wretched every day! are mortals born to sleep their lives away? go back to what thy infancy began, thou, who wert never meant to be a man; eat pap and spoon-meat, for thy gewgaws cry; be sullen, and refuse the lullaby. no more accuse thy pen; but charge the crime on native sloth, and negligence of time. think'st thou thy master, or thy friends, to cheat? fool, 'tis thyself, and that's a worse deceit. beware the public laughter of the town; thou spring'st a leak already in thy crown; a flaw is in thy ill-baked vessel found; 'tis hollow, and returns a jarring sound. yet thy moist clay is pliant to command, unwrought, and easy to the potter's hand: now take the mould; now bend thy mind to feel the first sharp motions of the forming wheel. but thou hast land; a country seat, secure by a just title; costly furniture; a fuming pan thy lares to appease:[ ] what need of learning when a man's at ease? if this be not enough to swell thy soul, then please thy pride, and search the herald's roll, where thou shalt find thy famous pedigree } drawn from the root of some old tuscan tree,[ ] } and thou, a thousand off, a fool of long degree; } who, clad in purple, can'st thy censor greet,[ ] and loudly call him cousin in the street. such pageantry be to the people shown: there boast thy horse's trappings, and thy own. i know thee to thy bottom, from within thy shallow centre, to the utmost skin: dost thou not blush to live so like a beast, so trim, so dissolute, so loosely drest? but 'tis in vain; the wretch is drenched too deep, his soul is stupid, and his heart asleep; fattened in vice, so callous, and so gross, he sins, and sees not, senseless of his loss. down goes the wretch at once, unskilled to swim, hopeless to bubble up, and reach the water's brim. great father of the gods, when for our crimes thou send'st some heavy judgment on the times; some tyrant-king, the terror of his age, the type, and true vicegerent of thy rage; thus punish him: set virtue in his sight, with all her charms, adorned with all her graces bright; but set her distant, make him pale to see his gains outweighed by lost felicity! sicilian tortures, and the brazen bull,[ ] are emblems, rather than express the full of what he feels; yet what he fears is more: the wretch, who, sitting at his plenteous board, looked up, and viewed on high the pointed sword hang o'er his head, and hanging by a twine, did with less dread, and more securely dine.[ ] even in his sleep he starts, and fears the knife, and, trembling, in his arms takes his accomplice wife; down, down he goes; and from his darling friend conceals the woes his guilty dreams portend. when i was young, i, like a lazy fool, would blear my eyes with oil, to stay from school: averse from pains, and loth to learn the part of cato, dying with a dauntless heart; though much my master that stern virtue praised, which o'er the vanquisher the vanquished raised; and my pleased father came with pride to see his boy defend the roman liberty. but then my study was to cog the dice, and dexterously to throw the lucky sice; to shun ames-ace, that swept my stakes away, } and watch the box, for fear they should convey } false bones, and put upon me in the play; } careful, besides, the whirling top to whip, and drive her giddy, till she fell asleep. thy years are ripe, nor art thou yet to learn what's good or ill, and both their ends discern: thou in the stoic-porch,[ ] severely bred, hast heard the dogmas of great zeno read; where on the walls, by polygnotus' hand, the conquered medians in trunk-breeches stand;[ ] where the shorn youth to midnight lectures rise, roused from their slumbers to be early wise; where the coarse cake, and homely husks of beans, from pampering riot the young stomach weans; and where the samian y directs thy steps to run to virtue's narrow steep, and broad-way vice to shun.[ ] and yet thou snor'st, thou draw'st thy drunken breath, sour with debauch, and sleep'st the sleep of death: thy chaps are fallen, and thy frame disjoined; thy body is dissolved as is thy mind. hast thou not yet proposed some certain end, to which thy life, thy every act, may tend? hast thou no mark, at which to bend thy bow? or, like a boy, pursuest the carrion crow with pellets, and with stones, from tree to tree, a fruitless toil, and livest _extempore_? watch the disease in time; for when within the dropsy rages, and extends the skin, in vain for hellebore the patient cries, and fees the doctor, but too late is wise; too late, for cure he proffers half his wealth; conquest and guibbons[ ] cannot give him health. learn, wretches, learn the motions of the mind, } why you were made, for what you were designed, } and the great moral end of human kind. } study thyself, what rank, or what degree, the wise creator has ordained for thee; and all the offices of that estate perform, and with thy prudence guide thy fate. pray justly to be heard, nor more desire than what the decencies of life require. learn what thou owest thy country, and thy friend; what's requisite to spare, and what to spend: learn this; and after, envy not the store of the greased advocate, that grinds the poor; fat fees[ ] from the defended umbrian draws, and only gains the wealthy client's cause; to whom the marsians more provision send, than he and all his family can spend. gammons, that give a relish to the taste, and potted fowl, and fish come in so fast, that ere the first is out, the second stinks, and mouldy mother gathers on the brinks. but here some captain of the land, or fleet, stout of his hands, but of a soldier's wit, cries,--i have sense to serve my turn in store, and he's a rascal who pretends to more. damn me, whate'er those book-learned blockheads say, solon's the veriest fool in all the play. top-heavy drones, and always looking down, (as over ballasted within the crown,) muttering betwixt their lips some mystic thing, which, well examined, is flat conjuring; mere madmen's dreams; for what the schools have taught, } is only this, that nothing can be brought } from nothing, and what is can ne'er be turned to nought. } is it for this they study? to grow pale, and miss the pleasures of a glorious meal? for this, in rags accoutered, are they seen, and made the may-game of the public spleen?-- proceed, my friend, and rail; but hear me tell a story, which is just thy parallel:-- a spark, like thee, of the man-killing trade, fell sick, and thus to his physician said,-- methinks i am not right in every part; i feel a kind of trembling at my heart, my pulse unequal, and my breath is strong, besides a filthy fur upon my tongue. the doctor heard him, exercised his skill, and after bade him for four days be still. three days he took good counsel, and began to mend, and look like a recovering man; the fourth he could not hold from drink, but sends his boy to one of his old trusty friends, adjuring him, by all the powers divine, } to pity his distress, who could not dine } without a flaggon of his healing wine. } he drinks a swilling draught; and, lined within, will supple in the bath his outward skin: whom should he find but his physician there, who wisely bade him once again beware. sir, you look wan, you hardly draw your breath; drinking is dangerous, and the bath is death. 'tis nothing, says the fool; but, says the friend, this nothing, sir, will bring you to your end. do i not see your dropsy belly swell? your yellow skin?--no more of that; i'm well. i have already buried two or three } that stood betwixt a fair estate and me, } and, doctor, i may live to bury thee. } thou tell'st me, i look ill; and thou look'st worse. i've done, says the physician; take your course. the laughing sot, like all unthinking men, bathes, and gets drunk; then bathes, and drinks again: his throat half throttled with corrupted phlegm, and breathing through his jaws a belching steam, amidst his cups with fainting shivering seized, his limbs disjointed, and all o'er diseased, his hand refuses to sustain the bowl, } and his teeth chatter, and his eye-balls roll, } till with his meat he vomits out his soul; } then trumpets, torches, and a tedious crew of hireling mourners, for his funeral due. our dear departed brother lies in state, } his heels stretched out, and pointing to the gate;[ ] } and slaves, now manumized, on their dead master wait. } they hoist him on the bier, and deal the dole, and there's an end of a luxurious fool. but what's thy fulsome parable to me? my body is from all diseases free; my temperate pulse does regularly beat; } feel, and be satisfied, my hands and feet: } these are not cold, nor those opprest with heat. } or lay thy hand upon my naked heart, and thou shalt find me hale in every part. i grant this true; but still the deadly wound is in thy soul, 'tis there thou art not sound. say, when thou see'st a heap of tempting gold, or a more tempting harlot dost behold; then, when she casts on thee a side-long glance, then try thy heart, and tell me if it dance. some coarse cold sallad is before thee set; } bread with the bran, perhaps, and broken meat; } fall on, and try thy appetite to eat. } these are not dishes for thy dainty tooth: what, hast thou got an ulcer in thy mouth? why stand'st thou picking? is thy palate sore, that bete and radishes will make thee roar? such is the unequal temper of thy mind, thy passions in extremes, and unconfined; thy hair so bristles with unmanly fears, as fields of corn, that rise in bearded ears; and when thy cheeks with flushing fury glow, } the rage of boiling cauldrons is more slow, } when fed with fuel and with flames below. } with foam upon thy lips and sparkling eyes, thou say'st, and dost, in such outrageous wise, that mad orestes,[ ] if he saw the show, would swear thou wert the madder of the two. footnotes: [ ] note i. [ ] note ii. [ ] note iii. [ ] note iv. [ ] note v. [ ] note vi. [ ] note vii. [ ] note viii. [ ] note ix. [ ] two learned physicians of the period. dryden mentions guibbons more than once, as a friend. [ ] note x. [ ] note xi. [ ] note xii. notes on translations from persius. satire iii. note i. _and parchment with the smoother side displayed._--p. . the students used to write their notes on parchments; the inside, on which they wrote, was white; the other side was hairy, and commonly yellow. quintilian reproves this custom, and advises rather table-books, lined with wax, and a stile, like that we use in our vellum table-books, as more easy. note ii. _a fuming-pan thy lares to appease._--p. . before eating, it was customary to cut off some part of the meat, which was first put into a pan, or little dish, then into the fire, as an offering to the household gods: this they called a libation. note iii. _drawn from the root of some old tuscan tree._--p. . the tuscans were accounted of most ancient nobility. horace observes this in most of his compliments to mæcenas, who was derived from the old kings of tuscany; now the dominion of the great duke. note iv. _who, clad in purple, canst thy censor greet._--p. . the roman knights, attired in the robe called _trabea_, were summoned by the censor to appear before him, and to salute him in passing by, as their names were called over. they led their horses in their hand. see more of this in pompey's life, written by plutarch. note v. _sicilian tortures, and the brazen bull._--p. . some of the sicilian kings were so great tyrants, that the name is become proverbial. the brazen bull is a known story of phalaris, one of those tyrants, who, when perillus, a famous artist, had presented him with a bull of that metal hollowed within, which, when the condemned person was inclosed in it, would render the sound of a bull's roaring, caused the workman to make the first experiment,--_docuitque suum mugire juvencum_. note vi. _the wretch, who, sitting at his plenteous board, looked up, and viewed on high the pointed sword._--p. . he alludes to the story of damocles, a flatterer of one of those sicilian tyrants, namely dionysius. damocles had infinitely extolled the happiness of kings: dionysius, to convince him of the contrary, invited him to a feast, and clothed him in purple; but caused a sword, with the point downward, to be hung over his head by a silken twine; which, when he perceived, he could eat nothing of the delicates that were set before him. note vii. _thou in the stoic-porch, severely bred._--p. . the stoics taught their philosophy under a porticus, to secure their scholars from the weather. zeno was the chief of that sect. note viii. _where on the walls, by polygnotus' hand, the conquered medians in trunk-breeches stand._--p. . polygnotus, a famous painter, who drew the pictures of the medes and persians, conquered by miltiades, themistocles, and other athenian captains, on the walls of the portico, in their natural habits. note ix. _and where the samian y directs thy steps to run to virtue's narrow steep, and broad-way vice to shun._ p. . pythagoras, of samos, made the allusion of the y, or greek _upsilon_, to vice and virtue. one side of the letter being broad, characters vice, to which the ascent is wide and easy; the other side represents virtue, to which the passage is strait and difficult; and perhaps our saviour might also allude to this, in those noted words of the evangelist, "the way to heaven," &c. note x. _fat fees from the defended umbrian draws._--p. . casaubon here notes, that, among all the romans, who were brought up to learning, few, besides the orators or lawyers, grew rich. note xi. _his heels stretched out, and pointing to the gate._ p. . the romans were buried without the city; for which reason, the poet says, that the dead man's heels were stretched out towards the gate. note xii. ----_mad orestes._--p. . orestes was son to agamemnon and clytemnestra. agamemnon, at his return from the trojan wars, was slain by Ægysthus, the adulterer of clytemnestra. orestes, to revenge his father's death, slew both Ægysthus and his mother; for which he was punished with madness by the eumenides, or furies, who continually haunted him. the fourth satire of persius. the argument. _our author, living in the time of nero, was contemporary and friend to the noble poet lucan. both of them were sufficiently sensible, with all good men, how unskilfully he managed the commonwealth; and perhaps might guess at his future tyranny, by some passages, during the latter part of his first five years; though he broke not out into his great excesses, while he was restrained by the counsels and authority of seneca. lucan has not spared him in the poem of his pharsalia; for his very compliment looked asquint, as well as nero.[ ] persius has been bolder, but with caution likewise. for here, in the person of young alcibiades, he arraigns his ambition of meddling with state-affairs without judgment, or experience. it is probable, that he makes seneca, in this satire, sustain the part of socrates, under a borrowed name; and, withal, discovers some secret vices of nero, concerning his lust, his drunkenness, find his effeminacy, which had not yet arrived to public notice. he also reprehends the flattery of his courtiers, who endeavoured to make all his vices pass for virtues. covetousness was undoubtedly none of his faults; but it is here described as a veil cast over the true meaning of the poet, which was to satirize his prodigality and voluptuousness; to which he makes a transition. i find no instance in history of that emperor's being a pathic, though persius seems to brand him with it. from the two dialogues of plato, both called "alcibiades," the poet took the arguments of the second and third satires; but he inverted the order of them, for the third satire is taken from the first of those dialogues._ _the commentators before casaubon were ignorant of our author's secret meaning; and thought he had only written against young noblemen in general, who were too forward in aspiring to public magistracy; but this excellent scholiast has unravelled the whole mystery, and made it apparent, that the sting of the satire was particularly aimed at nero._ whoe'er thou art, whose forward years are bent on state affairs, to guide the government; hear first what socrates[ ] of old has said to the loved youth, whom he at athens bred. tell me, thou pupil to great pericles, our second hope, my alcibiades,[ ] what are the grounds from whence thou dost prepare to undertake, so young, so vast a care? perhaps thy wit; (a chance not often heard, that parts and prudence should prevent the beard;) 'tis seldom seen, that senators so young know when to speak, and when to hold their tongue. sure thou art born to some peculiar fate, when the mad people rise against the state, to look them into duty, and command an awful silence with thy lifted hand; then to bespeak them thus:--athenians, know against right reason all your counsels go; this is not fair, nor profitable that, nor t'other question proper for debate.-- but thou, no doubt, can'st set the business right, and give each argument its proper weight; know'st, with an equal hand, to hold the scale; } seest where the reasons pinch, and where they fail, } and where exceptions o'er the general rule prevail; } and, taught by inspiration, in a trice, can'st punish crimes,[ ] and brand offending vice. leave, leave to fathom such high points as these, nor be ambitious, e'er thy time, to please, unseasonably wise; till age and cares have formed thy soul to manage great affairs. thy face, thy shape, thy outside, are but vain; } thou hast not strength such labours to sustain; } drink hellebore,[ ] my boy; drink deep, and purge thy brain. } what aim'st thou at, and whither tends thy care, } in what thy utmost good? delicious fare; } and then, to sun thyself in open air. } hold, hold; are all thy empty wishes such? a good old woman would have said as much. but thou art nobly born: 'tis true; go boast thy pedigree, the thing thou valuest most: besides, thou art a beau; what's that, my child? a fop, well drest, extravagant, and wild: she that cries herbs, has less impertinence, and in her calling more of common sense. none, none descends into himself, to find the secret imperfections of his mind; but every one is eagle-eyed, to see another's faults, and his deformity. say, dost thou know vectidius?[ ]--who? the wretch whose lands beyond the sabines largely stretch; cover the country, that a sailing kite can scarce o'er fly them in a day and night; him dost thou mean, who, spite of all his store, is ever craving, and will still be poor? who cheats for half-pence, and who doffs his coat, to save a farthing in a ferry-boat? ever a glutton at another's cost, but in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost? who eats and drinks with his domestic slaves, a verier hind than any of his knaves? born with the curse and anger of the gods, and that indulgent genius he defrauds? at harvest-home, and on the shearing-day, when he should thanks to pan and pales pay, and better ceres,[ ] trembling to approach the little barrel, which he fears to broach; he 'says the wimble, often draws it back, and deals to thirsty servants but a smack. to a short meal he makes a tedious grace, before the barley-pudding comes in place: then bids fall on; himself, for saving charges, a peeled sliced onion eats, and tipples verjuice.-- thus fares the drudge: but thou, whose life's a dream of lazy pleasures, takest a worse extreme. 'tis all thy business, business how to shun; to bask thy naked body in the sun; suppling thy stiffened joints with fragrant oil: then, in thy spacious garden walk a while, to suck the moisture up, and soak it in; and this, thou think'st, but vainly think'st, unseen. but know, thou art observed; and there are those, who, if they durst, would all thy secret sins expose; the depilation of thy modest part; } thy catamite, the darling of thy heart, } his engine-hand, and every lewder art, } when, prone to bear, and patient to receive, thou tak'st the pleasure which thou canst not give. with odorous oil thy head and hair are sleek, and then thou kemb'st the tuzzes on thy cheek; of these thy barbers take a costly care, while thy salt tail is overgrown with hair. not all thy pincers, nor unmanly arts, can smooth the roughness of thy shameful parts. not five, the strongest that the circus breeds,[ ] from the rank soil can root those wicked weeds, though suppled first with soap, to ease thy pain; the stubborn fern springs up, and sprouts again. thus others we with defamations wound, while they stab us, and so the jest goes round. vain are thy hopes, to 'scape censorious eyes; truth will appear through all the thin disguise: thou hast an ulcer which no leach can heal, though thy broad shoulder-belt the wound conceal. say thou art sound and hale in every part, we know, we know thee rotten at thy heart. we know thee sullen, impotent, and proud: nor canst thou cheat thy nerve, who cheat'st the crowd.-- but when they praise me in the neighbourhood, when the pleased people take me for a god, shall i refuse their incense? not receive the loud applauses which the vulgar give?-- if thou dost wealth with longing eyes behold, and greedily art gaping after gold; if some alluring girl, in gliding by, } shall tip the wink, with a lascivious eye, } and thou, with a consenting glance, reply; } if thou thy own solicitor become, and bidst arise the lumpish pendulum; if thy lewd lust provokes an empty storm, and prompts to more than nature can perform; if, with thy guards, thou scour'st the streets by night, and dost in murders, rapes, and spoils delight;[ ] please not thyself, the flattering crowd to hear, 'tis fulsome stuff to feed thy itching ear. reject the nauseous praises of the times; give thy base poets back their cobled rhimes: survey thy soul, not what thou dost appear, but what thou art, and find the beggar there.[ ] footnotes: [ ] the compliment, at the opening of the pharsalia, has been thought sarcastic. it certainly sounds so in modern ears: if nero could only attain empire by civil war, as the gods by that of the giants, then says the poet, ----_scelera ipsa nefasque hac mercede placent_.---- [ ] note i. [ ] note ii. [ ] note iii. [ ] note iv. [ ] note v. [ ] note vi. [ ] note vii. [ ] note viii. [ ] note ix. notes on translations from persius. satire iv. note i. _socrates._--p. . socrates, whom the oracle of delphos praised as the wisest man of his age, lived in the time of the peloponnesian war. he, finding the uncertainty of natural philosophy, applied himself wholly to the moral. he was master to xenophon and plato, and to many of the athenian young noblemen; amongst the rest to alcibiades, the most lovely youth then living; afterwards a famous captain, whose life is written by plutarch. note ii. _tell me, thou pupil to great pericles, our second hope, my alcibiades._--p. . pericles was tutor, or rather overseer, of the will of clinias, father to alcibiades. while pericles lived, who was a wise man, and an excellent orator, as well as a great general, the athenians had the better of the war. note iii. _can'st punish crimes._--p. . that is, by death. when the judges would condemn a malefactor, they cast their votes into an urn; as, according to the modern custom, a balloting-box. if the suffrages were marked with #theta#, they signified the sentence of death to the offender; as being the first letter of #thanatos#, which, in english, is death. note iv. _drink hellebore._--p. . the poet would say, that such an ignorant young man, as he here describes, is fitter to be governed himself than to govern others. he therefore advises him to drink hellebore, which purges the brain. note v. _say, dost thou know vectidius?_--p. . the name of vectidius is here used appellatively, to signify any rich covetous man, though perhaps there might be a man of that name then living. i have translated this passage paraphrastically, and loosely; and leave it for those to look on, who are not unlike the picture. note vi. _when he should thanks to pan and pales pay, and better ceres._--p. . pan, the god of shepherds, and pales, the goddess presiding over rural affairs; whom virgil invocates in the beginning of his second georgic. i give the epithet of _better_ to ceres, because she first taught the use of corn for bread, as the poets tell us; men, in the first rude ages, feeding only on acorns, or mast, instead of bread. note vii. _not five, the strongest that the circus breeds._--p. . the learned holyday (who has made us amends for his bad poetry in this and the rest of these satires, with his excellent illustrations), here tells us, from good authority, that the number five does not allude to the five fingers of one man, but to five strong men, such as were skilful in the five robust exercises then in practice at rome, and were performed in the circus, or public place ordained for them. these five he reckons up in this manner: . the cæstus, or whirlbatts, described by virgil in his fifth Æneid; and this was the most dangerous of all the rest. the d was the foot-race. the d, the discus; like the throwing a weighty ball; a sport now used in cornwall, and other parts of england; we may see it daily practised in red-lyon fields. the th, was the saltus, or leaping; and the th, wrestling naked, and besmeared with oil. they who practised in these five manly exercises were called #pentathloi#. note viii. _if, with thy guards, thou scour'st the streets by night, and dost in murders, rapes, and spoils, delight._--p. . persius durst not have been so bold with nero as i dare now; and therefore there is only an intimation of that in him which i publicly speak: i mean, of nero's walking the streets by night in disguise, and committing all sorts of outrages, for which he was sometimes well beaten. note ix. _not what thou dost appear, but what thou art, and find the beggar there._--p. . look into thyself, and examine thy own conscience; there thou shalt find, that, how wealthy soever thou appearest to the world, yet thou art but a beggar; because thou art destitute of all virtues, which are the riches of the soul. this also was a paradox of the stoic school. the fifth satire of persius. inscribed to the rev. dr busby. the speakers persius and cornutus. the argument. _the judicious casaubon, in his proem to this satire, tells us, that aristophanes, the grammarian, being asked, what poem of archilochus' iambics he preferred before the rest; answered, the longest. his answer may justly be applied to this fifth satire; which, being of a greater length than any of the rest, is also by far the most instructive. for this reason i have selected it from all the others, and inscribed it to my learned master, dr busby; to whom i am not only obliged myself for the best part of my own education, and that of my two sons; but have also received from him the first and truest taste of persius. may he be pleased to find, in this translation, the gratitude, or at least some small acknowledgment, of his unworthy scholar, at the distance of forty-two years from the time when i departed from under his tuition. this satire consists of two distinct parts: the first contains the praises of the stoic philosopher, cornutus, master and tutor to our persius; it also declares the love and piety of persius to his well-deserving master; and the mutual friendship which continued betwixt them, after persius was now grown a man; as also his exhortation to young noblemen, that they would enter themselves into his institution. from hence he makes an artful transition into the second part of his subject; wherein he first complains of the sloth of scholars, and afterwards persuades them to the pursuit of their true liberty. here our author excellently treats that paradox of the stoics, which affirms, that the wise or virtuous man is only free, and that all vicious men are naturally slaves; and, in the illustration of this dogma, he takes up the remaining part of this inimitable satire._ persius. of ancient use to poets it belongs, to wish themselves an hundred mouths and tongues: whether to the well-lunged tragedian's rage they recommend their labours of the stage, or sing the parthian, when transfixed he lies, wrenching the roman javelin from his thighs. cornutus. and why would'st thou these mighty morsels chuse, of words unchewed, and fit to choke the muse? let fustian poets with their stuff begone, and suck the mists that hang o'er helicon; when progne,[ ] or thyestes'[ ] feast they write; and, for the mouthing actor, verse indite. thou neither like a bellows swell'st thy face, as if thou wert to blow the burning mass of melting ore; nor canst thou strain thy throat, or murmur in an undistinguished note, like rolling thunder, till it breaks the cloud, and rattling nonsense is discharged aloud. soft elocution does thy style renown, and the sweet accents of the peaceful gown: gentle or sharp, according to thy choice, to laugh at follies, or to lash at vice. hence draw thy theme, and to the stage permit raw-head and bloody-bones, and hands and feet, ragouts for tereus or thyestes drest; 'tis task enough for thee t' expose a roman feast. persius. 'tis not, indeed, my talent to engage in lofty trifles, or to swell my page with wind and noise; but freely to impart, as to a friend, the secrets of my heart, and, in familiar speech, to let thee know how much i love thee, and how much i owe. knock on my heart; for thou hast skill to find } if it sound solid, or be filled with wind; } and, through the veil of words, thou view'st the naked mind. } for this a hundred voices i desire, to tell thee what an hundred tongues would tire, yet never could be worthily exprest,-- how deeply thou art seated in my breast. when first my childish robe[ ] resigned the charge, and left me, unconfined, to live at large; when now my golden bulla (hung on high } to household gods) declared me past a boy, } and my white shield proclaimed my liberty;[ ] } when, with my wild companions, i could roll from street to street, and sin without controul; just at that age, when manhood set me free, i then deposed myself, and left the reins to thee; on thy wise bosom i reposed my head, and by my better socrates was bred.[ ] then thy straight rule set virtue in my sight, the crooked line reforming by the right. my reason took the bent of thy command, was formed and polished by thy skilful hand; long summer-days thy precepts i rehearse, and winter-nights were short in our converse; one was our labour, one was our repose, one frugal supper did our studies close. sure on our birth some friendly planet shone; and, as our souls, our horoscope[ ] was one: whether the mounting twins[ ] did heaven adorn, or with the rising balance[ ] we were born; both have the same impressions from above. and both have saturn's rage, repelled by jove.[ ] what star i know not, but some star, i find, has given thee an ascendant o'er my mind. cornutus. nature is ever various in her frame; each has a different will, and few the same. the greedy merchants, led by lucre, run to the parched indies, and the rising sun; from thence hot pepper and rich drugs they bear, bartering for spices their italian ware; the lazy glutton, safe at home, will keep, indulge his sloth, and batten with his sleep: one bribes for high preferments in the state; a second shakes the box, and sits up late; another shakes the bed, dissolving there, till knots upon his gouty joints appear, and chalk is in his crippled fingers found; rots, like a doddered oak, and piecemeal falls to ground; then his lewd follies he would late repent, and his past years, that in a mist were spent. persius. but thou art pale in nightly studies grown, to make the stoic institutes thy own:[ ] thou long, with studious care, hast tilled our youth, and sown our well-purged ears with wholesome truth. from thee both old and young with profit learn } the bounds of good and evil to discern. } cornutus. unhappy he who does this work adjourn, } and to to-morrow would the search delay; his lazy morrow will be like to-day. persius. but is one day of ease too much to borrow? cornutus. yes, sure; for yesterday was once to-morrow. that yesterday is gone, and nothing gained, and all thy fruitless days will thus be drained; for thou hast more to-morrows yet to ask, and wilt be ever to begin thy task; who, like the hindmost chariot-wheels, art curst, still to be near, but ne'er to reach the first. o freedom, first delight of human kind! not that which bondmen from their masters find, the privilege of doles;[ ] nor yet to inscribe their names in this or t'other roman tribe;[ ] that false enfranchisement with ease is found, slaves are made citizens by turning round.[ ] how, replies one, can any be more free? here's dama, once a groom of low degree, not worth a farthing, and a sot beside, so true a rogue, for lying's sake he lied; but, with a turn, a freeman he became, now marcus dama is his worship's name.[ ] good gods! who would refuse to lend a sum, if wealthy marcus surety will become! marcus is made a judge, and for a proof of certain truth, "he said it," is enough. a will is to be proved;--put in your claim;-- 'tis clear, if marcus has subscribed his name.[ ] this is true liberty, as i believe; } what farther can we from our caps receive, } than as we please without controul to live?[ ] } not more to noble brutus[ ] could belong. hold, says the stoic, your assumption's wrong: i grant true freedom you have well defined: } but, living as you list, and to your mind, } are loosely tacked, and must be left behind.-- } what! since the prætor did my fetters loose, and left me freely at my own dispose, may i not live without controul or awe, excepting still the letter of the law?--[ ] hear me with patience, while thy mind i free from those fond notions of false liberty: 'tis not the prætor's province to bestow } true freedom; nor to teach mankind to know } what to ourselves, or to our friends, we owe. } he could not set thee free from cares and strife, nor give the reins to a lewd vicious life: as well he for an ass a harp might string, which is against the reason of the thing; for reason still is whispering in your ear, where you are sure to fail, the attempt forbear. no need of public sanctions this to bind, } which nature has implanted in the mind,-- } not to pursue the work, to which we're not designed. } unskilled in hellebore, if thou should'st try } to mix it, and mistake the quantity, } the rules of physic would against thee cry. } the high-shoe'd ploughman, should he quit the land, } to take the pilot's rudder in his hand, } artless of stars, and of the moving sand, } no need of public sanctions this to bind, } which nature has implanted in the mind,-- } not to pursue the work, to which we're not designed. } unskilled in hellebore, if thou should'st try } to mix it, and mistake the quantity, } the rules of physic would against thee cry. } the high-shoe'd ploughman, should he quit the land, } to take the pilot's rudder in his hand, } artless of stars, and of the moving sand, } the gods would leave him to the waves and wind, and think all shame was lost in human kind. tell me, my friend, from whence had'st thou the skill, so nicely to distinguish good from ill? or by the sound to judge of gold and brass, what piece is tinkers' metal, what will pass? and what thou art to follow, what to fly, this to condemn, and that to ratify? when to be bountiful, and when to spare, but never craving, or oppressed with care? the baits of gifts, and money to despise, and look on wealth with undesiring eyes? when thou canst truly call these virtues thine, be wise and free, by heaven's consent and mine. but thou, who lately of the common strain wert one of us, if still thou dost retain the same ill habits, the same follies too, glossed over only with a saint-like show, then i resume the freedom which i gave; still thou art bound to vice, and still a slave. thou canst not wag thy finger, or begin "the least light motion, but it tends to sin." how's this? not wag my finger, he replies? } no, friend; nor fuming gums, nor sacrifice, } can ever make a madman free, or wise. } "virtue and vice are never in one soul; a man is wholly wise, or wholly is a fool."[ ] a heavy bumpkin, taught with daily care, can never dance three steps with a becoming air. persius. in spite of this, my freedom still remains. cornutus. free! what, and fettered with so many chains? canst thou no other master understand than him that freed thee by the prætor's wand?[ ] should he, who was thy lord, command thee now, with a harsh voice, and supercilious brow, to servile duties, thou would'st fear no more; the gallows and the whip are out of door. but if thy passions lord it in thy breast, art thou not still a slave, and still opprest? whether alone, or in thy harlot's lap, when thou would'st take a lazy morning's nap, up, up, says avarice;--thou snor'st again, stretchest thy limbs, and yawn'st, but all in vain; the tyrant lucre no denial takes; at his command the unwilling sluggard wakes. what must i do? he cries:--what? says his lord; why rise, make ready, and go straight aboard; with fish, from euxine seas, thy vessel freight; flax, castor, coan wines, the precious weight of pepper, and sabæan incense, take, } with thy own hands, from the tired camel's back, } and with post haste thy running markets make. } be sure to turn the penny; lie and swear, 'tis wholesome sin:--but jove, thou say'st, will hear:-- swear, fool, or starve; for the dilemma's even: a tradesman thou, and hope to go to heaven! resolved for sea, the slaves thy baggage pack, each saddled with his burden on his back; nothing retards thy voyage now, unless thy other lord forbids, voluptuousness: and he may ask this civil question,--friend, what dost thou make a shipboard? to what end? art thou of bethlem's noble college free, stark, staring mad, that thou would'st tempt the sea? cubbed in a cabin, on a mattress laid, on a brown george, with lousy swobbers fed, dead wine, that stinks of the borrachio, sup from a foul jack,[ ] or greasy maple-cup? say, would'st thou bear all this, to raise thy store from six i'the hundred, to six hundred more? indulge, and to thy genius freely give; for, not to live at ease, is not to live; death stalks behind thee, and each flying hour does some loose remnant of thy life devour. live, while thou liv'st; for death will make us all a name, a nothing but an old wife's tale. speak; wilt thou avarice, or pleasure, chuse to be thy lord? take one, and one refuse. but both by turns the rule of thee will have, and thou betwixt them both wilt be a slave. nor think when once thou hast resisted one, that all thy marks of servitude are gone: the struggling grey-hound gnaws his leash in vain; if, when 'tis broken, still he drags the chain. says phædria to his man,[ ] believe me, friend, to this uneasy love i'll put an end: shall i run out of all? my friends' disgrace, and be the first lewd unthrift of my race? shall i the neighbours nightly rest invade at her deaf doors, with some vile serenade?-- well hast thou freed thyself, his man replies, go, thank the gods, and offer sacrifice.-- ah, says the youth, if we unkindly part, will not the poor fond creature break her heart?-- weak soul! and blindly to destruction led! she break her heart! she'll sooner break your head. she knows her man, and when you rant and swear, can draw you to her with a single hair.-- but shall i not return? now, when she sues! shall i my own and her desires refuse?-- sir, take your course; but my advice is plain: once freed, 'tis madness to resume your chain. ay; there's the man, who, loosed from lust and pelf, less to the prætor owes than to himself. but write him down a slave, who, humbly proud, with presents begs preferments from the crowd;[ ] that early suppliant, who salutes the tribes, and sets the mob to scramble for his bribes, that some old dotard, sitting in the sun, on holidays may tell, that such a feat was done: in future times this will be counted rare. thy superstition too may claim a share: when flowers are strewed, and lamps in order placed, and windows with illuminations graced, on herod's day;[ ] when sparkling bowls go round, and tunny's tails in savoury sauce are drowned, thou mutter'st prayers obscene; nor dost refuse the fasts and sabbaths of the curtailed jews. then a cracked egg-shell thy sick fancy frights,[ ] besides the childish fear of walking sprites. of o'ergrown gelding priests thou art afraid; the timbrel, and the squintifego maid of isis, awe thee; lest the gods for sin, should with a swelling dropsy stuff thy skin: unless three garlic heads the curse avert, eaten each morn devoutly next thy heart. preach this among the brawny guards, say'st thou, and see if they thy doctrine will allow: the dull, fat captain, with a hound's deep throat, would bellow out a laugh in a bass note, and prize a hundred zeno's just as much as a clipt sixpence, or a schilling dutch. footnotes: [ ] note i. [ ] note ii. [ ] note iii. [ ] note iv. [ ] note v. [ ] note vi. [ ] gemini. [ ] libra. [ ] note vii. [ ] note viii. [ ] note ix. [ ] note x. [ ] note xi. [ ] note xii. [ ] note xiii. [ ] note xiv. [ ] note xv. [ ] note xvi. [ ] note xvii. [ ] note xviii. [ ] a leathern pitcher, called a black jack, used by our homely ancestors for quaffing their ale. e. [ ] note xix. [ ] note xx. [ ] note xxi. [ ] note xxii. notes on translations from persius. satire v. note i. _progne._--p. . progne was wife to tereus, king of thracia. tereus fell in love with philomela, sister to progne, ravished her, and cut out her tongue; in revenge of which, progne killed itys, her own son by tereus, and served him up at a feast, to be eaten by his father. note ii. _thyestes._--p. . thyestes and atreus were brothers, both kings. atreus, to revenge himself of his unnatural brother, killed the sons of thyestes, and invited him to eat them. note iii. _when first my childish robe resigned the charge._--p. . by the childish robe, is meant the proetexta, or first gowns which the roman children of quality wore. these were welted with purple; and on those welts were fastened the bullæ, or little bells; which, when they came to the age of puberty, were hung up, and consecrated to the lares, or household gods. note iv. _and my white shield proclaimed my liberty._--p. . the first shields which the roman youths wore were white, and without any impress or device on them, to shew they had yet achieved nothing in the wars. note v. _and by my better socrates was bred._--p. . socrates, by the oracle, was declared to be the wisest of mankind: he instructed many of the athenian young noblemen in morality, and amongst the rest alcibiades. note vi. _sure on our birth some friendly planet shone; and, as our souls, our horoscope was one._--p. . astrologers divide the heaven into twelve parts, according to the number of the twelve signs of the zodiac. the sign, or constellation, which rises in the east at the birth of any man, is called the ascendant: persius therefore judges, that cornutus and he had the same, or a like nativity. note vii. _and both have saturn's rage, repelled by jove._--p. . astrologers have an axiom, that whatsoever saturn ties is loosed by jupiter. they account saturn to be a planet of a malevolent nature, and jupiter of a propitious influence. note viii. _the stoic institutes._--p. . zeno was the great master of the stoic philosophy; and cleanthes was second to him in reputation. cornutus, who was master or tutor to persius, was of the same school. note ix. _not that which bondmen from their masters find, the privilege of doles._--p. . when a slave was made free, he had the privilege of a roman born, which was to have a share in the donatives, or doles of bread, &c. which were distributed by the magistrates among the people. note x. ----_nor yet to inscribe their names in this or t'other roman tribe._--p. . the roman people was distributed into several tribes. he who was made free was enrolled into some one of them; and thereupon enjoyed the common privileges of a roman citizen. note xi. _slaves are made citizens by turning round._--p. . the master, who intended to enfranchize a slave, carried him before the city prætor, and turned him round, using these words, "i will that this man be free." note xii. _now marcus dama is his worship's name._--p. . slaves had only one name before their freedom; after it they were admitted to a prænomen, like our christened names: so dama is now called marcus dama. note xiii. _a will is to be proved;--put in your claim;-- 'tis clear, if marcus has subscribed his name._--p. . at the proof of a testament, the magistrates were to subscribe their names, as allowing the legality of the will. note xiv. _what farther can we from our caps receive, than as we please without controul to live._--p. . slaves, when they were set free, had a cap given them, in sign of their liberty. note xv. _noble brutus._--p. . brutus freed the roman people from the tyranny of the tarquins, and changed the form of the government into a glorious commonwealth. note xvi. _excepting still the letter of the law._--p. . the text of the roman laws was written in red letters, which was called the rubric; translated here, in more general words, "the letter of the law." note xvii. _virtue and vice are never in one soul; a man is wholly wise, or wholly is a fool._--p. . the stoics held this paradox, that any one vice, or notorious folly, which they called madness, hindered a man from being virtuous; that a man was of a piece, without a mixture, either wholly vicious, or good; one virtue or vice, according to them, including all the rest. note xviii. ----_him that freed thee by the prætor's wand._--p. . the prætor held a wand in his hand, with which he softly struck the slave on the head, when he declared him free. note xix. ----_says phædria to his man._--p. . this alludes to the play of terence, called "the eunuch;" which was excellently imitated of late in english, by sir charles sedley.[ ] in the first scene of that comedy, phædria was introduced with his man, pamphilus, discoursing, whether he should leave his mistress thais, or return to her, now that she had invited him. note xx. _but write him down a slave, who, humbly proud, with presents begs preferments from the crowd._--p. . he who sued for any office amongst the romans, was called a candidate, because he wore a white gown; and sometimes chalked it, to make it appear whiter. he rose early, and went to the levees of those who headed the people; saluted also the tribes severally, when they were gathered together to chuse their magistrates; and distributed a largess amongst them, to engage them for their voices; much resembling our elections of parliamentmen. note xxi. ----_on herod's day._--p. . the commentators are divided what herod this was, whom our author mentions; whether herod the great, whose birth-day might possibly be celebrated, after his death, by the herodians, a sect amongst the jews, who thought him their messiah; or herod agrippa, living in the author's time, and after it. the latter seems the more probable opinion. note xxii. _then a cracked egg-shell thy sick fancy frights._--p. . the ancients had a superstition, contrary to ours, concerning egg-shells: they thought, that if an egg-shell were cracked, or a hole bored in the bottom of it, they were subject to the power of sorcery. we as vainly break the bottom of an egg-shell, and cross it when we have eaten the egg, lest some hag should make use of it in bewitching us, or sailing over the sea in it, if it were whole. the rest of the priests of isis, and her one-eyed or squinting priestess, is more largely treated in the sixth satire of juvenal, where the superstitions of women are related. footnotes: [ ] in the play called "bellamira, or the mistress." the sixth satire of persius. to cÆsius bassus, a lyric poet. the argument. _this sixth satire treats an admirable common-place of moral philosophy, of the true use of riches. they are certainly intended by the power who bestows them, as instruments and helps of living commodiously ourselves; and of administering to the wants of others, who are oppressed by fortune. there are two extremes in the opinions of men concerning them. one error, though on the right hand, yet a great one, is, that they are no helps to a virtuous life; the other places all our happiness in the acquisition and possession of them; and this is undoubtedly the worse extreme. the mean betwixt these, is the opinion of the stoics, which is, that riches may be useful to the leading a virtuous life; in case we rightly understand how to give according to right reason, and how to receive what is given us by others. the virtue of giving well, is called liberality; and it is of this virtue that persius writes in this satire, wherein he not only shows the lawful use of riches, but also sharply inveighs against the vices which are opposed to it; and especially of those, which consist in the defects of giving, or spending, or in the abuse of riches. he writes to cæsius bassus, his friend, and a poet also. enquires first of his health and studies; and afterwards informs him of his own, and where he is now resident. he gives an account of himself, that he is endeavouring, by little and little, to wear off his vices; and, particularly, that he is combating ambition, and the desire of wealth. he dwells upon the latter vice; and being sensible, that few men either desire, or use, riches as they ought, he endeavours to convince them of their folly, which is the main design of the whole satire._ has winter caused thee, friend, to change thy seat,[ ] and seek in sabine air a warm retreat? say, dost thou yet the roman harp command? do the strings answer to thy noble hand? great master of the muse, inspired to sing the beauties of the first created spring; the pedigree of nature to rehearse, and sound the maker's work, in equal verse; now sporting on thy lyre the loves of youth,[ ] now virtuous age, and venerable truth; expressing justly sappho's wanton art of odes, and pindar's more majestic part. for me, my warmer constitution wants more cold, than our ligurian winter grants; and therefore to my native shores retired, i view the coast old ennius once admired; where clifts on either side their points display, } and, after opening in an ampler way, } afford the pleasing prospect of the bay. } 'tis worth your while, o romans, to regard the port of luna, says our learned bard; who in a drunken dream beheld his soul the fifth within the transmigrating roll;[ ] which first a peacock, then euphorbus was, } then homer next, and next pythagoras; } and, last of all the line, did into ennius pass. } secure and free from business of the state, and more secure of what the vulgar prate, here i enjoy my private thoughts, nor care what rots for sheep the southern winds prepare; survey the neighbouring fields, and not repine, when i behold a larger crop than mine: to see a beggar's brat in riches flow, adds not a wrinkle to my even brow; nor, envious at the sight, will i forbear my plenteous bowl, nor bate my bounteous cheer; nor yet unseal the dregs of wine that stink of cask, nor in a nasty flaggon drink; let others stuff their guts with homely fare, } for men of different inclinations are, } though born perhaps beneath one common star. } in minds and manners twins opposed we see in the same sign, almost the same degree: one, frugal, on his birth-day fears to dine, } does at a penny's cost in herbs repine, } and hardly dares to dip his fingers in the brine; } prepared as priest of his own rites to stand, he sprinkles pepper with a sparing hand. his jolly brother, opposite in sense, } laughs at his thrift; and, lavish of expence, } quaffs, crams, and guttles, in his own defence. } for me, i'll use my own, and take my share, yet will not turbots for my slaves prepare; nor be so nice in taste myself to know if what i swallow be a thrush, or no. live on thy annual income, spend thy store, } and freely grind from thy full threshing floor; } next harvest promises as much, or more. } thus i would live; but friendship's holy band, } and offices of kindness, hold my hand: } my friend is shipwrecked on the brutian strand,[ ] } his riches in the ionian main are lost, and he himself stands shivering on the coast; where, destitute of help, forlorn and bare, he wearies the deaf gods with fruitless prayer. their images, the relics of the wreck, torn from the naked poop, are tided back by the wild waves, and, rudely thrown ashore, lie impotent, nor can themselves restore; the vessel sticks, and shews her opened side, and on her shattered mast the mews in triumph ride. from thy new hope, and from thy growing store, now lend assistance, and relieve the poor;[ ] come, do a noble act of charity, a pittance of thy land will set him free. let him not bear the badges of a wreck, nor beg with a blue table on his back;[ ] nor tell me, that thy frowning heir will say, 'tis mine that wealth thou squander'st thus away: what is't to thee, if he neglect thy urn? or without spices lets thy body burn?[ ] if odours to thy ashes he refuse, or buys corrupted cassia from the jews? all these, the wiser bestius will reply, are empty pomp, and dead-men's luxury: we never knew this vain expence before the effeminated grecians brought it o'er: now toys and trifles from their athens come, and dates and pepper have unsinewed rome. our sweating hinds their sallads now defile, infecting homely herbs with fragrant oil. but to thy fortune be not thou a slave; for what hast thou to fear beyond the grave? and thou, who gap'st for my estate, draw near; for i would whisper somewhat in thy ear. hear'st thou the news, my friend? the express is come, with laurelled letters, from the camp to rome: cæsar salutes the queen and senate thus:-- my arms are on the rhine victorious.[ ] from mourning altars sweep the dust away, cease fasting, and proclaim a fat thanksgiving-day. the goodly empress,[ ] jollily inclined, is to the welcome bearer wonderous kind; and, setting her good housewifery aside, prepares for all the pageantry of pride. the captive germans, of gigantic size,[ ] are ranked in order, and are clad in frize: the spoils of kings, and conquered camps we boast, their arms in trophies hang on the triumphal post. now for so many glorious actions done in foreign parts, and mighty battles won; for peace at home, and for the public wealth, i mean to crown a bowl to cæsar's health. besides, in gratitude for such high matters, know i have vowed two hundred gladiators.[ ] say, would'st thou hinder me from this expence? i disinherit thee, if thou dar'st take offence. yet more, a public largess i design of oil and pies, to make the people dine; controul me not, for fear i change my will. and yet methinks i hear thee grumbling still,-- you give as if you were the persian king; your land does not so large revenues bring. well, on my terms thou wilt not be my heir? if thou car'st little, less shall be my care. were none of all my father's sisters left; nay, were i of my mother's kin bereft; none by an uncle's or a grandame's side, yet i could some adopted heir provide. i need but take my journey half a day } from haughty rome, and at aricia stay, } where fortune throws poor manius in my way. } him will i choose:--what him, of humble birth, obscure, a foundling, and a son of earth-- obscure! why, pr'ythee, what am i? i know my father, grandsire, and great-grandsire too: if farther i derive my pedigree, i can but guess beyond the fourth degree. the rest of my forgotten ancestors were sons of earth, like him, or sons of whores. yet why should'st thou, old covetous wretch, aspire to be my heir, who might'st have been my sire? in nature's race, should'st thou demand of me my torch, when i in course run after thee?[ ] think i approach thee, like the god of gain, with wings on head and heels, as poets feign: thy moderate fortune from my gift receive; now fairly take it, or as fairly leave. but take it as it is, and ask no more-- what, when thou hast embezzled all thy store? where's all thy father left?--'tis true, i grant, some i have mortgaged to supply my want: the legacies of tadius too are flown, all spent, and on the self-same errand gone.-- how little then to my poor share will fall!-- little indeed; but yet that little's all. nor tell me, in a dying father's tone,-- be careful still of the main chance, my son; put out thy principal in trusty hands, live on the use, and never dip thy lands: but yet what's left for me?--what's left, my friend! ask that again, and all the rest i spend. is not my fortune at my own command? pour oil, and pour it with a plenteous hand upon my sallads, boy: shall i be fed with sodden nettles, and a singed sow's head? 'tis holiday, provide me better cheer; 'tis holiday, and shall be round the year. shall i my household gods and genius cheat, to make him rich, who grudges me my meat, that he may loll at ease, and, pampered high, when i am laid, may feed on giblet-pie, and, when his throbbing lust extends the vein, have wherewithal his whores to entertain? shall i in homespun cloth be clad, that he his paunch in triumph may before him see? go, miser, go; for lucre sell thy soul; truck wares for wares, and trudge from pole to pole, that men may say, when thou art dead and gone, see what a vast estate he left his son! how large a family of brawny knaves, well fed, and fat as cappadocian slaves![ ] increase thy wealth, and double all thy store; } 'tis done; now double that, and swell the score; } to every thousand add ten thousand more. } then say, chrysippus,[ ] thou who would'st confine thy heap, where i shall put an end to mine. footnotes: [ ] note i. [ ] note ii. [ ] note iii. [ ] note iv. [ ] note v. [ ] note vi. [ ] note vii. [ ] note viii. [ ] note ix. [ ] note x. [ ] note xi. [ ] note xii. [ ] note xiii. [ ] note xiv. notes on translations from persius. satire vi. note i. _has winter caused thee, friend, to change thy seat, and seek in sabine air a warm retreat._--p. . all the studious, and particularly the poets, about the end of august, began to set themselves on work, refraining from writing during the heats of the summer. they wrote by night, and sat up the greatest part of it; for which reason the product of their studies was called their elucubrations, or nightly labours. they who had country-seats retired to them while they studied, as persius did to his, which was near the port of the moon in etruria; and bassus to his, which was in the country of the sabines, nearer rome. note ii. _now sporting on thy lyre the loves of youth._--p. . this proves cæsius bassus to have been a lyric poet. it is said of him, that by an eruption of the flaming mountain vesuvius, near which the greatest part of his fortune lay, he was burnt himself, together with all his writings. note iii. _who in a drunken dream beheld his soul the fifth within the transmigrating roll._--p. . i call it a drunken dream of ennius; not that my author, in this place, gives me any encouragement for the epithet, but because horace, and all who mention ennius, say he was an excessive drinker of wine. in a dream, or vision, call you it which you please, he thought it was revealed to him, that the soul of pythagoras was transmigrated into him; as pythagoras before him believed, that himself had been euphorbus in the wars of troy. commentators differ in placing the order of this soul, and who had it first. i have here given it to the peacock; because it looks more according to the order of nature, that it should lodge in a creature of an inferior species, and so by gradation rise to the informing of a man. and persius favours me, by saying, that ennius was the fifth from the pythagorean peacock. note iv. _my friend is shipwrecked on the brutian strand._--p. . perhaps this is only a fine transition of the poet, to introduce the business of the satire; and not that any such accident had happened to one of the friends of persius. but, however, this is the most poetical description of any in our author; and since he and lucan were so great friends, i know not but lucan might help him in two or three of these verses, which seem to be written in his style; certain it is, that besides this description of a shipwreck, and two lines more, which are at the end of the second satire, our poet has written nothing elegantly. i will, therefore, transcribe both the passages, to justify my opinion. the following are the last verses, saving one, of the second satire: _compositum jus, fasque animi; sanctosque recessus mentis, et incoctum generoso pectus honesto._ the others are those in this present satire, which are subjoined: ----_trabe rupta, bruttia saxa prendit amicus inops, remque omnem, surdaque vota condidit ionio: jacet ipse in littore; et una ingentes de puppe dei: jamque obvia mergis costa ratis laceræ._---- note v. _from thy new hope, and from thy growing store, now lend assistance, and relieve the poor._--p. . the latin is, _nunc et de cespite vivo, frange aliquid_. casaubon only opposes the _cespes vivus_, which, word for word, is the living turf, to the harvest, or annual income; i suppose the poet rather means, sell a piece of land already sown, and give the money of it to my friend, who has lost all by shipwreck; that is, do not stay till thou hast reaped, but help him immediately, as his wants require. note vi. _nor beg with a blue table on his back._--p. . holyday translates it a green table: the sense is the same; for the table was painted of the sea-colour, which the shipwrecked person carried on his back, expressing his losses, thereby to excite the charity of the spectators. note vii. _or without spices lets thy body burn._--p. . the bodies of the rich, before they were burnt, were embalmed with spices; or rather spices were put into the urn with the relics of the ashes. our author here names cinnamum and cassia, which cassia was sophisticated with cherry-gum, and probably enough by the jews, who adulterate all things which they sell. but whether the ancients were acquainted with the spices of the molucca islands, ceylon, and other parts of the indies, or whether their pepper and cinnamon, &c. were the same with ours, is another question. as for nutmegs and mace, it is plain that the latin names for them are modern. note viii. _cæsar salutes the queen and senate thus:-- my arms are on the rhine victorious._--p. . the cæsar, here mentioned, is caius caligula, who affected to triumph over the germans, whom he never conquered, as he did over the britons; and accordingly sent letters, wrapt about with laurels, to the senate and the empress cæsonia, whom i here call queen; though i know that name was not used amongst the romans; but the word empress would not stand in that verse, for which reason i adjourned it to another. the dust, which was to be swept away from the altars, was either the ashes which were left there after the last sacrifice for victory, or might perhaps mean the dust or ashes which were left on the altars since some former defeat of the romans by the germans; after which overthrow, the altars had been neglected. note ix. _the goodly empress._--p. . cæsonia, wife to caius caligula, who afterwards, in the reign of claudius, was proposed, but ineffectually, to be married to him, after he had executed messalina for adultery. note x. _the captive germans, of gigantic size, are ranked in order, and are clad in frize._--p. . he means only such as were to pass for germans in the triumph, large-bodied men, as they are still, whom the empress clothed new with coarse garments, for the greater ostentation of the victory. note xi. _know, i have vowed two hundred gladiators._--p. . a hundred pair of gladiators were beyond the purse of a private man to give; therefore this is only a threatening to his heir, that he could do what he pleased with his estate. note xii. ----_shouldst thou demand of me my torch, when i in course run after thee._--p. . why shouldst thou, who art an old fellow, hope to outlive me, and be my heir, who am much younger? he who was first in the course or race, delivered the torch, which he carried, to him who was second. note xiii. _well fed, and fat as cappadocian slaves._--p. . who were famous for their lustiness, and being, as we call it, in good liking. they were set on a stall when they were exposed to sale, to show the good habit of their body; and made to play tricks before the buyers, to show their activity and strength. note xiv. _then say, chrysippus._--p. . chrysippus, the stoic, invented a kind of argument, consisting of more than three propositions, which is called _sorites_, or a heap. but as chrysippus could never bring his propositions to a certain stint, so neither can a covetous man bring his craving desires to any certain measure of riches, beyond which he could not wish for any more. the works of virgil, translated into english verse. works of virgil. this great work was undertaken by dryden, in , and published, by subscription, in . one hundred and one subscribers gave five guineas each to furnish the engravings for the work; if indeed this was any thing more than a genteel pretext for increasing the profit of the author; for spence has informed us, that the old plates used for ogleby's "virgil," were retouched for that of his great successor. another class of subscribers, two hundred and fifty-two in number, contributed two guineas each. as the names of those who encouraged this great national labour have some claim to distinction, the reader will find, prefixed to this edition, an accurate copy of both lists, as they stand in the first folio edition. on th june, , the following advertisement appeared in the london gazette: "the works of virgil; containing his pastorals, georgics, and eneis, translated into english verse, by mr dryden, and adorned with one hundred cuts, will be finished this week, and be ready next week to be delivered, as subscribed for, in quires, upon bringing the receipt for the first payment, and paying the second. printed for jacob tonson, &c." in , tonson published a second edition of dryden's "virgil," with the plates reduced, in three volumes, vo; and various others have since appeared. in , a new edition was given to the public, revised and corrected by henry carey, ll.d. this is so correct, that, although it has been uniformly compared with the original edition of tonson, i have thought it advisable to follow the modern editor in some corrections of the punctuation and reading. in other cases, where i have adhered to the folio, i have placed dr carey's alteration at the bottom of the page. it is hardly worth while to notice, that there is a slight alteration of the arrangement of dryden's prolegomena; the dedication to the "pastorals" being placed immediately before that class of poems, instead of preceding the life, as in the original folio. dryden's notes and observations, which, in the original, are printed together at the end of the work, are, in this edition, dispersed and subjoined to the different books containing the passages to which they refer. the names of the subscribers to the cuts of virgil, in the folio edition, . each subscription being five guineas. pastorals. . lord chancellor . lord privy seal . earl of dorset . lord buckhurst . earl of abingdon . lord viscount cholmondely . lord herbert of cherbury. . lord clifford . marq. of hartington . the hon. mr ch. mountague georgic i. . sir tho. trevor . sir john hawles . joseph jeakyl, esq. . tho. vernon, esq. . will. dobyns, esq. georgic ii. . sir will. bower . gilbert dolbin, esq. . geo. london, esq. . john loving, esq. . will. walsh, esq. georgic iii. . duke of richmond . sir j. isham, bart. . sir tho. mompesson . john dormer, esq. . frederick tylney, esq. georgic iv. . richard norton, esq. . sir will. trumbull . sir barth. shower . symon harcourt, esq. . john granvill, esq. Æneid i. . prince george of denmark . princess ann of denmark . duchess of ormond . countess of exeter . countess-dowager of winchelsea . marchioness of normanby Æneid ii. . duke of somerset . earl of salisbury . earl of inchiqueen . earl of orrery . lord viscount dunbar . countess-dowager of northampton Æneid iii. . earl of darby . bishop of durham . bishop of ossery . dr john mountague . dr brown . dr guibbons Æneid iv. . earl of exeter . lady giffard . lord clifford . john walkaden, esq. . henry tasburgh esq. . mrs ann brownlow Æneid v. . duke of st albans . earl of torrington . anth. hamond, esq. . henry st johns, esq. . steph. waller, ll.d. . duke of glocester . edmond waller, esq. Æneid vi. . earl of denbigh . sir tho. dyke, bart. . mrs ann bayner . john lewknor, esq. . sir fleetwood shepherd . john poultney, esq. . john knight, esq. . robert harley, esq. Æneid vii. . earl of rumney . anthony henley, esq. . george stepney, esq. . coll. tho. farringdon . lady mary sackvill . charles fox, esq. Æneid viii. . earl of ailesbury . the hon. mr robert bruce . christopher rich, esq. . sir godfrey kneller Æneid ix. . earl of sunderland . thomas foley, esq. . col. geo. cholmondly . sir john percival, bart. . col. christopher codrington . mr john closterman. Æneid x. . lord visc. fitzharding . sir robert howard . sir john leuson gore, bart. . sir charles orby . tho. hopkins, esq. Æneid xi. . duke of shrewsbury . sir w. kirkham blount, bart. . john noell, esq. . marquis of normanby . lord berkley . arthur manwareing, esq. Æneid xii. . earl of chesterfield . brigadier fitzpatrick . dr tho. hobbs . lord guilford . duke of ormond the names of the second subscribers. a. lord ashley sir james ash, bart. sir james ash, bart. sir francis andrew, bart. charles adderley, esq. mrs ann ash edw. ash, esq. mr francis atterbury sam. atkins, esq. tho. austen, esq. ro. austen, esq. b. earl of bullingbrook sir ed. bettenson, bart. sir tho. pope blount, bart. sir john bolles sir will. bowes will. blathwayt, esq. secretary of war will. barlow, esq. peregrine bertye, esq. will. bridgman, esq. orlando bridgman, esq. will. bridges, esq. char. bloodworth, esq. the hon. henry boyl, esq. rich. boyl, esq. chidley brook, esq. will. bromley, esq. of warwickshire mich. bruneau, esq. tho. bulkley, esq. theoph. butler, esq. capt. john berkeley mr jo. bowes, prebend. of durham mr jeremiah ball mr john ball mr richard banks mrs elizabeth barry mr beckford mr tho. betterton mrs catharine blount mr bond mr bond mrs ann bracegirdle mr samuel brockenborough mrs elizabeth brown mr moses bruche mr lancelot burton c. earl of clarendon lord henry cavendish lord clifford lord coningsby lord cutts lady chudleigh, of the west the hon. char. cornwallis, son to the lord cornwallis sir walt. clarges, bart. sir ro. cotton sir will. cooper the hon. will. cheyney james calthorp, esq. charles chamberlayn, esq. edmond clifford, esq. charles cocks, esq. tho. coel, esq. tho. coke, esq. hugh colville, esq. jo. crawley, esq. courtney crocker, esq. henry curwyn, esq. capt. james conoway mr will claret mr john claney mr will congreve mr henry cook mr will. cooper mrs elizabeth creede d. duchess of devonshire paul docmenique, esq. mountague drake, esq. will. draper, esq. mr mich. dahl mr davenport mr will. delawn mrs dorothy draycot mr edward dryden e. earl of essex sir edw. ernle will. elson, esq. tho. elyot, esq. thomas earl, major-general f. sir edm. fettiplace, bart. sir will. forester sir james forbys lady mary fenwick the hon. col. finch the hon. doctour finch the hon. will. fielding rich. franklin, postmaster, esq. charles fergesen, esq. com. of the navy doctor fuller, d. of lincoln henry farmer, esq. tho. finch, esq. tho. frewin, esq. mr george finch g. sir bevill granvill, bart. oliver st george, esq. tho gifford, esq. rich. goulston, esq. richard graham, esq. fergus grahme, esq. will. grove, esq. dr gath, m.d. mr george goulding mr grinlin guibbons h. lord archibald hamilton lord hide sir richard haddock sir christop. hales, bart. sir tho. hussey rob. harley, esq. rob. henley, esq. m.p. will. hewer, esq. rodger hewet, esq. he. heveningham, esq. john holdworthy, esq. matt holdworthy, esq. nath. hornby, esq. the hon. bern howard craven howard, esq. mansel howe, esq. sam. hunter, esq. mr edward hastwell mr nich. hawksmore mr whitfeild hayter mr peter henriques mr ro. huckwell j. john james, esq. william jenkins, esq. sam. jones, esq. mr edw. jefferyes k. jos. keally, esq. coll. james kendall dr knipe mr mich. kinkead l. sir berkely lucy, bart. lady jane leveson gower tho. langley, esq. patrick lamb, esq. will. latton, esq. james long, of draycot, esq. will. lownds, esq. dennis lydal, esq. mr char. longueville. m. charles mannours, esq. tho. mansel, esq. bussy mansel, esq. will. martyn, esq. henry maxwell, esq. charles mein, esq. rich. minshul, esq. ro. molesworth, esq. the hon. henry mordaunt george moult, esq. christoph. mountague, esq. walter moyl, esq. mr charles marbury mr chistoph. metcalf mrs monneux n. lord norris henry neville, esq. will. norris, esq. mr will. nicoll o. ro. orme, esq. dr oliver, m.d. mr mich. owen p. the right hon. charles earl of peterborough sir henry pechy, bart. sir john phillips, bart. sir john pykering, bart. sir john parsons ro. palmer, esq. guy palmes, esq. ben. parry, esq. sam. pepys, esq. james petre, esq. will. pezeley, esq. craven peyton, esq. john pitts, esq. will. plowden of plowden, esq. mr theoph. pykering, prebend of durham coll. will. parsons capt. phillips capt. pitts mr daniel peck r. duchess of richmond earl of radnor lord ranelagh tho. rawlings, esq. will. rider, esq. francis roberts, esq. mr rose s. lord spencer sir tho. skipwith, bart. sir john seymour sir charles skrimpshire j. scroop of danby, esq. ralph sheldon, com. warw. esq. edw. sheldon, esq. john smith, esq. james sothern, esq. the hon. james stanley, esq. ro. stopford, esq. the hon. major-gen. edward sackville col. j. stanhope col. strangways mr james seamer mr william seeks mr joseph sherwood mr laurence smith mr tho. southern mr paris slaughter mr lancelot stepney t. sir john trevillion, bart. sir edm. turner henry temple, esq. ashburnam toll, esq. sam. travers, esq. john tucker, esq. major-gen. charles trelawney major-gen. trelawney col. john tidcomb col. trelawney mr george townsend mr tho. tyldesley mr tyndall v. john verney, esq. henry vernon, esq. james vernon, esq. w. lord marquis of winchester earl of weymouth lady windham sir john walter, bart. sir john woodhouse, bart. sir francis windham james ward, esq. will. wardour, jun. esq. will. welby, esq. will. weld, esq. th. brome whorwood, esq. salw. winnington, esq. col. cornelius wood mrs mary walter mr leonard wessel recommendatory poems. to mr dryden, on his excellent _translation of virgil_. whene'er great virgil's lofty verse i see, the pompous scene charms my admiring eye. there different beauties in perfection meet; the thoughts as proper, as the numbers sweet; and, when wild fancy mounts a daring height, judgment steps in, and moderates her flight. wisely he manages his wealthy store, still says enough, and yet implies still more: for, though the weighty sense be closely wrought, the reader's left to improve the pleasing thought. hence we despaired to see an english dress should e'er his nervous energy express; for who could that in fettered rhyme inclose, which, without loss, can scarce be told in prose? but you, great sir, his manly genius raise, and make your copy share an equal praise. oh! how i see thee, in soft scenes of love, renew those passions he alone could move! here cupid's charms are with new art exprest, and pale eliza leaves her peaceful rest-- leaves her elysium, as if glad to live, } to love, and wish, to sigh, despair, and grieve, } and die again for him that would again deceive. } nor does the mighty trojan less appear than mars himself, amidst the storms of war. now his fierce eyes with double fury glow, and a new dread attends the impending blow: the daunian chiefs their eager rage abate, and, though unwounded, seem to feel their fate. long the rude fury of an ignorant age, with barbarous spite, profaned his sacred page. the heavy dutchmen, with laborious toil, wrested his sense, and cramped his vigorous style. no time, no pains, the drudging pedants spare, but still his shoulders must the burden bear; while, through the mazes of their comments led, we learn, not what he writes, but what they read. yet, through these shades of undistinguished night, appeared some glimmering intervals of light; till mangled by a vile translating sect, like babes by witches _in effigie_ rackt: till ogleby, mature in dulness, rose, and holbourn doggrel, and low chiming prose, his strength and beauty did at once depose. but now the magic spell is at an end, since even the dead, in you, have found a friend. you free the bard from rude oppressors' power, and grace his verse with charms unknown before. he, doubly thus obliged, must doubting stand, which chiefly should his gratitude command-- whether should claim the tribute of his heart, the patron's bounty, or the poet's art. alike with wonder and delight we viewed the roman genius in thy verse renewed: we saw thee raise soft ovid's amorous fire, and fit the tuneful horace to thy lyre: we saw new gall embitter juvenal's pen, and crabbed persius made politely plain. virgil alone was thought too great a task-- what you could scarce perform, or we durst ask; a task, which waller's muse could ne'er engage; a task, too hard for denham's stronger rage. sure of success, they some slight sallies tried; but the fenced coast their bold attempts defied: with fear, their o'ermatched forces back they drew, quitting the province fate reserved for you. in vain thus philip did the persians storm; a work his son was destined to perform. o! had roscommon[ ] lived to hail the day, and sing loud pæans through the crowded way, when you in roman majesty appear, which none know better, and none come so near; the happy author would with wonder see, his rules were only prophecies of thee: and, were he now to give translators light, he'd bid them only read thy work, and write. for this great task, our loud applause is due; we own old favours, but must press for new: th' expecting world demands one labour more; and thy loved homer does thy aid implore, to right his injured works, and set them free from the lewd rhymes of grovelling ogleby. then shall his verse in graceful pomp appear, nor will his birth renew the ancient jar: on those greek cities we shall look with scorn, and in our britain think the poet born. to mr dryden, on his _translation of virgil_. i. we read, how dreams and visions heretofore the prophet and the poet could inspire, and make them in unusual rapture soar, with rage divine, and with poetic fire. ii. o could i find it now!--would virgil's shade but for a while vouchsafe to bear the light, to grace my numbers, and that muse to aid, who sings the poet that has done him right. iii. it long has been this sacred author's fate, to lie at every dull translator's will: long, long his muse has groaned beneath the weight of mangling ogleby's presumptuous quill. iv. dryden, at last, in his defence arose: the father now is righted by the son; and, while his muse endeavours to disclose that poet's beauties, she declares her own. v. in your smooth pompous numbers drest, each line, each thought, betrays such a majestic touch, he could not, had he finished his design, have wished it better, or have done so much. vi. you, like his hero, though yourself were free, and disentangled from the war of wit-- you, who secure might others' danger see, and safe from all malicious censure sit-- vii. yet, because sacred virgil's noble muse, o'erlaid by fools, was ready to expire, to risk your fame again, you boldly chuse, or to redeem, or perish with your sire. viii. even first and last, we owe him half to you: for, that his Æneids missed their threatened fate, was--that his friends by some prediction knew, hereafter, who, correcting, should translate. ix. but hold, my muse! thy needless flight restrain, unless, like him, thou could'st a verse indite: to think his fancy to describe, is vain, since nothing can discover light, but light. x. 'tis want of genius that does more deny; 'tis fear my praise should make your glory less; and, therefore, like the modest painter, i must draw the veil, where i cannot express. henry grahme. to mr dryden. no undisputed monarch governed yet, with universal sway, the realms of wit: nature could never such expence afford; each several province owned a several lord. a poet then had his poetic wife, one muse embraced, and married for his life. by the stale thing his appetite was cloyed, his fancy lessened, and his fire destroyed. but nature, grown extravagantly kind, with all her treasures did adorn your mind; the different powers were then united found, and you wit's universal monarch crowned. your mighty sway your great desert secures; and every muse and every grace is yours. to none confined, by turns you all enjoy: sated with this, you to another fly, so, sultan-like, in your seraglio stand, while wishing muses wait for your command; thus no decay, no want of vigour, find: sublime your fancy, boundless is your mind. not all the blasts of time can do you wrong-- young, spite of age--in spite of weakness, strong. time, like alcides, strikes you to the ground; you, like antæus, from each fall rebound. h. st. john. to mr dryden, on _his virgil_. 'tis said, that phidias gave such living grace to the carved image of a beauteous face, that the cold marble might even seem to be the life--and the true life, the imagery. you pass that artist, sir, and all his powers, making the best of roman poets ours, with such effect, we know not which to call the imitation, which the original. what virgil lent, you pay in equal weight; the charming beauty of the coin no less; and such the majesty of your impress, you seem the very author you translate. 'tis certain, were he now alive with us, and did revolving destiny constrain to dress his thoughts in english o'er again, himself could write no otherwise than thus. his old encomium never did appear so true as now: "romans and greeks, submit! something of late is in our language writ, more nobly great than the famed iliads were." ja. wright. to mr dryden, on _his translations_. as flowers, transplanted from a southern sky, but hardly bear, or in the raising die, missing their native sun,--at best retain but a faint odour, and but live with pain; so roman poetry, by moderns taught, } wanting the warmth with which its author wrote, } is a dead image, and a worthless draught. } while we transfuse, the nimble spirit flies, escapes unseen, evaporates, and dies. who then attempts to shew the ancients' wit, must copy with the genius that they writ: whence we conclude from thy translated song, so just, so warm, so smooth, and yet so strong, thou heavenly charmer! soul of harmony! that all their geniuses revived in thee. thy trumpet sounds: the dead are raised to light; new-born they rise, and take to heaven their flight; deck'd in thy verse, as clad with rays, they shine, all glorified, immortal, and divine. as britain, in rich soil abounding wide, furnished for use, for luxury, and pride, yet spreads her wanton sails on every shore, for foreign wealth, insatiate still of more; to her own wool, the silks of asia joins, and to her plenteous harvests, indian mines; so dryden, not contented with the fame of his own works, though an immortal name---- to lands remote he sends his learned muse, the noblest seeds of foreign wit to chuse. feasting our sense so many various ways, say, is't thy bounty, or thy thirst of praise, that, by comparing others, all might see, who most excelled, are yet excelled by thee? george granville. footnotes: [ ] essay of translated verse, p. . the life of publius virgilius maro, by knightly chetwood, d.d.[ ] virgil was born at mantua, which city was built no less than three hundred years before rome, and was the capital of the new hetruria, as himself, no less antiquary than poet, assures us. his birth is said to have happened in the first consulship of pompey the great, and licinius crassus: but, since the relater of this presently after contradicts himself, and virgil's manner of addressing to octavius implies a greater difference of age than that of seven years, as appears by his first pastoral, and other places, it is reasonable to set the date of it something backward; and the writer of his life having no certain memorials to work upon, seems to have pitched upon the two most illustrious consuls he could find about that time, to signalize the birth of so eminent a man. but it is beyond all question, that he was born on or near the th of october, which day was kept festival in honour of his memory by the latin, as the birth-day of homer was by the greek poets. and so near a resemblance there is betwixt the lives of these two famous epic writers, that virgil seems to have followed the fortune of the other, as well as the subject and manner of his writing. for homer is said to have been of very mean parents, such as got their bread by day-labour; so is virgil. homer is said to be base-born; so is virgil. the former to have been born in the open air, in a ditch, or by the bank of a river; so is the latter. there was a poplar planted near the place of virgil's birth, which suddenly grew up to an unusual height and bulk, and to which the superstitious neighbourhood attributed marvellous virtue: homer had his poplar too, as herodotus relates, which was visited with great veneration. homer is described by one of the ancients to have been of a slovenly and neglected mien and habit; so was virgil. both were of a very delicate and sickly constitution; both addicted to travel, and the study of astrology; both had their compositions usurped by others; both envied and traduced during their lives. we know not so much as the true names of either of them with any exactness; for the critics are not yet agreed how the word _virgil_ should be written, and of homer's name there is no certainty at all. whosoever shall consider this parallel in so many particulars, (and more might be added,) would be inclined to think, that either the same stars ruled strongly at the nativities of them both; or, what is a great deal more probable, that the latin grammarians, wanting materials for the former part of virgil's life, after the legendary fashion, supplied it out of herodotus; and, like ill face-painters, not being able to hit the true features, endeavoured to make amends by a great deal of impertinent landscape and drapery. without troubling the reader with needless quotations now, or afterwards, the most probable opinion is, that virgil was the son of a servant, or assistant, to a wandering astrologer, who practised physic: for _medicus_, _magus_, as juvenal observes, usually went together; and this course of life was followed by a great many greeks and syrians, of one of which nations it seems not improbable that virgil's father was. nor could a man of that profession have chosen a fitter place to settle in, than that most superstitious tract of italy, which, by her ridiculous rites and ceremonies, as much enslaved the romans, as the romans did the hetrurians by their arms. this man, therefore, having got together some money, which stock he improved by his skill in planting and husbandry, had the good fortune, at last, to marry his master's daughter, by whom he had virgil: and this woman seems, by her mother's side, to have been of good extraction; for she was nearly related to quintilius varus, whom paterculus assures us to have been of an illustrious, though not patrician, family; and there is honourable mention made of it in the history of the second carthaginian war. it is certain, that they gave him very good education; to which they were inclined, not so much by the dreams of his mother, and those presages which donatus relates, as by the early indications which he gave of a sweet disposition and excellent wit. he passed the first seven years of his life at mantua, not seventeen, as scaliger miscorrects his author; for the _initia ætatis_ can hardly be supposed to extend so far. from thence he removed to cremona, a noble roman colony, and afterwards to milan; in all which places, he prosecuted his studies with great application. he read over all the best latin and greek authors; for which he had convenience by the no remote distance of marseilles, that famous greek colony, which maintained its politeness and purity of language in the midst of all those barbarous nations amongst which it was seated; and some tincture of the latter seems to have descended from them down to the modern french. he frequented the most eminent professors of the epicurean philosophy, which was then much in vogue, and will be always, in declining and sickly states.[ ] but, finding no satisfactory account from his master syron, he passed over to the academic school; to which he adhered the rest of his life, and deserved, from a great emperor, the title of--_the plato of poets_. he composed at leisure hours a great number of verses on various subjects; and, desirous rather of a great than early fame, he permitted his kinsman and fellow-student, varus, to derive the honour of one of his tragedies to himself. glory, neglected in proper time and place, returns often with large increase: and so he found it; for varus afterwards proved a great instrument of his rise. in short, it was here that he formed the plan, and collected the materials, of all those excellent pieces which he afterwards finished, or was forced to leave less perfect by his death. but, whether it were the unwholesomeness of his native air, of which he somewhere complains; or his too great abstinence, and night-watchings at his study, to which he was always addicted, as augustus observes; or possibly the hopes of improving himself by travel--he resolved to remove to the more southern tract of italy; and it was hardly possible for him not to take rome in his way, as is evident to any one who shall cast an eye on the map of italy. and therefore the late french editor of his works is mistaken, when he asserts, that he never saw rome till he came to petition for his estate. he gained the acquaintance of the master of the horse to octavius, and cured a great many diseases of horses, by methods they had never heard of. it fell out, at the same time, that a very fine colt, which promised great strength and speed, was presented to octavius; virgil assured them, that he came of a faulty mare, and would prove a jade: upon trial, it was found as he had said. his judgment proved right in several other instances; which was the more surprising, because the romans knew least of natural causes of any civilized nation in the world; and those meteors and prodigies, which cost them incredible sums to expiate, might easily have been accounted for by no very profound naturalist. it is no wonder, therefore, that virgil was in so great reputation, as to be at last introduced to octavius himself. that prince was then at variance with marc antony, who vexed him with a great many libelling letters, in which he reproaches him with the baseness of his parentage, that he came of a scrivener, a rope-maker, and a baker, as suetonius tells us. octavius finding that virgil had passed so exact a judgment upon the breed of dogs and horses, thought that he possibly might be able to give him some light concerning his own. he took him into his closet, where they continued in private a considerable time. virgil was a great mathematician; which, in the sense of those times, took in astrology; and, if there be any thing in that art, (which i can hardly believe,) if that be true which the ingenious de la chambre asserts confidently, that, from the marks on the body, the configuration of the planets at a nativity may be gathered, and the marks might be told by knowing the nativity, never had one of those artists a fairer opportunity to show his skill than virgil now had; for octavius had moles upon his body, exactly resembling the constellation called _ursa major_. but virgil had other helps; the predictions of cicero and catulus,[ ] and that vote of the senate had gone abroad, that no child, born at rome in the year of his nativity, should be bred up, because the seers assured them that an emperor was born that year. besides this, virgil had heard of the assyrian and egyptian prophecies, (which, in truth, were no other but the jewish,) that about that time a great king was to come into the world. himself takes notice of them, (Æn. vi.) where he uses a very significant word, now in all liturgies, _hujus in adventu_; so in another place, _adventu propiore dei_. at his foreseen approach already quake assyrian kingdoms, and mæotis' lake; nile hears him knocking at his seven-fold gate. every one knows whence this was taken. it was rather a mistake than impiety in virgil, to apply these prophecies, which belonged to the saviour of the world, to the person of octavius; it being a usual piece of flattery, for near a hundred years together, to attribute them to their emperors and other great men. upon the whole matter, it is very probable, that virgil predicted to him the empire at this time. and it will appear yet the more, if we consider, that he assures him of his being received into the number of the gods, in his first pastoral, long before the thing came to pass; which prediction seems grounded upon his former mistake. this was a secret not to be divulged at that time; and therefore it is no wonder that the slight story in donatus was given abroad to palliate the matter. but certain it is, that octavius dismissed him with great marks of esteem, and earnestly recommended the protection of virgil's affairs to pollio, then lieutenant of the cisalpine gaul, where virgil's patrimony lay. this pollio, from a mean original, became one of the most considerable persons of his time; a good general, orator, statesman, historian, poet, and favourer of learned men; above all, he was a man of honour in those critical times. he had joined with octavius and antony in revenging the barbarous assassination of julius cæsar; when they two were at variance, he would neither follow antony, whose courses he detested, nor join with octavius against him, out of a grateful sense of some former obligations. augustus, who thought it his interest to oblige men of principles, notwithstanding this, received him afterwards into favour, and promoted him to the highest honours. and thus much i thought fit to say of pollio, because he was one of virgil's greatest friends. being therefore eased of domestic cares, he pursues his journey to naples. the charming situation of that place, and view of the beautiful villas of the roman nobility, equaling the magnificence of the greatest kings; the neighbourhood of baiæ, whither the sick resorted for recovery, and the statesman when he was politicly sick; whither the wanton went for pleasure, and witty men for good company; the wholesomeness of the air, and improving conversation, the best air of all, contributed not only to the re-establishing his health, but to the forming of his style, and rendering him master of that happy turn of verse, in which he much surpasses all the latins, and, in a less advantageous language, equals even homer himself. he proposed to use his talent in poetry, only for scaffolding to build a convenient fortune, that he might prosecute, with less interruption, those nobler studies to which his elevated genius led him, and which he describes in these admirable lines: _me vero primum dulces ante omnia musæ, quarum sacra fero ingenti percussus amore, accipiant; cælique vias, et sidera, monstrent, defectus solis varios, lunæque labores; unde tremor terris_, &c. but the current of that martial age, by some strange antiperistasis, drove so violently towards poetry, that he was at last carried down with the stream; for not only the young nobility, but octavius, and pollio, cicero in his old age, julius cæsar, and the stoical brutus, a little before, would needs be tampering with the muses. the two latter had taken great care to have their poems curiously bound, and lodged in the most famous libraries; but neither the sacredness of those places, nor the greatness of their names, could preserve ill poetry. quitting therefore the study of the law, after having pleaded but one cause with indifferent success, he resolved to push his fortune this way, which he seems to have discontinued for some time; and that may be the reason why the _culex_, his first pastoral now extant, has little besides the novelty of the subject, and the moral of the fable, which contains an exhortation to gratitude, to recommend it. had it been as correct as his other pieces, nothing more proper and pertinent could have at that time been addressed to the young octavius; for, the year in which he presented it, probably at baiæ, seems to be the very same in which that prince consented (though with seeming reluctance) to the death of cicero, under whose consulship he was born, the preserver of his life, and chief instrument of his advancement. there is no reason to question its being genuine, as the late french editor does; its meanness, in comparison of virgil's other works, (which is that writer's only objection,) confutes himself; for martial, who certainly saw the true copy, speaks of it with contempt; and yet that pastoral equals, at least, the address to the dauphin, which is prefixed to the late edition. octavius, to unbend his mind from application to public business, took frequent turns to baiæ, and sicily, where he composed his poem called _sicelides_, which virgil seems to allude to in the pastoral beginning _sicelides musæ_. this gave him opportunity of refreshing that prince's memory of him; and about that time he wrote his _Ætna_. soon after he seems to have made a voyage to athens, and at his return presented his _ceiris_, a more elaborate piece, to the noble and eloquent messala. the forementioned author groundlessly taxes this as supposititious; for, besides other critical marks, there are no less than fifty or sixty verses, altered, indeed, and polished, which he inserted in the pastorals, according to his fashion; and from thence they were called _eclogues_, or _select bucolics_: we thought fit to use a title more intelligible, the reason of the other being ceased; and we are supported by virgil's own authority, who expressly calls them _carmina pastorum_. the french editor is again mistaken, in asserting, that the _ceiris_ is borrowed from the ninth of ovid's _metamorphoses_: he might have more reasonably conjectured it to be taken from parthenius, the greek poet, from whom ovid borrowed a great part of his work. but it is indeed taken from neither, but from that learned, unfortunate poet, apollonius rhodius, to whom virgil is more indebted than to any other greek writer, excepting homer. the reader will be satisfied of this, if he consults that author in his own language; for the translation is a great deal more obscure than the original. whilst virgil thus enjoyed the sweets of a learned privacy, the troubles of italy cut off his little subsistence; but, by a strange turn of human affairs, which ought to keep good men from ever despairing, the loss of his estate proved the effectual way of making his fortune. the occasion of it was this: octavius, as himself relates, when he was but nineteen years of age, by a masterly stroke of policy, had gained the veteran legions into his service, and, by that step, outwitted all the republican senate. they grew now very clamorous for their pay; the treasury being exhausted, he was forced to make assignments upon land; and none but in italy itself would content them. he pitched upon cremona, as the most distant from rome; but that not sufficing, he afterwards threw in part of the state of mantua. cremona was a rich and noble colony, settled a little before the invasion of hannibal. during that tedious and bloody war, they had done several important services to the commonwealth; and, when eighteen other colonies, pleading poverty and depopulation, refused to contribute money, or to raise recruits, they of cremona voluntarily paid a double quota of both. but past services are a fruitless plea; civil wars are one continued act of ingratitude. in vain did the miserable mothers, with their famishing infants in their arms, fill the streets with their numbers, and the air with lamentations; the craving legions were to be satisfied at any rate. virgil, involved in the common calamity, had recourse to his old patron, pollio; but he was, at this time, under a cloud; however, compassionating so worthy a man, not of a make to struggle through the world, he did what he could, and recommended him to mæcenas, with whom he still kept a private correspondence. the name of this great man being much better known than one part of his character, the reader, i presume, will not be displeased if i supply it in this place. though he was of as deep reach, and easy dispatch of business, as any in his time, yet he designedly lived beneath his true character. men had oftentimes meddled in public affairs, that they might have more ability to furnish for their pleasures: mæcenas, by the honestest hypocrisy that ever was, pretended to a life of pleasure, that he might render more effectual service to his master. he seemed wholly to amuse himself with the diversions of the town, but, under that mask, was the greatest minister of his age. he would be carried in a careless, effeminate posture through the streets in his chair, even to the degree of a proverb; and yet there was not a cabal of ill-disposed persons which he had not early notice of, and that too in a city as large as london and paris, and perhaps two or three more of the most populous, put together. no man better understood that art so necessary to the great--the art of declining envy. being but of a gentleman's family, not patrician, he would not provoke the nobility by accepting invidious honours, but wisely satisfied himself, that he had the ear of augustus, and the secret of the empire. he seems to have committed but one great fault, which was, the trusting a secret of high consequence to his wife; but his master, enough uxorious himself, made his own frailty more excusable, by generously forgiving that of his favourite: he kept, in all his greatness, exact measures with his friends; and, chusing them wisely, found, by experience, that good sense and gratitude are almost inseparable. this appears in virgil and horace. the former, besides the honour he did him to all posterity, re-toured his liberalities at his death; the other, whom mæcenas recommended with his last breath, was too generous to stay behind, and enjoy the favour of augustus; he only desired a place in his tomb, and to mingle his ashes with those of his deceased benefactor. but this was seventeen hundred years ago.[ ] virgil, thus powerfully supported, thought it mean to petition for himself alone, but resolutely solicits the cause of his whole country, and seems, at first, to have met with some encouragement; but, the matter cooling, he was forced to sit down contented with the grant of his own estate. he goes therefore to mantua, produces his warrant to a captain of foot, whom he found in his house. arius, who had eleven points of the law, and fierce[ ] of the services he had rendered to octavius, was so far from yielding possession, that, words growing betwixt them, he wounded him dangerously, forced him to fly, and at last to swim the river mincius to save his life. virgil, who used to say, that no virtue was so necessary as patience, was forced to drag a sick body half the length of italy, back again to rome, and by the way, probably, composed his ninth pastoral, which may seem to have been made up in haste, out of the fragments of some other pieces; and naturally enough represents the disorder of the poet's mind, by its disjointed fashion, though there be another reason to be given elsewhere of its want of connection. he handsomely states his case in that poem, and, with the pardonable resentments of injured innocence, not only claims octavius's promise, but hints to him the uncertainty of human greatness and glory. all was taken in good part by that wise prince; at last effectual orders were given. about this time, he composed that admirable poem, which is set first, out of respect to cæsar; for he does not seem either to have had leisure, or to have been in the humour of making so solemn an acknowledgment, till he was possessed of the benefit. and now he was in so great reputation and interest, that he resolved to give up his land to his parents, and himself to the court. his pastorals were in such esteem, that pollio, now again in high favour with cæsar, desired him to reduce them into a volume. some modern writer, that has a constant flux of verse, would stand amazed, how virgil could employ three whole years in revising five or six hundred verses, most of which, probably, were made some time before; but there is more reason to wonder, how he could do it so soon in such perfection. a coarse stone is presently fashioned; but a diamond, of not many carats, is many weeks in sawing, and, in polishing, many more. he who put virgil upon this, had a politic good end in it. the continued civil wars had laid italy almost waste; the ground was uncultivated and unstocked; upon which ensued such a famine and insurrection, that cæsar hardly escaped being stoned at rome; his ambition being looked upon by all parties as the principal occasion of it. he set himself therefore with great industry to promote country improvements; and virgil was serviceable to his design, as the good keeper of the bees, georg. iv. _tinnitusque cie, et matris quate cymbala circum, ipsæ consident._ that emperor afterwards thought it matter worthy a public inscription-- rediit cultus agris-- which seems to be the motive that induced mæcenas to put him upon writing his georgics, or books of husbandry: a design as new in latin verse, as pastorals, before virgil, were in italy: which work took up seven of the most vigorous years of his life; for he was now, at least, thirty-four years of age; and here virgil shines in his meridian. a great part of this work seems to have been rough-drawn before he left mantua; for an ancient writer has observed, that the rules of husbandry, laid down in it, are better calculated for the soil of mantua, than for the more sunny climate of naples; near which place, and in sicily, he finished it. but, lest his genius should be depressed by apprehensions of want, he had a good estate settled upon him, and a house in the pleasantest part of rome; the principal furniture of which was a well-chosen library, which stood open to all comers of learning and merit: and what recommended the situation of it most, was the neighbourhood of his mæcenas; and thus he could either visit rome, or return to his privacy at naples, through a pleasant road, adorned on each side with pieces of antiquity, of which he was so great a lover, and, in the intervals of them, seemed almost one continued street of three days' journey. cæsar, having now vanquished sextus pompeius, (a spring-tide of prosperities breaking in upon him, before he was ready to receive them as he ought,) fell sick of the _imperial evil_, the desire of being thought something more than man. ambition is an infinite folly; when it has attained to the utmost pitch of human greatness, it soon falls to making pretensions upon heaven. the crafty livia would needs be drawn in the habit of a priestess by the shrine of the new god; and this became a fashion not to be dispensed with amongst the ladies. the devotion was wonderous great amongst the romans; for it was their interest, and, which sometimes avails more, it was the mode. virgil, though he despised the heathen superstitions, and is so bold as to call saturn and janus by no better a name than that of _old men_, and might deserve the title of subverter of superstitions, as well as varro, thought fit to follow the maxim of plato his master, that every one should serve the gods after the usage of his own country; and therefore was not the last to present his incense, which was of too rich a composition for such an altar; and, by his address to cæsar on this occasion, made an unhappy precedent to lucan and other poets which came after him.--_georg. i._ and _iii._ and this poem being now in great forwardness, cæsar, who, in imitation of his predecessor julius, never intermitted his studies in the camp, and much less in other places, refreshing himself by a short stay in a pleasant village of campania would needs be entertained with the rehearsal of some part of it. virgil recited with a marvellous grace, and sweet accent of voice, but his lungs failing him, mæcenas himself supplied his place for what remained. such a piece of condescension would now be very surprising; but it was no more than customary amongst friends, when learning passed for quality.[ ] lælius, the second man of rome in his time, had done as much for that poet, out of whose dross virgil would sometimes pick gold, as himself said, when one found him reading ennius; (the like he did by some verses of varro, and pacuvius, lucretius, and cicero, which he inserted into his works.) but learned men then lived easy and familiarly with the great: augustus himself would sometimes sit down betwixt virgil and horace, and say jestingly, that he sat betwixt sighing and tears, alluding to the asthma of one, and rheumatic eyes of the other. he would frequently correspond with them, and never leave a letter of theirs unanswered; nor were they under the constraint of formal superscriptions in the beginning, nor of violent superlatives at the close, of their letter: the invention of these is a modern refinement; in which this may be remarked, in passing, that "_humble servant_" is respect, but "_friend_" an affront; which notwithstanding implies the former, and a great deal more. nor does true greatness lose by such familiarity; and those who have it not, as mæcenas and pollio had, are not to be accounted proud, but rather very discreet, in their reserves. some playhouse beauties do wisely to be seen at a distance, and to have the lamps twinkle betwixt them and the spectators. but now cæsar, who, though he were none of the greatest soldiers, was certainly the greatest traveller, of a prince, that had ever been, (for which virgil so dexterously compliments him, Æneid, vi.) takes a voyage to egypt, and, having happily finished the war, reduces that mighty kingdom into the form of a province, over which he appointed gallus his lieutenant. this is the same person to whom virgil addresses his tenth pastoral; changing, in compliance to his request, his purpose of limiting them to the number of the muses. the praises of this gallus took up a considerable part of the fourth book of the georgics, according to the general consent of antiquity: but cæsar would have it put out; and yet the seam in the poem is still to be discerned; and the matter of aristæus's recovering his bees might have been dispatched in less compass, without fetching the causes so far, or interesting so many gods and goddesses in that affair. perhaps some readers may be inclined to think this, though very much laboured, not the most entertaining part of that work; so hard it is for the greatest masters to paint against their inclination. but cæsar was contented, that he should be mentioned in the last pastoral, because it might be taken for a satirical sort of commendation; and the character he there stands under, might help to excuse his cruelty, in putting an old servant to death for no very great crime. and now having ended, as he begins his georgics, with solemn mention of cæsar, (an argument of his devotion to him,) he begins his _Æneïs_, according to the common account, being now turned of forty. but that work had been, in truth, the subject of much earlier meditation. whilst he was working upon the first book of it, this passage, so very remarkable in history, fell out, in which virgil had a great share. cæsar, about this time, either cloyed with glory, or terrified by the example of his predecessor, or to gain the credit of moderation with the people, or possibly to feel the pulse of his friends, deliberated whether he should retain the sovereign power, or restore the commonwealth. agrippa, who was a very honest man, but whose view was of no great extent, advised him to the latter; but mæcenas, who had thoroughly studied his master's temper, in an eloquent oration gave contrary advice. that emperor was too politic to commit the oversight of cromwell, in a deliberation something resembling this. cromwell had never been more desirous of the power, than he was afterwards of the title, of king; and there was nothing in which the heads of the parties, who were all his creatures, would not comply with him; but, by too vehement allegation of arguments against it, he, who had outwitted every body besides, at last outwitted himself by too deep dissimulation; for his council, thinking to make their court by assenting to his judgment, voted unanimously for him against his inclination; which surprised and troubled him to such a degree, that, as soon as he had got into his coach, he fell into a swoon.[ ] but cæsar knew his people better; and, his council being thus divided, he asked virgil's advice. thus a poet had the honour of determining the greatest point that ever was in debate, betwixt the son-in-law and favourite of cæsar. virgil delivered his opinion in words to this effect: "the change of a popular into an absolute government has generally been of very ill consequence; for, betwixt the hatred of the people and injustice of the prince, it, of necessity, comes to pass, that they live in distrust, and mutual apprehensions. but, if the commons knew a just person, whom they entirely confided in, it would be for the advantage of all parties, that such a one should be their sovereign; wherefore, if you shall continue to administer justice impartially, as hitherto you have done, your power will prove safe to yourself, and beneficial to mankind." this excellent sentence, which seems taken out of plato, (with whose writings the grammarians were not much acquainted, and therefore cannot reasonably be suspected of forgery in this matter,) contains the true state of affairs at that time: for the commonwealth maxims were now no longer practicable; the romans had only the haughtiness of the old commonwealth left, without one of its virtues. and this sentence we find, almost in the same words, in the first book of the "Æneïs," which at this time he was writing; and one might wonder that none of his commentators have taken notice of it. he compares a tempest to a popular insurrection, as cicero had compared a sedition to a storm, a little before: _ac veluti, magno in populo, cum sæpe coorta est seditio, sævitque animis ignobile vulgus, jamque faces, et saxa volant; furor arma ministrat: tum pietate gravem ac meritis si forte virum quem conspexere, silent, arrectisque auribus adstant: ille regit dictis animos, et pectora mulcet._ piety and merit were the two great virtues which virgil every where attributes to augustus, and in which that prince, at least politicly, if not so truly, fixed his character, as appears by the _marmor ancyr._ and several of his medals. franshemius, the learned supplementor of livy, has inserted this relation into his history; nor is there any good reason, why ruæus should account it fabulous. the title of a poet in those days did not abate, but heighten, the character of the gravest senator. virgil was one of the best and wisest men of his time, and in so popular esteem, that one hundred thousand romans rose when he came into the theatre, and paid him the same respect they used to cæsar himself, as tacitus assures us. and, if augustus invited horace to assist him in writing his letters, (and every body knows that the "_rescripta imperatorum_" were the laws of the empire,) virgil might well deserve a place in the cabinet-council. and now he prosecutes his "Æneïs," which had anciently the title of the "imperial poem," or "roman history," and deservedly: for, though he were too artful a writer to set down events in exact historical order, for which lucan is justly blamed; yet are all the most considerable affairs and persons of rome comprised in this poem. he deduces the history of italy from before saturn to the reign of king latinus; and reckons up the successors of Æneas, who reigned at alba, for the space of three hundred years, down to the birth of romulus; describes the persons and principal exploits of all the kings, to their expulsion, and the settling of the commonwealth. after this, he touches promiscuously the most remarkable occurrences at home and abroad, but insists more particularly upon the exploits of augustus; insomuch that, though this assertion may appear at first a little surprising, he has in his works deduced the history of a considerable part of the world from its original, through the fabulous and heroic ages, through the monarchy and commonwealth of rome, for the space of four thousand years, down to within less than forty of our saviour's time, of whom he has preserved a most illustrious prophecy. besides this, he points at many remarkable passages of history under feigned names: the destruction of alba and veii, under that of troy; the star venus, which, varro says, guided Æneas in his voyage to italy, in that verse, _matre deâ monstrante viam._ romulus's lance taking root, and budding, is described in that passage concerning polydorus, Æneïd, iii. ----_confixum ferrea texit telorum seges, et jaculis increvit acutis_-- the stratagem of the trojans boring holes in their ships, and sinking them, lest the latins should burn them, under that fable of their being transformed into sea-nymphs; and therefore the ancients had no such reason to condemn that fable as groundless and absurd. cocles swimming the river tyber, after the bridge was broken down behind him, is exactly painted in the four last verses of the ninth book, under the character of turnus: marius hiding himself in the morass of minturnæ, under the person of sinon: _limosoque lacu per noctem obscurus in ulvâ delitui_.[ ] those verses in the second book concerning priam, ----_jacet ingens littore truncus, &c._ seem originally made upon pompey the great. he seems to touch the imperious and intriguing humour of the empress livia, under the character of juno. the irresolute and weak lepidus is well represented under the person of king latinus; augustus with the character of _pont. max._ under that of Æneas; and the rash courage (always unfortunate in virgil) of marc antony, in turnus; the railing eloquence of cicero in his "philippics" is well imitated in the oration of drances; the dull faithful agrippa, under the person of achates; accordingly this character is flat: achates kills but one man, and himself receives one slight wound, but neither says nor does any thing very considerable in the whole poem. curio, who sold his country for about two hundred thousand pounds, is stigmatized in that verse,-- _vendidit hic auro patriam, dominumque potentem imposuit._ livy relates, that, presently after the death of the two scipios in spain, when martius took upon him the command, a blazing meteor shone around his head, to the astonishment of his soldiers. virgil transfers this to Æneas: _lætasque vomunt duo tempora flammas._ it is strange, that the commentators have not taken notice of this. thus the ill omen which happened a little before the battle of thrasymen, when some of the centurions' lances took fire miraculously, is hinted in the like accident which befel acestes, before the burning of the trojan fleet in sicily. the reader will easily find many more such instances. in other writers, there is often well-covered ignorance; in virgil, concealed learning. his silence of some illustrious persons is no less worth observation. he says nothing of scævola, because he attempted to assassinate a king, though a declared enemy; nor of the younger brutus; for he effected what the other endeavoured; nor of the younger cato, because he was an implacable enemy of julius cæsar; nor could the mention of him be pleasing to augustus; and that passage, _his dantem jura catonem_---- may relate to his office, as he was a very severe censor. nor would he name cicero, when the occasion of mentioning him came full in his way, when he speaks of catiline; because he afterwards approved the murder of cæsar, though the plotters were too wary to trust the orator with their design. some other poets knew the art of speaking well; but virgil, beyond this, knew the admirable secret, of being eloquently silent. whatsoever was most curious in fabius pictor, cato the elder, varro, in the egyptian antiquities, in the form of sacrifice, in the solemnities of making peace and war, is preserved in this poem. rome is still above ground, and flourishing in virgil. and all this he performs with admirable brevity. the "Æneïs" was once near twenty times bigger than he left it; so that he spent as much time in blotting out, as some moderns have done in writing whole volumes. but not one book has his finishing strokes. the sixth seems one of the most perfect, the which, after long entreaty, and sometimes threats, of augustus, he was at last prevailed upon to recite. this fell out about four years before his own death: that of marcellus, whom cæsar designed for his successor, happened a little before this recital: virgil therefore, with his usual dexterity, inserted his funeral panegyric in those admirable lines, beginning, _o nate, ingentem luctum ne quære tuorum, &c._ his mother, the excellent octavia, the best wife of the worst husband that ever was, to divert her grief, would be of the auditory. the poet artificially deferred the naming marcellus, till their passions were raised to the highest; but the mention of it put both her and augustus into such a passion of weeping, that they commanded him to proceed no further. virgil answered, that he had already ended that passage. some relate, that octavia fainted away; but afterwards she presented the poet with two thousand one hundred pounds, odd money: a round sum for twenty-seven verses; but they were virgil's. another writer says, that, with a royal magnificence, she ordered him massy plate, unweighed, to a great value. and now he took up a resolution of travelling into greece, there to set the last hand to this work; proposing to devote the rest of his life to philosophy, which had been always his principal passion. he justly thought it a foolish figure for a grave man to be overtaken by death, whilst he was weighing the cadence of words, and measuring verses, unless necessity should constrain it, from which he was well secured by the liberality of that learned age. but he was not aware, that, whilst he allotted three years for the revising of his poem, he drew bills upon a failing bank: for, unhappily meeting augustus at athens, he thought himself obliged to wait upon him into italy; but, being desirous to see all he could of the greek antiquities, he fell into a languishing distemper at megara. this, neglected at first, proved mortal. the agitation of the vessel (for it was now autumn, near the time of his birth,) brought him so low, that he could hardly reach brindisi. in his sickness, he frequently, and with great importunity, called for his scrutoir, that he might burn his "Æneïs:" but, augustus interposing by his royal authority, he made his last will, (of which something shall be said afterwards;) and, considering probably how much homer had been disfigured by the arbitrary compilers of his works, obliged tucca and varius to add nothing, nor so much as fill up the breaks he left in his poem. he ordered that his bones should be carried to naples, in which place he had passed the most agreeable part of his life. augustus, not only as executor and friend, but according to the duty of the _pontifex maximus_, when a funeral happened in his family, took care himself to see the will punctually executed. he went out of the world with all that calmness of mind with which the ancient writer of his life says he came into it; making the inscription of his monument himself; for he began and ended his poetical compositions with an epitaph. and this he made, exactly according to the law of his master plato on such occasions, without the least ostentation: i sung flocks, tillage, heroes; mantua gave me life, brundusium death, naples a grave. a short account of his person, manners, and fortune. he was of a very swarthy complexion, which might proceed from the southern extraction of his father; tall and wide-shouldered, so that he may be thought to have described himself under the character of musæus, whom he calls the best of poets-- ----_medium nam plurima turba hunc habet, atque humeris extantem suspicit altis._ his sickliness, studies, and the troubles he met with, turned his hair gray before the usual time. he had a hesitation in his speech, as many other great men; it being rarely found that a very fluent elocution, and depth of judgment, meet in the same person: his aspect and behaviour rustic and ungraceful; and this defect was not likely to be rectified in the place where he first lived, nor afterwards, because the weakness of his stomach would not permit him to use his exercises. he was frequently troubled with the head-ach, and spitting of blood; spare of diet, and hardly drank any wine. bashful to a fault; and, when people crowded to see him, he would slip into the next shop, or by-passage, to avoid them. as this character could not recommend him to the fair sex, he seems to have as little consideration for them as euripides himself. there is hardly the character of one good woman to be found in his poems: he uses the word _mulier_ but once in the whole "Æneïs," then too by way of contempt, rendering literally a piece of a verse out of homer. in his "pastorals," he is full of invectives against love: in the "georgics," he appropriates all the rage of it to the females. he makes dido, who never deserved that character, lustful and revengeful to the utmost degree, so as to die devoting her lover to destruction; so changeable, that the destinies themselves could not fix the time of her death; but iris, the emblem of inconstancy, must determine it. her sister is something worse.[ ] he is so far from passing such a compliment upon helen, as the grave old counsellor in homer does, after nine years' war, when, upon the sight of her, he breaks out into this rapture, in the presence of king priam: none can the cause of these long wars despise; the cost bears no proportion to the prize: majestic charms in every feature shine; her air, her port, her accent, is divine. however, let the fatal beauty go, &c. virgil is so far from this complaisant humour, that his hero falls into an unmanly and ill-timed deliberation, whether he should not kill her in a church;[ ] which directly contradicts what deiphobus says of her, Æneid vi., in that place where every body tells the truth. he transfers the dogged silence of ajax's ghost to that of dido; though that be no very natural character to an injured lover, or a woman. he brings in the trojan matrons setting their own fleet on fire, and running afterwards, like witches on their _sabbat_, into the woods. he bestows indeed some ornaments on the character of camilla; but soon abates his favour, by calling her _aspera_ and _horrenda virgo_: he places her in the front of the line for an ill omen of the battle, as one of the ancients has observed. we may observe, on this occasion, it is an art peculiar to virgil, to intimate the event by some preceding accident. he hardly ever describes the rising of the sun, but with some circumstance which fore-signifies the fortune of the day. for instance, when Æneas leaves africa and queen dido, he thus describes the fatal morning: _tithoni croceum linquens aurora cubile._ [and, for the remark, we stand indebted to the curious pencil of pollio.] the mourning fields (Æneid vi.) are crowded with ladies of a lost reputation: hardly one man gets admittance; and that is cæneus, for a very good reason. latinus's queen is turbulent and ungovernable, and at last hangs herself: and the fair lavinia is disobedient to the oracle, and to the king, and looks a little flickering after turnus. i wonder at this the more, because livy represents her as an excellent person, and who behaved herself with great wisdom in her regency during the minority of her son; so that the poet has done her wrong, and it reflects on her posterity. his goddesses make as ill a figure: juno is always in a rage, and the fury of heaven; venus grows so unreasonably confident, as to ask her husband to forge arms for her bastard son, which were enough to provoke one of a more phlegmatic temper than vulcan was. notwithstanding all this raillery of virgil's, he was certainly of a very amorous disposition, and has described all that is most delicate in the passion of love: but he conquered his natural inclination by the help of philosophy, and refined it into friendship, to which he was extremely sensible. the reader will admit of or reject the following conjecture, with the free leave of the writer, who will be equally pleased either way. virgil had too great an opinion of the influence of the heavenly bodies: and, as an ancient writer says, he was born under the sign of virgo; with which nativity he much pleased himself, and would exemplify her virtues in his life. perhaps it was thence that he took his name of _virgil_ and _parthenias_, which does not necessarily signify _base-born_. donatus and servius, very good grammarians, give a quite contrary sense of it. he seems to make allusion to this original of his name in that passage, _illo virgilium me tempore dulcis alebat parthenope._ and this may serve to illustrate his compliment to cæsar, in which he invites him into his own constellation, where, in the void of heaven, a place is free, betwixt the scorpion and the maid, for thee-- thus placing him betwixt justice and power, and in a neighbour mansion to his own; for virgil supposed souls to ascend again to their proper and congenial stars. being therefore of this humour, it is no wonder that he refused the embraces of the beautiful plotia, when his indiscreet friend almost threw her into his arms. but however he stood affected to the ladies, there is a dreadful accusation brought against him for the most unnatural of all vices, which, by the malignity of human nature, has found more credit in latter times than it did near his own. this took not its rise so much from the "alexis," in which pastoral there is not one immodest word, as from a sort of ill-nature, that will not let any one be without the imputation of some vice; and principally because he was so strict a follower of socrates and plato. in order, therefore, to his vindication, i shall take the matter a little higher. the cretans were anciently much addicted to navigation, insomuch that it became a greek proverb, (though omitted, i think, by the industrious erasmus,) a _cretan that does not know the sea_. their neighbourhood gave them occasion of frequent commerce with the phoenicians, that accursed people, who infected the western world with endless superstitions, and gross immoralities. from them it is probable that the cretans learned this infamous passion, to which they were so much addicted, that cicero remarks, in his book "_de rep._" that it was "a disgrace for a young gentleman to be without lovers." socrates, who was a great admirer of the cretan constitutions, set his excellent wit to find out some good cause and use of this evil inclination, and therefore gives an account, wherefore beauty is to be loved, in the following passage; for i will not trouble the reader, weary perhaps already, with a long greek quotation. "there is but one eternal, immutable, uniform beauty; in contemplation of which, our sovereign happiness does consist: and therefore a true lover considers beauty and proportion as so many steps and degrees, by which he may ascend from the particular to the general, from all that is lovely of feature, or regular in proportion, or charming in sound, to the general fountain of all perfection. and if you are so much transported with the sight of beautiful persons, as to wish neither to eat nor drink, but pass your whole life in their conversation; to what ecstasy would it raise you to behold the original beauty, not filled up with flesh and blood, or varnished with a fading mixture of colours, and the rest of mortal trifles and fooleries, but separate, unmixed, uniform, and divine," &c. thus far socrates, in a strain much beyond the "_socrate chrétien_" of mr balzac: and thus that admirable man loved his phædon, his charmides, and theætetus; and thus virgil loved his alexander and cebes, under the feigned name of alexis: he received them illiterate, but returned them to their masters, the one a good poet, and the other an excellent grammarian. and, to prevent all possible misinterpretations, he warily inserted, into the liveliest episode in the whole "Æneïs," these words, _nisus amore pio pueri_---- and, in the sixth, "_quique pii vates_." he seems fond of the words, _castus_, _pius_, _virgo_, and the compounds of it: and sometimes stretches the use of that word further than one would think he reasonably should have done, as when he attributes it to pasiphaë herself. another vice he is taxed with, is avarice, because he died rich; and so indeed he did, in comparison of modern wealth. his estate amounts to near seventy-five thousand pounds of our money: but donatus does not take notice of this as a thing extraordinary; nor was it esteemed so great a matter, when the cash of a great part of the world lay at rome. antony himself bestowed at once two thousand acres of land, in one of the best provinces of italy, upon a ridiculous scribbler, who is named by cicero and virgil. a late cardinal used to purchase ill flattery at the expence of a hundred thousand crowns a year. but, besides virgil's other benefactors, he was much in favour with augustus, whose bounty to him had no limits, but such as the modesty of virgil prescribed to it. before he had made his own fortune, he settled his estate upon his parents and brothers; sent them yearly large sums, so that they lived in great plenty and respect; and, at his death, divided his estate betwixt duty and gratitude, leaving one half to his relations, and the other to mæcenas, to tucca, and varius, and a considerable legacy to augustus, who had introduced a politic fashion of being in every body's will; which alone was a fair revenue for a prince. virgil shows his detestation of this vice, by placing in the front of the damned those who did not relieve their relations and friends; for the romans hardly ever extended their liberality further; and therefore i do not remember to have met, in all the latin poets, one character so noble as that short one in homer: #----philos d' ên anthrôpoisi; pantas gar phileesken.# on the other hand, he gives a very advanced place in elysium to good patriots, &c. observing, in all his poem, that rule so sacred among the romans, "that there should be no art allowed, which did not tend to the improvement of the people in virtue." and this was the principle too of our excellent mr waller, who used to say, that he would raze any line out of his poems, which did not imply some motive to virtue: but he was unhappy in the choice of the subject of his admirable vein in poetry. the countess of carlisle was the helen of her country. there is nothing in pagan philosophy more true, more just, and regular, than virgil's ethics; and it is hardly possible to sit down to the serious perusal of his works, but a man shall rise more disposed to virtue and goodness, as well as most agreeably entertained; the contrary to which disposition may happen sometimes upon the reading of ovid, of martial, and several other second-rate poets. but of the craft and tricking part of life, with which homer abounds, there is nothing to be found in virgil; and therefore plato, who gives the former so many good words, perfumes, crowns, but at last complimentally banishes him his commonwealth, would have entreated virgil to stay with him, (if they had lived in the same age,) and entrusted him with some important charge in his government. thus was his life as chaste as his style; and those who can critic his poetry, can never find a blemish in his manners; and one would rather wish to have that purity of mind, which the satirist himself attributes to him; that friendly disposition, and evenness of temper, and patience, which he was master of in so eminent a degree, than to have the honour of being author of the "Æneïs," or even of the "georgics" themselves. having therefore so little relish for the usual amusements of the world, he prosecuted his studies without any considerable interruption, during the whole course of his life, which one may reasonably conjecture to have been something longer than fifty-two years; and therefore it is no wonder that he became the most general scholar that rome ever bred, unless some one should except varro. besides the exact knowledge of rural affairs, he understood medicine, to which profession he was designed by his parents. a curious florist; on which subject one would wish he had writ, as he once intended: so profound a naturalist, that he has solved more phenomena of nature upon sound principles, than aristotle in his physics: he studied geometry, the most opposite of all sciences to a poetic genius, and beauties of a lively imagination; but this promoted the order of his narrations, his propriety of language, and clearness of expression, for which he was justly called the _pillar of the latin tongue_. this geometrical spirit was the cause, that, to fill up a verse, he would not insert one superfluous word; and therefore deserves that character which a noble and judicious writer has given him, "that he never says too little, nor too much."[ ] nor could any one ever fill up the verses he left imperfect. there is one supplied near the beginning of the first book. virgil left the verse thus, ----_hic illius arma, hic currus fuit_---- the rest is none of his. he was so good a geographer, that he has not only left us the finest description of italy that ever was, but, besides, was one of the few ancients who knew the true system of the earth, its being inhabited round about, under the torrid zone, and near the poles. metrodorus, in his five books of the "zones," justifies him from some exceptions made against him by astronomers. his rhetoric was in such general esteem, that lectures were read upon it in the reign of tiberius, and the subject of declamations taken out of him. pollio himself, and many other ancients, commented him. his esteem degenerated into a kind of superstition. the known story of mr cowley is an instance of it[ ]. but the _sortes virgilianæ_ were condemned by st austin, and other casuists. abienus, by an odd design, put all virgil and livy into iambic verse; and the pictures of those two were hung in the most honourable place of public libraries; and the design of taking them down, and destroying virgil's works, was looked upon as one of the most extravagant amongst the many brutish phrenzies of caligula. footnotes: [ ] knightly chetwood, whom dryden elsewhere terms "learned and every way excellent," (vol. xiv. p. .) contributed to the second book of the georgics those lines which contain the praises of italy. knightly chetwood was born in . he was a particular friend of roscommon, and, being of tory principles, he obtained high preferment in the church, and was nominated to the see of bristol; but the revolution prevented his instalment. in april he was made dean of gloucester, and died th. april, . the life of virgil has usually been ascribed to william walsh, whose merits as a minor poet are now forgotten, but who still lives in the grateful strains of pope, whose juvenile essays he encouraged, as well as in the encomium of dryden, whom he patronised in age and adversity. i have left his name in possession of the essay on the pastorals, although it also was probably written by dr chetwood. see malone, vol. iii. p. . [ ] there is great justice in this observation. the prevalence of a system, founded in egotism and self-indulgence, which teaches, that pleasure was the greatest good, and pain the most intolerable evil, as surely indicates the downfal of the state, as the decay of morality. [ ] see _suetonius_, life of octavius, chap. . [ ] walsh might have found an hundred poets of his own time, who would have expressed themselves as warmly as horace on a similar occasion. our dryden, for example: tell good barzillai, thou canst sing no more; and tell thy soul, she should have fled before. but neither horace nor dryden expected to die a day the sooner for these ardent expressions; and, in extolling the gratitude of the ancients at the expence of the moderns, walsh only gives another instance of the cant which distinguishes his compositions. [ ] an affected gallicism, for proud of the services. [ ] certainly there was no age in britain, where, if a prince chose to hear an author read his works, and his lungs happened to fail him, the favourite, if present, and capable, would not have been happy to have continued the recitation. this is one of those hackneyed compliments to the manners of antiquity, which are often paid without the least foundation. [ ] walsh seems to have been but a slender historian. oliver's council well knew his private wishes, but were determined to counteract them. [ ] many of these resemblances, and particularly the last, seem extremely fanciful. the same may be said of most of those which follow; but this comes of seeing too far into a mill-stone. [ ] all this charge is greatly overstrained. the critic, in censuring poor dido and her sister, totally forgets their very reasonable ground of provocation. [ ] the critic should have considered, that troy was not actually blazing when the old counsellor pronounced his panegyric upon helen's beauty. [ ] "essay on poetry," by sheffield, marquis of normanby, originally earl of mulgrave, and afterwards duke of buckingham. [ ] the _sortes virgilianæ_ were a sort of augury, drawn by dipping at random into the volume, and applying the line to which chance directed the finger, as an answer to the doubt propounded. cowley seems to have been a firm believer in this kind of sooth-saying. when at paris, and secretary to lord jermin, he writes to bennet his opinion concerning the probability of concluding a treaty with the scottish nation; and adds, "and, to tell you the truth, which i take to be an argument above all the rest, virgil has told the same thing to that purpose." there is a story, that charles i. and lord faulkland tried this sort of divination at oxford concerning the issue of the civil war, and that the former lighted upon this ominous response: ----_jacet ingens littore truncus, avulsumque humeris caput, et sine nomine truncus._ lord faulkland drew an answer equally prophetic of his fate. these follies seem to have been founded upon the vulgar idea still current at naples, that virgil was a magician. gervas of tilbury was an early propagator of this scandal, which was current during the middle ages, so that naudæus thinks it necessary to apologize for virgil, among other great men accused of necromancy. these legends formed the contents of a popular romance. pastorals. to the right honourable hugh, lord clifford, baron of chudleigh.[ ] my lord, i have found it not more difficult to translate virgil, than to find such patrons as i desire for my translation. for, though england is not wanting in a learned nobility, yet such are my unhappy circumstances, that they have confined me to a narrow choice.[ ] to the greater part i have not the honour to be known; and to some of them i cannot show at present, by any public act, that grateful respect which i shall ever bear them in my heart. yet i have no reason to complain of fortune, since, in the midst of that abundance, i could not possibly have chosen better, than the worthy son of so illustrious a father. he was the patron of my manhood, when i flourished in the opinion of the world; though with small advantage to my fortune, till he awakened the remembrance of my royal master. he was that pollio, or that varus,[ ] who introduced me to augustus: and, though he soon dismissed himself from state affairs, yet, in the short time of his administration, he shone so powerfully upon me, that, like the heat of a russian summer, he ripened the fruits of poetry in a cold climate, and gave me wherewithal to subsist, at least, in the long winter which succeeded. what i now offer to your lordship, is the wretched remainder of a sickly age, worn out with study, and oppressed by fortune; without other support than the constancy and patience of a christian. you, my lord, are yet in the flower of your youth, and may live to enjoy the benefits of the peace which is promised europe: i can only hear of that blessing; for years, and, above all things, want of health, have shut me out from sharing in the happiness. the poets, who condemn their tantalus to hell, had added to his torments, if they had placed him in elysium, which is the proper emblem of my condition. the fruit and the water may reach my lips, but cannot enter; and, if they could, yet i want a palate as well as a digestion. but it is some kind of pleasure to me, to please those whom i respect; and i am not altogether out of hope, that these pastorals of virgil may give your lordship some delight, though made english by one who scarce remembers that passion which inspired my author when he wrote them. these were his first essay in poetry, if the "ceiris"[ ] was not his: and it was more excusable in him to describe love when he was young, than for me to translate him when i am old. he died at the age of fifty-two; and i began this work in my great climacteric. but, having perhaps a better constitution than my author, i have wronged him less, considering my circumstances, than those who have attempted him before, either in our own, or any modern language. and, though this version is not void of errors, yet it comforts me, that the faults of others are not worth finding. mine are neither gross nor frequent in those eclogues, wherein my master has raised himself above that humble style in which pastoral delights, and which, i must confess, is proper to the education and converse of shepherds: for he found the strength of his genius betimes, and was, even in his youth, preluding to his "georgics" and his "Æneïs." he could not forbear to try his wings, though his pinions were not hardened to maintain a long laborious flight; yet sometimes they bore him to a pitch as lofty as ever he was able to reach afterwards. but, when he was admonished by his subject to descend, he came down gently, circling in the air, and singing, to the ground; like a lark, melodious in her mounting, and continuing her song till she alights, still preparing for a higher flight at her next sally, and tuning her voice to better music. the fourth, the sixth, and the eighth pastorals, are clear evidences of this truth. in the three first, he contains himself within his bounds: but, addressing to pollio, his great patron, and himself no vulgar poet, he no longer could restrain the freedom of his spirit, but began to assert his native character, which is sublimity--putting himself under the conduct of the same cumæan sibyl, whom afterwards he gave for a guide to his Æneas. it is true, he was sensible of his own boldness; and we know it by the _paulo majora_, which begins his fourth eclogue. he remembered, like young manlius, that he was forbidden to engage; but what avails an express command to a youthful courage, which presages victory in the attempt?[ ] encouraged with success, he proceeds farther in the sixth, and invades the province of philosophy. and, notwithstanding that phoebus had forewarned him of singing wars, as he there confesses, yet he presumed, that the search of nature was as free to him as to lucretius, who, at his age, explained it according to the principles of epicurus. in his eighth eclogue, he has innovated nothing; the former part of it being the complaint and despair of a forsaken lover; the latter, a charm of an enchantress, to renew a lost affection. but the complaint perhaps contains some topics which are above the condition of his persons; and our author seems to have made his herdsmen somewhat too learned for their profession: the charms are also of the same nature; but both were copied from theocritus, and had received the applause of former ages in their original. there is a kind of rusticity in all those pompous verses; somewhat of a holiday shepherd strutting in his country buskins. the like may be observed both in the "pollio" and the "silenus," where the similitudes are drawn from the woods and meadows. they seem to me to represent our poet betwixt a farmer and a courtier, when he left mantua for rome, and drest himself in his best habit to appear before his patron, somewhat too fine for the place from whence he came, and yet retaining part of its simplicity. in the ninth pastoral, he collects some beautiful passages, which were scattered in theocritus, which he could not insert into any of his former eclogues, and yet was unwilling they should be lost. in all the rest, he is equal to his sicilian master, and observes, like him, a just decorum both of the subject and the persons; as particularly in the third pastoral, where one of his shepherds describes a bowl, or mazer, curiously carved: _in medio duo signa: conon, et quis fuit alter, descripsit radio, totum qui gentibus orbem?_ he remembers only the name of conon, and forgets the other on set purpose. whether he means anaximander, or eudoxus, i dispute not; but he was certainly forgotten, to show his country swain was no great scholar. after all, i must confess, that the boorish dialect of theocritus has a secret charm in it, which the roman language cannot imitate, though virgil has drawn it down as low as possibly he could; as in the _cujum pecus_, and some other words, for which he was so unjustly blamed by the bad critics of his age, who could not see the beauties of that _merum rus_, which the poet described in those expressions. but theocritus may justly be preferred as the original, without injury to virgil, who modestly contents himself with the second place, and glories only in being the first who transplanted pastoral into his own country, and brought it there to bear as happily as the cherry-trees which lucullus brought from pontus. our own nation has produced a third poet in this kind, not inferior to the two former: for the "shepherd's kalendar" of spenser is not to be matched in any modern language, not even by tasso's "aminta," which infinitely transcends guarini's "pastor fido," as having more of nature in it, and being almost wholly clear from the wretched affectation of learning. i will say nothing of the "piscatory eclogues," because no modern latin can bear criticism.[ ] it is no wonder, that, rolling down, through so many barbarous ages, from the spring of virgil, it bears along with it the filth and ordures of the goths and vandals. neither will i mention monsieur fontenelle, the living glory of the french. it is enough for him to have excelled his master lucian, without attempting to compare our miserable age with that of virgil, or theocritus. let me only add, for his reputation, ----_si pergama dextrâ defendi possint, etiam hâc defensa fuissent._ but spenser, being master of our northern dialect, and skilled in chaucer's english, has so exactly imitated the doric of theocritus, that his love is a perfect image of that passion which god infused into both sexes, before it was corrupted with the knowledge of arts, and the ceremonies of what we call good manners. my lord, i know to whom i dedicate; and could not have been induced, by any motive, to put this part of virgil, or any other, into unlearned hands. you have read him with pleasure, and, i dare say, with admiration, in the latin, of which you are a master. you have added to your natural endowments, which, without flattery, are eminent, the superstructures of study, and the knowledge of good authors. courage, probity, and humanity, are inherent in you. these virtues have ever been habitual to the ancient house of cumberland, from whence you are descended, and of which our chronicles make so honourable mention in the long wars betwixt the rival families of york and lancaster. your forefathers have asserted the party which they chose till death, and died for its defence in the fields of battle. you have, besides, the fresh remembrance of your noble father, from whom you never can degenerate: ----_nec imbellem feroces progenerant aquilæ columbam._ it being almost morally impossible for you to be other than you are by kind, i need neither praise nor incite your virtue. you are acquainted with the roman history, and know, without my information, that patronage and clientship always descended from the fathers to the sons, and that the same plebeian houses had recourse to the same patrician line which had formerly protected them, and followed their principles and fortunes to the last. so that i am your lordship's by descent, and part of your inheritance. and the natural inclination which i have to serve you, adds to your paternal right; for i was wholly yours from the first moment when i had the happiness and honour of being known to you. be pleased therefore to accept the rudiments of virgil's poetry, coarsely translated, i confess, but which yet retain some beauties of the author, which neither the barbarity of our language, nor my unskilfulness, could so much sully, but that they appear sometimes in the dim mirror which i hold before you. the subject is not unsuitable to your youth, which allows you yet to love, and is proper to your present scene of life. rural recreations abroad, and books at home, are the innocent pleasures of a man who is early wise, and gives fortune no more hold of him, than of necessity he must. it is good, on some occasions, to think before-hand as little as we can; to enjoy as much of the present as will not endanger our futurity; and to provide ourselves of the virtuoso's saddle, which will be sure to amble, when the world is upon the hardest trot. what i humbly offer to your lordship, is of this nature. i wish it pleasant, and am sure it is innocent. may you ever continue your esteem for virgil, and not lessen it for the faults of his translator; who is, with all manner of respect and sense of gratitude, my lord, your lordship's most humble and most obedient servant, john dryden. footnotes: [ ] this was the son of lord treasurer clifford, a member of the cabal administration, to whom our author dedicated "amboyna." see vol. v. p. . hugh, lord clifford, died in . [ ] dryden alludes to his religion and politics. i presume, hugh, lord clifford, was a catholic, like his father, and entertained the hereditary attachment to the line of stuart; thus falling within the narrow choice to which dryden was limited. [ ] the well-known patrons of virgil. it is disputed, which had the honour to present him to the emperor. [ ] one of the _juvenilia_, or early poems, ascribed to virgil. [ ] manlius, contrary to the general orders of his father, manlius torquatus, engaged and slew the general of the latins: his father caused his head to be struck off for disobedience. [ ] the author alludes to the piscatoria of sannazarius. they were published, with some other pieces of modern latin poetry, by atterbury, bishop of rochester, in . i do not pretend to judge of the purity of the style of sannazarius, but surely the poetry is often beautiful. i doubt if dryden was acquainted with the poems of phineas fletcher, whom honest isaac walton calls, "an excellent divine, and an excellent angler, and the author of excellent piscatory eclogues." they contain many passages fully equal to spenser. preface to the pastorals, with a short defence of _virgil_, against some of the reflections of monsieur fontenelle. by william walsh, esq. as the writings of greatest antiquity are in verse, so, of all sorts of poetry, pastorals seem the most ancient; being formed upon the model of the first innocence and simplicity, which the moderns, better to dispense themselves from imitating, have wisely thought fit to treat as fabulous, and impracticable. and yet they, by obeying the unsophisticated dictates of nature, enjoyed the most valuable blessings of life; a vigorous health of body, with a constant serenity and freedom of mind; whilst we, with all our fanciful refinements, can scarcely pass an autumn without some access of a fever, or a whole day, not ruffled by some unquiet passion. he was not then looked upon as a very old man, who reached to a greater number of years, than in these times an ancient family can reasonably pretend to; and we know the names of several, who saw and practised the world for a longer space of time, than we can read the account of in any one entire body of history. in short, they invented the most useful arts, pasturage, tillage, geometry, writing, music, astronomy, &c. whilst the moderns, like extravagant heirs made rich by their industry, ungratefully deride the good old gentleman who left them the estate. it is not therefore to be wondered at, that pastorals are fallen into disesteem, together with that fashion of life, upon which they were grounded. and methinks i see the reader already uneasy at this part of virgil, counting the pages, and posting to the "Æneïs:" so delightful an entertainment is the very relation of public mischief and slaughter now become to mankind. and yet virgil passed a much different judgment on his own works: he valued most this part, and his "georgics," and depended upon them for his reputation with posterity; but censures himself in one of his letters to augustus, for meddling with heroics, the invention of a degenerating age. this is the reason that the rules of pastoral are so little known, or studied. aristotle, horace, and the essay of poetry, take no notice of it; and monsieur boileau, one of the most accurate of the moderns, because he never loses the ancients out of his sight, bestows scarce half a page on it. it is the design therefore of the few following pages, to clear this sort of writing from vulgar prejudices; to vindicate our author from some unjust imputations; to look into some of the rules of this sort of poetry, and enquire what sort of versification is most proper for it; in which point we are so much inferior to the ancients, that this consideration alone were enough to make some writers think as they ought, that is meanly, of their own performances. as all sorts of poetry consist in imitation, pastoral is the _imitation of a shepherd, considered under that character_. it is requisite therefore to be a little informed of the condition and qualification of these shepherds. one of the ancients has observed truly, but satirically enough, that, "mankind is the measure of every thing." and thus, by a gradual improvement of this mistake, we come to make our own age and country the rule and standard of others, and ourselves at last the measure of them all. we figure the ancient countrymen like our own, leading a painful life in poverty and contempt, without wit, or courage, or education. but men had quite different notions of these things, for the first four thousand years of the world. health and strength were then in more esteem than the refinements of pleasure; and it was accounted a great deal more honourable to till the ground, or keep a flock of sheep, than to dissolve in wantonness and effeminating sloth.[ ] hunting has now an idea of quality joined to it, and is become the most important business in the life of a gentleman; anciently it was quite otherways.[ ] mr fleury has severely remarked, that this extravagant passion for hunting is a strong proof of our gothic extraction, and shews an affinity of humour with the savage americans. the barbarous franks and other germans, (having neither corn nor wine of their own growth,) when they passed the rhine, and possessed themselves of countries better cultivated, left the tillage of the land to the old proprietors; and afterwards continued to hazard their lives as freely for their diversion, as they had done before for their necessary subsistence. the english gave this usage the sacred stamp of fashion; and from hence it is that most of our terms of hunting are french.[ ] the reader will, i hope, give me his pardon for my freedom on this subject, since an ill accident, occasioned by hunting, has kept england in pain, these several months together, for one of the best and greatest peers[ ] which she has bred for some ages; no less illustrious for civil virtues and learning, than his ancestors were for all their victories in france. but there are some prints still left of the ancient esteem for husbandry, and their plain fashion of life, in many of our surnames, and in the escutcheons of the most ancient families, even those of the greatest kings, the roses, the lilies, the thistle, &c. it is generally known, that one of the principal causes of the deposing of mahomet the fourth, was, that he would not allot part of the day to some manual labour, according to the law of mahomet, and ancient practice of his predecessors. he that reflects on this, will be the less surprised to find that charlemagne, eight hundred years ago, ordered his children to be instructed in some profession; and, eight hundred years yet higher, that augustus wore no clothes but such as were made by the hands of the empress and her daughters; and olympias did the same for alexander the great. nor will he wonder, that the romans, in great exigency, sent for their dictator from the plough, whose whole estate was but of four acres; too little a spot now for the orchard, or kitchen-garden, of a private gentleman. it is commonly known, that the founders of three the most renowned monarchies in the world were shepherds; and the subject of husbandry has been adorned by the writings and labour of more than twenty kings. it ought not therefore to be matter of surprise to a modern writer, that kings, the shepherds of the people in homer, laid down their first rudiments in tending their mute subjects; nor that the wealth of ulysses consisted in flocks and herds, the intendants over which were then in equal esteem with officers of state in latter times. and therefore eumæus is called #dios hyphorbos# in homer; not so much because homer was a lover of a country life, to which he rather seems averse, but by reason of the dignity and greatness of his trust, and because he was the son of a king, stolen away, and sold by the phoenician pirates; which the ingenious mr cowley seems not to have taken notice of. nor will it seem strange, that the master of the horse to king latinus, in the ninth Æneïd, was found in the homely employment of cleaving blocks, when news of the first skirmish betwixt the trojans and latins was brought to him. being therefore of such quality, they cannot be supposed so very ignorant and unpolished: the learning and good-breeding of the world was then in the hands of such people. he who was chosen by the consent of all parties to arbitrate so delicate an affair as, which was the fairest of the three celebrated beauties of heaven--he who had the address to debauch away helen from her husband, her native country, and from a crown--understood what the french call by the too soft name of _galanterie_; he had accomplishments enough, how ill use soever he made of them. it seems, therefore, that m. fontenelle had not duly considered the matter, when he reflected so severely upon virgil, as if he had not observed the laws of decency in his pastorals, in making shepherds speak to things beside their character, and above their capacity. he stands amazed, that shepherds should thunder out, as he expresses himself, the formation of the world, and that too according to the system of epicurus. "in truth," says he, page , "i cannot tell what to make of this whole piece, (the sixth pastoral.) i can neither comprehend the design of the author, nor the connection of the parts. first come the ideas of philosophy, and presently after those incoherent fables, &c." to expose him yet more, he subjoins, "it is silenus himself who makes all this absurd discourse. virgil says indeed, that he had drank too much the day before; perhaps the debauch hung in his head when he composed this poem," &c. thus far m. fontenelle, who, to the disgrace of reason, as himself ingenuously owns, first built his house, and then studied architecture; i mean, first composed his eclogues, and then studied the rules. in answer to this, we may observe, first, that this very pastoral which he singles out to triumph over, was recited by a famous player on the roman theatre, with marvellous applause; insomuch that cicero, who had heard part of it only, ordered the whole to be rehearsed, and, struck with admiration of it, conferred then upon virgil the glorious title of _magnæ spes altera romæ._ nor is it old donatus only who relates this; we have the same account from another very credible and ancient author; so that here we have the judgment of cicero, and the people of rome, to confront the single opinion of this adventurous critic. a man ought to be well assured of his own abilities, before he attacks an author of established reputation. if mr fontenelle had perused the fragments of the phoenician antiquity, traced the progress of learning through the ancient greek writers, or so much as consulted his learned countryman huetius, he would have found, (which falls out unluckily for him,) that a chaldæan shepherd discovered to the egyptians and greeks the creation of the world. and what subject more fit for such a pastoral, than that great affair which was first notified to the world by one of that profession? nor does it appear, (what he takes for granted,) that virgil describes the original of the world according to the hypothesis of epicurus. he was too well seen in antiquity to commit such a gross mistake; there is not the least mention of _chance_ in that whole passage, nor of the _clinamen principiorum_, so peculiar to epicurus's hypothesis. virgil had not only more piety, but was of too nice a judgment to introduce a god denying the power and providence of the deity, and singing a hymn to the atoms and blind chance. on the contrary, his description agrees very well with that of moses; and the eloquent commentator dacier, who is so confident that horace had perused the sacred history, might with greater reason have affirmed the same thing of virgil; for, besides that famous passage in the sixth Æneïd, (by which this may be illustrated,) where the word _principio_ is used in the front of both by moses and virgil, and the seas are first mentioned, and the _spiritus intus alit_, which might not improbably, as m. dacier would suggest, allude to the "_spirit moving upon the face of the waters_;" but, omitting this parallel place, the successive formation of the world is evidently described in these words, _rerum paulatim sumere formas_: and it is hardly possible to render more literally that verse of moses, "_let the waters be gathered into one place, and let the dry land appear_," than in this of virgil, _jam durare solum, et discludere nerea ponto._ after this, the formation of the sun is described, (exactly in the mosaical order,) and, next, the production of the first living creatures, and that too in a small number, (still in the same method,) _rara per ignotos errent animalia montes._ and here the foresaid author would probably remark, that virgil keeps more exactly to the mosaic system, than an ingenious writer, who will by no means allow mountains to be coeval with the world. thus much will make it probable at least, that virgil had moses in his thoughts rather than epicurus, when he composed this poem. but it is further remarkable, that this passage was taken from a song attributed to apollo, who himself, too, unluckily had been a shepherd; and he took it from another yet more ancient, composed by the first inventor of music, and at that time a shepherd too; and this is one of the noblest fragments of greek antiquity. and, because i cannot suppose the ingenious m. fontenelle one of their number, who pretend to censure the greeks, without being able to distinguish greek from ephesian characters, i shall here set down the lines from which virgil took this passage, though none of the commentators have observed it: #----eratê d' hoi hespeto phônê, krainôn athanatous te theous, kai gaian eremnên, hôs ta prôta genonto, kai hôs lache moiran hekastos#, &c. thus linus too began his poem, as appears by a fragment of it preserved by diogenes laertius; and the like may be instanced in musæus himself; so that our poet here, with great judgment, as always, follows the ancient custom of beginning their more solemn songs with the creation, and does it too most properly under the person of a shepherd. and thus the first and best employment of poetry was, to compose hymns in honour of the great creator of the universe. few words will suffice to answer his other objections. he demands why those several transformations are mentioned in that poem:--and is not fable then the life and soul of poetry? can himself assign a more proper subject of pastoral than the _saturnia regna_, the age and scene of this kind of poetry? what theme more fit for the song of a god, or to imprint religious awe, than the omnipotent power of transforming the species of creatures at their pleasure? their families lived in groves, near the clear springs; and what better warning could be given to the hopeful young shepherds, than that they should not gaze too much into the liquid dangerous looking-glass, for fear of being stolen by the water-nymphs, that is, falling and being drowned, as hylas was? pasiphaë's monstrous passion for a bull is certainly a subject enough fitted for bucolics. can m. fontenelle tax silenus for fetching too far the transformation of the sisters of phaëton into trees, when perhaps they sat at that very time under the hospitable shade of those alders and poplars--or the metamorphosis of philomela into that ravishing bird, which makes the sweetest music of the groves? if he had looked into the ancient greek writers, or so much as consulted honest servius, he would have discovered, that, under the allegory of this drunkenness of silenus, the refinement and exaltation of men's minds by philosophy was intended. but, if the author of these reflections can take such flights in his wine, it is almost pity that drunkenness should be a sin, or that he should ever want good store of burgundy and champaign. but indeed he seems not to have ever drank out of silenus's tankard, when he composed either his critique or pastorals. his censure on the fourth seems worse grounded than the other. it is entitled, in some ancient manuscripts, the "history of the renovation of the world." he complains, that he "cannot understand what is meant by those many figurative expressions:" but, if he had consulted the younger vossius's dissertation on this pastoral, or read the excellent oration of the emperor constantine, made french by a good pen of their own, he would have found there the plain interpretation of all those figurative expressions; and, withal, very strong proofs of the truth of the christian religion; such as converted heathens, as valerianus, and others. and, upon account of this piece, the most learned of all the latin fathers calls virgil a christian, even before christianity. cicero takes notice of it in his books of divination; and virgil probably had put it in verse a considerable time before the edition of his pastorals. nor does he appropriate it to pollio, or his son, but complimentally dates it from his consulship; and therefore some one, who had not so kind thoughts of m. fontenelle as i, would be inclined to think him as bad a catholic as critic in this place. but, in respect to some books he has wrote since, i pass by a great part of this, and shall only touch briefly some of the rules of this sort of poem. the first is, that an air of piety, upon all occasions, should be maintained in the whole poem. this appears in all the ancient greek writers, as homer, hesiod, aratus, &c. and virgil is so exact in the observation of it, not only in this work, but in his "Æneïs" too, that a celebrated french writer taxes him for permitting Æneas to do nothing without the assistance of some god. but by this it appears, at least, that m. st evremont is no jansenist. m. fontenelle seems a little defective in this point: he brings in a pair of shepherdesses disputing very warmly, whether _victoria_ be a goddess or a woman. her great condescension and compassion, her affability and goodness, (none of the meanest attributes of the divinity,) pass for convincing arguments, that she could not possibly be a goddess. _les déesses, toûjours fières et méprisantes, ne rassureroient point les bergères tremblantes par d'obligeans discours, des souris gracieux. mais tu l'as vu: cette auguste personne, qui vient de paroître en ces lieux, prend soin de rassurer au moment qu'elle étonne; sa bonté descendant sans peine jusqu' à nous._ in short, she has too many divine perfections to be a deity, and therefore she is a mortal; which was the thing to be proved. it is directly contrary to the practice of all ancient poets, as well as to the rules of decency and religion, to make such odious preferences. i am much surprised, therefore, that he should use such an argument as this: _cloris, as-tu vu des déesses avoir un air si facile et si doux?_ was not aurora, and venus, and luna, and i know not how many more of the heathen deities, too easy of access to tithonus, to anchises, and to endymion? is there any thing more sparkish and better-humoured than venus's accosting her son in the deserts of libya? or than the behaviour of pallas to diomedes, one of the most perfect and admirable pieces of all the iliads; where she condescends to _raillé_ him so agreeably; and, notwithstanding her severe virtue, and all the ensigns of majesty with which she so terribly adorns herself, condescends to ride with him in his chariot? but the odysseys are full of greater instances of condescension than this. this brings to mind that famous passage of lucan, in which he prefers cato to all the gods at once: _victrix causa diis placuit, sed victa catoni_-- which breboeuf has rendered so flatly, and which may be thus paraphrased: heaven meanly with the conqueror did comply; but cato, rather than submit, would die.[ ] it is an unpardonable presumption in any sort of religion, to compliment their princes at the expence of their deities. but, letting that pass, this whole eclogue is but a long paraphrase of a trite verse in virgil, and homer; _nec vox hominem sonat: o dea certe!_ so true is that remark of the admirable earl of roscommon, if applied to the romans, rather, i fear, than to the english, since his own death: ----one sterling line, drawn to french wire, would through whole pages shine. another rule is, that the characters should represent that ancient innocence, and unpractised plainness, which was then in the world. p. rapin has gathered many instances of this out of theocritus and virgil; and the reader can do it as well as himself. but m. fontenelle transgressed this rule, when he hid himself in the thicket to listen to the private discourse of the two shepherdesses. this is not only ill breeding at versailles; the arcadian shepherdesses themselves would have set their dogs upon one for such an unpardonable piece of rudeness. a third rule is, that there should be some _ordonnance_, some design, or little plot, which may deserve the title of a pastoral scene. this is everywhere observed by virgil, and particularly remarkable in the first eclogue, the standard of all pastorals. a beautiful landscape presents itself to your view; a shepherd, with his flock around him, resting securely under a spreading beech, which furnished the first food to our ancestors; another in a quite different situation of mind and circumstances; the sun setting; the hospitality of the more fortunate shepherd, &c. and here m. fontenelle seems not a little wanting. a fourth rule, and of great importance in this delicate sort of writing, is, that there be choice diversity of subjects; that the eclogue, like a beautiful prospect, should charm by its variety. virgil is admirable in this point, and far surpasses theocritus, as he does everywhere, when judgment and contrivance have the principal part. the subject of the first pastoral is hinted above. the second contains the love of corydon for alexis, and the seasonable reproach he gives himself, that he left his vines half pruned, (which, according to the roman rituals, derived a curse upon the fruit that grew upon it,) whilst he pursued an object undeserving his passion. the third, a sharp contention of two shepherds for the prize of poetry. the fourth contains the discourse of a shepherd comforting himself, in a declining age, that a better was ensuing. the fifth, a lamentation for a dead friend, the first draught of which is probably more ancient than any of the pastorals now extant; his brother being at first intended; but he afterwards makes his court to augustus, by turning it into an apotheosis of julius cæsar. the sixth is the silenus. the seventh, another poetical dispute, first composed at mantua. the eighth is the description of a despairing lover, and a magical charm. he sets the ninth after all these, very modestly, because it was particular to himself; and here he would have ended that work, if gallus had not prevailed upon him to add one more in his favour. thus curious was virgil in diversifying his subjects. but m. fontenelle is a great deal too uniform: begin where you please, the subject is still the same. we find it true what he says of himself, _toûjours, toûjours de l'amour._ he seems to take pastorals and love-verses for the same thing. has human nature no other passion? does not fear, ambition, avarice, pride, a capriccio of honour, and laziness itself, often triumph over love? but this passion does all, not only in pastorals, but in modern tragedies too. a hero can no more fight, or be sick, or die, than he can be born, without a woman. but dramatics have been composed in compliance to the humour of the age, and the prevailing inclination of the great, whose example has a more powerful influence, not only in the little court behind the scenes, but on the great theatre of the world. however, this inundation of love-verses is not so much an effect of their amorousness, as of immoderate self-love; this being the only sort of poetry, in which the writer can, not only without censure, but even with commendation, talk of himself. there is generally more of the passion of narcissus, than concern for chloris and corinna, in this whole affair. be pleased to look into almost any of those writers, and you shall meet everywhere that eternal _moi_, which the admirable pascal so judiciously condemns. homer can never be enough admired for this one so particular quality, that he never speaks of himself, either in the iliad or the odysseys: and, if horace had never told us his genealogy, but left it to the writer of his life, perhaps he had not been a loser by it. this consideration might induce those great critics, varius and tucca, to raze out the four first verses of the "Æneïs," in great measure, for the sake of that unlucky _ille ego_. but extraordinary geniuses have a sort of prerogative, which may dispense them from laws, binding to subject wits. however, the ladies have the less reason to be pleased with those addresses, of which the poet takes the greater share to himself. thus the beau presses into their dressing-room; but it is not so much to adore their fair eyes, as to adjust his own steenkirk and peruke, and set his countenance in their glass. a fifth rule (which one may hope will not be contested) is, that the writer should show in his compositions some competent skill of the subject matter, that which makes the character of persons introduced. in this, as in all other points of learning, decency, and oeconomy of a poem, virgil much excels his master theocritus. the poet is better skilled in husbandry than those that get their bread by it. he describes the nature, the diseases, the remedies, the proper places, and seasons, of feeding, of watering their flocks; the furniture, diet, the lodging and pastimes, of his shepherds. but the persons brought in by m. fontenelle are shepherds in masquerade, and handle their sheep-hook as aukwardly as they do their oaten reed. they saunter about with their _chers moutons_; but they relate as little to the business in hand, as the painter's dog, or a dutch ship, does to the history designed. one would suspect some of them, that, instead of leading out their sheep into the plains of mont-brison and marcilli, to the flowery banks of lignon, or the charante, they are driving directly _à la boucherie_, to make money of them. i hope hereafter m. fontenelle will chuse his servants better. a sixth rule is, that, as the style ought to be natural, clear, and elegant, it should have some peculiar relish of the ancient fashion of writing. parables in those times were frequently used, as they are still by the eastern nations; philosophical questions, ænigmas, &c.; and of this we find instances in the sacred writings, in homer, contemporary with king david, in herodotus, in the greek tragedians. this piece of antiquity is imitated by virgil with great judgment and discretion. he has proposed one riddle, which has never yet been solved by any of his commentators. though he knew the rules of rhetoric as well as cicero himself, he conceals that skill in his pastorals, and keeps close to the character of antiquity. nor ought the connections and transitions to be very strict and regular; this would give the pastorals an air of novelty; and of this neglect of exact connections, we have instances in the writings of the ancient chineses, of the jews and greeks, in pindar, and other writers of dithyrambics, in the choruses of Æschylus, sophocles, and euripides. if m. fontenelle and ruæus had considered this, the one would have spared his critique of the sixth, and the other, his reflections upon the ninth pastoral. the over-scrupulous care of connections makes the modern compositions oftentimes tedious and flat: and by the omission of them it comes to pass, that the _pensées_ of the incomparable m. pascal, and perhaps of m. bruyère, are two of the most entertaining books which the modern french can boast of. virgil, in this point, was not only faithful to the character of antiquity, but copies after nature herself. thus a meadow, where the beauties of the spring are profusely blended together, makes a more delightful prospect, than a curious _parterre_ of sorted flowers in our gardens: and we are much more transported with the beauty of the heavens, and admiration of their creator, in a clear night, when we behold stars of all magnitudes promiscuously moving together, than if those glorious lights were ranked in their several orders, or reduced into the finest geometrical figures. another rule omitted by p. rapin, as some of his are by me, (for i do not design an entire treatise in this preface,) is, that not only the sentences should be short and smart, (upon which account he justly blames the italian and french, as too talkative,) but that the whole piece should be so too. virgil transgressed this rule in his first pastorals, (i mean those which he composed at mantua,) but rectified the fault in his riper years. this appears by the _culex_, which is as long as five of his pastorals put together. the greater part of those he finished have less than a hundred verses; and but two of them exceed that number. but the "silenus," which he seems to have designed for his master-piece, in which he introduces a god singing, and he, too, full of inspiration, (which is intended by that ebriety, which m. fontenelle so unreasonably ridicules,) though it go through so vast a field of matter, and comprises the mythology of near two thousand years, consists but of fifty lines; so that its brevity is no less admirable, than the subject matter, the noble fashion of handling it, and the deity speaking. virgil keeps up his characters in this respect too, with the strictest decency: for poetry and pastime was not the business of men's lives in those days, but only their seasonable recreation after necessary labours. and therefore the length of some of the modern italian and english compositions is against the rules of this kind of poesy. i shall add something very briefly, touching the versification of pastorals, though it be a mortifying consideration to the moderns. heroic verse, as it is commonly called, was used by the greeks in this sort of poem, as very ancient and natural; lyrics, iambics, &c. being invented afterwards: but there is so great a difference in the numbers of which it may be compounded, that it may pass rather for a genus, than species, of verse. whosoever shall compare the numbers of the three following verses, will quickly be sensible of the truth of this observation: _tityre, tu patulæ recubans sub tegmine fagi_-- the first of the georgics, _quid faciat lætas segetes, quo sidere terram_-- and of the Æneïs, _arma, virumque cano, trojæ qui primus ab oris._ the sound of the verses is almost as different as the subjects. but the greek writers of pastoral usually limited themselves to the example of the first; which virgil found so exceedingly difficult, that he quitted it, and left the honour of that part to theocritus. it is indeed probable, that what we improperly call rhyme, is the most ancient sort of poetry; and learned men have given good arguments for it; and therefore a french historian commits a gross mistake, when he attributes that invention to a king of gaul, as an english gentleman does, when he makes a roman emperor the inventor of it. but the greeks, who understood fully the force and power of numbers, soon grew weary of this childish sort of verse, as the younger vossius justly calls it, and therefore those rhyming hexameters, which plutarch observes in homer himself, seem to be the remains of a barbarous age. virgil had them in such abhorrence, that he would rather make a false syntax, than what we call a rhyme. such a verse as this, _vir, precor_, uxori, _frater succurre_ sorori, was passable in ovid; but the nicer ears in augustus's court could not pardon virgil for _at regina pyrâ...._ so that the principal ornament of modern poetry was accounted deformity by the latins and greeks. it was they who invented the different terminations of words, those happy compositions, those short monosyllables, those transpositions for the elegance of the sound and sense, which are wanting so much in modern languages. the french sometimes crowd together ten or twelve monosyllables into one disjointed verse. they may understand the nature of, but cannot imitate, those wonderful spondees of pythagoras, by which he could suddenly pacify a man that was in a violent transport of anger; nor those swift numbers of the priests of cybele, which had the force to enrage the most sedate and phlegmatic tempers. nor can any modern put into his own language the energy of that single poem of catullus, _super alta vectus atys_, &c. latin is but a corrupt dialect of greek; and the french, spanish, and italian, a corruption of latin; and therefore a man might as well go about to persuade me that vinegar is a nobler liquor than wine, as that the modern compositions can be as graceful and harmonious as the latin itself. the greek tongue very naturally falls into iambics, and therefore the diligent reader may find six or seven-and-twenty of them in those accurate orations of isocrates. the latin as naturally falls into heroic; and therefore the beginning of livy's history is half a hexameter, and that of tacitus an entire one. the roman historian[ ], describing the glorious effort of a colonel to break through a brigade of the enemy's, just after the defeat at cannæ, falls, unknowingly, into a verse not unworthy virgil himself-- _hæc ubi dicta dedit, stringit gladium, cuneoque facto, per medios...._ &c. ours and the french can at best but fall into blank verse, which is a fault in prose. the misfortune indeed is common to us both; but we deserve more compassion, because we are not vain of our barbarities. as age brings men back into the state and infirmities of childhood, upon the fall of their empire, the romans doted into rhyme, as appears sufficiently by the hymns of the latin church; and yet a great deal of the french poetry does hardly deserve that poor title. i shall give an instance out of a poem which had the good luck to gain the prize in ; for the subject deserved a nobler pen: _tous les jours ce grand roy, des autres roys l' exemple, s'ouvre un nouveau chemin au faîte de ton temple_, &c. the judicious malherbe exploded this sort of verse near eighty years ago. nor can i forbear wondering at that passage of a famous academician, in which he, most compassionately, excuses the ancients for their not being so exact in their compositions as the modern french, because they wanted a dictionary, of which the french are at last happily provided. if demosthenes and cicero had been so lucky as to have had a dictionary, and such a patron as cardinal richelieu, perhaps they might have aspired to the honour of balzac's legacy of ten pounds, _le prix de l'éloquence_. on the contrary, i dare assert, that there are hardly ten lines in either of those great orators, or even in the catalogue of homer's ships, which are not more harmonious, more truly rhythmical, than most of the french or english sonnets; and therefore they lose, at least, one half of their native beauty by translation. i cannot but add one remark on this occasion,--that the french verse is oftentimes not so much as rhyme, in the lowest sense; for the childish repetition of the same note cannot be called music. such instances are infinite, as in the forecited poem: épris trophée caché mépris orphée cherché. m. boileau himself has a great deal of this #monotonia#, not by his own neglect, but purely by the faultiness and poverty of the french tongue. m. fontenelle at last goes into the excessive paradoxes of m. perrault, and boasts of the vast number of their excellent songs, preferring them to the greek and latin. but an ancient writer, of as good credit, has assured us, that seven lives would hardly suffice to read over the greek odes; but a few weeks would be sufficient, if a man were so very idle as to read over all the french. in the mean time, i should be very glad to see a catalogue of but fifty of theirs with exact propriety of word and thought.[ ] notwithstanding all the high encomiums and mutual gratulations which they give one another, (for i am far from censuring the whole of that illustrious society, to which the learned world is much obliged,) after all those golden dreams at the louvre, that their pieces will be as much valued, ten or twelve ages hence, as the ancient greek or roman, i can no more get it into my head that they will last so long, than i could believe the learned dr h----k [of the royal society,] if he should pretend to show me a butterfly, that had lived a thousand winters. when m. fontenelle wrote his eclogues, he was so far from equalling virgil, or theocritus, that he had some pains to take before he could understand in what the principal beauty and graces of their writings do consist. _cum mortuis non nisi larvæ luctantur._ footnotes: [ ] there is a great deal of cant in this; there was just the same distinction in manners and knowledge between the clowns of mantua and the courtiers of augustus, as there is between persons of the same rank in modern times. [ ] hunting was as much an exercise of the roman youths as of our own; and this might be easily proved from virgil, were it not a well known fact. it was the sport with which dido entertained the trojans; and the wish of ascanius upon the occasion, was worthy of a frank, or any other german. [ ] this is indistinctly expressed; but if the critic means to say, that the terms of hunting were put into french as the most fashionable language, he is mistaken. the hunting phrases still in use, are handed down to us from the anglo-norman barons, in whose time french was the only language spoken among those who were entitled to participate in an amusement to which the nobility claimed an exclusive privilege. [ ] the duke of shrewsbury. [ ] most readers will be of opinion, that walsh has rendered this celebrated passage not only flatly, but erroneously. his translation seems to infer, that the gods were in danger of dying, had they not _meanly_ complied with the conqueror. at any rate, the real compliment to cato, which consists in weighing his sense of justice against that of the gods themselves, totally evaporates. perhaps the following lines may express lucan's meaning, though without the concise force of the original: the victor was the care of partial heaven, but to the conquered cause was cato's suffrage given. [ ] livy. [ ] essay of poetry. pastoral i. or, _tityrus and meliboeus_. argument. _the occasion of the first pastoral was this: when augustus had settled himself in the roman empire, that he might reward his veteran troops for their past service, he distributed among them all the lands that lay about cremona and mantua; turning out the right owners for having sided with his enemies. virgil was a sufferer among the rest, who afterwards recovered his estate by mæcenas's intercession; and, as an instance of his gratitude, composed the following pastoral, where he sets out his own good fortune in the person of tityrus, and the calamities of his mantuan neighbours in the character of meliboeus._ meliboeus. beneath the shade which beechen boughs diffuse, you, tityrus, entertain your sylvan muse. round the wide world in banishment we roam, forced from our pleasing fields and native home; while, stretched at ease, you sing your happy loves, and amaryllis fills the shady groves. tityrus. these blessings, friend, a deity bestowed; for never can i deem him less than god. the tender firstlings of my woolly breed shall on his holy altar often bleed. he gave my kine to graze the flowery plain, and to my pipe renewed the rural strain. meliboeus. i envy not your fortune, but admire, that, while the raging sword and wasteful fire destroy the wretched neighbourhood around, no hostile arms approach your happy ground. far different is my fate; my feeble goats with pains i drive from their forsaken cotes: and this, you see, i scarcely drag along, who, yeaning, on the rocks has left her young, the hope and promise of my failing fold. my loss, by dire portents, the gods foretold; for, had i not been blind, i might have seen:-- yon riven oak, the fairest of the green, and the hoarse raven, on the blasted bough, by croaking from the left, presaged the coming blow. but tell me, tityrus, what heavenly power preserved your fortunes in that fatal hour? tityrus. fool that i was, i thought imperial rome } like mantua, where on market-days we come, } and thither drive our tender lambs from home. } so kids and whelps their sires and dams express, and so the great i measured by the less. but country towns, compared with her, appear like shrubs, when lofty cypresses are near. meliboeus. what great occasion called you hence to rome? tityrus. freedom, which came at length, though slow to come. nor did my search of liberty begin, till my black hairs were changed upon my chin; nor amaryllis would vouchsafe a look, till galatea's meaner bonds i broke. till then a helpless, hopeless, homely swain, i sought not freedom, nor aspired to gain: though many a victim from my folds was bought, and many a cheese to country markets brought, yet all the little that i got, i spent, and still returned as empty as i went. meliboeus. we stood amazed to see your mistress mourn, unknowing that she pined for your return; we wondered why she kept her fruit so long, for whom so late the ungathered apples hung. but now the wonder ceases, since i see she kept them only, tityrus, for thee; for thee the bubbling springs appeared to mourn, and whispering pines made vows for thy return. tityrus. what should i do?--while here i was enchained, no glimpse of godlike liberty remained; nor could i hope, in any place but there, to find a god so present to my prayer. there first the youth of heavenly birth i viewed,[ ] for whom our monthly victims are renewed. he heard my vows, and graciously decreed my grounds to be restored, my former flocks to feed. meliboeus. o fortunate old man! whose farm remains-- } for you sufficient--and requites your pains; } though rushes overspread the neighbouring plains, } though here the marshy grounds approach your fields, and there the soil a stony harvest yields. your teeming ewes shall no strange meadows try, nor fear a rot from tainted company. behold! yon bordering fence of sallow trees is fraught with flowers, the flowers are fraught with bees; the busy bees, with a soft murmuring strain, invite to gentle sleep the labouring swain. while, from the neighbouring rock, with rural songs, the pruner's voice the pleasing dream prolongs, stock-doves and turtles tell their amorous pain, and, from the lofty elms, of love complain. tityrus. the inhabitants of seas and skies shall change, and fish on shore, and stags in air, shall range, the banished parthian dwell on arar's brink, and the blue german shall the tigris drink, ere i, forsaking gratitude and truth, forget the figure of that godlike youth. meliboeus. but we must beg our bread in climes unknown, beneath the scorching or the freezing zone; and some to far oaxis shall be sold, or try the libyan heat, or scythian cold; the rest among the britons be confined, a race of men from all the world disjoined. o! must the wretched exiles ever mourn, nor, after length of rolling years, return? are we condemned by fate's unjust decree, no more our houses and our homes to see? or shall we mount again the rural throne, and rule the country kingdoms, once our own? did we for these barbarians plant and sow? } on these, on these, our happy fields bestow? } good heaven! what dire effects from civil discord flow! } now let me graff my pears, and prune the vine; the fruit is theirs, the labour only mine. farewell, my pastures, my paternal stock, my fruitful fields, and my more fruitful flock! no more, my goats, shall i behold you climb the steepy cliffs, or crop the flowery thyme! no more, extended in the grot below, shall see you browzing on the mountain's brow the prickly shrubs; and after on the bare, lean down the deep abyss, and hang in air. no more my sheep shall sip the morning dew; } no more my song shall please the rural crew: } adieu, my tuneful pipe! and all the world, adieu! } tityrus. this night, at least, with me forget your care; chesnuts, and curds and cream, shall be your fare: the carpet-ground shall be with leaves o'erspread, and boughs shall weave a covering for your head. for see yon sunny hill the shade extends, and curling smoke from cottages ascends. footnotes: [ ] virgil means octavius cæsar, heir to julius, who perhaps had not arrived to his twentieth year, when virgil saw him first. _vide_ his life. _of heavenly birth_, or heavenly blood, because the julian family was derived from iülus, son to Æneas, and grandson to venus. pastoral ii. or, _alexis_. argument. _the commentators can by no means agree on the person of alexis, but are all of opinion that some beautiful youth is meant by him, to whom virgil here makes love, in corydon's language and simplicity. his way of courtship is wholly pastoral: he complains of the boy's coyness; recommends himself for his beauty and skill in piping; invites the youth into the country, where he promises him the diversions of the place, with a suitable present of nuts and apples. but when he finds nothing will prevail, he resolves to quit his troublesome amour, and betake himself again to his former business._ young corydon, the unhappy shepherd swain, the fair alexis loved, but loved in vain; and underneath the beechen shade, alone, thus to the woods and mountains made his moan:-- is this, unkind alexis, my reward? and must i die unpitied, and unheard? now the green lizard in the grove is laid, the sheep enjoy the coolness of the shade, and thestylis wild thyme and garlic beats for harvest hinds, o'erspent with toil and heats; while in the scorching sun i trace in vain thy flying footsteps o'er the burning plain. the creaking locusts with my voice conspire, they fried with heat, and i with fierce desire. how much more easy was it to sustain proud amaryllis, and her haughty reign, the scorns of young menalcas, once my care, though he was black, and thou art heavenly fair. trust not too much to that enchanting face; beauty's a charm, but soon the charm will pass. white lilies lie neglected on the plain, while dusky hyacinths for use remain. my passion is thy scorn; nor wilt thou know what wealth i have, what gifts i can bestow; what stores my dairies and my folds contain-- a thousand lambs, that wander on the plain; new milk, that all the winter never fails, and all the summer overflows the pails. amphion sung not sweeter to his herd, when summoned stones the theban turrets reared. nor am i so deformed; for late i stood upon the margin of the briny flood: the winds were still; and, if the glass be true, with daphnis i may vie, though judged by you. o leave the noisy town! o come and see our country cots, and live content with me! to wound the flying deer, and from their cotes with me to drive a-field the browzing goats; to pipe and sing, and, in our country strain, to copy, or perhaps contend with pan. pan taught to join with wax unequal reeds; pan loves the shepherds, and their flocks he feeds. nor scorn the pipe: amyntas, to be taught, with all his kisses would my skill have bought. of seven smooth joints a mellow pipe i have, which with his dying breath damoetas gave, and said,--"this, corydon, i leave to thee; for only thou deserv'st it after me." his eyes amyntas durst not upward lift; for much he grudged the praise, but more the gift. besides, two kids, that in the valley strayed, i found by chance, and to my fold conveyed: they drain two bagging udders every day; and these shall be companions of thy play; both fleck'd with white, the true arcadian strain, which thestylis had often begged in vain: and she shall have them, if again she sues, since you the giver and the gift refuse. come to my longing arms, my lovely care! and take the presents which the nymphs prepare. white lilies in full canisters they bring, with all the glories of the purple spring. the daughters of the flood have searched the mead for violets pale, and cropp'd the poppy's head, the short narcissus[ ] and fair daffodil, pancies to please the sight, and cassia sweet to smell; and set soft hyacinths with iron blue, to shade marsh marigolds of shining hue; some bound in order, others loosely strowed, to dress thy bower, and trim thy new abode. myself will search our planted grounds at home, for downy peaches and the glossy plum; and thrash the chesnuts in the neighbouring grove, such as my amaryllis used to love. the laurel and the myrtle sweets agree, and both in nosegays shall be bound for thee. ah, corydon! ah, poor unhappy swain! alexis will thy homely gifts disdain: nor, should'st thou offer all thy little store, will rich iolas yield, but offer more. what have i done, to name that wealthy swain? so powerful are his presents, mine so mean! the boar, amidst my crystal streams, i bring; and southern winds to blast my flowery spring. ah, cruel creature! whom dost thou despise? the gods, to live in woods, have left the skies; and godlike paris, in the idæan grove, to priam's wealth preferred oenone's love. in cities, which she built, let pallas reign; towers are for gods, but forests for the swain. the greedy lioness the wolf pursues, the wolf the kid, the wanton kid the browze; alexis, thou art chased by corydon: all follow several games, and each his own. see, from afar, the fields no longer smoke; the sweating steers, unharnessed from the yoke, bring, as in triumph, back the crooked plough; the shadows lengthen as the sun goes low; cool breezes now the raging heats remove: ah, cruel heaven, that made no cure for love! i wish for balmy sleep, but wish in vain; love has no bounds in pleasure, or in pain. what frenzy, shepherd, has thy soul possessed? thy vineyard lies half pruned, and half undressed. quench, corydon, thy long unanswered fire! mind what the common wants of life require; on willow twigs employ thy weaving care, and find an easier love, though not so fair. footnotes: [ ] that is, of short continuance. pastoral iii. or, _palÆmon_. menalcas, damoetas, palÆmon. argument. _damoetas and menalcas, after some smart strokes of country raillery, resolve to try who has the most skill at song; and accordingly make their neighbour, palæmon, judge of their performances; who, after a full hearing of both parties, declares himself unfit for the decision of so weighty a controversy, and leaves the victory undetermined._ menalcas. ho, swain! what shepherd owns those ragged sheep? damoetas. Ægon's they are: he gave them me to keep. menalcas. unhappy sheep, of an unhappy swain! } while he neæra courts, but courts in vain, } and fears that i the damsel shall obtain. } thou, varlet, dost thy master's gains devour; thou milk'st his ewes, and often twice an hour; of grass and fodder thou defraud'st the dams, and of their mothers' dugs the starving lambs. damoetas. good words, young catamite, at least to men. we know who did your business, how, and when; and in what chapel too you played your prize, } and what the goats observed with leering eyes: } the nymphs were kind, and laughed; and there your safety lies. } menalcas. yes, when i cropt the hedges of the leys, cut micon's tender vines, and stole the stays! damoetas. or rather, when, beneath yon ancient oak, the bow of daphnis, and the shafts, you broke, when the fair boy received the gift of right; and, but for mischief, you had died for spite. menalcas. what nonsense would the fool, thy master, prate, when thou, his knave, canst talk at such a rate! did i not see you, rascal, did i not, when you lay snug to snap young damon's goat? his mongrel barked; i ran to his relief, and cried,--"there, there he goes! stop, stop the thief!" discovered, and defeated of your prey, you skulked behind the fence, and sneaked away. damoetas. an honest man may freely take his own: the goat was mine, by singing fairly won. a solemn match was made; he lost the prize. } ask damon, ask, if he the debt denies. } i think he dares not; if he does, he lies. } menalcas. thou sing with him? thou booby!--never pipe was so profaned to touch that blubbered lip. dunce at the best! in streets but scarce allowed to tickle, on thy straw, the stupid crowd. damoetas. to bring it to the trial, will you dare our pipes, our skill, our voices, to compare? my brinded heifer to the stake i lay; two thriving calves she suckles twice a day, and twice besides her beestings never fail to store the dairy with a brimming pail. now back your singing with an equal stake. menalcas. that should be seen, if i had one to make. you know too well, i feed my father's flock; what can i wager from the common stock? a stepdame too i have, a cursed she, who rules my hen-peck'd sire, and orders me. both number twice a day the milky dams; and once she takes the tale of all the lambs. but, since you will be mad, and since you may suspect my courage, if i should not lay, the pawn i proffer shall be full as good: two bowls i have, well turned, of beechen wood; both by divine alcimedon were made; to neither of them yet the lip is laid. the lids are ivy; grapes in clusters lurk beneath the carving of the curious work. two figures on the sides embossed appear-- } conon, and what's his name who made the sphere, } and shewed the seasons of the sliding year, } instructed in his trade the labouring swain, and when to reap, and when to sow the grain? damoetas. and i have two, to match your pair, at home; the wood the same; from the same hand they come, (the kimbo handles seem with bear's foot carved,) and never yet to table have been served; where orpheus on his lyre laments his love, with beasts encompassed, and a dancing grove. but these, nor all the proffers you can make, are worth the heifer which i set to stake. menalcas. no more delays, vain boaster, but begin! i prophesy before-hand, i shall win. palæmon shall be judge how ill you rhyme: i'll teach you how to brag another time. damoetas. rhymer, come on! and do the worst you can; i fear not you, nor yet a better man. with silence, neighbour, and attention, wait; for 'tis a business of a high debate. palÆmon. sing then; the shade affords a proper place, the trees are clothed with leaves, the fields with grass, the blossoms blow, the birds on bushes sing, and nature has accomplished all the spring. the challenge to damoetas shall belong; menalcas shall sustain his under-song; each in his turn your tuneful numbers bring, by turns the tuneful muses love to sing. damoetas. from the great father of the gods above my muse begins; for all is full of jove: to jove the care of heaven and earth belongs; my flocks he blesses, and he loves my songs. menalcas. me phoebus loves; for he my muse inspires, and in her songs the warmth he gave requires. for him, the god of shepherds and their sheep,[ ] my blushing hyacinths and my bays i keep. damoetas. my phyllis me with pelted apples plies; } then tripping to the woods the wanton hies, } and wishes to be seen before she flies. } menalcas. but fair amyntas comes unasked to me, } and offers love, and sits upon my knee. } not delia to my dogs is known so well as he. } damoetas. to the dear mistress of my love-sick mind, her swain a pretty present has designed: i saw two stock-doves billing, and ere long will take the nest, and hers shall be the young. menalcas. ten ruddy wildings in the wood i found, and stood on tip-toes, reaching from the ground: i sent amyntas all my present store; and will, to-morrow, send as many more. the lovely maid lay panting in my arms, and all she said and did was full of charms. winds! on your wings to heaven her accents bear; such words as heaven alone is fit to hear. menalcas. ah! what avails it me, my love's delight, to call you mine, when absent from my sight? i hold the nets, while you pursue the prey, and must not share the dangers of the day. damoetas. i keep my birth-day; send my phyllis home; at shearing-time, iolas, you may come. menalcas. with phyllis i am more in grace than you; } her sorrow did my parting steps pursue: } "adieu, my dear!" she said, "a long adieu!" } damoetas. the nightly wolf is baneful to the fold, storms to the wheat, to buds the bitter cold; but, from my frowning fair, more ills i find, than from the wolves, and storms, and winter-wind. menalcas. the kids with pleasure browze the bushy plain; the showers are grateful to the swelling grain; to teeming ewes the sallow's tender tree; but, more than all the world, my love to me. damoetas. pollio my rural verse vouchsafes to read: a heifer, muses, for your patron breed. menalcas. my pollio writes himself:--a bull be bred, with spurning heels, and with a butting head. damoetas. who pollio loves, and who his muse admires, let pollio's fortune crown his full desires. let myrrh instead of thorn his fences fill, and showers of honey from his oaks distil. menalcas. who hates not living bavius, let him be (dead mævius!) damn'd to love thy works and thee! the same ill taste of sense would serve to join dog-foxes in the yoke, and shear the swine. damoetas. ye boys, who pluck the flowers, and spoil the spring, beware the secret snake that shoots a sting. menalcas. graze not too near the banks, my jolly sheep; the ground is false, the running streams are deep: see, they have caught the father of the flock, who dries his fleece upon the neighbouring rock. damoetas. from rivers drive the kids, and sling your hook; anon i'll wash them in the shallow brook. menalcas. to fold, my flock!--when milk is dried with heat, in vain the milkmaid tugs an empty teat. damoetas. how lank my bulls from plenteous pasture come! but love, that drains the herd, destroys the groom. menalcas. my flocks are free from love, yet look so thin, their bones are barely covered with their skin. what magic has bewitched the woolly dams, and what ill eyes beheld the tender lambs? damoetas. say, where the round of heaven, which all contains, } to three short ells on earth our sight restrains: } tell that, and rise a phoebus for thy pains. } menalcas. nay, tell me first, in what new region springs a flower, that bears inscribed the names of kings; and thou shalt gain a present as divine as phoebus' self; for phyllis shall be thine. palÆmon. so nice a difference in your singing lies, that both have won, or both deserved the prize. rest equal happy both; and all who prove the bitter sweets, and pleasing pains, of love. now dam the ditches, and the floods restrain; their moisture has already drenched the plain. footnotes: [ ] phoebus, not pan, is here called the god of shepherds. the poet alludes to the same story which he touches in the beginning of the second georgic, where he calls phoebus the amphrysian shepherd, because he fed the sheep and oxen of admetus, with whom he was in love, on the hill amphrysus. pastoral iv. or, _pollio_. argument. _the poet celebrates the birth-day of saloninus, the son of pollio, born in the consulship of his father, after the taking of salonæ, a city in dalmatia. many of the verses are translated from one of the sibyls, who prophesied of our saviour's birth._ sicilian muse, begin a loftier strain! though lowly shrubs, and trees that shade the plain, delight not all; sicilian muse, prepare to make the vocal woods deserve a consul's care. the last great age, foretold by sacred rhymes, renews its finished course: saturnian times roll round again; and mighty years, begun from their first orb, in radiant circles run. the base degenerate iron offspring ends; a golden progeny from heaven descends. o chaste lucina! speed the mother's pains; and haste the glorious birth! thy own apollo reigns! the lovely boy, with his auspicious face, } shall pollio's consulship and triumph grace; } majestic months set out with him to their appointed race. } the father banished virtue shall restore, and crimes shall threat the guilty world no more. the son shall lead the life of gods, and be by gods and heroes seen, and gods and heroes see. the jarring nations he in peace shall bind, and with paternal virtues rule mankind. unbidden earth shall wreathing ivy bring, } and fragrant herbs, (the promises of spring,) } as her first offerings to her infant king. } the goats with strutting dugs shall homeward speed, and lowing herds secure from lions feed. his cradle shall with rising flowers be crowned: the serpent's brood shall die; the sacred ground shall weeds and poisonous plants refuse to bear; each common bush shall syrian roses wear. but when heroic verse his youth shall raise, and form it to hereditary praise, unlaboured harvests shall the fields adorn, and clustered grapes shall blush on every thorn; the knotted oaks shall showers of honey weep; and through the matted grass the liquid gold shall creep. yet, of old fraud some footsteps shall remain; the merchant still shall plough the deep for gain, great cities shall with walls be compassed round, and sharpened shares shall vex the fruitful ground; another tiphys shall new seas explore; another argo land the chiefs upon the iberian shore; another helen other wars create, and great achilles urge the trojan fate. but when to ripened manhood he shall grow, the greedy sailor shall the seas forego; no keel shall cut the waves for foreign ware, for every soil shall every product bear. the labouring hind his oxen shall disjoin; } no plough shall hurt the glebe, no pruning-hook the vine; } nor wool shall in dissembled colours shine; } but the luxurious father of the fold, with native purple, and unborrowed gold, beneath his pompous fleece shall proudly sweat; and under tyrian robes the lamb shall bleat. the fates, when they this happy web have spun, shall bless the sacred clue, and bid it smoothly run. mature in years, to ready honours move, o of celestial seed! o foster-son of jove! see, labouring nature calls thee to sustain the nodding frame of heaven, and earth, and main! see to their base restored, earth, seas, and air; and joyful ages, from behind, in crowding ranks appear. to sing thy praise, would heaven my breath prolong, infusing spirits worthy such a song, not thracian orpheus should transcend my lays, nor linus crowned with never-fading bays; though each his heavenly parent should inspire; the muse instruct the voice, and phoebus tune the lyre. should pan contend in verse, and thou my theme, arcadian judges should their god condemn. begin, auspicious boy! to cast about thy infant eyes, and, with a smile, thy mother single out.[ ] thy mother well deserves that short delight, the nauseous qualms of ten long months and travail to requite. then smile! the frowning infant's doom is read; no god shall crown the board, nor goddess bless the bed. footnotes: [ ] in latin thus, _incipe, parve puer, risu cognoscere matrem_, &c. i have translated the passage to this sense--that the infant, smiling on his mother, singles her out from the rest of the company about him. erythræus, bembus, and joseph scaliger, are of this opinion. yet they and i may be mistaken; for, immediately after, we find these words, _cui non risere parentes_, which imply another sense, as if the parents smiled on the new-born infant; and that the babe on whom they vouchsafed not to smile, was born to ill fortune: for they tell a story, that, when vulcan, the only son of jupiter and juno, came into the world, he was so hard-favoured, that both his parents frowned on him, and jupiter threw him out of heaven: he fell on the island lemnos, and was lame ever afterwards. the last line of the pastoral seems to justify this sense: _nec deus hunc mensâ, dea nec dignata cubili est._ for, though he married venus, yet his mother juno was not present at the nuptials to bless them; as appears by his wife's incontinence. they say also, that he was banished from the banquets of the gods. if so, that punishment could be of no long continuance; for homer makes him present at their feasts, and composing a quarrel betwixt his parents, with a bowl of nectar. the matter is of no great consequence; and therefore i adhere to my translation, for these two reasons: first, virgil has his following line, _matri longa decem tulerunt fastidia menses_, as if the infant's smiling on his mother was a reward to her for bearing him ten months in her body, four weeks longer than the usual time. secondly, catullus is cited by joseph scaliger, as favouring this opinion, in his epithalamium of manlius torquatus: _torquatus, volo, parvolus, matris e gremio suæ porrigens teneras manus, dulce rideat ad patrem_, &c. what if i should steer betwixt the two extremes, and conclude, that the infant, who was to be happy, must not only smile on his parents, but also they on him? for scaliger notes, that the infants who smiled not at their birth, were observed to be #agelastoi#, or sullen, (as i have translated it,) during all their life; and servius, and almost all the modern commentators, affirm, that no child was thought fortunate, on whom his parents smiled not at his birth. i observe, farther, that the ancients thought the infant, who came into the world at the end of the tenth month, was born to some extraordinary fortune, good or bad. such was the birth of the late prince of condé's father, of whom his mother was not brought to bed, till almost eleven months were expired after his father's death; yet the college of physicians at paris concluded he was lawfully begotten. my ingenious friend, anthony henley, esq. desired me to make a note on this passage of virgil; adding, (what i had not read,) that the jews have been so superstitious, as to observe not only the first look or action of an infant, but also the first word which the parent, or any of the assistants, spoke after the birth; and from thence they gave a name to the child, alluding to it. pastoral v. or, _daphnis_. argument. _mopsus and menalcas, two very expert shepherds at a song, begin one by consent to the memory of daphnis, who is supposed by the best critics to represent julius cæsar. mopsus laments his death; menalcas proclaims his divinity; the whole eclogue consisting of an elegy and an apotheosis._ menalcas. since on the downs our flocks together feed, and since my voice can match your tuneful reed, why sit we not beneath the grateful shade, which hazles, intermixed with elms, have made? mopsus. whether you please that sylvan scene to take, where whistling winds uncertain shadows make; or will you to the cooler cave succeed, whose mouth the curling vines have overspread? menalcas. your merit and your years command the choice; amyntas only rivals you in voice. mopsus. what will not that presuming shepherd dare, who thinks his voice with phoebus may compare? menalcas. begin you first; if either alcon's praise, or dying phyllis, have inspired your lays; if her you mourn, or codrus you commend, begin, and tityrus your flock shall tend. mopsus. or shall i rather the sad verse repeat, which on the beeches bark i lately writ? i writ, and sung betwixt. now bring the swain, whose voice you boast, and let him try the strain. menalcas. such as the shrub to the tall olive shows, or the pale swallow to the blushing rose; such is his voice, if i can judge aright, compared to thine, in sweetness and in height. mopsus. no more, but sit and hear the promised lay; the gloomy grotto makes a doubtful day. the nymphs about the breathless body wait of daphnis, and lament his cruel fate. the trees and floods were witness to their tears; at length the rumour reached his mother's ears. the wretched parent, with a pious haste, came running, and his lifeless limbs embraced. she sighed, she sobbed; and, furious with despair, } she rent her garments, and she tore her hair, } accusing all the gods, and every star. } the swains forgot their sheep, nor near the brink of running waters brought their herds to drink. the thirsty cattle, of themselves, abstained from water, and their grassy fare disdained. the death of daphnis woods and hills deplore; } they cast the sound to libya's desert shore; } the libyan lions hear, and hearing roar. } fierce tigers daphnis taught the yoke to bear, and first with curling ivy dressed the spear. daphnis did rites to bacchus first ordain, and holy revels for his reeling train. as vines the trees, as grapes the vines adorn, as bulls the herds, and fields the yellow corn; so bright a splendour, so divine a grace, the glorious daphnis cast on his illustrious race. when envious fate the godlike daphnis took, our guardian gods the fields and plains forsook; pales no longer swelled the teeming grain, nor phoebus fed his oxen on the plain; no fruitful crop the sickly fields return, but oats and darnel choke the rising corn; and where the vales with violets once were crowned, now knotty burrs and thorns disgrace the ground. come, shepherds, come, and strow with leaves the plain; such funeral rites your daphnis did ordain. with cypress-boughs the crystal fountains hide, and softly let the running waters glide. a lasting monument to daphnis raise, with this inscription to record his praise:-- "daphnis, the fields' delight, the shepherds' love, renowned on earth, and deified above; whose flock excelled the fairest on the plains, but less than he himself surpassed the swains." menalcas. o heavenly poet! such thy verse appears, so sweet, so charming to my ravished ears, as to the weary swain, with cares opprest, beneath the sylvan shade, refreshing rest; as to the feverish traveller, when first he finds a crystal stream to quench his thirst. in singing, as in piping, you excel; and scarce your master could perform so well. o fortunate young man! at least your lays are next to his, and claim the second praise. such as they are, my rural songs i join, to raise our daphnis to the powers divine; for daphnis was so good, to love whate'er was mine. mopsus. how is my soul with such a promise raised! for both the boy was worthy to be praised, and stimicon has often made me long to hear, like him, so soft, so sweet a song. menalcas. daphnis, the guest of heaven, with wondering eyes, views, in the milky way, the starry skies, and far beneath him, from the shining sphere, beholds the moving clouds, and rolling year. for this with cheerful cries the woods resound, } the purple spring arrays the various ground, } the nymphs and shepherds dance, and pan himself is crowned. } the wolf no longer prowls for nightly spoils, nor bird's the springes fear, nor stags the toils; for daphnis reigns above, and deals from thence his mother's milder beams, and peaceful influence. the mountain-tops unshorn, the rocks, rejoice; the lowly shrubs partake of human voice. assenting nature, with a gracious nod, proclaims him, and salutes the new-admitted god. be still propitious, ever good to thine! behold! four hallowed altars we design; and two to thee, and two to phoebus rise; on both is offered annual sacrifice. the holy priests, at each returning year, two bowls of milk, and two of oil, shall bear; and i myself the guests with friendly bowls will cheer. two goblets will i crown with sparkling wine, } the generous vintage of the chian vine: } these will i pour to thee, and make the nectar thine. } in winter shall the genial feast be made before the fire; by summer, in the shade. damoetas shall perform the rites divine, and lyctian Ægon in the song shall join. alphesiboeus, tripping, shall advance, and mimic satyrs in his antic dance. when to the nymphs our annual rites we pay, and when our fields with victims we survey; while savage boars delight in shady woods, and finny fish inhabit in the floods; while bees on thyme, and locusts feed on dew-- thy grateful swains these honours shall renew. such honours as we pay to powers divine, to bacchus and to ceres, shall be thine. such annual honours shall be given; and thou shalt hear, and shalt condemn thy suppliants to their vow. mopsus. what present, worth thy verse, can mopsus find? not the soft whispers of the southern wind, that play through trembling trees, delight me more; nor murmuring billows on the sounding shore, nor winding streams, that through the valley glide, and the scarce-covered pebbles gently chide. menalcas. receive you first this tuneful pipe, the same that played my corydon's unhappy flame; the same that sung neæra's conquering eyes, and, had the judge been just, had won the prize. mopsus. accept from me this sheep-hook in exchange; the handle brass, the knobs in equal range. antigenes, with kisses, often tried } to beg this present, in his beauty's pride, } when youth and love are hard to be denied. } but what i could refuse to his request, is yours unasked, for you deserve it best. pastoral vi. or, _silenus_. argument. _two young shepherds, chromis and mnasylus, having been often promised a song by silenus, chance to catch him asleep in this pastoral; where they bind him hand and foot, and then claim his promise. silenus, finding they would be put off no longer, begins his song, in which he describes the formation of the universe, and the original of animals, according to the epicurean philosophy; and then runs through the most surprising transformations which have happened in nature since her birth. this pastoral was designed as a compliment to syron the epicurean, who instructed virgil and varus in the principles of that philosophy. silenus acts as tutor, chromis and mnasylus as the two pupils._[ ] i first transferred to rome sicilian strains; nor blushed the doric muse to dwell on mantuan plains. but when i tried her tender voice, too young, and fighting kings and bloody battles sung, apollo checked my pride, and bade me feed my fattening flocks, nor dare beyond the reed. admonished thus, while every pen prepares to write thy praises, varus, and thy wars, my pastoral muse her humble tribute brings, and yet not wholly uninspired she sings; for all who read, and, reading, not disdain these rural poems, and their lowly strain, the name of varus oft inscribed shall see } in every grove, and every vocal tree, } and all the sylvan reign shall sing of thee: } thy name, to phoebus and the muses known, } shall in the front of every page be shown; } for he, who sings thy praise, secures his own. } proceed, my muse!--two satyrs, on the ground, stretched at his ease, their sire silenus found. dozed with his fumes, and heavy with his load, } they found him snoring in his dark abode, } and seized with youthful arms the drunken god. } his rosy wreath was dropt not long before, borne by the tide of wine, and floating on the floor. his empty can, with ears half worn away, was hung on high, to boast the triumph of the day. invaded thus, for want of better bands, his garland they unstring, and bind his hands; for, by the fraudful god deluded long, they now resolve to have their promised song. Ægle came in, to make their party good-- the fairest naïs of the neighbouring flood-- and, while he stares around with stupid eyes, his brows with berries, and his temples, dyes. he finds the fraud, and, with a smile, demands, on what design the boys had bound his hands. "loose me," he cried, "'twas impudence to find a sleeping god; 'tis sacrilege to bind. to you the promised poem i will pay; the nymph shall be rewarded in her way." he raised his voice; and soon a numerous throng of tripping satyrs crowded to the song; and sylvan fauns, and savage beasts, advanced; and nodding forests to the numbers danced. not by hæmonian hills the thracian bard, } nor awful phoebus was on pindus heard } with deeper silence, or with more regard. } he sung the secret seeds of nature's frame; how seas, and earth, and air, and active flame, fell through the mighty void, and, in their fall, were blindly gathered in this goodly ball. the tender soil then, stiffening by degrees, shut from the bounded earth the bounding seas. then earth and ocean various forms disclose, and a new sun to the new world arose; and mists, condensed to clouds, obscure the sky; and clouds, dissolved, the thirsty ground supply. the rising trees the lofty mountains grace; } the lofty mountains feed the savage race, } yet few, and strangers, in the unpeopled place. } from thence the birth of man the song pursued, and how the world was lost, and how renewed; the reign of saturn, and the golden age; prometheus' theft, and jove's avenging rage; the cries of argonauts for hylas drowned, with whose repeated name the shores resound; then mourns the madness of the cretan queen,-- happy for her if herds had never been. what fury, wretched woman, seized thy breast? the maids of argos, (though, with rage possessed, their imitated lowings filled the grove,) yet shunned the guilt of thy preposterous love, nor sought the youthful husband of the herd, } though labouring yokes on their own necks they feared, } and felt for budding horns on their smooth foreheads reared. } ah, wretched queen! you range the pathless wood, while on a flowery bank he chews the cud, or sleeps in shades, or through the forest roves, and roars with anguish for his absent loves. "ye nymphs, with toils his forest-walk surround, and trace his wandering footsteps on the ground. but, ah! perhaps my passion he disdains, and courts the milky mothers of the plains. we search the ungrateful fugitive abroad, while they at home sustain his happy load." he sung the lover's fraud; the longing maid, with golden fruit, like all the sex, betrayed; the sisters mourning for their brother's loss; their bodies hid in barks, and furred with moss; how each a rising alder now appears, and o'er the po distils her gummy tears: then sung, how gallus, by a muse's hand, was led and welcomed to the sacred strand; the senate rising to salute their guest; and linus thus their gratitude expressed:-- "receive this present, by the muses made, the pipe on which the ascræan pastor played; with which of old he charmed the savage train, and called the mountain-ashes to the plain. sing thou, on this, thy phoebus; and the wood where once his fane of parian marble stood: on this his ancient oracles rehearse, and with new numbers grace the god of verse." why should i sing the double scylla's fate? the first by love transformed, the last by hate-- a beauteous maid above; but magic arts with barking dogs deformed her nether parts: what vengeance on the passing fleet she poured, the master frighted, and the mates devoured. then ravished philomel the song exprest; the crime revealed; the sisters' cruel feast: and how in fields the lapwing tereus reigns, the warbling nightingale in woods complains; while procne makes on chimney-tops her moan, and hovers o'er the palace once her own. whatever songs besides the delphian god had taught the laurels, and the spartan flood, silenus sung: the vales his voice rebound, and carry to the skies the sacred sound. and now the setting sun had warned the swain } to call his counted cattle from the plain: } yet still the unwearied sire pursues the tuneful strain, } till, unperceived, the heavens with stars were hung, and sudden night surprised the yet unfinished song. footnotes: [ ] my lord roscommon's notes on this pastoral are equal to his excellent translation of it; and thither i refer the reader. the eighth and tenth pastorals are already translated, to all manner of advantage, by my excellent friend mr stafford. so is the episode of camilla, in the eleventh Æneïd. pastoral vii. or, _meliboeus_. argument. _meliboeus here gives us the relation of a sharp poetical contest between thyrsis and corydon, at which he himself and daphnis were present; who both declared for corydon._ beneath a holm, repaired two jolly swains, (their sheep and goats together grazed the plains,) both young arcadians, both alike inspired to sing, and answer as the song required. daphnis, as umpire, took the middle seat, and fortune thither led my weary feet; for, while i fenced my myrtles from the cold, the father of my flock had wandered from the fold. of daphnis i inquired: he, smiling, said, "dismiss your fear;" and pointed where he fed: "and, if no greater cares disturb your mind, sit here with us, in covert of the wind. your lowing heifers, of their own accord, at watering time will seek the neighbouring ford. here wanton mincius winds along the meads, and shades his happy banks with bending reeds. and see, from yon old oak that mates the skies, how black the clouds of swarming bees arise." what should i do? nor was alcippe nigh, nor absent phyllis could my care supply, to house, and feed by hand my weaning lambs, and drain the strutting udders of their dams. great was the strife betwixt the singing swains; and i preferred my pleasure to my gains. alternate rhyme the ready champions chose: these corydon rehearsed, and thyrsis those. corydon. ye muses, ever fair, and ever young, assist my numbers, and inspire my song. with all my codrus, o! inspire my breast; for codrus, after phoebus, sings the best. or, if my wishes have presumed too high, and stretched their bounds beyond mortality, the praise of artful numbers i resign, and hang my pipe upon the sacred pine. thyrsis. arcadian swains, your youthful poet crown with ivy-wreaths; though surly codrus frown: or, if he blast my muse with envious praise, then fence my brows with amulets of bays, lest his ill arts, or his malicious tongue, should poison, or bewitch my growing song. corydon. these branches of a stag, this tusky boar (the first essay of arms untried before) young micon offers, delia, to thy shrine: but, speed his hunting with thy power divine; thy statue then of parian stone shall stand; thy legs in buskins with a purple band. thyrsis. this bowl of milk, these cakes, (our country fare,) } for thee, priapus, yearly we prepare, } because a little garden is thy care; } but, if the falling lambs increase my fold, thy marble statue shall be turned to gold. corydon. fair galatea, with thy silver feet, o, whiter than the swan, and more than hybla sweet! tall as a poplar, taper as the bole! come, charm thy shepherd, and restore my soul! come, when my lated sheep at night return, and crown the silent hours, and stop the rosy morn! thyrsis. may i become as abject in thy sight, as sea-weed on the shore, and black as night; rough as a bur; deformed like him who chaws sardinian herbage to contract his jaws; such and so monstrous let thy swain appear, if one day's absence looks not like a year. hence from the field, for shame! the flock deserves no better feeding while the shepherd starves. corydon. ye mossy springs, inviting easy sleep, ye trees, whose leafy shades those mossy fountains keep, defend my flock! the summer heats are near, and blossoms on the swelling vines appear. thyrsis. with heapy fires our cheerful hearth is crowned; and firs for torches in the woods abound: we fear not more the winds, and wintry cold, than streams the banks, or wolves the bleating fold. corydon. our woods, with juniper and chesnuts crowned, with falling fruits and berries paint the ground; and lavish nature laughs, and strows her stores around: but, if alexis from our mountains fly, even running rivers leave their channels dry. thyrsis. parched are the plains, and frying is the field, nor withering vines their juicy vintage yield: but, if returning phyllis bless the plain, the grass revives, the woods are green again, and jove descends in showers of kindly rain. corydon. the poplar is by great alcides worn; the brows of phoebus his own bays adorn; the branching vine the jolly bacchus loves; the cyprian queen delights in myrtle groves; with hazle phyllis crowns her flowing hair; } and, while she loves that common wreath to wear, } nor bays, nor myrtle boughs, with hazle shall compare. } thyrsis. the towering ash is fairest in the woods; in gardens pines, and poplars by the floods: but, if my lycidas will ease my pains, and often visit our forsaken plains, to him the towering ash shall yield in woods, in gardens pines, and poplars by the floods. meliboeus. these rhymes i did to memory commend, when vanquished thyrsis did in vain contend; since when, 'tis corydon among the swains: young corydon without a rival reigns. pastoral viii.[ ] or, _pharmaceutria_. argument. _this pastoral contains the songs of damon and alphesiboeus. the first of them bewails the loss of his mistress, and repines at the success of his rival mopsus. the other repeats the charms of some enchantress, who endeavoured, by her spells and magic, to make daphnis in love with her._ the mournful muse of two despairing swains, the love rejected, and the lovers' pains; to which the savage lynxes listening stood, the rivers stood on heaps, and stopped the running flood; the hungry herd the needful food refuse-- of two despairing swains, i sing the mournful muse. great pollio! thou, for whom thy rome prepares the ready triumph of thy finished wars, whether timavus or the illyrian coast, whatever land or sea, thy presence boast; is there an hour in fate reserved for me, to sing thy deeds in numbers worthy thee? in numbers like to thine, could i rehearse thy lofty tragic scenes, thy laboured verse, the world another sophocles in thee, another homer should behold in me. amidst thy laurels let this ivy twine: thine was my earliest muse; my latest shall be thine. scarce from the world the shades of night withdrew, scarce were the flocks refreshed with morning dew, when damon, stretched beneath an olive shade, and, wildly staring upwards, thus inveighed against the conscious gods, and cursed the cruel maid: "star of the morning, why dost thou delay? come, lucifer, drive on the lagging day, while i my nisa's perjured faith deplore,-- witness, ye powers, by whom she falsely swore! the gods, alas! are witnesses in vain; yet shall my dying breath to heaven complain. begin with me, my flute, the sweet mænalian strain. "the pines of mænalus, the vocal grove, are ever full of verse, and full of love: they hear the hinds, they hear their god complain, who suffered not the reeds to rise in vain begin with me, my flute, the sweet mænalian strain. "mopsus triumphs; he weds the willing fair. when such is nisa's choice, what lover can despair? now griffons join with mares; another age shall see the hound and hind their thirst assuage, promiscuous at the spring. prepare the lights, o mopsus! and perform the bridal rites. scatter thy nuts among the scrambling boys: thine is the night, and thine the nuptial joys. for thee the sun declines: o happy swain! begin with me, my flute, the sweet mænalian strain. "o nisa! justly to thy choice condemned! whom hast thou taken, whom hast thou contemned? for him, thou hast refused my browzing herd, scorned my thick eye brows, and my shaggy beard. unhappy damon sighs and sings in vain, } while nisa thinks no god regards a lover's pain. } begin with me, my flute, the sweet mænalian strain. } "i viewed thee first, (how fatal was the view!) and led thee where the ruddy wildings grew, high on the planted hedge, and wet with morning dew. then scarce the bending branches i could win; the callow down began to clothe my chin. i saw; i perished; yet indulged my pain. begin with me, my flute, the sweet mænalian strain. "i know thee, love! in deserts thou wert bred, and at the dugs of savage tigers fed; alien of birth, usurper of the plains! begin with me, my flute, the sweet mænalian strains. "relentless love the cruel mother led the blood of her unhappy babes to shed: love lent the sword; the mother struck the blow; inhuman she; but more inhuman thou: alien of birth, usurper of the plains! begin with me, my flute, the sweet mænalian strains. "old doting nature, change thy course anew, and let the trembling lamb the wolf pursue; let oaks now glitter with hesperian fruit, and purple daffodils from alder shoot; fat amber let the tamarisk distil, and hooting owls contend with swans in skill; hoarse tityrus strive with orpheus in the woods, and challenge famed arion on the floods. or, oh! let nature cease, and chaos reign! begin with me, my flute, the sweet mænalian strain. "let earth be sea; and let the whelming tide the lifeless limbs of luckless damon hide: farewell, ye secret woods, and shady groves, haunts of my youth, and conscious of my loves! from yon high cliff i plunge into the main; } take the last present of thy dying swain; } and cease, my silent flute, the sweet mænalian strain." } now take your turns, ye muses, to rehearse his friend's complaints, and mighty magic verse: "bring running water; bind those altars round with fillets, and with vervain strow the ground: make fat with frankincense the sacred fires, to re-inflame my daphnis with desires. 'tis done: we want but verse.--restore, my charms, my lingering daphnis to my longing arms. "pale phoebe, drawn by verse, from heaven descends; and circe changed with charms ulysses' friends. verse breaks the ground, and penetrates the brake, and in the winding cavern splits the snake: verse fires the frozen veins.--restore, my charms, my lingering daphnis to my longing arms. "around his waxen image first i wind three woollen fillets, of three colours joined; thrice bind about his thrice-devoted head, which round the sacred altar thrice is led. unequal numbers please the gods.--my charms, restore my daphnis to my longing arms. "knit with three knots the fillets; knit them strait; then say, 'these knots to love i consecrate.' haste, amaryllis, haste!--restore, my charms, my lovely daphnis to my longing arms. "as fire this figure hardens, made of clay, and this of wax with fire consumes away; such let the soul of cruel daphnis be-- hard to the rest of women, soft to me. crumble the sacred mole of salt and corn: next in the fire the bays with brimstone burn; and, while it crackles in the sulphur, say, 'this i for daphnis burn; thus daphnis burn away! this laurel is his fate.'--restore, my charms, my lovely daphnis to my longing arms. "as when the raging heifer, through the grove, stung with desire, pursues her wandering love; faint at the last, she seeks the weedy pools, to quench her thirst, and on the rushes rolls, careless of night, unmindful to return; such fruitless fires perfidious daphnis burn, while i so scorn his love!--restore, my charms, my lingering daphnis to my longing arms. "these garments once were his, and left to me, the pledges of his promised loyalty, which underneath my threshold i bestow: these pawns, o sacred earth! to me my daphnis owe. as these were his, so mine is he.--my charms, restore their lingering lord to my deluded arms. "these poisonous plants, for magic use designed, (the noblest and the best of all the baneful kind,) old moeris brought me from the politic strand, and culled the mischief of a bounteous land. smeared with these powerful juices, on the plain, he howls a wolf among the hungry train; and oft the mighty necromancer boasts, with these, to call from tombs the stalking ghosts, and from the roots to tear the standing corn, which, whirled aloft, to distant fields is borne: such is the strength of spells.--restore, my charms, my lingering daphnis to my longing arms. "bear out these ashes; cast them in the brook; cast backwards o'er your head; nor turn your look: since neither gods nor godlike verse can move, break out, ye smothered fires, and kindle smothered love. exert your utmost power, my lingering charms; and force my daphnis to my longing arms. "see while my last endeavours i delay, the walking ashes rise, and round our altars play! run to the threshold, amaryllis,--hark! our hylax opens, and begins to bark. good heaven! may lovers what they wish believe? or dream their wishes, and those dreams deceive? no more! my daphnis comes! no more, my charms! he comes, he runs, he leaps, to my desiring arms." footnotes: [ ] this eighth pastoral is copied by our author from two bucolics of theocritus. spenser has followed both virgil and theocritus in the charms which he employs for curing britomartis of her love. but he had also our poet's ceiris in his eye; for there not only the enchantments are to be found, but also the very name of britomartis.--dryden. pastoral ix.[ ] or, _lycidas and moeris_. argument. _when virgil, by the favour of augustus, had recovered his patrimony near mantua, and went in hope to take possession, he was in danger to be slain by arius the centurion, to whom those lands were assigned by the emperor, in reward of his service against brutus and cassius. this pastoral therefore is filled with complaints of his hard usage; and the persons introduced are the bailiff of virgil, moeris, and his friend lycidas._ lycidas. ho, moeris! whither on thy way so fast? this leads to town. moeris. o lycidas! at last the time is come, i never thought to see, (strange revolution for my farm and me!) when the grim captain in a surly tone cries out, "pack up, ye rascals, and be gone." kicked out, we set the best face on't we could; } and these two kids, t'appease his angry mood, } i bear,--of which the furies give him good! } lycidas. your country friends were told another tale,-- that, from the sloping mountain to the vale, and doddered oak, and all the banks along, menalcas saved his fortune with a song. moeris. such was the news, indeed; but songs and rhymes prevail as much in these hard iron times, as would a plump of trembling fowl, that rise against an eagle sousing from the skies. and, had not phoebus warned me, by the croak of an old raven from a hollow oak, to shun debate, menalcas had been slain, and moeris not survived him, to complain. lycidas. now heaven defend! could barbarous rage induce the brutal son of mars t'insult the sacred muse? who then should sing the nymphs? or who rehearse the waters gliding in a smoother verse? or amaryllis praise that heavenly lay, that shortened, as we went, our tedious way,-- "o tityrus, tend my herd, and see them fed; to morning pastures, evening waters, led; and 'ware the libyan ridgil's butting head." moeris. or what unfinished he to varus read:-- "thy name, o varus, (if the kinder powers preserve our plains, and shield the mantuan towers, obnoxious by cremona's neighbouring crime,) the wings of swans, and stronger-pinioned rhyme, shall raise aloft, and soaring bear above-- the immortal gift of gratitude to jove." lycidas. sing on, sing on; for i can ne'er be cloyed. so may thy swarms the baleful yew avoid; so may thy cows their burdened bags distend, and trees to goats their willing branches bend. mean as i am, yet have the muses made me free, a member of the tuneful trade: at least the shepherds seem to like my lays; but i discern their flattery from their praise: i nor to cinna's ears, nor varus,' dare aspire, but gabble, like a goose, amidst the swan-like choir. moeris. 'tis what i have been conning in my mind; nor are they verses of a vulgar kind. "come, galatea! come! the seas forsake! what pleasures can the tides with their hoarse murmurs make? see, on the shore inhabits purple spring, where nightingales their love-sick ditty sing: see, meads with purling streams, with flowers the ground, } the grottoes cool, with shady poplars crowned, } and creeping vines on arbours weaved around. } come then, and leave the waves' tumultuous roar; let the wild surges vainly beat the shore." lycidas. or that sweet song i heard with such delight; the same you sung alone one starry night. the tune i still retain, but not the words. moeris. "why, daphnis, dost thou search in old records, to know the seasons when the stars arise? see, cæsar's lamp is lighted in the skies,-- the star, whose rays the blushing grapes adorn, and swell the kindly ripening ears of corn. under this influence, graft the tender shoot; thy children's children shall enjoy the fruit." the rest i have forgot; for cares and time change all things, and untune my soul to rhyme. i could have once sung down a summer's sun; but now the chime of poetry is done: my voice grows hoarse; i feel the notes decay, as if the wolves had seen me first to-day. but these, and more than i to mind can bring, menalcas has not yet forgot to sing. lycidas. thy faint excuses but inflame me more: and now the waves roll silent to the shore; husht winds the topmost branches scarcely bend, as if thy tuneful song they did attend: already we have half our way o'ercome; far off i can discern bianor's tomb. here, where the labourer's hands have formed a bower of wreathing trees, in singing waste an hour. rest here thy weary limbs; thy kids lay down: we've day before us yet to reach the town; or if, ere night, the gathering clouds we fear, a song will help the beating storm to bear. and, that thou may'st not be too late abroad, sing, and i'll ease thy shoulders of thy load. moeris. cease to request me;, let us mind our way: another song requires another day. when good menalcas comes, if he rejoice, and find a friend at court, i'll find a voice. footnotes: [ ] in the ninth pastoral, virgil has made a collection of many scattering passages, which he had translated from theocritus; and here he has bound them into a nosegay.--dryden. pastoral x. or, _gallus_. argument. _gallus, a great patron of virgil, and an excellent poet, was very deeply in love with one cytheris, whom he calls lycoris, and who had forsaken him for the company of a soldier. the poet therefore supposes his friend gallus retired, in his height of melancholy, into the solitudes of arcadia, (the celebrated scene of pastorals,) where he represents him in a very languishing condition, with all the rural deities about him, pitying his hard usage, and condoling his misfortune._ thy sacred succour, arethusa, bring, to crown my labour, ('tis the last i sing,) which proud lycoris may with pity view:-- } the muse is mournful, though the numbers few. } refuse me not a verse, to grief and gallus due, } so may thy silver streams beneath the tide, unmixed with briny seas, securely glide. sing then my gallus, and his hopeless vows; sing, while my cattle crop the tender browze. the vocal grove shall answer to the sound, and echo, from the vales, the tuneful voice rebound. what lawns or woods with-held you from his aid, } ye nymphs, when gallus was to love betrayed, } to love, unpitied by the cruel maid? } not steepy pindus could retard your course, nor cleft parnassus, nor the aonian source: nothing, that owns the muses, could suspend your aid to gallus:--gallus is their friend. for him the lofty laurel stands in tears, and hung with humid pearls the lowly shrub appears. mænalian pines the godlike swain bemoan, } when, spread beneath a rock, he sighed alone; } and cold lycæus wept from every dropping stone. } the sheep surround their shepherd, as he lies: blush not, sweet poet, nor the name despise. along the streams, his flock adonis fed; and yet the queen of beauty blest his bed. the swains and tardy neat-herds came, and last menalcas, wet with beating winter mast. wondering, they asked from whence arose thy flame. yet more amazed, thy own apollo came. flushed were his cheeks, and glowing were his eyes: "is she thy care? is she thy care?" he cries. "thy false lycoris flies thy love and thee, } and, for thy rival, tempts the raging sea, } the forms of horrid war, and heaven's inclemency." } silvanus came: his brows a country crown of fennel, and of nodding lilies, drown. great pan arrived; and we beheld him too, his cheeks and temples of vermilion hue. "why, gallus, this immoderate grief?" he cried, "think'st thou that love with tears is satisfied? the meads are sooner drunk with morning dews, the bees with flowery shrubs, the goats with browze." unmoved, and with dejected eyes, he mourned: he paused, and then these broken words returned:-- "'tis past; and pity gives me no relief: but you, arcadian swains, shall sing my grief, and on your hills my last complaints renew: so sad a song is only worthy you. how light would lie the turf upon my breast, if you my sufferings in your songs exprest! ah! that your birth and business had been mine-- to pen the sheep, and press the swelling vine! had phyllis or amyntas caused my pain, or any nymph or shepherd on the plain, (though phyllis brown, though black amyntas were, are violets not sweet, because not fair?) beneath the sallows and the shady vine, my loves had mixed their pliant limbs with mine: phyllis with myrtle wreaths had crowned my hair, and soft amyntas sung away my care. come, see what pleasures in our plains abound; the woods, the fountains, and the flowery ground. as you are beauteous, were you half so true, here could i live, and love, and die with only you. now i to fighting fields am sent afar, and strive in winter camps with toils of war; while you, (alas, that i should find it so!) } to shun my sight, your native soil forego, } and climb the frozen alps, and tread the eternal snow. } ye frosts and snows, her tender body spare! those are not limbs for icicles to tear. for me, the wilds and deserts are my choice; the muses, once my care; my once harmonious voice. there will i sing, forsaken, and alone: the rocks and hollow caves shall echo to my moan. the rind of every plant her name shall know; and, as the rind extends, the love shall grow. then on arcadian mountains will i chase (mixed with the woodland nymphs) the savage race; nor cold shall hinder me, with horns and hounds to thrid the thickets, or to leap the mounds. and now methinks o'er steepy rocks i go, and rush through sounding woods, and bend the parthian bow; as if with sports my sufferings i could ease, or by my pains the god of love appease. my frenzy changes: i delight no more on mountain tops to chase the tusky boar: no game but hopeless love my thoughts pursue: once more, ye nymphs, and songs, and sounding woods, adieu! love alters not for us his hard decrees, not though beneath the thracian clime we freeze, or italy's indulgent heaven forego, and in mid-winter tread sithonian snow; or, when the barks of elms are scorched, we keep on meroë's burning plains the libyan sheep. in hell, and earth, and seas, and heaven above, love conquers all; and we must yield to love." my muses, here your sacred raptures end: the verse was what i owed my suffering friend. this while i sung, my sorrows i deceived, and bending osiers into baskets weaved. the song, because inspired by you, shall shine; and gallus will approve, because 'tis mine-- gallus, for whom my holy flames renew, each hour, and every moment rise in view; as alders, in the spring, their boles extend, and heave so fiercely, that the bark they rend. now let us rise; for hoarseness oft invades the singer's voice, who sings beneath the shades. from juniper unwholesome dews distil, } that blast the sooty corn, the withering herbage kill. } away, my goats, away! for you have browzed your fill. } end of the thirteenth volume. * * * * * edinburgh, printed by james ballantyne & co. transcriber's notes: simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were corrected. punctuation normalized. anachronistic and non-standard spellings retained as printed. italics markup is enclosed in _underscores_. greek text is transliterated and enclosed in #number symbols#. proofreaders edinburgh printed by ballantyne and company, paul's work. the poetical works of john dryden. with life, critical dissertation, and explanatory notes by the rev. george gilfillan. vol. i. m. dccc. lv. the life of john dryden. john dryden was born on the th of august , at a place variously denominated aldwincle, or oldwincle, all saints; or at oldwincle, st peter's, in northamptonshire. the name dryden or driden, is from the north. there are drydens still in the town of scotland where we now write; and the poet's ancestors lived in the county of cumberland. one of them, named john, removed from a place called staff-hill, to northamptonshire, where he succeeded to the estate of canons-ashby, by marriage with the daughter of sir john cope. john dryden was a schoolmaster, a puritan, and honoured, it is said, with the friendship of the celebrated erasmus, after whom he named his son, who succeeded to the estate of canons-ashby, and, besides becoming a sheriff of the county of northamptonshire, was created a knight under james i. sir erasmus had three sons, the third of whom, also an erasmus, became the father of our poet. his mother was mary, the daughter of the rev. henry pickering, whose father, a zealous puritan, had been one of the marked victims in the gunpowder plot. dryden thus had connexions both on his father's and mother's side with that party, by deriding, defaming, and opposing which he afterwards gained much of his poetical glory. the poet was the eldest of fourteen children--four sons and ten daughters. the honour of his birth is claimed, as already stated, by two parishes, that of oldwincle, all saints, and that of oldwincle, st peter's, as homer's was of old by seven cities. his brothers and sisters have been followed, by eager biographers, into their diverging and deepening paths of obscurity--paths in which we do not choose to attend them. dryden received the rudiments of his education at tichmarsh or at oundle--for here, too, we have conflicting statements. it is certain, however, that he was admitted a king's scholar at westminster, under the tuition of dr busby, whom he always respected, and who discovered in him poetical power. he encouraged him to write, as a thursday's night's task, a translation of the third satire of persius, a writer precisely of that vigorously rhetorical, rapidly satirical, and semi-poetical school, which dryden was qualified to appreciate and to mirror; besides other pieces of a similar kind which are lost. during the last year of his residence at westminster, and when only eighteen years of age, he wrote one among the ninety-eight elegies which were called forth by the sudden death of henry lord hastings, and published under the title of "lachrymæ musarum." hastings seems to have been an amiable person, but he was besides a lord, and _hinc illoe lachrymæ_. we know not of what quality the other tears were, but assuredly dryden's is one of very suspicious sincerity, and of very little poetical merit. but even the crocodile tears of a great genius, if they fall into a fanciful shape, must be preserved; and we have preserved his, accordingly, notwithstanding the false taste as well as doubtful truth and honesty of this his earliest poem. shortly after, dryden obtained a westminster scholarship, and on the th of may , entered on trinity college, cambridge. his tutor was one john templer, famous then as one of the many who had attempted to put a hook in the jaws of old hobbes, the leviathan of his time, but whose reply, as well as hobbes' own book (like a whale disappearing from a shetland "voe" into the deep, with all the hooks and harpoons of his enemies along with him) has been almost entirely forgotten. at cambridge, dryden was noted for regularity and diligence, and took the degree of b.a. in january - , and in was made a.m. by a dispensation from the archbishop of canterbury. once, indeed, he was rusticated for a fortnight on account of some disobedience to the vice-master. he resided, however, at his university three years after the usual term; and although he did not become a fellow, and made no secret, in after days, of preferring oxford to cambridge, yet the reason of this seems to have lain, not in any personal disgust, but in some other cause, which, says scott, "we may now search for in vain." up till june , his father had continued to reside at his estate at blakesley, in northamptonshire, when he died, leaving dryden two-thirds of a property, which was worth, in all, only £ a-year. the other third was bequeathed to his mother, during her lifetime. with this miserable modicum of £ a-year, the poet returned to cambridge, and continued there, doing little, and little known as one who could do anything, till the year . the only records of the diligence of his college years, are the lines on the death of lord hastings, and one or two other inconsiderable copies of verses. he probably, however, employed much time in private study. while at cambridge, he met with a young lady, a cousin of his own--honor driden, daughter of sir john driden of chesterton--of whom he became deeply enamoured. his suit was, however, rejected, although he continued all his life on intimate terms with the family. miss driden died unmarried, many years after her poet lover; and like the "lass of ballochmyle" with burns' homage, learned to value it more after he became celebrated, and carefully preserved the solitary letter which dryden wrote her. but now the university was to lose, and the world of london to receive, the poet. in the year , when about six-and-twenty years of age, dryden repaired to london, "clad in homely drugget," and with more projects in his head than pence in his pocket. he was first employed by his relative, sir gilbert pickering--called the "fiery pickering," from his roundhead zeal--as a clerk or secretary. here he came in contact with cromwell; and saw very clearly those great qualities of sagacity, determination, courage, statesmanship, insight and genuine godliness, which made him, next to alfred the great, the first monarch who ever sat on the english throne. two years after dryden came to london, cromwell expired, and the poet wrote and published his heroic stanzas on the hero's death, which we consider really his earliest poem. when richard resigned, dryden, in common with the majority of the nation, saw that the roundhead cause was lost, and hastened to carry over his talents to the gaining side. for this we do not blame him very severely, although it certainly had been nobler if, like milton, he had clung to his party. sir walter scott remarks, that dryden never retracted the praise he gave to cromwell. in "absalom and achitophel" he sneers at richard as ishbosheth, but says nothing against the deceased giant saul. it is clear, too, that at first his desertion of the cromwell party was a loss to the poet. he lost the chance of their favour, in case a reaction should come, his situation as secretary, and the shelter of pickering's princely mansion. as might have been expected, his ancient friends were indignant at the change, and not less so at the alteration he thought proper at the same time to make in the spelling of his name--from driden to dryden. he went to reside in the obscure house of one herringman, a bookseller, in the new exchange, and became for life a professional author. his enemies afterwards reproached him bitterly for his mean circumstances at this period of his life, and asserted that he was a mere drudge to herringman. he, at all events, did little in his own proper poetic calling for two years. a poem on the coronation of charles, well fitted to wipe away the stain of cromwellism, and to attract upon the poet the eye of that rising-sun, whose glory he sang with more zeal than truth; a panegyric on the lord chancellor; and a satire on the dutch; were all, and are all short, and all savour of a vein somewhat hide-bound. he planned, indeed, too, and partly wrote, one or more plays, and was considered of consequence enough to be elected a member of the royal society in . previous to this he had been introduced, through herringman, to sir robert howard, son of the first earl of berkshire, and a relation of edward howard, the author of "british princes," and the object of the witty wrath of butler. sir robert, too, had a poetical propensity, and dryden and he became and continued intimate for a number of years, the poet assisting the knight in his literary compositions, particularly in a play entitled "the indian queen;" and the latter inviting the former to the family seat at charlton, where dryden met in an unlucky hour his future wife, lady elizabeth howard, the sister of sir robert. it was on the st of december , in st swithin's, london, and with the consent of the earl, who settled about £ a-year on his daughter, that this unhappy union took place. the lady seems to have had absolutely none of the qualities which tend either to command a husband's respect or to conciliate his regard, but is described as a woman of violent temper and weak understanding. much of the bitterness of dryden's satire, some of the coarse licentiousness of his plays, and all the sarcasms at matrimony which he has scattered in multitudes, throughout his works, may be traced to his domestic unhappiness. otherwise, the match had some advantages. it broke up, for a time at least, some licentious connexions he had formed, particularly, after a time, one with mrs reeves the actress, with whom, having laid aside his norwich drugget, he used to eat tarts at the mulberry gardens, "with a sword and a chadreux wig." it secured to him, including his own property, an income of about £ a-year--a sum equal to £ now--and which, on the death of his mother, three years later, was increased by £ more, or £ at the present value of money. he was thus protected for life against the meaner and more miserable necessities of the literary man, under which many of his unfortunate rivals were crushed; and if he could not always command luxuries, he was always sure of bread. to improve his circumstances, however, and to enable him to keep up a style of living in unison with his lady's rank, he must write, and the question arose, what mode of composition was likely to be the most lucrative? were he to continue to indite panegyrical verses, like those to clarendon, he stood a chance of having a few guineas tossed to him now and then by a patron, like a crust to an unfortunate cur. were he to translate, or write prefaces for the booksellers, he might pay his bill for salt, if diligent enough. for satires as yet there was little demand. the follies of the more fanatical of the puritans were too recent, although they were beginning to ripen for the hand of butler; and the far grosser absurdities of the cavaliers were yet in blossom. there remained nothing for an aspiring author but the stage, which during the previous _regime_ had been abolished. while the french revolution was in progress, ay, even in the depths of the reign of terror, the theatres were all open, and all crowded; but when cromwell was enacting his solemn and solitary part, before god, angels, and men, the petty potentates--the gods and goddesses of the stage--vanished into thin air. at his tremendous stamp their cue had been "_exeunt omnes_" and if the spirit of shakspeare himself had witnessed the departure, he would have added his amen. and had he watched in their stead the gigantic actor treading his trembling stage alone, with all the world looking on, he might have remembered and re-applied his own magnificent words-- "o for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention! a kingdom for a stage, princes to act, and _monarchs_ to _behold_ the swelling scene! then should the warlike _cromwell_ like himself assume the port of mars; and at his heels, leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire crouch for employment." no sooner had this great man passed away, and an earnest age with him, and charles mounted the throne, than from the darkest recesses of the stews and the taverns, from the depths within depths of alsatia or paris, the whole tribe of dancers, fiddlers, drabs, mimes, stage-players, and playwrights, knowing that their enemy was dead, and their hour of harvest had come, emerged in swarming multitudes--multitudes swelled by the vast tribe of play-goers, who had been counting the hours since a falstaff had made them laugh, an ophelia made them weep, and a lear made them tremble. and had this only issued in the revival of the drama of shakspeare and johnson, few could have had much to say in objection; for that, in general, was as pure as it was powerful. but, alas, besides them there had been a beaumont, a fletcher, and a massinger, with their unutterable abominations. nay, the king and courtiers had imported from france a taste which required for its gratification a licentiousness still more abandoned, and to be cast, besides, into forms and shapes, as stiff, stately, and elaborate as the material was vile, and were not contented with pollution unless served up in a new, piquant, and unnatural manner. our poet understood this movement of his time right well, and determined to conform to it. he knew that he could, better than any man living, pander to the popular appetite for the melodramatic, for the grandiloquent, and for the obscene. he knew the taste of charles, and that he, above all cooks, could dress up a _ragout_ of that putrid perfection which his king relished. and he set himself with his whole might so to do, and for thirty years and more continued his degradation of genius--a degradation unexampled, whether we consider the powers of the writer, the coarseness, quantity, and elaboration of the pollutions he perpetrated, or the length of time in which he was employed, in thus "profaning the god-given strength and marring the lofty line." his other biographers--dr johnson, alone, with brevity and seeming reluctance--have enumerated and characterised all dryden's plays. we have decided only to speak of them very generally, and that for the following reasons:-- st, we are reprinting none of them; dly, from what we have read of them, we are certain that, even as works of art, they are utterly unworthy of their author, and that in morals they are, as a whole, a disgrace to human nature. we are not the least lenient or indulgent of critics. we have every wish to pity the errors, and to bear with the frequent escapades and aberrations of genius. but when we see, as in dryden's case, what we are forced to consider either a deliberate and systematic attempt to poison the sources of virtue, or, at least, an elaborate and incessant habit of conformity to the bad tastes of a bad age, we can think of no plea fully available for his defence. vain to say, "he wrote for bread." he did not--he wrote only for the luxuries, not the staff of life. vain to say, "he consulted the taste of his audience, and suited their atmosphere." but why did he _select_ that atmosphere as his? and why so much gratuitous and superfluous iniquity in his works? "but he wrote to gratify his monarch." this would form a good enough excuse for a sporus, "a white curd of ass' milk," but not for a strong man like dryden. but he was "no worse than others of his age." pitiful apology! since, being the ablest man of his day, and therefore bound to be before it, he was in reality behind it, his plays excelling all contemporary productions in wickedness as well as in wit. but his own "conduct was latterly irreproachable." this we doubt, and scott doubts so too. but even though it were true, it were damaging, because it would deprive him of the plea of passion, and reduce him from the warm human painter to the cold demon-like sculptor of unclean and abominable ideas. it never can be forgotten, that whenever dryden translated a filthy play, he made it filthier than in the original, and that he has once and again scattered his satyr-like fancies in spots such as the paradise of milton, and the enchanted isle of shakspeare, which every imagination and every heart previously had regarded as holy ground. the only extenuating circumstance we can mention is, that his pruriency was latterly in part relinquished and much deplored by himself, and that his poetry is, on the whole, free from it. in our critical paper, prefixed to the second volume, we intend to examine the question, how far an author's faults are, or are not, to be charged upon his age. his next poem was "annus mirabilis," published in , and counted justly one of his most vigorous, though also one of the faultiest of his poems. it includes glowing, although somewhat quaint and fantastic, descriptions of the dutch war and the great fire in london. in , by the death of sir william davenant, the post of poet-laureate became vacant, and dryden was appointed to it. he was also appointed historiographer-royal. the salary of these two offices amounted to £ a year, besides the famous annual butt of canary, while his profits from the theatre were equivalent to £ . his whole income was thus, at the very least, equal to a thousand pounds of our money--a great sum for a poet in that or in any age. he published, the same year, an essay on "dramatic poetry," vindicating his own practice of rhymed heroic verse in plays;--a stupid french innovation, which all the ingenuity of a dryden defended in vain. it was cast into the shape of a dialogue,--the duke of dorset being one of the respondents,--and formed the first specimen of dryden's easy, rambling, but most vivid, vigorous, and entertaining prose. no one was ever more ready than he to render reasons for his writings,--for their faults as well as merits,--and to show by more ingenious arguments, that, if they failed, they _ought_ to have succeeded. at this time we may consider dryden's prosperity, although not his powers, to have culminated. he had a handsome income, a run of unparalleled popularity as a playwright; he was poet-laureate, a favourite at court, and on terms of intimacy with many of the nobility, and many of the eminent men of letters. the public would have at that time bid high for his very snuff-papers, and were thankful for whatever garbage he chose to throw at them from the stage. how different his position from that of the great blind old man, at this time residing in bunhill-fields in obscurity and sorrow, and preparing to put off his tabernacle, and take his flight to the heavens of god! the one heard every night the "claps of multitudes,"--the other the whispers of angels, saying to his soul, "sister-spirit, come away." the one was revelling in reputation,--the other was listening to the far-off echoes of a coming fame as wide as the world, and as permanent as the existence of man. to do dryden justice, he admired milton; and although he did, and that, too, immediately after milton departed, venture to travestie the "paradise lost" into a rhymed play, as dull as it is disgusting; and although he knew that milton had called him, somewhat harshly, a "good rhymer, but no poet," yet he praised his genius at a time when it was as little appreciated, as was the grandeur of his character. but now the slave, in the chariot of dryden's triumph, was about to appear. first came, in , the "rehearsal," a play concocted among various wits of the time, including sprat, clifford, poor butler, of "hudibras," and chiefly the duke of buckingham. the object of this play was to turn rhymed heroic tragedy, and especially the great playwright of the day, under the name of bayes, his person, manners, conversation, and habits, into unmitigated ridicule. the plan has often since been followed, with various success. minor wits have delighted in clubbing their small but poisoned missiles, and in aiming flights of minnikin arrows at the gullivers of their different periods. thus pope was assailed by the "dunces," whom he afterwards preserved in amber--that terrible old lion, bentley, by boyle and his associates; and wordsworth, by the critics or criticasters of his day. dryden acted with greater prudence than any of those we have named, except indeed bentley, who, being assailed upon points involving the integrity of his scholarship, and on which demonstrative contradiction was possible, felt himself compelled to leave his lair, and to rend his enemies in pieces. but dryden--feeling on this occasion, at least, that a squib, however personal and severe, cannot harm any man worthy of the name; and that the very force of the laughter it produces, drives out the sting--determined to answer it by silence, and to bide his time. "zimri," in absalom and achitophel, shows how deep had been his secret oath of vengeance, and how carefully the sweltered "venom" had been kept, in which at last he baptizes buckingham, and embalms him at the same time for the wonder and contempt of posterity. here is the danger of the smaller wits in a controversy of this kind. their squibs excite a sensation at the moment, and sometimes annoy the assaulted giant much, and his friends and publishers more; but he continues to live and grow, while their spiteful effusions perish; or worse, are preserved to the everlasting shame of their authors, on the lowest shelf of the records of their enemy's fame. two years after, occurred the famous controversy between dryden and settle. poor elkanah settle seemed raised up like another mordecai to poison the peace and disturb the false self-satisfaction of dryden,--raised up, rather--shall we say?--to wean the poet from a sphere where his true place and power were not, and to prepare him for other stages, where he was yet destined far more powerfully to play his part. at all events, this should have been his inference from the success of settle. it should have taught him that a scene where a pitiful poetaster, backed by mob-favour and the word of a rochester, could eclipse his glory, was no scene for him; and he ought instantly, with proud humility, to have left the theatre for ever. instead of this, he fell into a violent passion with one who, like himself, had levelled his desires to the "claps of multitudes," and had ravished the larger share of the coveted prize! and so there commenced a long and ludicrous controversy--dishonourable to settle much; to rochester and dryden more--between a mere insolent twaddler and a man of real and transcendent genius. the particulars of the struggle are too humiliating and contemptible to deserve a minute record. suffice it, that dryden, assisted by his future foe, shadwell, wrote a scurrilous attack on settle, and his successful play, "the empress of morocco;" to which settle, nothing daunted, replied in terms of equal coarseness, and that rochester, the patron of settle, became mixed up in the fray, till, having been severely handled by dryden in his "essay on satire,"--a production generally, and we think justly, attributed to mulgrave and dryden in conjunction,--he took a mean and characteristic revenge. he hired bravoes, who, waiting for dryden as he was returning, on the th december , from will's coffee-house to his own house in gerard street, rushed out and severely beat and wounded him. that dryden was the author of the lines on rochester has been doubted, although we think they very much resemble a rough and hurried sketch from his pen; that rochester deserved the truculent treatment he received in them, this anecdote sufficiently proves. it was partly, indeed, the manner of the age. had this nobleman existed _now_, and been pilloried by a true and powerful pen, he would, in addition to his own anonymous assaults, have stirred up a posse of his creatures to assist him in seeking, by falsehoods, hypercriticisms, and abuse, to diminish the influence and take away the good name of his opponent. the satanic spirit is always the same--its weapons and instruments are continually changing. soon after this, dryden translated the epistles of ovid, thus breathing himself for the far greater efforts which were before him. his mind seems, for a season, to have balanced between various poetic plans. on the one hand, the finger of his good genius showed him the fair heights of epic song, waiting to be crowned by the coming of a new virgil; on the other side, the fierce fires of his passions pointed him downwards to his many rivals and foes--the cliffords, leighs, ravenscrofts, rochesters, and settles--who seemed lying as a mark for his satiric vengeance. he meditated, we know, an epic on arthur, the hero of the round table, and had, besides, many arrears of wrath lying past for discharge; but circumstances arose which turned his thoughts away, for a season, in a different direction from either arthur or his personal foes. the political aspects of the times were now portentous in the extreme. charles ii. had, partly by crime, partly by carelessness, and partly by ill-fortune, become a most unpopular monarch, and the more so, because the nation had no hope even from his death, since it was sure to hand them over to the tender mercies of his brother, who had all his faults, and some, in addition, of his own, without any of his merits. there was but one hope, and that turned out a mere aurora borealis, connected with the duke of monmouth, who, through his extraction by a bend sinister from charles, as well as through his popular manners, protestant principles, and gracious exterior, had become such a favourite with the people, that strong efforts were made to exclude the duke of york, and to exalt him to the succession. these, however, were unsuccessful; and shaftesbury, their leading spirit, was accused of treason, and confined to the tower. it was at this crisis, when the nobility of the land were divided, when its clergy were divided, when its literary men were divided,--not in a silent feud, but in a raging rupture, that dryden, partly at the instigation of the court, partly from his own impulse, lifted up his powerful pen,--the sceptre of the press,--and, with wonderful facility and felicity, wrote, and on the th november , published, the satire of "absalom and achitophel." its poetical merits--the choice of the names and period, although this is borrowed from a previous writer--the appearance of the poem at the most critical hour of the crisis--and, above all, the portraitures of character, so easy and so graphic, so free and so fearless, distinguished equally by their animus and their animation, and with dashes of generous painting relieving and diversifying the general caricature of the style,--rendered it instantly and irresistibly popular. it excited one universal cry--from its friends, of admiration, and from its enemies, of rage. imitations and replies multiplies around it, and sounded like assenting or like angry echoes. it did not, indeed, move the grand jury to condemn shaftesbury; but when, on his acquittal, a medal was struck by his friends, bearing on one side the head and name of shaftesbury, and on the other, the sun obscured by a cloud rising over the tower and city of london, dryden's aid was again solicited by the court and the king in person, to make this the subject of a second satire; and, with great rapidity, he produced "the medal--a satire against sedition," which, completing and colouring the photograph of shaftesbury, formed the real second part of "absalom and achitophel." what bore that name came a year afterwards, when the times were changed, was written partly by a feebler hand--nahum tate; and flew at inferior game--dryden's own personal rivals and detractors. the principal of these was shadwell, who had been an early friend of dryden's, and who certainly possessed a great deal of wit and talent, if he did not attain to the measure of poetic genius. his principal power lay in low comedy--his chief fault lay in his systematic and avowed imitation of the rough and drunken manners of ben jonson. in the eye of dryden--whose own habits were convivial, although not to the same extent--the real faults of his opponent were his popularity as a comic writer, and his politics. shadwell was a zealous protestant, and the bitterest of the many who replied to the "medal." for this he became the hero of "macflecknoe"--a masterly satire, holding him up to infamy and contempt--besides sitting afterwards for the portrait of og, in the second part of "absalom and achitophel." shadwell had, by and by, his revenge, by obtaining the laureateship, after the revolution, in room of dryden, and no doubt used the opportunity of drowning the memory of defeat in the butt of generous canary which had now for ever passed the door of his formidable rival. dryden's circumstances, at this time, were considerably straitened. his pension as laureate was not regularly paid; the profits from the theatre had somewhat fallen off. he tried in various ways, by prefacing a translation of "plutarch's lives," by publishing a miscellany of versions from greek and latin authors, and by writing prologues to plays and prefaces to books, to supply his exhausted exchequer. his good-humoured but heartless monarch set him on another task, for which he was never paid, writing a translation of maimbourg's "history of the league," the object of which was to damage shaftesbury and his party, by branding them as enemies to monarchy. in he wrote his "religio laici." not long after, in february , charles ii. became, for the first time in his life, serious, as he felt death--the proverbial terror of kings--rapidly rushing upon him. he tried to hide the great and terrible fact from his eyes under the shield of a wafer. he died suddenly--a member of the "holy roman catholic church,"--and much regretted by all his mistresses; and apparently by dryden, who had been preparing the opera of "albion and albanius," to commemorate the king's triumph over the whigs, when this event turned his harp into mourning, and his organ into the voice of them that weep. he set himself to write a poem which should at once express regret for the set, and homage to the rising, sun. this was his "threnodia augustalis," a very unequal poem, but full of inimitable passages, and discovering all that careless greatness which characterised the genius of the poet. charles ii. had, at dryden's request, to whom arrears for four years had been due, raised his laureate salary to £ . the additional hundred dropped at the king's death, and james was mean enough even to curtail the annual butt of sack. he probably had little hope of converting the author of "religio laici" to his faith, else he would not have withheld what charles had so recently granted. afterwards, when he ascertained that an interesting process was going on in dryden's mind, tending to popery, he perhaps thought that a little money cast into the crucible might materially determine the projection in the proper way; or perhaps the _prospect_ produced, or at least accelerated, the _process_. we admire much in scott's elaborate and ingenious defence of dryden's change of faith; and are ready to grant that it was only a pyrrhonist, not a protestant, who became a papist after all--but there was, as dr johnson also thinks, an ugly _coincidence_ between the pension and the conversion. grant that it was not bestowed for the first time by james, it had been withheld by him, and its restoration immediately followed the change of his faith. dr johnson was pleased, when andrew miller said that he "thanked god he was done with him," to know that miller "thanked god for anything;" and so, when we consider the blasphemy, profanity, and filth of dryden's plays, and the unsettled and veering state of his religious and political opinions, we are almost glad to find him becoming "anything," although it was only the votary of a dead and corrupted form of christianity. you like to see the fierce, capricious, and destructive torrent fixed, although it be fixed in ice. that he found comfort in his new religion, and proved his sincerity by rearing up his children in the faith which his wife had also embraced, and by remaining a roman catholic after the revolution, and to his own pecuniary loss, has often been asserted. but surely there is a point where the most inconsistent man is obliged to stop, if he would escape the character of an absolute weather-cock; and that there are charms and comforts in the popish creed for one who felt with dryden, that he had, partly in his practice, and far more in his writings, sinned against the laws of morality and common decency, we readily grant. whether these charms he legitimate, and these comforts sound, is a very different question. had dryden, besides, turned protestant again, we question if it would have saved him his laureate pensions, and it would certainly have blasted him for ever, under the charge of ingratitude to his benefactor james. on the whole, this passage of the poet's life is not very creditable to his memory, and his indiscriminate admirers had better let it alone. it would have strained the ingenuity and the enthusiasm of claud halcro himself to have extracted matter for a panegyrical ode on this conversion of "glorious john." admitted into the bosom of the church, he soon found that he must prove his faith by his works. he was employed by james to defend the reasons of conversion to the catholic faith alleged by anne duchess of york, and the two other papers on the same subject which, found in charles' strong box, james had imprudently given to the world. this led him to a contest with stillingfleet, in which dryden came off only second best. he next, in an embowered walk, in a country retirement at rushton, near his birthplace, composed his strange, unequal, but brilliant and ingenious poem, "the hind and the panther," the object of which was to advocate king james' repeal of the test act, and to prove the immeasurable superiority of the church of rome to that of england, as well as to all the dissenting sects. this piece produced a prodigious clamour against the author. its plan was pronounced ridiculous--its argument one-sided--its zeal assumed--and montague and prior, two young men then rising into eminence, wrote a clever parody on it, entitled the "town and country mouse." in addition to this, he wrote a translation of varilla's "history of heresies," and a life of francis xavier, the famous apostle of the indies, whose singular story, a tale of heroic endurance and unexampled labours, but bedropt with the most flagrant falsehoods, whether it be read in dryden's easy and fascinating narrative, or in the more gorgeous and coloured account of sir james stephen, in the "edinburgh review," forms one of the most impressive displays of human strength and folly, of the greatness of devoted enthusiasm, and of the weakness and credulity of abject superstition. in spite of all these attempts to bolster up a tottering throne and an _effete_ faith, the revolution came, and dryden's hopes and prospects sank like a vision of the night. and now came the hour of his enemies' revenge! how the settles, the shadwells, and the ravenscrofts, rejoiced at the downfall of their great foe! and what ironical condolence, or bitter satirical exultation, they poured over his humiliation! and, worst of all, he durst not reply. "his powers of satire," says scott, "at this period, were of no more use to dryden than a sword to a man who cannot draw it." the fate of milton in miniature had now befallen him; and it says much for the strength of his mind, that, as in milton's case, dryden's purest and best titles to fame date from his discomfiture and degradation. antæus-like, he had now reached the ground, and the touch of the ground to him, as to all giants, was inspiration. his history, from this date, becomes, still more than in the former portions of it, a history of his publications. he was forced back by necessity to the stage. in , and in the next two years, he produced four dramas,--one of them, indeed, adapted from the french, but the other three, original; and one, don sebastian, deemed to rank among the best of his dramatic works. in , another volume of miscellanies, with more translations, appeared. he also published, about this time, a new version of "juvenal and persius," portions of which were contributed by his sons john and charles. his last play, "love triumphant," was enacted--as his first, the "wild gallant," had been--without success; and it is remarkable, that while the curtain dropped heavily and slowly upon dryden, it was opening upon congreve, whose first comedy was enacted the same year with dryden's last, and who became the lawful heir of much of dryden's licentiousness, and of more than his elegance and wit. he next commenced the translation of "virgil," which in the course of three years he completed, and gave to the world. it was published in july . he had dashed it off with the utmost freedom and fire, and no work was ever more thoroughly identified with its translator. it is _dryden's_ "virgil," every line of it. a great and almost national interest was felt in the undertaking, such as would be felt now, were it announced that tennyson was engaged in a translation of goethe. addison supplied arguments, and an essay on the "georgics." a dedication to the new king was expected by the court, but inexorably declined by the poet. it came forth, notwithstanding, amidst universal applause; nor was the remuneration for the times small, amounting to at least £ or £ . so soon as this great work was off his hands, by way, we suppose, as scott was used to say, of "refreshing the machiner," dryden wrote his famous ode, "alexander's feast," for a meeting of the musical society on st cecilia's day,--wrote it, according to bolingbroke, at one sitting, although he spent, it is said, a fortnight in polishing it into its present rounded and perfect form. it took the public by storm, and excited a greater sensation than any of the poet's productions, except "absalom and achitophel." dryden himself, when complimented on it as the finest ode in the language, owned the soft impeachment, and said, "a nobler ode never was produced, and never will;" and in a manner, if not absolutely, he was right. dryden was now again at sea for a subject. sometimes he revolved once more his favourite plan of an epic poem, and "edward the black prince" loomed for a season before him as its hero. sometimes he looked up with an ambitious eye to homer, and we see his hand "pawing" like the hoof of the war-horse in job, as he smelled his battle afar off, and panted to do for achilles and hector what he had done for turnus and Æneas. he meant to have turned the "iliad" into blank verse; but, after all, translated the only book of it which he published into rhyme. but, in fine, he determined to modernise some of the fine old tales of boccacio and chaucer; and in march - , appeared his brilliant "fables," with some other poems from his pen, for which he received £ at jonson's hands. this was his last publication of size, although he was labouring on when death surprised him, and within the last three weeks of his life had written the "secular margin," and the prologue and the epilogue to fletcher's "pilgrim,"--productions remarkable as showing the ruling passion strong in death,--the squabbling litterateur and satirist combating and kicking his enemies to the last,--jeremy collier, for having accused him of licentiousness in his dramas; milbourne, for having attacked his "georgics;" and poor blackmore for having doubted the orthodoxy of "religio laici," and the decency of "amphitryon" and "limberham." he had now to go a pilgrimage himself to a far country. he had long been troubled with gout and gravel; but next came erysipelas in one of his legs; and at last mortification, superinduced by a neglected inflammation in his toe, carried him off at three o'clock on wednesday morning the st of may . he died a roman catholic, and in "entire resignation to the divine will." he died so poor, that he was buried by subscription, lords montague and jeffries delaying the interment till the necessary funds were raised. the body, after lying embalmed and in state for ten days in the college of physicians, was buried with great pomp in westminster abbey, where now, between the graves of chaucer and cowley, reposes the dust of dryden. his lady survived him fourteen years, and died insane. his eldest son charles was drowned in at datchett, while seeking to swim across the thames. john died at rome of a fever in . erasmus, who was supposed to inherit his mother's malady, died in ; and the title which he had derived from sir robert passed to his uncle, the brother of the poet, and thence to his grandson. sir henry edward leigh dryden, of canons-ashby, is now the representative of the ancient family. we reserve till our next volume a criticism on dryden's genius and works. as to his habits and manners, little is known, and that little is worn threadbare by his many biographers. in appearance he became, in his maturer years, fat and florid, and obtained the name of "poet squab." his portraits show a shrewd, but rather sluggish face, with long gray hair floating down his cheeks, not unlike coleridge, but without his dreamy eye, like a nebulous star. his conversation was less sprightly than solid. sometimes men suspected that he had "sold all his thoughts to his booksellers." his manners are by his friends pronounced "modest;" and the word modest has since been amiably confounded by his biographers with "pure." bashful he seems to have been to awkwardness; but he was by no means a model of the virtues. he loved to sit at will's coffee-house, and be the arbiter of criticism. his favourite stimulus was snuff, and his favourite amusement angling. he had a bad address, a down look, and little of the air of a gentleman. addison is reported to have taught him latterly the intemperate use of wine; but this was said by dennis, who admired dryden, and who hated addison; and his testimony is impotent against either party. we admire the simplicity of the critics who can read his plays, and then find himself a model of continence and virtue. "out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh;" and a more polluted mouth than dryden's never uttered its depravities on the stage. we cannot, in fine, call him personally a very honest, a very high-minded, or a very good man, although we are willing to count him amiable, ready to make very considerable allowance for his period and his circumstances, not disposed to think him so much a renegado and deliberate knave as a fickle, needy, and childish changeling, in the matter of his "perversion" to popery; although we yield to none in admiration of the varied, highly-cultured, masculine, and magnificent forces of his genius. contents on the death of lord hastings heroic stanzas on the death of oliver cromwell astrÆa redux. a poem on the happy restoration and return of his sacred majesty charles ii., to his sacred majesty. a panegyric on his coronation to the lord chancellor hyde. presented on new year's day, satire on the dutch to her royal highness the duchess, on the memorable victory gained by the duke over the hollanders, june , ; and on her journey afterwards into the north annus mirabilis: the year of wonders, . an historical poem an essay upon satire. by mr dryden and the earl of mulgrave, absalom and achitophel the medal. a satire against sedition religio laici; or, a layman's faith. an epistle threnodia augustalis: a funeral pindaric poem, sacred to the happy memory of king charles ii veni creator spiritus, paraphrased the hind and the panther. a poem, in three parts mac flecknoe britannia rediviva. a poem on the prince, born june , dryden's poems. on the death of lord hastings.[ ] must noble hastings immaturely die, the honour of his ancient family; beauty and learning thus together meet, to bring a winding for a wedding-sheet? must virtue prove death's harbinger? must she, with him expiring, feel mortality? is death, sin's wages, grace's now? shall art make us more learned, only to depart? if merit be disease; if virtue death; to be good, not to be; who'd then bequeath himself to discipline? who'd not esteem labour a crime? study, self-murder deem? our noble youth now have pretence to be dunces securely, ignorant healthfully. rare linguist, whose worth speaks itself, whose praise, though not his own, all tongues besides do raise: than whom great alexander may seem less, who conquer'd men, but not their languages. in his mouth nations spake; his tongue might be interpreter to greece, france, italy. his native soil was the four parts o' the earth; all europe was too narrow for his birth. a young apostle; and, with reverence may i speak it, inspired with gift of tongues, as they. nature gave him, a child, what men in vain oft strive, by art though further'd, to obtain. his body was an orb, his sublime soul did move on virtue's and on learning's pole: whose regular motions better to our view, than archimedes[ ] sphere, the heavens did show. graces and virtues, languages and arts, beauty and learning, fill'd up all the parts. heaven's gifts, which do like falling stars appear scatter'd in others; all, as in their sphere, were fix'd, conglobate in his soul; and thence shone through his body, with sweet influence; letting their glories so on each limb fall, the whole frame render'd was celestial. come, learned ptolemy[ ] and trial make, if thou this hero's altitude canst take: but that transcends thy skill; thrice happy all, could we but prove thus astronomical. lived tycho[ ] now, struck with this ray which shone more bright i' the morn, than others' beam at noon. he'd take his astrolabe, and seek out here what new star 'twas did gild our hemisphere. replenish'd then with such rare gifts as these, where was room left for such a foul disease? the nation's sin hath drawn that veil, which shrouds our day-spring in so sad benighting clouds: heaven would no longer trust its pledge; but thus recall'd it; rapt its ganymede from us. was there no milder way but the small-pox, the very filthiness of pandora's box? so many spots, like næves on venus' soil, one jewel set off with so many a foil; blisters with pride swell'd, which through's flesh did sprout like rose-buds, stuck i' th' lily-skin about. each little pimple had a tear in it, to wail the fault its rising did commit: which, rebel-like, with its own lord at strife, thus made an insurrection 'gainst his life. or were these gems sent to adorn his skin, the cabinet of a richer soul within? no comet need foretell his change drew on, whose corpse might seem a constellation. oh! had he died of old, how great a strife had been, who from his death should draw their life! who should, by one rich draught, become whate'er seneca, cato, numa, cæsar, were,-- learn'd, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this an universal metempsychosis! must all these aged sires in one funeral expire? all die in one so young, so small? who, had he lived his life out, his great fame had swoln 'bove any greek or roman name. but hasty winter, with one blast, hath brought the hopes of autumn, summer, spring, to nought. thus fades the oak i' the sprig, i' the blade the corn; thus without young, this phoenix dies, new born: must then old three-legg'd graybeards, with their gout, catarrhs, rheums, aches, live three long ages out? time's offals, only fit for the hospital! or to hang antiquaries' rooms withal! must drunkards, lechers, spent with sinning, live with such helps as broths, possets, physic give? none live, but such as should die? shall we meet with none but ghostly fathers in the street? grief makes me rail; sorrow will force its way; and showers of tears, tempestuous sighs best lay. the tongue may fail; but overflowing eyes will weep out lasting streams of elegies. but thou, o virgin-widow, left alone, now thy beloved, heaven-ravish'd spouse is gone, whose skilful sire in vain strove to apply medicines, when thy balm was no remedy,-- with greater than platonic love, o wed his soul, though not his body, to thy bed: let that make thee a mother; bring thou forth the ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth; transcribe the original in new copies, give hastings o' the better part: so shall he live in's nobler half; and the great grandsire be of an heroic divine progeny: an issue, which to eternity shall last, yet but the irradiations which he cast. erect no mausoleums: for his best monument is his spouse's marble breast. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'lord hastings:' the nobleman herein lamented, was styled henry lord hastings, son to ferdinand earl of huntingdon. he died before his father in , being then in his twentieth year, and on the day preceding that which had been fixed for his marriage.] [footnote : 'archimedes:' a famous geometrician, who was killed at the taking of syracuse, in the d year of rome. he made a glass sphere, wherein the motions of the heavenly bodies were wonderfully described.] [footnote : 'ptolemy:' claudius ptolemæus, a celebrated mathematician in the reign of m. aurelius antoninus.] [footnote : 'tycho:' tycho brahe] * * * * * heroic stanzas on the death of oliver cromwell, written after his funeral. and now 'tis time; for their officious haste, who would before have borne him to the sky, like eager romans, ere all rites were past, did let too soon the sacred eagle[ ] fly. though our best notes are treason to his fame, join'd with the loud applause of public voice; since heaven, what praise we offer to his name, hath render'd too authentic by its choice. though in his praise no arts can liberal be, since they, whose muses have the highest flown, add not to his immortal memory, but do an act of friendship to their own: yet 'tis our duty, and our interest too, such monuments as we can build to raise; lest all the world prevent what we should do, and claim a title in him by their praise. how shall i then begin, or where conclude, to draw a fame so truly circular? for in a round what order can be show'd, where all the parts so equal perfect are? his grandeur he derived from heaven alone; for he was great ere fortune made him so: and wars, like mists that rise against the sun, made him but greater seem, not greater grow. no borrow'd bays his temples did adorn, but to our crown he did fresh jewels bring; nor was his virtue poison'd soon as born, with the too early thoughts of being king. fortune (that easy mistress to the young, but to her ancient servants coy and hard), him at that age her favourites rank'd among, when she her best-loved pompey did discard. he, private, mark'd the faults of others' sway, and set as sea-marks for himself to shun: not like rash monarchs, who their youth betray by acts their age too late would wish undone. and yet dominion was not his design; we owe that blessing, not to him, but heaven, which to fair acts unsought rewards did join; rewards, that less to him, than us, were given. our former chiefs, like sticklers of the war, first sought to inflame the parties, then to poise: the quarrel loved, but did the cause abhor; and did not strike to hurt, but make a noise. war, our consumption, was their gainful trade: we inward bled, whilst they prolong'd our pain; he fought to end our fighting, and essay'd to staunch the blood by breathing of the vein. swift and resistless through the land he past, like that bold greek[ ] who did the east subdue, and made to battles such heroic haste, as if on wings of victory he flew. he fought secure of fortune as of fame: still by new maps the island might be shown, of conquests, which he strew'd where'er he came, thick as the galaxy with stars is sown. his palms,[ ] though under weights they did not stand, still thrived; no winter could his laurels fade: heaven in his portrait show'd a workman's hand, and drew it perfect, yet without a shade. peace was the prize of all his toil and care, which war had banish'd, and did now restore: bologna's walls[ ] thus mounted in the air, to seat themselves more surely than before. her safety rescued ireland to him owes; and treacherous scotland, to no interest true, yet blest that fate which did his arms dispose her land to civilize, as to subdue. nor was he like those stars which, only shine, when to pale mariners they storms portend: he had his calmer influence, and his mien did love and majesty together blend. 'tis true, his countenance did imprint an awe; and naturally all souls to his did bow, as wands[ ] of divination downward draw, and point to beds where sovereign gold doth grow. when past all offerings to feretrian jove, he mars deposed, and arms to gowns made yield; successful councils did him soon approve as fit for close intrigues, as open field. to suppliant holland he vouchsafed a peace, our once bold rival of the british main, now tamely glad her unjust claim to cease, and buy our friendship with her idol, gain. fame of the asserted sea through europe blown, made france and spain ambitious of his love; each knew that side must conquer he would own; and for him fiercely, as for empire, strove. no sooner was the frenchman's cause[ ] embraced, than the light monsieur the grave don outweigh'd; his fortune turn'd the scale where'er 'twas cast, though indian mines were in the other laid. when absent, yet we conquer'd in his right: for though some meaner artist's skill were shown in mingling colours or in placing light, yet still the fair designment was his own. for from all tempers he could service draw; the worth of each, with its alloy, he knew; and, as the confidant of nature, saw how she complexions did divide and brew. or he their single virtues did survey, by intuition, in his own large breast; where all the rich ideas of them lay; that were the rule and measure to the rest. when such heroic virtue heaven sets out, the stars, like commons, sullenly obey; because it drains them when it comes about, and therefore is a tax they seldom pay. from this high spring our foreign conquests flow, which yet more glorious triumphs do portend; since their commencement to his arms they owe, if springs as high as fountains may ascend. he made us freemen of the continent,[ ] whom nature did like captives treat before; to nobler preys the english lion sent, and taught him first in belgian walks to roar. that old unquestion'd pirate of the land, proud rome, with dread the fate of dunkirk heard; and trembling wish'd behind more alps to stand, although an alexander[ ] were her guard. by his command we boldly cross'd the line, and bravely fought where southern stars arise; we traced the far-fetch'd gold unto the mine, and that which bribed our fathers made our prize. such was our prince; yet own'd a soul above the highest acts it could produce to show: thus poor mechanic arts in public move, whilst the deep secrets beyond practice go. nor died he when his ebbing fame went less, but when fresh laurels courted him to live: he seem'd but to prevent some new success, as if above what triumphs earth could give. his latest victories still thickest came, as near the centre motion doth increase; till he, press'd down by his own weighty name, did, like the vestal,[ ] under spoils decease. but first the ocean as a tribute sent the giant prince of all her watery herd; and the isle, when her protecting genius went, upon his obsequies loud sighs[ ] conferr'd. no civil broils have since his death arose, but faction now by habit does obey; and wars have that respect for his repose, as winds for halcyons, when they breed at sea. his ashes in a peaceful urn[ ] shall rest; his name a great example stands, to show how strangely high endeavours may be blest, where piety and valour jointly go. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'sacred eagle:' the romans let fly an eagle from the pile of a dead emperor.] [footnote : 'bold greek:' alexander the great.] [footnote : 'palms' were thought to grow best under pressure.] [footnote : 'bologna's walls,' &c.: alluding to a popish story about the wall of bologna, on which was an image of the virgin, being blown up, and falling exactly into its place again.] [footnote : 'wands:' see the 'antiquary.'] [footnote : 'frenchman's cause:' the treaty of alliance which cromwell entered into with france against the spaniards.] [footnote : 'freemen of the continent:' by the taking of dunkirk.] [footnote : 'alexander:' alexander vii., at this time pope.] [footnote : 'vestal:' tarpeia.] [footnote : 'loud sighs:' the tempest which occurred at cromwell's death.] [footnote : 'peaceful urn:' dryden no true prophet--cromwell's bones having been dragged out of the royal vault, and exposed on the gibbet in .] * * * * * astrÆa redux. a poem on the happy restoration and return of his sacred majesty charles ii., . "jam redit et virgo, redeunt saturnia regna."--virg. "the last great age, foretold by sacred rhymes, renews its finish'd course; saturnian times roll round again." now with a general peace the world was blest, while ours, a world divided from the rest, a dreadful quiet felt, and worser far than arms, a sullen interval of war: thus when black clouds draw down the labouring skies, ere yet abroad the winged thunder flies, an horrid stillness first invades the ear, and in that silence we the tempest fear. the ambitious swede,[ ] like restless billows tost, on this hand gaining what on that he lost, though in his life he blood and ruin breathed, to his now guideless kingdom peace bequeath'd. and heaven, that seem'd regardless of our fate, for france and spain did miracles create; such mortal quarrels to compose in peace, as nature bred, and interest did increase. we sigh'd to hear the fair iberian bride[ ] must grow a lily to the lily's side; while our cross stars denied us charles' bed, whom our first flames and virgin love did wed. for his long absence church and state did groan; madness the pulpit, faction seized the throne: experienced age in deep despair was lost, to see the rebel thrive, the loyal cross'd: youth that with joys had unacquainted been, envied gray hairs that once good days had seen: we thought our sires, not with their own content, had, ere we came to age, our portion spent. nor could our nobles hope their bold attempt who ruin'd crowns would coronets exempt: for when by their designing leaders taught to strike at power, which for themselves they sought, the vulgar, gull'd into rebellion, arm'd; their blood to action by the prize was warm'd. the sacred purple, then, and scarlet gown, like sanguine dye to elephants, was shown. thus when the bold typhoeus scaled the sky, and forced great jove from his own heaven to fly, (what king, what crown from treason's reach is free, if jove and heaven can violated be?) the lesser gods, that shared his prosperous state, all suffer'd in the exiled thunderer's fate. the rabble now such freedom did enjoy, as winds at sea, that use it to destroy: blind as the cyclop, and as wild as he, they own'd a lawless, savage liberty; like that our painted ancestors so prized, ere empire's arts their breasts had civilized. how great were then our charles' woes, who thus was forced to suffer for himself and us! he, tost by fate, and hurried up and down, heir to his father's sorrows, with his crown, could taste no sweets of youth's desired age, but found his life too true a pilgrimage. unconquer'd yet in that forlorn estate, his manly courage overcame his fate. his wounds he took, like romans, on his breast, which by his virtue were with laurels drest. as souls reach heaven while yet in bodies pent, so did he live above his banishment. that sun, which we beheld with cozen'd eyes within the water, moved along the skies. how easy 'tis, when destiny proves kind, with full-spread sails to run before the wind! but those that 'gainst stiff gales laveering go, must be at once resolved and skilful too. he would not, like soft otho,[ ] hope prevent, but stay'd, and suffer'd fortune to repent. these virtues galba[ ] in a stranger sought, and piso to adopted empire brought. how shall i then my doubtful thoughts express, that must his sufferings both regret and bless? for when his early valour heaven had cross'd; and all at worcester but the honour lost; forced into exile from his rightful throne, he made all countries where he came his own; and viewing monarchs' secret arts of sway, a royal factor for his kingdoms lay. thus banish'd david spent abroad his time, when to be god's anointed was his crime; and when restored, made his proud neighbours rue those choice remarks he from his travels drew. nor is he only by afflictions shown to conquer other realms, but rule his own: recovering hardly what he lost before, his right endears it much; his purchase more. inured to suffer ere he came to reign, no rash procedure will his actions stain: to business, ripen'd by digestive thought, his future rule is into method brought: as they who first proportion understand, with easy practice reach a master's hand. well might the ancient poets then confer on night the honour'd name of counsellor, since, struck with rays of prosperous fortune blind, we light alone in dark afflictions find. in such adversities to sceptre train'd, the name of great his famous grandsire[ ] gain'd: who yet a king alone in name and right, with hunger, cold, and angry jove did fight; shock'd by a covenanting league's vast powers, as holy and as catholic as ours: till fortune's fruitless spite had made it known, her blows, not shook, but riveted, his throne. some lazy ages, lost in sleep and ease, no action leave to busy chronicles: such, whose supine felicity but makes in story chasms, in epoch's mistakes; o'er whom time gently shakes his wings of down, till, with his silent sickle, they are mown. such is not charles' too, too active age, which, govern'd by the wild distemper'd rage of some black star infecting all the skies, made him at his own cost, like adam, wise. tremble, ye nations, which, secure before, laugh'd at those arms that 'gainst ourselves we bore; roused by the lash of his own stubborn tail, our lion now will foreign foes assail. with alga[ ] who the sacred altar strews? to all the sea-gods charles an offering owes: a bull to thee, portumnus,[ ] shall be slain, a lamb to you, ye tempests of the main: for those loud storms that did against him roar, have cast his shipwreck'd vessel on the shore. yet as wise artists mix their colours so, that by degrees they from each other go; black steals unheeded from the neighbouring white, without offending the well-cozen'd sight: so on us stole our blessed change; while we the effect did feel, but scarce the manner see. frosts that constrain the ground, and birth deny to flowers that in its womb expecting lie, do seldom their usurping power withdraw, but raging floods pursue their hasty thaw. our thaw was mild, the cold not chased away, but lost in kindly heat of lengthen'd day. heaven would no bargain for its blessings drive, but what we could not pay for, freely give. the prince of peace would like himself confer a gift unhoped, without the price of war: yet, as he knew his blessing's worth, took care, that we should know it by repeated prayer; which storm'd the skies, and ravish'd charles from thence, as heaven itself is took by violence. booth's[ ] forward valour only served to show he durst that duty pay we all did owe. the attempt was fair; but heaven's prefixed hour not come: so like the watchful traveller, that by the moon's mistaken light did rise, lay down again, and closed his weary eyes. 'twas monk whom providence design'd to loose those real bonds false freedom did impose. the blessed saints that watch'd this turning scene, did from their stars with joyful wonder lean, to see small clues draw vastest weights along, not in their bulk, but in their order, strong. thus pencils can by one slight touch restore smiles to that changed face that wept before. with ease such fond chimeras we pursue, as fancy frames for fancy to subdue: but when ourselves to action we betake, it shuns the mint like gold that chemists make. how hard was then his task! at once to be, what in the body natural we see! man's architect distinctly did ordain the charge of muscles, nerves, and of the brain, through viewless conduits spirits to dispense; the springs of motion from the seat of sense. 'twas not the hasty product of a day, but the well-ripen'd fruit of wise delay. he, like a patient angler, ere he strook, would let him play a while upon the hook. our healthful food the stomach labours thus, at first embracing what it straight doth crush. wise leeches will not vain receipts obtrude, while growing pains pronounce the humours crude: deaf to complaints, they wait upon the ill, till some safe crisis authorise their skill. nor could his acts too close a vizard wear, to 'scape their eyes whom guilt had taught to fear, and guard with caution that polluted nest, whence legion twice before was dispossess'd: once sacred house; which, when they enter'd in, they thought the place could sanctify a sin; like those that vainly hoped kind heaven would wink, while to excess on martyrs' tombs they drink. and as devouter turks first warn their souls to part, before they taste forbidden bowls: so these, when their black crimes they went about, first timely charm'd their useless conscience out. religion's name against itself was made; the shadow served the substance to invade: like zealous missions, they did care pretend of souls in show, but made the gold their end. the incensed powers beheld with scorn from high an heaven so far distant from the sky, which durst, with horses' hoofs that beat the ground, and martial brass, belie the thunder's sound. 'twas hence at length just vengeance thought it fit to speed their ruin by their impious wit. thus sforza, cursed with a too fertile brain, lost by his wiles the power his wit did gain. henceforth their fougue[ ] must spend at lesser rate, than in its flames to wrap a nation's fate. suffer'd to live, they are like helots set, a virtuous shame within us to beget. for by example most we sinn'd before, and glass-like clearness mix'd with frailty bore. but, since reform'd by what we did amiss, we by our sufferings learn to prize our bliss: like early lovers, whose unpractised hearts were long the may-game of malicious arts, when once they find their jealousies were vain, with double heat renew their fires again. 'twas this produced the joy that hurried o'er such swarms of english to the neighbouring shore, to fetch that prize, by which batavia made so rich amends for our impoverish'd trade. oh! had you seen from schevelin's[ ] barren shore, (crowded with troops, and barren now no more,) afflicted holland to his farewell bring true sorrow, holland to regret a king! while waiting him his royal fleet did ride, and willing winds to their lower'd sails denied. the wavering streamers, flags, and standard out, the merry seamen's rude but cheerful shout: and last the cannon's voice, that shook the skies, and as it fares in sudden ecstasies, at once bereft us both of ears and eyes. the naseby,[ ] now no longer england's shame, but better to be lost in charles' name, (like some unequal bride in nobler sheets) receives her lord: the joyful london meets the princely york, himself alone a freight; the swiftsure groans beneath great gloster's[ ] weight: secure as when the halcyon breeds, with these, he that was born to drown might cross the seas. heaven could not own a providence, and take the wealth three nations ventured at a stake. the same indulgence charles' voyage bless'd, which in his right had miracles confess'd. the winds that never moderation knew, afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew; or, out of breath with joy, could not enlarge their straighten'd lungs, or conscious of their charge. the british amphitrite, smooth and clear, in richer azure never did appear; proud her returning prince to entertain with the submitted fasces of the main. and welcome now, great monarch, to your own! behold the approaching cliffs of albion: it is no longer motion cheats your view, as you meet it, the land approacheth you. the land returns, and, in the white it wears, the marks of penitence and sorrow bears. but you, whose goodness your descent doth show, your heavenly parentage and earthly too; by that same mildness, which your father's crown before did ravish, shall secure your own. not tied to rules of policy, you find revenge less sweet than a forgiving mind. thus, when the almighty would to moses give a sight of all he could behold and live; a voice before his entry did proclaim long-suffering, goodness, mercy, in his name. your power to justice doth submit your cause, your goodness only is above the laws; whose rigid letter, while pronounced by you, is softer made. so winds that tempests brew, when through arabian groves they take their flight, made wanton with rich odours, lose their spite. and as those lees, that trouble it, refine the agitated soul of generous wine; so tears of joy, for your returning spilt, work out, and expiate our former guilt. methinks i see those crowds on dover's strand, who, in their haste to welcome you to land, choked up the beach with their still growing store, and made a wilder torrent on the shore: while, spurr'd with eager thoughts of past delight, those, who had seen you, court a second sight; preventing still your steps, and making haste to meet you often wheresoe'er you past. how shall i speak of that triumphant day, when you renew'd the expiring pomp of may![ ] (a month that owns an interest in your name: you and the flowers are its peculiar claim.) that star[ ] that at your birth shone out so bright, it stain'd the duller sun's meridian light, did once again its potent fires renew, guiding our eyes to find and worship you. and now time's whiter series is begun, which in soft centuries shall smoothly run: those clouds, that overcast your morn, shall fly, dispell'd to farthest corners of the sky. our nation with united interest blest, not now content to poise, shall sway the rest. abroad your empire shall no limits know, but, like the sea, in boundless circles flow. your much-loved fleet shall, with a wide command, besiege the petty monarchs of the land: and as old time his offspring swallow'd down, our ocean in its depths all seas shall drown. their wealthy trade from pirates' rapine free, our merchants shall no more adventurers be: nor in the farthest east those dangers fear, which humble holland must dissemble here. spain to your gift alone her indies owes; for what the powerful takes not, he bestows: and france, that did an exile's presence fear, may justly apprehend you still too near. at home the hateful names of parties cease, and factious souls are wearied into peace. the discontented now are only they whose crimes before did your just cause betray: of those, your edicts some reclaim from sin, but most your life and blest example win. oh, happy prince! whom heaven hath taught the way, by paying vows to have more vows to pay! oh, happy age! oh times like those alone, by fate reserved for great augustus' throne! when the joint growth of arms and arts foreshow the world a monarch, and that monarch you. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'ambitious swede:' charles x., named also gustavus, nephew to the great gustavus adolphus.] [footnote : 'iberian bride:' the infanta of spain was betrothed to louis xiv.] [footnote : 'otho:' see juvenal.] [footnote : 'galba:' roman emperor, who adopted piso.] [footnote : 'famous grandsire:' charles ii. was grandson by the mother's side to henry iv. of france.] [footnote : 'with alga,' &c. : these lines refer to the ceremonies used by such heathens as escaped from shipwreck. _alga marina_, or sea-weed, was strewed about the altar, and a lamb sacrificed to the winds.] [footnote : 'portumnus:' palæmon, or melicerta, god of shipwrecked mariners.] [footnote : 'booth's:' sir george booth, an unsuccessful and premature warrior on the royal side in .] [footnote : 'fougue:' a french word used for the fire and spirit of a horse.] [footnote : 'schevelin:' a village about a mile from the hague, at which charles ii. embarked for england.] [footnote : 'naseby:' the ship in which charles ii. returned from exile.] [footnote : 'great gloster:' henry, duke of gloucester, third son of charles i., landed at dover with his brother in , and died of the smallpox soon afterwards.] [footnote : charles entered london on the th of may.] [footnote : 'star:' said to have shone on the day of charles' birth, and outshone the sun.] * * * * * to his sacred majesty. a panegyric on his coronation. in that wild deluge where the world was drown'd, when life and sin one common tomb had found, the first small prospect of a rising hill with various notes of joy the ark did fill: yet when that flood in its own depths was drown'd, it left behind it false and slippery ground; and the more solemn pomp was still deferr'd, till new-born nature in fresh looks appear'd. thus, royal sir, to see you landed here, was cause enough of triumph for a year: nor would your care those glorious joys repeat, till they at once might be secure and great: till your kind beams, by their continued stay, had warm'd the ground, and call'd the damps away, such vapours, while your powerful influence dries, then soonest vanish when they highest rise. had greater haste these sacred rites prepared, some guilty months had in your triumphs shared: but this untainted year is all your own; your glories may without our crimes be shown. we had not yet exhausted all our store, when you refresh'd our joys by adding more: as heaven, of old, dispensed celestial dew, you gave us manna, and still give us new. now our sad ruins are removed from sight, the season too comes fraught with new delight: time seems not now beneath his years to stoop, nor do his wings with sickly feathers droop: soft western winds waft o'er the gaudy spring, and open'd scenes of flowers and blossoms bring, to grace this happy day, while you appear, not king of us alone, but of the year. all eyes you draw, and with the eyes the heart: of your own pomp, yourself the greatest part: loud shouts the nation's happiness proclaim, and heaven this day is feasted with your name. your cavalcade the fair spectators view, from their high standings, yet look up to you. from your brave train each singles out a prey, and longs to date a conquest from your day. now charged with blessings while you seek repose, officious slumbers haste your eyes to close; and glorious dreams stand ready to restore the pleasing shapes of all you saw before. next to the sacred temple you are led, where waits a crown for your more sacred head: how justly from the church that crown is due, preserved from ruin, and restored by you! the grateful choir their harmony employ, not to make greater, but more solemn joy. wrapt soft and warm your name is sent on high, as flames do on the wings of incense fly: music herself is lost; in vain she brings her choicest notes to praise the best of kings: her melting strains in you a tomb have found, and lie like bees in their own sweetness drown'd. he that brought peace, all discord could atone, his name is music of itself alone. now while the sacred oil anoints your head, and fragrant scents, begun from you, are spread through the large dome; the people's joyful sound, sent back, is still preserved in hallow'd ground; which in one blessing mix'd descends on you; as heighten'd spirits fall in richer dew. not that our wishes do increase your store, full of yourself, you can admit no more: we add not to your glory, but employ our time, like angels, in expressing joy. nor is it duty, or our hopes alone, create that joy, but full fruition: we know those blessings, which we must possess, and judge of future by past happiness. no promise can oblige a prince so much still to be good, as long to have been such. a noble emulation heats your breast, and your own fame now robs you of your rest. good actions still must be maintain'd with good, as bodies nourish'd with resembling food. you have already quench'd sedition's brand; and zeal, which burnt it, only warms the land. the jealous sects, that dare not trust their cause so far from their own will as to the laws, you for their umpire and their synod take, and their appeal alone to cæsar make. kind heaven so rare a temper did provide, that guilt, repenting, might in it confide. among our crimes oblivion may be set; but 'tis our king's perfection to forget. virtues unknown to these rough northern climes from milder heavens you bring, without their crimes. your calmness does no after-storms provide, nor seeming patience mortal anger hide. when empire first from families did spring, then every father govern'd as a king: but you, that are a sovereign prince, allay imperial power with your paternal sway. from those great cares when ease your soul unbends, your pleasures are design'd to noble ends: born to command the mistress of the seas, your thoughts themselves in that blue empire please. hither in summer evenings you repair to taste the _fraicheur_ of the purer air: undaunted here you ride, when winter raves, with cæsar's heart that rose above the waves. more i could sing, but fear my numbers stays; no loyal subject dares that courage praise. in stately frigates most delight you find, where well-drawn battles fire your martial mind. what to your cares we owe, is learnt from hence, when even your pleasures serve for our defence. beyond your court flows in th' admitted tide, where in new depths the wondering fishes glide: here in a royal bed[ ] the waters sleep; when tired at sea, within this bay they creep. here the mistrustful fowl no harm suspects, so safe are all things which our king protects. from your loved thames a blessing yet is due, second alone to that it brought in you; a queen, near whose chaste womb, ordain'd by fate, the souls of kings unborn for bodies wait. it was your love before made discord cease: your love is destined to your country's peace. both indies, rivals in your bed, provide with gold or jewels to adorn your bride. this to a mighty king presents rich ore, while that with incense does a god implore. two kingdoms wait your doom, and, as you choose, this must receive a crown, or that must lose. thus from your royal oak, like jove's of old, are answers sought, and destinies foretold: propitious oracles are begg'd with vows, and crowns that grow upon the sacred boughs. your subjects, while you weigh the nation's fate, suspend to both their doubtful love or hate: choose only, sir, that so they may possess, with their own peace their children's happiness. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'royal bed:' the river led from the thames through st james' park.] * * * * * to the lord chancellor hyde.[ ] presented on new year's day, . my lord, while flattering crowds officiously appear to give themselves, not you, a happy year; and by the greatness of their presents prove how much they hope, but not how well they love; the muses, who your early courtship boast, though now your flames are with their beauty lost, yet watch their time, that, if you have forgot they were your mistresses, the world may not: decay'd by time and wars, they only prove their former beauty by your former love; and now present, as ancient ladies do, that, courted long, at length are forced to woo. for still they look on you with such kind eyes, as those that see the church's sovereign rise; from their own order chose, in whose high state, they think themselves the second choice of fate. when our great monarch into exile went, wit and religion suffer'd banishment. thus once, when troy was wrapp'd in fire and smoke, the helpless gods their burning shrines forsook; they with the vanquish'd prince and party go, and leave their temples empty to the foe. at length the muses stand, restored again to that great charge which nature did ordain; and their loved druids seem revived by fate, while you dispense the laws, and guide the state. the nation's soul, our monarch, does dispense, through you, to us his vital influence: you are the channel where those spirits flow, and work them higher, as to us they go. in open prospect nothing bounds our eye, until the earth seems join'd unto the sky: so, in this hemisphere, our utmost view is only bounded by our king and you: our sight is limited where you are join'd, and beyond that no farther heaven can find. so well your virtues do with his agree, that, though your orbs of different greatness be, yet both are for each other's use disposed, his to enclose, and yours to be enclosed. nor could another in your room have been, except an emptiness had come between. well may he then to you his cares impart, and share his burden where he shares his heart. in you his sleep still wakes; his pleasures find their share of business in your labouring mind. so when the weary sun his place resigns, he leaves his light, and by reflection shines. justice, that sits and frowns where public laws exclude soft mercy from a private cause, in your tribunal most herself does please; there only smiles because she lives at ease; and, like young david, finds her strength the more, when disencumber'd from those arms she wore. heaven would our royal master should exceed most in that virtue which we most did need; and his mild father (who too late did find all mercy vain but what with power was join'd) his fatal goodness left to fitter times, not to increase, but to absolve, our crimes: but when the heir of this vast treasure knew how large a legacy was left to you (too great for any subject to retain), he wisely tied it to the crown again: yet, passing through your hands, it gathers more, as streams, through mines, bear tincture of their ore. while empiric politicians use deceit, hide what they give, and cure but by a cheat; you boldly show that skill which they pretend, and work by means as noble as your end: which should you veil, we might unwind the clew, as men do nature, till we came to you. and as the indies were not found, before those rich perfumes, which, from the happy shore, the winds upon their balmy wings convey'd, whose guilty sweetness first their world betray'd; so by your counsels we are brought to view a rich and undiscover'd world in you. by you our monarch does that fame assure, which kings must have, or cannot live secure: for prosperous princes gain their subjects' heart, who love that praise in which themselves have part. by you he fits those subjects to obey, as heaven's eternal monarch does convey his power unseen, and man to his designs, by his bright ministers the stars, inclines. our setting sun, from his declining seat, shot beams of kindness on you, not of heat: and, when his love was bounded in a few that were unhappy that they might be true, made you the favourite of his last sad times, that is a sufferer in his subjects' crimes: thus those first favours you received, were sent, like heaven's rewards in earthly punishment. yet fortune, conscious of your destiny, even then took care to lay you softly by; and wrapp'd your fate among her precious things, kept fresh to be unfolded with your king's. shown all at once, you dazzled so our eyes, as new born pallas did the gods surprise, when, springing forth from jove's new-closing wound, she struck the warlike spear into the ground; which sprouting leaves did suddenly enclose, and peaceful olives shaded as they rose. how strangely active are the arts of peace, whose restless motions less than war's do cease! peace is not freed from labour but from noise; and war more force, but not more pains employs; such is the mighty swiftness of your mind, that, like the earth, it leaves our sense behind; while you so smoothly turn and roll our sphere, that rapid motion does but rest appear. for, as in nature's swiftness, with the throng of flying orbs while ours is borne along, all seems at rest to the deluded eye, moved by the soul of the same harmony,-- so, carried on by your unwearied care, we rest in peace, and yet in motion share. let envy then those crimes within you see, from which the happy never must be free; envy, that does with misery reside, the joy and the revenge of ruin'd pride. think it not hard, if at so cheap a rate you can secure the constancy of fate, whose kindness sent what does their malice seem, by lesser ills the greater to redeem. nor can we this weak shower a tempest call, but drops of heat, that in the sunshine fall. you have already wearied fortune so, she cannot further be your friend or foe; but sits all breathless, and admires to feel a fate so weighty, that it stops her wheel. in all things else above our humble fate, your equal mind yet swells not into state, but, like some mountain in those happy isles, where in perpetual spring young nature smiles, your greatness shows: no horror to affright, but trees for shade, and flowers to court the sight: sometimes the hill submits itself a while in small descents, which do its height beguile: and sometimes mounts, but so as billows play, whose rise not hinders, but makes short our way. your brow, which does no fear of thunder know, sees rolling tempests vainly beat below; and, like olympus' top, the impression wears of love and friendship writ in former years. yet, unimpair'd with labours, or with time, your age but seems to a new youth to climb. thus heavenly bodies do our time beget, and measure change, but share no part of it. and still it shall without a weight increase, like this new year, whose motions never cease. for since the glorious course you have begun is led by charles, as that is by the sun, it must both weightless and immortal prove, because the centre of it is above. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'hyde:' the far-famed historian clarendon.] * * * * * satire on the dutch.[ ] written in the year . as needy gallants, in the scrivener's hands, court the rich knaves that gripe their mortgaged lands; the first fat buck of all the season's sent, and keeper takes no fee in compliment; the dotage of some englishmen is such, to fawn on those who ruin them--the dutch. they shall have all, rather than make a war with those, who of the same religion are. the straits, the guinea-trade, the herrings too; nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you. some are resolved not to find out the cheat, but, cuckold-like, love them that do the feat. what injuries soe'er upon us fall, yet still the same religion answers all. religion wheedled us to civil war, drew english blood, and dutchmen's now would spare. be gull'd no longer; for you'll find it true, they have no more religion, faith! than you. interest's the god they worship in their state, and we, i take it, have not much of that well monarchies may own religion's name, but states are atheists in their very frame. they share a sin; and such proportions fall, that, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all. think on their rapine, falsehood, cruelty, and that what once they were, they still would be. to one well-born the affront is worse and more, when he's abused and baffled by a boor. with an ill grace the dutch their mischiefs do; they've both ill nature and ill manners too. well may they boast themselves an ancient nation; for they were bred ere manners were in fashion: and their new commonwealth has set them free only from honour and civility. venetians do not more uncouthly ride, than did their lubber state mankind bestride. their sway became them with as ill a mien, as their own paunches swell above their chin. yet is their empire no true growth but humour, and only two kings'[ ] touch can cure the tumour. as cato fruits of afric did display, let us before our eyes their indies lay: all loyal english will like him conclude; let cæsar live, and carthage be subdued. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'satire:' the same nearly with his prologue to 'amboyna.'] [footnote : 'two kings:' alluding to projected union between france and england.] * * * * * to her royal highness the duchess,[ ] on the memorable victory gained by the duke over the hollanders, june , . and on her journey afterwards into the north. madam, when, for our sakes, your hero you resign'd to swelling seas, and every faithless wind; when you released his courage, and set free a valour fatal to the enemy; you lodged your country's cares within your breast (the mansion where soft love should only rest): and, ere our foes abroad were overcome, the noblest conquest you had gain'd at home. ah, what concerns did both your souls divide! your honour gave us what your love denied: and 'twas for him much easier to subdue those foes he fought with, than to part from you. that glorious day, which two such navies saw, as each unmatch'd might to the world give law. neptune, yet doubtful whom he should obey, held to them both the trident of the sea: the winds were hush'd, the waves in ranks were cast, as awfully as when god's people pass'd; those, yet uncertain on whose sails to blow, these, where the wealth of nations ought to flow. then with the duke your highness ruled the day: while all the brave did his command obey, the fair and pious under you did pray. how powerful are chaste vows! the wind and tide you bribed to combat on the english, side. thus to your much-loved lord you did convey an unknown succour, sent the nearest way. new vigour to his wearied arms you brought (so moses was upheld while israel fought), while, from afar, we heard the cannon play,[ ] like distant thunder on a shiny day. for absent friends we were ashamed to fear when we consider'd what you ventured there. ships, men, and arms, our country might restore, but such a leader could supply no more. with generous thoughts of conquest he did burn, yet fought not more to vanquish than return. fortune and victory he did pursue, to bring them as his slaves to wait on you. thus beauty ravish'd the rewards of fame, and the fair triumph'd when the brave o'ercame. then, as you meant to spread another way by land your conquests, far as his by sea, leaving our southern clime you march'd along the stubborn north, ten thousand cupids strong. like commons the nobility resort in crowding heaps, to fill your moving court: to welcome your approach the vulgar run, like some new envoy from the distant sun; and country beauties by their lovers go, blessing themselves, and wondering at the show. so when the new-born phoenix first is seen, her feather'd subjects all adore their queen; and while she makes her progress through the east, from every grove her numerous train's increased; each poet of the air her glory sings, and round him the pleased audience clap their wings. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'the duchess:' daughter to the great earl of clarendon; married privately to duke of york. for account of this victory, see hume or macaulay. the duchess accompanied the duke to harwich, and thence made a progress north-wards, referred to here.] [footnote : 'heard the cannon play:' the cannon were heard in london a hundred miles from lowestoff where the battle was fought.] * * * * * annus mirabilis: the year of wonders, . an historical poem. * * * * * an account of the ensuing poem, in a letter to the honourable sir robert howard. sir,--i am so many ways obliged to you, and so little able to return your favours, that, like those who owe too much, i can only live by getting further into your debt. you have not only been careful of my fortune, which was the effect of your nobleness, but you have been solicitous of my reputation, which is that of your kindness. it is not long since i gave you the trouble of perusing a play for me, and now, instead of an acknowledgment, i have given you a greater, in the correction of a poem. but since you are to bear this persecution, i will at least give you the encouragement of a martyr; you could never suffer in a nobler cause. for i have chosen the most heroic subject which any poet could desire: i have taken upon me to describe the motives, the beginning, progress, and successes, of a most just and necessary war; in it, the care, management, and prudence of our king; the conduct and valour of a royal admiral, and of two incomparable generals; the invincible courage of our captains and seamen; and three glorious victories, the result of all. after this i have, in the fire, the most deplorable, but withal the greatest, argument that can be imagined: the destruction being so swift, so sudden, so vast and miserable, as nothing can parallel in story. the former part of this poem, relating to the war, is but a due expiation for my not having served my king and country in it. all gentlemen are almost obliged to it; and i know no reason we should give that advantage to the commonalty of england, to be foremost in brave actions, which the nobles of france would never suffer in their peasants. i should not have written this but to a person who has been ever forward to appear in all employments, whither his honour and generosity have called him. the latter part of my poem, which describes the fire, i owe, first to the piety and fatherly affection of our monarch to his suffering subjects; and, in the second place, to the courage, loyalty, and magnanimity of the city: both which were so conspicuous, that i wanted words to celebrate them as they deserve. i have called my poem historical, not epic, though both the actions and actors are as much heroic as any poem can contain. but since the action is not properly one, nor that accomplished in the last successes, i have judged it too bold a title for a few stanzas, which are little more in number than a single iliad, or the longest of the Æneids. for this reason (i mean not of length, but broken action, tied too severely to the laws of history) i am apt to agree with those who rank lucan rather among historians in verse, than epic poets: in whose room, if i am not deceived, silius italicus, though a worse writer, may more justly be admitted. i have chosen to write my poem in quatrains, or stanzas of four in alternate rhyme, because i have ever judged them more noble, and of greater dignity, both for the sound and number, than any other verse in use amongst us; in which i am sure i have your approbation. the learned languages have certainly a great advantage of us, in not being tied to the slavery of any rhyme; and were less constrained in the quantity of every syllable, which they might vary with spondees or dactyls, besides so many other helps of grammatical figures, for the lengthening or abbreviation of them, than the modern are in the close of that one syllable, which often confines, and more often corrupts, the sense of all the rest. but in this necessity of our rhymes, i have always found the couplet verse most easy, though not so proper for this occasion: for there the work is sooner at an end, every two lines concluding the labour of the poet; but in quatrains he is to carry it further on, and not only so, but to bear along in his head the troublesome sense of four lines together. for those who write correctly in this kind must needs acknowledge, that the last line of the stanza is to be considered in the composition of the first. neither can we give ourselves the liberty of making any part of a verse for the sake of rhyme, or concluding with a word which is not current english, or using the variety of female rhymes; all which our fathers practised: and for the female rhymes, they are still in use among other nations; with the italian in every line, with the spaniard promiscuously, with the french alternately; as those who have read the alarique, the pucelle, or any of their later poems, will agree with me. and besides this, they write in alexandrius, or verses of six feet; such as amongst us is the old translation of homer by chapman: all which, by lengthening of their chain, makes the sphere of their activity the larger. i have dwelt too long upon the choice of my stanza, which you may remember is much better defended in the preface to gondibert; and therefore i will hasten to acquaint you with my endeavours in the writing. in general, i will only say, i have never yet seen the description of any naval fight in the proper terms which are used at sea: and if there be any such, in another language, as that of lucan in the third of his pharsalia, yet i could not avail myself of it in the english; the terms of art in every tongue bearing more of the idiom of it than any other words. we hear indeed among our poets, of the thundering of guns, the smoke, the disorder, and the slaughter; but all these are common notions. and certainly, as those who, in a logical dispute, keep in general terms, would hide a fallacy; so those who do it in any poetical description, would veil their ignorance. descriptas servare vices operumque colores, cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, poeta salutor? for my own part, if i had little knowledge of the sea, yet i have thought it no shame to learn: and if i have made some few mistakes, it is only, as you can bear me witness, because i have wanted opportunity to correct them; the whole poem being first written, and now sent you from a place, where i have not so much as the converse of any seaman. yet though the trouble i had in writing it was great, it was more than recompensed by the pleasure. i found myself so warm in celebrating the praises of military men, two such especially as the prince[ ] and general, that it is no wonder if they inspired me with thoughts above my ordinary level. and i am well satisfied, that, as they are incomparably the best subject i ever had, excepting only the royal family, so also, that this i have written of them is much better than what i have performed on any other. i have been forced to help out other arguments; but this has been bountiful to me: they have been low and barren of praise, and i have exalted them, and made them fruitful; but here--_omnia sponte suâ reddit justissima tellus_. i have had a large, a fair, and a pleasant field; so fertile that, without my cultivating, it has given me two harvests in a summer, and in both oppressed the reaper. all other greatness in subjects is only counterfeit; it will not endure the test of danger; the greatness of arms is only real; other greatness burdens a nation with its weight, this supports it with its strength. and as it is the happiness of the age, so it is the peculiar goodness of the best of kings, that we may praise his subjects without offending him. doubtless, it proceeds from a just confidence of his own virtue, which the lustre of no other can be so great as to darken in him; for the good or the valiant are never safely praised under a bad or a degenerate prince. but to return from this digression to a further account of my poem; i must crave leave to tell you, that as i have endeavoured to adorn it with noble thoughts, so much more to express those thoughts with elocution. the composition of all poems is, or ought to be, of wit; and wit in the poet, or wit-writing (if you will give me leave to use a school-distinction) is no other than the faculty of imagination in the writer, which, like a nimble spaniel, beats over and ranges through the field of memory, till it springs the quarry it hunted after: or, without metaphor, which searches over all the memory for the species or ideas of those things which it designs to represent. wit written is that which is well designed, the happy result of thought, or product of imagination. but to proceed from wit, in the general notion of it, to the proper wit of an heroic or historical poem; i judge it chiefly to consist in the delightful imaging of persons, actions, passions, or things. it is not the jerk or sting of an epigram, nor the seeming contradiction of a poor antithesis (the delight of an ill-judging audience in a play of rhyme) nor the jingle of a more poor paronomasia; neither is it so much the morality of a grave sentence, affected by lucan, but more sparingly used by virgil; but it is some lively and apt description, dressed in such colours of speech, that it sets before your eyes the absent object, as perfectly, and more delightfully than nature. so then the first happiness of the poet's imagination is properly invention or finding of the thought; the second is fancy, or the variation, deriving or moulding of that thought, as the judgment represents it proper to the subject; the third is elocution, or the art of clothing and adorning that thought, so found and varied, in apt, significant, and sounding words: the quickness of the imagination is seen in the invention, the fertility in the fancy, and the accuracy in the expression. for the two first of these, ovid is famous among the poets; for the latter, virgil. ovid images more often the movements and affections of the mind, either combating between two contrary passions, or extremely discomposed by one. his words therefore are the least part of his care; for he pictures nature in disorder, with which the study and choice of words is inconsistent. this is the proper wit of dialogue or discourse, and consequently of the drama, where all that is said is to be supposed the effect of sudden thought; which, though it excludes not the quickness of wit in repartees, yet admits not a too curious election of words, too frequent allusions, or use of tropes, or, in fine, anything that shows remoteness of thought or labour in the writer. on the other side, virgil speaks not so often to us in the person of another, like ovid, but in his own: he relates almost all things as from himself, and thereby gains more liberty than the other, to express his thoughts with all the graces of elocution, to write more figuratively, and to confess as well the labour as the force of his imagination. though he describes his dido well and naturally, in the violence of her passions, yet he must yield in that to the myrrha, the biblis, the althæa, of ovid; for as great an admirer of him as i am, i must acknowledge, that if i see not more of their souls than i see of dido's, at least i have a greater concernment for them: and that convinces me that ovid has touched those tender strokes more delicately than virgil could. but when action or persons are to be described, when any such image is to be set before us, how bold, how masterly are the strokes of virgil! we see the objects he presents us with in their native figures, in their proper motions; but so we see them, as our own eyes could never have beheld them so beautiful in themselves. we see the soul of the poet, like that universal one of which he speaks, informing and moving through all his pictures: --totamque infusa per artus mens agitat molem, et magno so corpore miscet. we behold him embellishing his images, as he makes venus breathing beauty upon her son Æneas. --lumenque juventæ purpureum, et lætos oculis afflârat honores: quale manus addunt ebori decus, aut ubi flavo argentum pariusve lapis circundatur auro. see his tempest, his funeral sports, his combat of turnus and Æneas: and in his georgics, which i esteem the divinest part of all his writings, the plague, the country, the battle of the bulls, the labour of the bees, and those many other excellent images of nature, most of which are neither great in themselves, nor have any natural ornament to bear them up: but the words wherewith he describes them are so excellent that it might be well applied to him, which was said by ovid, _materiam superabat opus_: the very sound of his words has often somewhat that is connatural to the subject; and while we read him, we sit, as in a play, beholding the scenes of what he represents. to perform this, he made frequent use of tropes, which you know change the nature of a known word, by applying it to some other signification; and this is it which horace means in his epistle to the pisos: dixeris egregiè, notum si callida verbum reddiderit junctura novum-- but i am sensible i have presumed too far to entertain you with a rude discourse of that art, which you both know so well, and put into practice with so much happiness. yet before i leave virgil, i must own the vanity to tell you, and by you the world, that he has been my master in this poem: i have followed him everywhere, i know not with what success, but i am sure with diligence enough: my images are many of them copied from him, and the rest are imitations of him. my expressions also are as near as the idioms of the two languages would admit of in translation. and this, sir, i have done with that boldness, for which i will stand accountable to any of our little critics, who, perhaps, are no better acquainted with him than i am. upon your first perusal of this poem, you have taken notice of some words which i have innovated (if it be too bold for me to say refined) upon his latin; which, as i offer not to introduce into english prose, so i hope they are neither improper, nor altogether inelegant in verse; and, in this, horace will again defend me. et nova, fictaque nuper, habebunt verba fidem, si græco fonte cadunt, parcè detorta-- the inference is exceeding plain: for if a roman poet might have liberty to coin a word, supposing only that it was derived from the greek, was put into a latin termination, and that he used this liberty but seldom, and with modesty; how much more justly may i challenge that privilege to do it with the same prerequisites, from the best and most judicious of latin writers! in some places, where either the fancy or the words were his, or any other's, i have noted it in the margin, that i might not seem a plagiary; in others i have neglected it, to avoid as well tediousness, as the affectation of doing it too often. such descriptions or images well wrought, which i promise not for mine, are, as i have said, the adequate delight of heroic poesy; for they beget admiration, which is its proper object; as the images of the burlesque, which is contrary to this, by the same reason beget laughter: for the one shows nature beautified, as in the picture of a fair woman, which we all admire; the other shows her deformed, as in that of a lazar, or of a fool with distorted face and antique gestures, at which we cannot forbear to laugh, because it is a deviation from nature. but though the same images serve equally for the epic poesy, and for the historic and panegyric, which are branches of it, yet a several sort of sculpture is to be used in them. if some of them are to be like those of juvenal, _stantes in curribus Æmiliani_, heroes drawn in their triumphal chariots, and in their full proportion; others are to be like that of virgil, _spirantia mollius oera_: there is somewhat more of softness and tenderness to be shown in them. you will soon find i write not this without concern. some, who have seen a paper of verses, which i wrote last year to her highness the duchess, have accused them of that only thing i could defend in them. they said, i did _humi serpere_, that i wanted not only height of fancy, but dignity of words, to set it off. i might well answer with that of horace, _nunc non erat his locus_; i knew i addressed them to a lady, and accordingly i affected the softness of expression, and the smoothness of measure, rather than the height of thought; and in what i did endeavour, it is no vanity to say i have succeeded. i detest arrogance; but there is some difference betwixt that and a just defence. but i will not further bribe your candour, or the reader's. i leave them to speak for me; and, if they can, to make out that character, not pretending to a greater, which i have given them. and now, sir, it is time i should relieve you from the tedious length of this account. you have better and more profitable employment for your hours, and i wrong the public to detain you longer. in conclusion, i must leave my poem to you with all its faults, which i hope to find fewer in the printing by your emendations. i know you are not of the number of those, of whom the younger pliny speaks; _nec sunt parum multi, qui carpere amicos suos judicium vocant_: i am rather too secure of you on that side. your candour in pardoning my errors may make you more remiss in correcting them; if you will not withal consider that they come into the world with your approbation, and through your hands. i beg from you the greatest favour you can confer upon an absent person, since i repose upon your management what is dearest to me, my fame and reputation; and therefore i hope it will stir you up to make my poem fairer by many of your blots; if not, you know the story of the gamester who married the rich man's daughter, and when her father denied the portion, christened all the children by his surname, that if, in conclusion, they must beg, they should do so by one name, as well as by the other. but since the reproach of my faults will light on you, it is but reason i should do you that justice to the readers, to let them know, that, if there be anything tolerable in this poem, they owe the argument to your choice, the writing to your encouragement, the correction to your judgment, and the care of it to your friendship, to which he must ever acknowledge himself to owe all things, who is, sir, the most obedient, and most faithful of your servants, john dryden. from charlton in wiltshire, _nov_. , . * * * * * in thriving arts long time had holland grown, crouching at home and cruel when abroad: scarce leaving us the means to claim our own; our king they courted, and our merchants awed. trade, which, like blood, should circularly flow, stopp'd in their channels, found its freedom lost: thither the wealth of all the world did go, and seem'd but shipwreck'd on so base a coast. for them alone the heavens had kindly heat; in eastern quarries ripening precious dew: for them the idumæan balm did sweat, and in hot ceylon spicy forests grew. the sun but seem'd the labourer of the year; each waxing moon supplied her watery store, to swell those tides, which from the line did bear their brimful vessels to the belgian shore. thus mighty in her ships, stood carthage long, and swept the riches of the world from far; yet stoop'd to rome, less wealthy, but more strong: and this may prove our second punic war. what peace can be, where both to one pretend? (but they more diligent, and we more strong) or if a peace, it soon must have an end; for they would grow too powerful, were it long. behold two nations, then, engaged so far that each seven years the fit must shake each land: where france will side to weaken us by war, who only can his vast designs withstand. see how he feeds the iberian with delays, to render us his timely friendship vain: and while his secret soul on flanders preys, he rocks the cradle of the babe of spain. such deep designs of empire does he lay o'er them, whose cause he seems to take in hand; and prudently would make them lords at sea, to whom with ease he can give laws by land. this saw our king; and long within his breast his pensive counsels balanced to and fro: he grieved the land he freed should be oppress'd, and he less for it than usurpers do. his generous mind the fair ideas drew of fame and honour, which in dangers lay; where wealth, like fruit on precipices, grew, not to be gather'd but by birds of prey. the loss and gain each fatally were great; and still his subjects call'd aloud for war; but peaceful kings, o'er martial people set, each, other's poise and counterbalance are. he first survey'd the charge with careful eyes, which none but mighty monarchs could maintain; yet judged, like vapours that from limbecks rise, it would in richer showers descend again. at length resolved to assert the watery ball, he in himself did whole armadoes bring: him aged seamen might their master call, and choose for general, were he not their king. it seems as every ship their sovereign knows, his awful summons they so soon obey; so hear the scaly herd when proteus blows, and so to pasture follow through the sea. to see this fleet upon the ocean move, angels drew wide the curtains of the skies; and heaven, as if there wanted lights above, for tapers made two glaring comets rise. whether they unctuous exhalations are, fired by the sun, or seeming so alone: or each some more remote and slippery star, which loses footing when to mortals shown. or one, that bright companion of the sun, whose glorious aspect seal'd our new-born king; and now a round of greater years begun, new influence from his walks of light did bring. victorious york did first with famed success, to his known valour make the dutch give place: thus heaven our monarch's fortune did confess, beginning conquest from his royal race. but since it was decreed, auspicious king, in britain's right that thou shouldst wed the main, heaven, as a gage, would cast some precious thing, and therefore doom'd that lawson[ ] should be slain. lawson amongst the foremost met his fate, whom sea-green sirens from the rocks lament; thus as an offering for the grecian state, he first was kill'd who first to battle went. their chief blown up in air, not waves, expired, to which his pride presumed to give the law: the dutch confess'd heaven present, and retired, and all was britain the wide ocean saw. to nearest ports their shatter'd ships repair, where by our dreadful cannon they lay awed: so reverently men quit the open air, when thunder speaks the angry gods abroad. and now approach'd their fleet from india, fraught with all the riches of the rising sun: and precious sand from southern climates brought, the fatal regions where the war begun. like hunted castors, conscious of their store, their waylaid wealth to norway's coasts they bring: there first the north's cold bosom spices bore, and winter brooded on the eastern spring. by the rich scent we found our perfumed prey, which, flank'd with rocks, did close in covert lie; and round about their murdering cannon lay, at once to threaten and invite the eye. fiercer than cannon, and than rocks more hard, the english undertake the unequal war: seven ships alone, by which the port is barr'd, besiege the indies, and all denmark dare. these fight like husbands, but like lovers those: these fain would keep, and those more fain enjoy: and to such height their frantic passion grows, that what both love, both hazard to destroy. amidst whole heaps of spices lights a ball, and now their odours arm'd against them fly: some preciously by shatter'd porcelain fall, and some by aromatic splinters die. and though by tempests of the prize bereft, in heaven's inclemency some ease we find: our foes we vanquish'd by our valour left, and only yielded to the seas and wind. nor wholly lost[ ] we so deserved a prey; for storms repenting part of it restored: which, as a tribute from the baltic sea, the british ocean sent her mighty lord. go, mortals, now; and vex yourselves in vain for wealth, which so uncertainly must come: when what was brought so far, and with such pain, was only kept to lose it nearer home. the son, who twice three months on th' ocean tost, prepared to tell what he had pass'd before, now sees in english ships the holland coast, and parents' arms in vain stretch'd from the shore. this careful husband had been long away, whom his chaste wife and little children mourn; who on their fingers learn'd to tell the day on which their father promised to return. such are the proud designs of human kind, and so we suffer shipwreck every where! alas, what port can such a pilot find, who in the night of fate must blindly steer! the undistinguish'd seeds of good and ill, heaven, in his bosom, from our knowledge hides: and draws them in contempt of human skill, which oft for friends mistaken foes provides. let munster's prelate[ ] ever be accurst, in whom we seek the german faith in vain: alas, that he should teach the english first, that fraud and avarice in the church could reign! happy, who never trust a stranger's will, whose friendship's in his interest understood! since money given but tempts him to be ill, when power is too remote to make him good. till now, alone the mighty nations strove; the rest, at gaze, without the lists did stand: and threatening france, placed like a painted jove, kept idle thunder in his lifted hand. that eunuch guardian of rich holland's trade, who envies us what he wants power to enjoy; whose noiseful valour does no foe invade, and weak assistance will his friends destroy. offended that we fought without his leave, he takes this time his secret hate to show: which charles does with a mind so calm receive, as one that neither seeks nor shuns his foe. with france, to aid the dutch, the danes unite: france as their tyrant, denmark as their slave, but when with one three nations join to fight, they silently confess that one more brave. lewis had chased the english from his shore; but charles the french as subjects does invite: would heaven for each some solomon restore, who, by their mercy, may decide their right! were subjects so but only by their choice, and not from birth did forced dominion take, our prince alone would have the public voice; and all his neighbours' realms would deserts make. he without fear a dangerous war pursues, which without rashness he began before: as honour made him first the danger choose, so still he makes it good on virtue's score. the doubled charge his subjects' love supplies, who, in that bounty, to themselves are kind: so glad egyptians see their nilus rise, and in his plenty their abundance find. with equal power he does two chiefs[ ] create, two such as each seem'd worthiest when alone; each able to sustain a nation's fate, since both had found a greater in their own. both great in courage, conduct, and in fame, yet neither envious of the other's praise; their duty, faith, and interest too the same, like mighty partners equally they raise. the prince long time had courted fortune's love, but once possess'd, did absolutely reign: thus with their amazons the heroes strove, and conquer'd first those beauties they would gain. the duke beheld, like scipio, with disdain, that carthage, which he ruin'd, rise once more; and shook aloft the fasces of the main, to fright those slaves with what they felt before. together to the watery camp they haste, whom matrons passing to their children show: infants' first vows for them to heaven are cast, and future people bless them as they go. with them no riotous pomp, nor asian train, to infect a navy with their gaudy fears; to make slow fights, and victories but vain: but war severely like itself appears. diffusive of themselves, where'er they pass, they make that warmth in others they expect; their valour works like bodies on a glass, and does its image on their men project. our fleet divides, and straight the dutch appear, in number, and a famed commander, bold: the narrow seas can scarce their navy bear, or crowded vessels can their soldiers hold. the duke, less numerous, but in courage more, on wings of all the winds to combat flies: his murdering guns a loud defiance roar, and bloody crosses on his flag-staffs rise. both furl their sails, and strip them for the fight; their folded sheets dismiss the useless air: the elean plains could boast no nobler sight, when struggling champions did their bodies bare. borne each by other in a distant line, the sea-built forts in dreadful order move: so vast the noise, as if not fleets did join, but lands unfix'd, and floating nations strove. now pass'd, on either side they nimbly tack; both strive to intercept and guide the wind: and, in its eye, more closely they come back, to finish all the deaths they left behind. on high-raised decks the haughty belgians ride, beneath whose shade our humble frigates go: such port the elephant bears, and so defied by the rhinoceros, her unequal foe. and as the build, so different is the fight; their mounting shot is on our sails design'd: deep in their hulls our deadly bullets light, and through the yielding planks a passage find. our dreaded admiral from far they threat, whose batter'd rigging their whole war receives: all bare, like some old oak which tempests beat, he stands, and sees below his scatter'd leaves. heroes of old, when wounded, shelter sought; but he who meets all danger with disdain, even in their face his ship to anchor brought, and steeple-high stood propt upon the main. at this excess of courage, all amazed, the foremost of his foes awhile withdraw: with such respect in enter'd rome they gazed, who on high chairs the god-like fathers saw. and now, as where patroclus' body lay, here trojan chiefs advanced, and there the greek ours o'er the duke their pious wings display, and theirs the noblest spoils of britain seek. meantime his busy mariners he hastes, his shatter'd sails with rigging to restore; and willing pines ascend his broken masts, whose lofty heads rise higher than before. straight to the dutch he turns his dreadful prow, more fierce the important quarrel to decide: like swans, in long array his vessels show, whose crests advancing do the waves divide. they charge, recharge, and all along the sea they drive, and squander the huge belgian fleet; berkeley[ ] alone, who nearest danger lay, did a like fate with lost creusa meet. the night comes on, we eager to pursue the combat still, and they ashamed to leave: till the last streaks of dying day withdrew, and doubtful moonlight did our rage deceive. in the english fleet each ship resounds with joy, and loud applause of their great leader's fame: in fiery dreams the dutch they still destroy, and, slumbering, smile at the imagined flame. not so the holland fleet, who, tired and done, stretch'd on their decks like weary oxen lie; faint sweats all down their mighty members run; vast bulks which little souls but ill supply. in dreams they fearful precipices tread: or, shipwreck'd, labour to some distant shore: or in dark churches walk among the dead; they wake with horror, and dare sleep no more. the morn they look on with unwilling eyes, till from their main-top joyful news they hear of ships, which by their mould bring new supplies, and in their colours belgian lions bear. our watchful general had discern'd from far this mighty succour, which made glad the foe: he sigh'd, but, like a father of the war, his face spake hope, while deep his sorrows flow. his wounded men he first sends off to shore, never till now unwilling to obey: they, not their wounds, but want of strength deplore, and think them happy who with him can stay. then to the rest, rejoice, said he, to-day; in you the fortune of great britain lies: among so brave a people, you are they whom heaven has chose to fight for such a prize. if number english courages could quell, we should at first have shunn'd, not met, our foes, whose numerous sails the fearful only tell: courage from hearts and not from numbers grows. he said, nor needed more to say: with haste to their known stations cheerfully they go; and all at once, disdaining to be last, solicit every gale to meet the foe. nor did the encouraged belgians long delay, but bold in others, not themselves, they stood: so thick, our navy scarce could steer their way, but seem'd to wander in a moving wood. our little fleet was now engaged so far, that, like the sword-fish in the whale, they fought: the combat only seem'd a civil war, till through their bowels we our passage wrought. never had valour, no not ours, before done aught like this upon the land or main, where not to be o'ercome was to do more than all the conquests former kings did gain. the mighty ghosts of our great harries rose, and armed edwards look'd with anxious eyes, to see this fleet among unequal foes, by which fate promised them their charles should rise. meantime the belgians tack upon our rear, and raking chase-guns through our sterns they send: close by their fire ships, like jackals appear who on their lions for the prey attend. silent in smoke of cannon they come on: such vapours once did fiery cacus[ ] hide: in these the height of pleased revenge is shown, who burn contented by another's side. sometimes from fighting squadrons of each fleet, deceived themselves, or to preserve some friend, two grappling Ætnas on the ocean meet, and english fires with belgian flames contend. now at each tack our little fleet grows less; and like maim'd fowl, swim lagging on the main: their greater loss their numbers scarce confess, while they lose cheaper than the english gain. have you not seen, when, whistled from the fist, some falcon stoops at what her eye design'd, and, with her eagerness the quarry miss'd, straight flies at check, and clips it down the wind. the dastard crow that to the wood made wing, and sees the groves no shelter can afford, with her loud caws her craven kind does bring, who, safe in numbers, cuff the noble bird. among the dutch thus albemarle[ ] did fare: he could not conquer, and disdain'd to fly; past hope of safety, 'twas his latest care, like falling cæsar, decently to die. yet pity did his manly spirit move, to see those perish who so well had fought; and generously with his despair he strove, resolved to live till he their safety wrought. let other muses write his prosperous fate, of conquer'd nations tell, and kings restored; but mine shall sing of his eclipsed estate, which, like the sun's, more wonders does afford. he drew his mighty frigates all before, on which the foe his fruitless force employs: his weak ones deep into his rear he bore remote from guns, as sick men from the noise. his fiery cannon did their passage guide, and following smoke obscured them from the foe: thus israel safe from the egyptian's pride, by flaming pillars, and by clouds did go. elsewhere the belgian force we did defeat, but here our courages did theirs subdue: so xenophon once led that famed retreat, which first the asian empire overthrew. the foe approach'd; and one for his bold sin was sunk; as he that touch'd the ark was slain: the wild waves master'd him and suck'd him in, and smiling eddies dimpled on the main. this seen, the rest at awful distance stood: as if they had been there as servants set to stay, or to go on, as he thought good, and not pursue, but wait on his retreat. so lybian huntsmen, on some sandy plain, from shady coverts roused, the lion chase: the kingly beast roars out with loud disdain, and slowly moves, unknowing to give place. but if some one approach to dare his force, he swings his tail, and swiftly turns him round; with one paw seizes on his trembling horse, and with the other tears him to the ground. amidst these toils succeeds the balmy night; now hissing waters the quench'd guns restore; and weary waves, withdrawing from the fight, lie lull'd and panting on the silent shore: the moon shone clear on the becalmed flood, where, while her beams like glittering silver play, upon the deck our careful general stood, and deeply mused on the succeeding day. that happy sun, said he, will rise again, who twice victorious did our navy see: and i alone must view him rise in vain, without one ray of all his star for me. yet like an english general will i die, and all the ocean make my spacious grave: women and cowards on the land may lie; the sea's a tomb that's proper for the brave. restless he pass'd the remnant of the night, till the fresh air proclaimed the morning nigh: and burning ships, the martyrs of the fight, with paler fires beheld the eastern sky. but now, his stores of ammunition spent, his naked valour is his only guard; rare thunders are from his dumb cannon sent, and solitary guns are scarcely heard. thus far had fortune power, here forced to stay, nor longer durst with virtue be at strife: this as a ransom albemarle did pay, for all the glories of so great a life. for now brave rupert from afar appears, whose waving streamers the glad general knows: with full spread sails his eager navy steers, and every ship in swift proportion grows. the anxious prince had heard the cannon long, and from that length of time dire omens drew of english overmatch'd, and dutch too strong, who never fought three days, but to pursue. then, as an eagle, who, with pious care was beating widely on the wing for prey, to her now silent eyrie does repair, and finds her callow infants forced away: stung with her love, she stoops upon the plain, the broken air loud whistling as she flies: she stops and listens, and shoots forth again, and guides her pinions by her young ones' cries. with such kind passion hastes the prince to fight, and spreads his flying canvas to the sound; him, whom no danger, were he there, could fright, now absent every little noise can wound. as in a drought the thirsty creatures cry, and gape upon the gather'd clouds for rain, and first the martlet meets it in the sky, and with wet wings joys all the feather'd train. with such glad hearts did our despairing men salute the appearance of the prince's fleet; and each ambitiously would claim the ken, that with first eyes did distant safety meet. the dutch, who came like greedy hinds before, to reap the harvest their ripe ears did yield, now look like those, when rolling thunders roar, and sheets of lightning blast the standing field. full in the prince's passage, hills of sand, and dangerous flats in secret ambush lay; where the false tides skim o'er the cover'd land, and seamen with dissembled depths betray. the wily dutch, who, like fallen angels, fear'd this new messiah's coming, there did wait, and round the verge their braving vessels steer'd, to tempt his courage with so fair a bait. but he, unmoved, contemns their idle threat, secure of fame whene'er he please to fight: his cold experience tempers all his heat, and inbred worth doth boasting valour slight. heroic virtue did his actions guide, and he the substance, not the appearance chose to rescue one such friend he took more pride, than to destroy whole thousands of such foes. but when approach'd, in strict embraces bound, rupert and albemarle together grow; he joys to have his friend in safety found, which he to none but to that friend would owe. the cheerful soldiers, with new stores supplied, now long to execute their spleenful will; and, in revenge for those three days they tried, wish one, like joshua's, when the sun stood still. thus reinforced, against the adverse fleet, still doubling ours, brave rupert leads the way: with the first blushes of the morn they meet, and bring night back upon the new-born day. his presence soon blows up the kindling fight, and his loud guns speak thick like angry men: it seem'd as slaughter had been breathed all night, and death new pointed his dull dart again. the dutch too well his mighty conduct knew, and matchless courage since the former fight; whose navy like a stiff-stretch'd cord did show, till he bore in and bent them into flight. the wind he shares, while half their fleet offends his open side, and high above him shows: upon the rest at pleasure he descends, and doubly harm'd he double harms bestows. behind the general mends his weary pace, and sullenly to his revenge he sails: so glides some trodden serpent on the grass, and long behind his wounded volume trails. the increasing sound is borne to either shore, and for their stakes the throwing nations fear: their passions double with the cannons' roar, and with warm wishes each man combats there. plied thick and close as when the fight begun, their huge unwieldy navy wastes away; so sicken waning moons too near the sun, and blunt their crescents on the edge of day. and now reduced on equal terms to fight, their ships like wasted patrimonies show; where the thin scattering trees admit the light, and shun each other's shadows as they grow. the warlike prince had sever'd from the rest two giant ships, the pride of all the main; which with his one so vigorously he prest, and flew so home they could not rise again. already batter'd, by his lee they lay, in rain upon the passing winds they call: the passing winds through their torn canvas play, and flagging sails on heartless sailors fall. their open'd sides receive a gloomy light, dreadful as day let into shades below: without, grim death rides barefaced in their sight, and urges entering billows as they flow. when one dire shot, the last they could supply, close by the board the prince's mainmast bore: all three now helpless by each other lie, and this offends not, and those fear no more. so have i seen some fearful hare maintain a course, till tired before the dog she lay: who, stretch'd behind her, pants upon the plain, past power to kill, as she to get away. with his loll'd tongue he faintly licks his prey; his warm breath blows her flix[ ] up as she lies; she trembling creeps upon the ground away, and looks back to him with beseeching eyes. the prince unjustly does his stars accuse, which hinder'd him to push his fortune on; for what they to his courage did refuse, by mortal valour never must be done. this lucky hour the wise batavian takes, and warns his tatter'd fleet to follow home; proud to have so got off with equal stakes, where 'twas a triumph not to be o'ercome. the general's force, as kept alive by fight, now not opposed, no longer can pursue: lasting till heaven had done his courage right; when he had conquer'd he his weakness knew. he casts a frown on the departing foe, and sighs to see him quit the watery field: his stern fix'd eyes no satisfaction show, for all the glories which the fight did yield. though, as when fiends did miracles avow, he stands confess'd e'en by the boastful dutch: he only does his conquest disavow, and thinks too little what they found too much. return'd, he with the fleet resolved to stay; no tender thoughts of home his heart divide; domestic joys and cares he puts away; for realms are households which the great must guide. as those who unripe veins in mines explore, on the rich bed again the warm turf lay, till time digests the yet imperfect ore, and know it will be gold another day: so looks our monarch on this early fight, th' essay and rudiments of great success; which all-maturing time must bring to light, while he, like heaven, does each day's labour bless. heaven ended not the first or second day, yet each was perfect to the work design'd; god and king's work, when they their work survey, a passive aptness in all subjects find. in burden'd vessels first, with speedy care, his plenteous stores do seasoned timber send; thither the brawny carpenters repair, and as the surgeons of maim'd ships attend. with cord and canvas from rich hamburgh sent, his navy's molted wings he imps once more: tall norway fir, their masts in battle spent, and english oak, sprung leaks and planks restore. all hands employ'd, the royal work grows warm: like labouring bees on a long summer's day, some sound the trumpet for the rest to swarm. and some on bells of tasted lilies play. with gluey wax some new foundations lay of virgin-combs, which from the roof are hung: some arm'd, within doors upon duty stay, or tend the sick, or educate the young. so here some pick out bullets from the sides, some drive old oakum through each seam and rift: their left hand does the calking-iron guide, the rattling mallet with the right they lift. with boiling pitch another near at hand, from friendly sweden brought, the seams instops: which well paid o'er, the salt sea waves withstand, and shakes them from the rising beak in drops. some the gall'd ropes with dauby marline bind, or sear-cloth masts with strong tarpaulin coats: to try new shrouds one mounts into the wind, and one below their ease or stiffness notes. our careful monarch stands in person by, his new-cast cannons' firmness to explore: the strength of big-corn'd powder loves to try, and ball and cartridge sorts for every bore. each day brings fresh supplies of arms and men, and ships which all last winter were abroad; and such as fitted since the fight had been, or, new from stocks, were fallen into the road. the goodly london in her gallant trim (the phoenix daughter of the vanish'd old). like a rich bride does to the ocean swim, and on her shadow rides in floating gold. her flag aloft spread ruffling to the wind, and sanguine streamers seem the flood to fire; the weaver, charm'd with what his loom design'd, goes on to sea, and knows not to retire. with roomy decks, her guns of mighty strength, whose low-laid mouths each mounting billow laves; deep in her draught, and warlike in her length, she seems a sea-wasp flying on the waves. this martial present, piously design'd, the loyal city give their best-loved king: and with a bounty ample as the wind, built, fitted, and maintain'd, to aid him bring. by viewing nature, nature's handmaid, art, makes mighty things from small beginnings grow: thus fishes first to shipping did impart, their tail the rudder, and their head the prow. some log perhaps upon the waters swam, an useless drift, which, rudely cut within, and, hollow'd, first a floating trough became, and cross some rivulet passage did begin. in shipping such as this, the irish kern, and untaught indian, on the stream did glide: ere sharp-keel'd boats to stem the flood did learn, or fin-like oars did spread from either side. add but a sail, and saturn so appear'd, when from lost empire he to exile went, and with the golden age to tiber steer'd, where coin and commerce first he did invent. rude as their ships was navigation then; no useful compass or meridian known; coasting, they kept the land within their ken, and knew no north but when the pole-star shone. of all who since have used the open sea, than the bold english none more fame have won: beyond the year, and out of heaven's high way, they make discoveries where they see no sun. but what so long in vain, and yet unknown, by poor mankind's benighted wit is sought, shall in this age to britain first be shown, and hence be to admiring nations taught. the ebbs of tides and their mysterious flow, we, as art's elements, shall understand, and as by line upon the ocean go, whose paths shall be familiar as the land. instructed ships shall sail to quick commerce, by which remotest regions are allied; which makes one city of the universe, where some may gain, and all may be supplied. then we upon our globe's last verge shall go, and view the ocean leaning on the sky: from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know, and on the lunar world securely pry. this i foretell from your auspicious care, who great in search of god and nature grow; who best your wise creator's praise declare, since best to praise his works is best to know. o truly royal! who behold the law and rule of beings in your maker's mind: and thence, like limbecks, rich ideas draw, to fit the levell'd use of human-kind. but first the toils of war we must endure, and from the injurious dutch redeem the seas. war makes the valiant of his right secure, and gives up fraud to be chastised with ease. already were the belgians on our coast, whose fleet more mighty every day became by late success, which they did falsely boast, and now by first appearing seem'd to claim. designing, subtle, diligent, and close, they knew to manage war with wise delay: yet all those arts their vanity did cross, and by their pride their prudence did betray. nor stay'd the english long; but, well supplied, appear as numerous as the insulting foe: the combat now by courage must be tried, and the success the braver nation show. there was the plymouth squadron now come in, which in the straits last winter was abroad; which twice on biscay's working bay had been, and on the midland sea the french had awed. old expert allen,[ ] loyal all along, famed for his action on the smyrna fleet: and holmes, whose name shall live in epic song, while music numbers, or while verse has feet. holmes, the achates of the general's fight; who first bewitch'd our eyes with guinea gold; as once old cato in the roman sight the tempting fruits of afric did unfold. with him went spragge, as bountiful as brave, whom his high courage to command had brought: harman, who did the twice-fired harry save, and in his burning ship undaunted fought. young hollis, on a muse by mars begot, born, cæsar-like, to write and act great deeds: impatient to revenge his fatal shot, his right hand doubly to his left succeeds. thousands were there in darker fame that dwell, whose deeds some nobler poem shall adorn: and, though to me unknown, they sure fought well whom rupert led, and who were british born. of every size an hundred fighting sail: so vast the navy now at anchor rides, that underneath it the press'd waters fail, and with its weight it shoulders off the tides. now anchors weigh'd, the seamen shout so shrill, that heaven and earth and the wide ocean rings: a breeze from westward waits their sails to fill, and rests in those high beds his downy wings. the wary dutch this gathering storm foresaw, and durst not bide it on the english coast: behind their treacherous shallows they withdraw, and there lay snares to catch the british host. so the false spider, when her nets are spread, deep ambush'd in her silent den does lie: and feels far off the trembling of her thread, whose filmy cord should bind the struggling fly. then if at last she find him fast beset, she issues forth and runs along her loom: she joys to touch the captive in her net, and drags the little wretch in triumph home. the belgians hoped, that, with disorder'd haste, our deep-cut keels upon the sands might run: or, if with caution leisurely were past, their numerous gross might charge us one by one. but with a fore-wind pushing them above, and swelling tide that heaved them from below, o'er the blind flats our warlike squadrons move, and with spread sails to welcome battle go. it seem'd as there the british neptune stood, with all his hosts of waters at command. beneath them to submit the officious flood; and with his trident shoved them off the sand. to the pale foes they suddenly draw near, and summon them to unexpected fight: they start like murderers when ghosts appear, and draw their curtains in the dead of night. now van to van the foremost squadrons meet, the midmost battles hastening up behind, who view far off the storm of falling sleet, and hear their thunder rattling in the wind. at length the adverse admirals appear; the two bold champions of each country's right: their eyes describe the lists as they come near, and draw the lines of death before they fight. the distance judged for shot of every size, the linstocks touch, the ponderous ball expires: the vigorous seaman every port-hole plies, and adds his heart to every gun he fires! fierce was the fight on the proud belgians' side, for honour, which they seldom sought before! but now they by their own vain boasts were tied, and forced at least in show to prize it more. but sharp remembrance on the english part, and shame of being match'd by such a foe, rouse conscious virtue up in every heart, and seeming to be stronger makes them so. nor long the belgians could that fleet sustain, which did two generals' fates, and cæsar's bear: each several ship a victory did gain, as rupert or as albemarle were there. their batter'd admiral too soon withdrew, unthank'd by ours for his unfinish'd fight; but he the minds of his dutch masters knew, who call'd that providence which we call'd flight. never did men more joyfully obey, or sooner understood the sign to fly: with such alacrity they bore away, as if to praise them all the states stood by. o famous leader[ ] of the belgian fleet, thy monument inscribed such praise shall wear, as varro, timely flying, once did meet, because he did not of his rome despair. behold that navy, which a while before, provoked the tardy english close to fight, now draw their beaten vessels close to shore, as larks lie, dared, to shun the hobby's flight. whoe'er would english monuments survey, in other records may our courage know: but let them hide the story of this day, whose fame was blemish'd by too base a foe. or if too busily they will inquire into a victory which we disdain; then let them know the belgians did retire before the patron saint[ ] of injured spain. repenting england this revengeful day to philip's manes did an offering bring: england, which first by leading them astray, hatch'd up rebellion to destroy her king. our fathers bent their baneful industry, to check a, monarchy that slowly grew; but did not france or holland's fate foresee, whose rising power to swift dominion flew. in fortune's empire blindly thus we go, and wander after pathless destiny; whose dark resorts since prudence cannot know, in vain it would provide for what shall be. but whate'er english to the bless'd shall go, and the fourth harry or first orange meet; find him disowning of a bourbon foe, and him detesting a batavian fleet. now on their coasts our conquering navy rides, waylays their merchants, and their land besets: each day new wealth without their care provides; they lie asleep with prizes in their nets. so, close behind some promontory lie the huge leviathans to attend their prey; and give no chase, but swallow in the fry, which through their gaping jaws mistake the way. nor was this all: in ports and roads remote, destructive fires among whole fleets we send: triumphant flames upon the water float, and out-bound ships at home their voyage end. those various squadrons variously design'd, each vessel freighted with a several load, each squadron waiting for a several wind, all find but one, to burn them in the road. some bound for guinea, golden sand to find, bore all the gauds the simple natives wear; some for the pride of turkish courts design'd, for folded turbans finest holland bear. some english wool, vex'd in a belgian loom, and into cloth of spungy softness made, did into france, or colder denmark, doom, to ruin with worse ware our staple trade. our greedy seamen rummage every hold, smile on the booty of each wealthier chest; and, as the priests who with their gods make bold, take what they like, and sacrifice the rest. but ah! how insincere are all our joys! which, sent from heaven, like lightning make no stay; their palling taste the journey's length destroys, or grief, sent post, o'ertakes them on the way. swell'd with our late successes on the foe, which france and holland wanted power to cross, we urge an unseen fate to lay us low, and feed their envious eyes with english loss. each element his dread command obeys, who makes or ruins with a smile or frown; who, as by one he did our nation raise, so now he with another pulls us down. yet london, empress of the northern clime, by an high fate thou greatly didst expire; great as the world's, which, at the death of time must fall, and rise a nobler frame by fire! as when some dire usurper[ ] heaven provides, to scourge his country with a lawless sway; his birth perhaps some petty village hides, and sets his cradle out of fortune's way. till fully ripe his swelling fate breaks out, and hurries him to mighty mischiefs on: his prince, surprised at first, no ill could doubt, and wants the power to meet it when 'tis known. such was the rise of this prodigious fire, which, in mean buildings first obscurely bred, from thence did soon to open streets aspire, and straight to palaces and temples spread. the diligence of trades and noiseful gain, and luxury more late, asleep were laid: all was the night's; and in her silent reign no sound the rest of nature did invade. in this deep quiet, from what source unknown, those seeds of fire their fatal birth disclose; and first few scattering sparks about were blown, big with the flames that to our ruin rose. then in some close-pent room it crept along, and, smouldering as it went, in silence fed; till the infant monster, with devouring strong, walk'd boldly upright with exalted head. now like some rich or mighty murderer, too great for prison, which he breaks with gold; who fresher for new mischiefs does appear, and dares the world to tax him with the old: so 'scapes the insulting fire his narrow jail, and makes small outlets into open air: there the fierce winds his tender force assail, and beat him downward to his first repair. the winds, like crafty courtesans, withheld his flames from burning, but to blow them more: and every fresh attempt he is repell'd with faint denials weaker than before. and now no longer letted[ ] of his prey, he leaps up at it with enraged desire: o'erlooks the neighbours with a wide survey, and nods at every house his threatening fire. the ghosts of traitors from the bridge descend, with bold fanatic spectres to rejoice: about the fire into a dance they bend, and sing their sabbath notes with feeble voice. our guardian angel saw them where they sate above the palace of our slumbering king: he sigh'd, abandoning his charge to fate, and, drooping, oft look'd back upon the wing. at length the crackling noise and dreadful blaze call'd up some waking lover to the sight; and long it was ere he the rest could raise, whose heavy eyelids yet were full of night. the next to danger, hot pursued by fate, half-clothed, half-naked, hastily retire: and frighted mothers strike their breasts too late, for helpless infants left amidst the fire. their cries soon waken all the dwellers near; now murmuring noises rise in every street: the more remote run stumbling with their fear, and in the dark men jostle as they meet. so weary bees in little cells repose; but if night-robbers lift the well-stored hive, an humming through their waxen city grows, and out upon each other's wings they drive. now streets grow throng'd and busy as by day: some run for buckets to the hallow'd quire: some cut the pipes, and some the engines play; and some more bold mount ladders to the fire. in vain: for from the east a belgian wind his hostile breath through the dry rafters sent; the flames impell'd soon left their foes behind, and forward with a wanton fury went. a quay of fire ran all along the shore, and lighten'd all the river with a blaze: the waken'd tides began again to roar, and wondering fish in shining waters gaze. old father thames raised up his reverend head, but fear'd the fate of simois would return: deep in his ooze he sought his sedgy bed, and shrunk his waters back into his urn. the fire, meantime, walks in a broader gross; to either hand his wings he opens wide: he wades the streets, and straight he reaches cross, and plays his longing flames on the other side. at first they warm, then scorch, and then they take; now with long necks from side to side they feed: at length, grown strong, their mother-fire forsake, and a new colony of flames succeed. to every nobler portion of the town the curling billows roll their restless tide: in parties now they straggle up and down, as armies, unopposed, for prey divide. one mighty squadron with a side-wind sped, through narrow lanes his cumber'd fire does haste, by powerful charms of gold and silver led, the lombard bankers and the 'change to waste. another backward to the tower would go, and slowly eats his way against the wind: but the main body of the marching foe against the imperial palace is design'd. now day appears, and with the day the king, whose early care had robb'd him of his rest: far off the cracks of falling houses ring, and shrieks of subjects pierce his tender breast. near as he draws, thick harbingers of smoke with gloomy pillars cover all the place; whose little intervals of night are broke by sparks, that drive against his sacred face. more than his guards, his sorrows made him known, and pious tears, which down his cheeks did shower; the wretched in his grief forgot their own; so much the pity of a king has power. he wept the flames of what he loved so well, and what so well had merited his love: for never prince in grace did more excel, or royal city more in duty strove. nor with an idle care did he behold: subjects may grieve, but monarchs must redress; he cheers the fearful, and commends the bold, and makes despairers hope for good success. himself directs what first is to be done, and orders all the succours which they bring, the helpful and the good about him run, and form an army worthy such a king. he sees the dire contagion spread so fast, that, where it seizes, all relief is vain: and therefore must unwillingly lay waste that country, which would else the foe maintain. the powder blows up all before the fire: the amazèd flames stand gather'd on a heap; and from the precipice's brink retire, afraid to venture on so large a leap. thus fighting fires a while themselves consume, but straight, like turks forced on to win or die, they first lay tender bridges of their fume, and o'er the breach in unctuous vapours fly. part stay for passage, till a gust of wind ships o'er their forces in a shining sheet: part creeping under ground their journey blind, and climbing from below their fellows meet. thus to some desert plain, or old woodside, dire night-hags come from far to dance their round; and o'er broad rivers on their fiends they ride, or sweep in clouds above the blasted ground. no help avails: for hydra-like, the fire lifts up his hundred heads to aim his way; and scarce the wealthy can one half retire, before he rushes in to share the prey. the rich grow suppliant, and the poor grow proud; those offer mighty gain, and these ask more: so void of pity is the ignoble crowd, when others' ruin may increase their store. as those who live by shores with joy behold some wealthy vessel split or stranded nigh; and from the rocks leap down for shipwreck'd gold, and seek the tempests which the others fly: so these but wait the owners' last despair, and what's permitted to the flames invade; even from their jaws they hungry morsels tear, and on their backs the spoils of vulcan lade. the days were all in this lost labour spent; and when the weary king gave place to night, his beams he to his royal brother lent, and so shone still in his reflective light. night came, but without darkness or repose,-- a dismal picture of the general doom, where souls, distracted when the trumpet blows, and half unready, with their bodies come. those who have homes, when home they do repair, to a last lodging call their wandering friends: their short uneasy sleeps are broke with care, to look how near their own destruction tends. those who have none, sit round where once it was, and with full eyes each wonted room require; haunting the yet warm ashes of the place, as murder'd men walk where they did expire. some stir up coals, and watch the vestal fire, others in vain from sight of ruin run; and, while through burning labyrinths they retire, with loathing eyes repeat what they would shun. the most in fields like herded beasts lie down, to dews obnoxious on the grassy floor; and while their babes in sleep their sorrows drown, sad parents watch the remnants of their store. while by the motion of the flames they guess what streets are burning now, and what are near; an infant waking to the paps would press, and meets, instead of milk, a falling tear. no thought can ease them but their sovereign's care, whose praise the afflicted as their comfort sing: even those whom want might drive to just despair, think life a blessing under such a king. meantime he sadly suffers in their grief, out-weeps an hermit, and out-prays a saint: all the long night he studies their relief, how they may be supplied, and he may want. o god, said he, thou patron of my days, guide of my youth in exile and distress! who me, unfriended, brought'st by wondrous ways, the kingdom of my fathers to possess: be thou my judge, with what unwearied care i since have labour'd for my people's good; to bind the bruises of a civil war, and stop the issues of their wasting blood. thou who hast taught me to forgive the ill, and recompense, as friends, the good misled; if mercy be a precept of thy will, return that mercy on thy servant's head. or if my heedless youth has stepp'd astray, too soon forgetful of thy gracious hand; on me alone thy just displeasure lay, but take thy judgments from this mourning land. we all have sinn'd, and thou hast laid us low, as humble earth from whence at first we came: like flying shades before the clouds we show, and shrink like parchment in consuming flame. o let it be enough what thou hast done; when spotted deaths ran arm'd through every street, with poison'd darts which not the good could shun, the speedy could out-fly, or valiant meet. the living few, and frequent funerals then, proclaim'd thy wrath on this forsaken place; and now those few who are return'd again, thy searching judgments to their dwellings trace. o pass not, lord, an absolute decree, or bind thy sentence unconditional! but in thy sentence our remorse foresee, and in that foresight this thy doom recall. thy threatenings, lord, as thine thou mayst revoke: but if immutable and fix'd they stand, continue still thyself to give the stroke, and let not foreign foes oppress thy land. the eternal heard, and from the heavenly quire chose out the cherub with the flaming sword; and bade him swiftly drive the approaching fire from where our naval magazines were stored. the blessed minister his wings display'd, and like a shooting star he cleft the night: he charged the flames, and those that disobey'd he lash'd to duty with his sword of light. the fugitive flames chastised went forth to prey on pious structures, by our fathers rear'd; by which to heaven they did affect the way, ere faith in churchmen without works was heard. the wanting orphans saw, with watery eyes, their founder's charity in dust laid low; and sent to god their ever-answered cries, for he protects the poor, who made them so. nor could thy fabric, paul's, defend thee long, though thou wert sacred to thy maker's praise: though made immortal by a poet's song; and poets' songs the theban walls could raise. the daring flames peep'd in, and saw from far the awful beauties of the sacred quire: but since it was profaned by civil war, heaven thought it fit to have it purged by fire. now down the narrow streets it swiftly came, and widely opening did on both sides prey: this benefit we sadly owe the flame, if only ruin must enlarge our way. and now four days the sun had seen our woes: four nights the moon beheld the incessant fire: it seem'd as if the stars more sickly rose, and farther from the feverish north retire. in th' empyrean heaven, the bless'd abode, the thrones and the dominions prostrate lie, not daring to behold their angry god; and a hush'd silence damps the tuneful sky. at length the almighty cast a pitying eye, and mercy softly touch'd his melting breast: he saw the town's one half in rubbish lie, and eager flames drive on to storm the rest. an hollow crystal pyramid he takes, in firmamental waters dipt above; of it a broad extinguisher he makes, and hoods the flames that to their quarry drove. the vanquish'd fires withdraw from every place, or, full with feeding, sink into a sleep: each household genius shows again his face, and from the hearths the little lares creep. our king this more than natural change beholds; with sober joy his heart and eyes abound: to the all-good his lifted hands he folds, and thanks him low on his redeemed ground. as when sharp frosts had long constrain'd the earth, a kindly thaw unlocks it with mild rain; and first the tender blade peeps up to birth, and straight the green fields laugh with promised grain: by such degrees the spreading gladness grew in every heart which fear had froze before: the standing streets with so much joy they view, that with less grief the perish'd they deplore. the father of the people open'd wide his stores, and all the poor with plenty fed: thus god's anointed god's own place supplied, and fill'd the empty with his daily bread. this royal bounty brought its own reward, and in their minds so deep did print the sense, that if their ruins sadly they regard, 'tis but with fear the sight might drive him thence. but so may he live long, that town to sway, which by his auspice they will nobler make, as he will hatch their ashes by his stay, and not their humble ruins now forsake. they have not lost their loyalty by fire; nor is their courage or their wealth so low, that from his wars they poorly would retire, or beg the pity of a vanquish'd foe. not with more constancy the jews of old, by cyrus from rewarded exile sent, their royal city did in dust behold, or with more vigour to rebuild it went. the utmost malice of their stars is past, and two dire comets, which have scourged the town, in their own plague and fire have breathed the last, or dimly in their sinking sockets frown. now frequent trines the happier lights among, and high-raised jove, from his dark prison freed, those weights took off that on his planet hung, will gloriously the new-laid work succeed. methinks already from this chemic flame, i see a city of more precious mould: rich as the town which gives the indies name, with silver paved, and all divine with gold. already labouring with a mighty fate, she shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow, and seems to have renew'd her charter's date, which heaven will to the death of time allow. more great than human now, and more august, now deified she from her fires does rise: her widening streets on new foundations trust, and opening into larger parts she flies. before, she like some shepherdess did show, who sat to bathe her by a river's side; not answering to her fame, but rude and low, nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride. now, like a maiden queen, she will behold, from her high turrets, hourly suitors come; the east with incense, and the west with gold, will stand, like suppliants, to receive her doom! the silver thames, her own domestic flood, shall bear her vessels like a sweeping train; and often wind, as of his mistress proud, with longing eyes to meet her face again. the wealthy tagus, and the wealthier rhine, the glory of their towns no more shall boast; and seine, that would with belgian rivers join, shall find her lustre stain'd, and traffic lost. the venturous merchant who design'd more far, and touches on our hospitable shore, charm'd with the splendour of this northern star, shall here unlade him, and depart no more. our powerful navy shall no longer meet, the wealth of france or holland to invade; the beauty of this town without a fleet, from all the world shall vindicate her trade. and while this famed emporium we prepare, the british ocean shall such triumphs boast, that those, who now disdain our trade to share, shall rob like pirates on our wealthy coast. already we have conquer'd half the war, and the less dangerous part is left behind: our trouble now is but to make them dare, and not so great to vanquish as to find. thus to the eastern wealth through storms we go, but now, the cape once doubled, fear no more; a constant trade-wind will securely blow, and gently lay us on the spicy shore. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : prince rupert and general monk, duke of albemarle.] [footnote : 'lawson:' sir john lawson, rear admiral of the red, killed by a ball that wounded him in the knee.] [footnote : 'wholly lost:' the dutch ships on their return home, being separated by a storm, the rear and vice-admirals of the east india fleet, with four men of war, were taken by five english frigates. soon after, four men of war, two fire-ships, and thirty merchantmen, being driven out of their course, joined our fleet instead of their own, and were all taken. these things happened in .] [footnote : 'munster's prelate:' the famous bertrand von der chalen, bishop of munster, excited by charles, marched twenty thousand men into the province of overyssel, under the dominion of the republic of holland, where he committed great outrages.] [footnote : 'two chiefs:' prince rupert and monk.] [footnote : 'berkeley:' vice-admiral berkeley fought till his men were all killed, and was found in the cabin dead and covered with blood.] [footnote : 'cacus:' see virgil in cowper's translation, d vol. of this edition.] [footnote : 'albemarle:' monk.] [footnote : 'flix:' old word for hare fur.] [footnote : 'allen:' sir thomas allen, admiral of the white. 'the achates:' sir robert holmes was rear-admiral of the white.] [footnote : 'leader:' de ruyter.] [footnote : 'patron saint:' st james, on whose day the victory was gained.] [footnote : 'usurper:' this seems a reference to cromwell; if so, it contradicts scott's statement quoted above in the 'life.'] [footnote : 'letted:' hindered.] * * * * * an essay upon satire. by me dryden and the earl of mulgrave,[ ] . how dull, and how insensible a beast is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest! philosophers and poets vainly strove in every age the lumpish mass to move: but those were pedants, when compared with these, who know not only to instruct, but please. poets alone found the delightful way, mysterious morals gently to convey in charming numbers; so that as men grew pleased with their poems, they grew wiser too. satire has always shone among the rest, and is the boldest way, if not the best, to tell men freely of their foulest faults; to laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts. in satire too the wise took different ways, to each deserving its peculiar praise. some did all folly with just sharpness blame, whilst others laugh'd and scorn'd them into shame. but of these two, the last succeeded best, as men aim rightest when they shoot in jest. yet, if we may presume to blame our guides, and censure those who censure all besides, in other things they justly are preferr'd. in this alone methinks the ancients err'd,-- against the grossest follies they declaim; hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game. nothing is easier than such blots to hit, and 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit: besides, 'tis labour lost; for who would preach morals to armstrong,[ ] or dull aston teach? 'tis being devout at play, wise at a ball, or bringing wit and friendship to whitehall. but with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find, which lie obscurely in the wisest mind; that little speck which all the rest does spoil, to wash off that would be a noble toil; beyond the loose writ libels of this age, or the forced scenes of our declining stage; above all censure too, each little wit will be so glad to see the greater hit; who, judging better, though concern'd the most, of such correction, will have cause to boast. in such a satire all would seek a share, and every fool will fancy he is there. old story-tellers too must pine and die, to see their antiquated wit laid by; like her, who miss'd her name in a lampoon, and grieved to find herself decay'd so soon. no common coxcomb must be mentioned here: not the dull train of dancing sparks appear; nor fluttering officers who never fight; of such a wretched rabble who would write? much less half wits: that's more against our rules; for they are fops, the other are but fools. who would not be as silly as dunbar? as dull as monmouth, rather than sir carr?[ ] the cunning courtier should be slighted too, who with dull knavery makes so much ado; till the shrewd fool, by thriving too, too fast, like Æsop's fox becomes a prey at last. nor shall the royal mistresses be named, too ugly, or too easy to be blamed, with whom each rhyming fool keeps such a pother, they are as common that way as the other: yet sauntering charles, between his beastly brace,[ ] meets with dissembling still in either place, affected humour, or a painted face. in loyal libels we have often told him, how one has jilted him, the other sold him: how that affects to laugh, how this to weep; but who can rail so long as he can sleep? was ever prince by two at once misled, false, foolish, old, ill-natured, and ill-bred? earnely[ ] and aylesbury[ ] with all that race of busy blockheads, shall have here no place; at council set as foils on danby's[ ] score, to make that great false jewel shine the more; who all that while was thought exceeding wise, only for taking pains and telling lies. but there's no meddling with such nauseous men; their very names have tired my lazy pen: 'tis time to quit their company, and choose some fitter subject for sharper muse. first, let's behold the merriest man alive[ ] against his careless genius vainly strive; quit his dear ease, some deep design to lay, 'gainst a set time, and then forget the day: yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be just as good company as nokes and lee.[ ] but when he aims at reason or at rule, he turns himself the best to ridicule; let him at business ne'er so earnest sit, show him but mirth, and bait that mirth with wit; that shadow of a jest shall be enjoy'd, though he left all mankind to be destroy'd. so cat transform'd sat gravely and demure, till mouse appear'd, and thought himself secure; but soon the lady had him in her eye, and from her friend did just as oddly fly. reaching above our nature does no good; we must fall back to our old flesh and blood; as by our little machiavel we find that nimblest creature of the busy kind, his limbs are crippled, and his body shakes; yet his hard mind which all this bustle makes, no pity of its poor companion takes. what gravity can hold from laughing out, to see him drag his feeble legs about, like hounds ill-coupled? jowler lugs him still through hedges, ditches, and through all that's ill. 'twere crime in any man but him alone, to use a body so, though 'tis one's own: yet this false comfort never gives him o'er, that whilst he creeps his vigorous thoughts can soar; alas! that soaring to those few that know, is but a busy grovelling here below. so men in rapture think they mount the sky, whilst on the ground the entranced wretches lie: so modern fops have fancied they could fly. as the new earl,[ ] with parts deserving praise, and wit enough to laugh at his own ways, yet loses all soft days and sensual nights, kind nature checks, and kinder fortune slights; striving against his quiet all he can, for the fine notion of a busy man. and what is that at best, but one whose mind is made to tire himself and all mankind? for ireland he would go; faith, let him reign; for if some odd, fantastic lord would fain carry in trunks, and all my drudgery do, i'll not only pay him, but admire him too. but is there any other beast that lives, who his own harm so wittingly contrives? will any dog that has his teeth and stones, refinedly leave his bitches and his bones, to turn a wheel, and bark to be employ'd, while venus is by rival dogs enjoy'd? yet this fond man, to get a statesman's name, forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame. though satire, nicely writ, with humour stings but those who merit praise in other things; yet we must needs this one exception make, and break our rules for silly tropos'[ ] sake; who was too much despised to be accused, and therefore scarce deserves to be abused; raised only by his mercenary tongue, for railing smoothly, and for reasoning wrong, as boys, on holidays, let loose to play, lay waggish traps for girls that pass that way; then shout to see in dirt and deep distress some silly cit in her flower'd foolish dress: so have i mighty satisfaction found, to see his tinsel reason on the ground: to see the florid fool despised, and know it, by some who scarce have words enough to show it: for sense sits silent, and condemns for weaker the finer, nay sometimes the wittier speaker: but 'tis prodigious so much eloquence should be acquirèd by such little sense; for words and wit did anciently agree, and tully was no fool, though this man be: at bar abusive, on the bench unable, knave on the woolsack, fop at council-table. these are the grievances of such fools as would be rather wise than honest, great than good. some other kind of wits must be made known, whose harmless errors hurt themselves alone; excess of luxury they think can please, and laziness call loving of their ease: to live dissolved in pleasures still they feign, though their whole life's but intermitting pain: so much of surfeits, headaches, claps are seen, we scarce perceive the little time between: well-meaning men who make this gross mistake, and pleasure lose only for pleasure's sake; each pleasure has its price, and when we pay too much of pain, we squander life away. thus dorset, purring like a thoughtful cat, married, but wiser puss ne'er thought of that: and first he worried her with railing rhyme, like pembroke's mastives at his kindest time; then for one night sold all his slavish life, a teeming widow, but a barren wife; swell'd by contact of such a fulsome toad, he lugg'd about the matrimonial load; till fortune, blindly kind as well as he, has ill restored him to his liberty; which he would use in his old sneaking way, drinking all night, and dozing all the day; dull as ned howard,[ ] whom his brisker times had famed for dulness in malicious rhymes. mulgrave had much ado to 'scape the snare, though learn'd in all those arts that cheat the fair: for after all his vulgar marriage mocks, with beauty dazzled, numps was in the stocks; deluded parents dried their weeping eyes, to see him catch his tartar for his prize; the impatient town waited the wish'd-for change, and cuckolds smiled in hopes of sweet revenge; till petworth plot made us with sorrow see, as his estate, his person too was free: him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move; to gold he fled from beauty and from love; yet, failing there, he keeps his freedom still, forced to live happily against his will: 'tis not his fault, if too much wealth and power break not his boasted quiet every hour. and little sid,[ ] for simile renown'd, pleasure has always sought but never found: though all his thoughts on wine and women fall, his are so bad, sure he ne'er thinks at all. the flesh he lives upon is rank and strong, his meat and mistresses are kept too long. but sure we all mistake this pious man, who mortifies his person all he can: what we uncharitably take for sin, are only rules of this odd capuchin; for never hermit under grave pretence, has lived more contrary to common sense; and 'tis a miracle we may suppose, no nastiness offends his skilful nose: which from all stink can with peculiar art extract perfume and essence from a f--t. expecting supper is his great delight; he toils all day but to be drunk at night: then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping sits, till he takes hewet and jack hall[ ] for wits. rochester i despise for want of wit, though thought to have a tail and cloven feet; for while he mischief means to all mankind, himself alone the ill effects does find: and so like witches justly suffer shame, whose harmless malice is so much the same. false are his words, affected is his wit; so often he does aim, so seldom hit; to every face he cringes while he speaks, but when the back is turn'd, the head he breaks: mean in each action, lewd in every limb, manners themselves are mischievous in him: a proof that chance alone makes every creature, a very killigrew[ ] without good nature. for what a bessus[ ] has he always lived, and his own kickings notably contrived! for, there's the folly that's still mix'd with fear, cowards more blows than any hero bear; of fighting sparks some may their pleasures say, but 'tis a bolder thing to run away: the world may well forgive him all his ill, for every fault does prove his penance still: falsely he falls into some dangerous noose, and then as meanly labours to get loose; a life so infamous is better quitting, spent in base injury and low submitting. i'd like to have left out his poetry; forgot by all almost as well as me. sometimes he has some humour, never wit, and if it rarely, very rarely, hit, 'tis under so much nasty rubbish laid, to find it out's the cinderwoman's trade; who for the wretched remnants of a fire, must toil all day in ashes and in mire. so lewdly dull his idle works appear, the wretched texts deserve no comments here; where one poor thought sometimes, left all alone, for a whole page of dulness must atone. how vain a thing is man, and how unwise! even he, who would himself the most despise! i, who so wise and humble seem to be, now my own vanity and pride can't see; while the world's nonsense is so sharply shown, we pull down others' but to raise our own; that we may angels seem, we paint them elves, and are but satires to set up ourselves. i, who have all this while been finding fault, even with my master, who first satire taught; and did by that describe the task so hard, it seems stupendous and above reward; now labour with unequal force to climb that lofty hill, unreach'd by former time; 'tis just that i should to the bottom fall, learn to write well, or not to write at all. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'mulgrave:' sheffield, duke of buckingham. it was for this satire, the joint composition of dryden and sheffield, that rochester hired bravoes to cudgel dryden.] [footnote : 'armstrong:' sir thomas armstrong, a notorious character of the time--hanged at tyburn.] [footnote : 'carr:' sir carr scrope, a wit of the time.] [footnote : 'beastly brace:' duchess of portsmouth and nell gwynn.] [footnote : 'earnely:' sir john earnely, one of the lords of the treasury.] [footnote : 'aylesbury:' robert, the first earl of aylesbury.] [footnote : 'danby:' thomas, earl of danby, lord high-treasurer of england.] [footnote : 'merriest man alive:' anthony ashley cooper, earl of shaftesbury.] [footnote : 'nokes and lee:' two celebrated comedians in charles ii.'s reign.] [footnote : 'new earl:' earl of essex.] [footnote : 'tropos:' sir william scroggs. see macaulay.] [footnote : 'ned howard:' edward howard, esq., a dull writer. see butler's works.] [footnote : 'sid:' brother to algernon sidney.] [footnote : 'hewet and jack hall:' courtiers of the day.] [footnote : 'killigrew:' thomas killigrew, many years master of the revels, and groom of the chamber to king charles ii.] [footnote : 'bessus:' a remarkable cowardly character in beaumont and fletcher's play of 'a king and no king.'] * * * * * absalom and achitophel.[ ] to the reader. it is not my intention to make an apology for my poem: some will think it needs no excuse, and others will receive none. the design i am sure is honest: but he who draws his pen for one party, must expect to make enemies of the other. for wit and fool are consequence of whig and tory; and every man is a knave or an ass to the contrary side. there is a treasury of merits in the fanatic church, as well as in the popish; and a pennyworth to be had of saintship, honesty, and poetry, for the lewd, the factious, and the blockheads: but the longest chapter in deuteronomy has not curses enough for an anti-bromingham. my comfort is, their manifest prejudice to my cause will render their judgment of less authority against me. yet if a poem have genius, it will force its own reception in the world. for there is a sweetness in good verse, which tickles even while it hurts; and no man can be heartily angry with him who pleases him against his will. the commendation of adversaries is the greatest triumph of a writer, because it never comes unless extorted. but i can be satisfied on more easy terms: if i happen to please the more moderate sort, i shall be sure of an honest party, and, in all probability, of the best judges; for the least concerned are commonly the least corrupt. and i confess i have laid in for those, by rebating the satire (where justice would allow it), from carrying too sharp an edge. they who can criticise so weakly as to imagine i have done my worst, may be convinced, at their own cost, that i can write severely, with more ease than i can gently. i have but laughed at some men's follies, when i could have declaimed against their vices; and other men's virtues i have commended, as freely as i have taxed their crimes. and now, if you are a malicious reader, i expect you should return upon me that i affect to be thought more impartial than i am. but if men are not to be judged by their professions, god forgive you commonwealth's-men for professing so plausibly for the government. you cannot be so unconscionable as to charge me for not subscribing my name; for that would reflect too grossly upon your own party, who never dare, though they have the advantage of a jury to secure them. if you like not my poem, the fault may possibly be in my writing (though it is hard for an author to judge against himself); but more probably it is in your morals, which cannot bear the truth of it. the violent on both sides will condemn the character of absalom, as either too favourably or too hardly drawn. but they are not the violent whom i desire to please. the fault on the right hand is to extenuate, palliate, and indulge; and to confess freely, i have endeavoured to commit it. besides the respect which i owe his birth, i have a greater for his heroic virtues; and david himself could not be more tender of the young man's life, than i would be of his reputation. but since the most excellent natures are always the most easy, and, as being such, are the soonest perverted by ill counsels, especially when baited with fame and glory; it is no more a wonder that he withstood not the temptations of achitophel, than it was for adam not to have resisted the two devils, the serpent and the woman. the conclusion of the story i purposely forbore to prosecute, because i could not obtain from myself to show absalom unfortunate. the frame of it was cut out but for a picture to the waist; and if the draught be so far true, it is as much as i designed. were i the inventor, who am only the historian, i should certainly conclude the piece with the reconcilement of absalom to david. and who knows but this may come to pass? things were not brought to an extremity where i left the story: there seems yet to be room left for a composure; hereafter there may be only for pity. i have not so much as an uncharitable wish against achitophel, but am content to be accused of a good-natured error, and to hope with origen, that the devil himself may at last be saved. for which reason, in this poem, he is neither brought to set his house in order, nor to dispose of his person afterwards as he in wisdom shall think fit. god is infinitely merciful; and his vicegerent is only not so, because he is not infinite. the true end of satire is the amendment of vices by correction. and he who writes honestly is no more an enemy to the offender, than the physician to the patient, when he prescribes harsh remedies to an inveterate disease; for those are only in order to prevent the chirurgeon's work of an _ense rescindendum_, which i wish not to my very enemies. to conclude all; if the body politic have any analogy to the natural, in my weak judgment, an act of oblivion were as necessary in a hot distempered state, as an opiate would be in a raging fever. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : see 'life' for explanation for circumstances; and the key at the close of the poem, for the real names of this satire.] * * * * * part i. --si propiùs stes te capiet magis-- in pious times, ere priestcraft did begin, before polygamy was made a sin; when man on many multiplied his kind, ere one to one was cursedly confined; when nature prompted, and no law denied promiscuous use of concubine and bride; then israel's monarch after heaven's own heart, his vigorous warmth did variously impart to wives and slaves; and wide as his command, scatter'd his maker's image through the land. michal, of royal blood, the crown did wear; a soil ungrateful to the tiller's care: not so the rest; for several mothers bore to god-like david several sons before. but since like slaves his bed they did ascend, no true succession could their seed attend. of all the numerous progeny was none so beautiful, so brave, as absalom: whether inspired by some diviner lust, his father got him with a greater gust; or that his conscious destiny made way, by manly beauty to imperial sway. early in foreign fields he won renown, with kings and states allied to israel's crown: in peace the thoughts of war he could remove, and seem'd as he were only born for love. whate'er he did, was done with so much ease, in him alone 'twas natural to please: his motions all accompanied with grace; and paradise was open'd in his face. with secret joy indulgent david view'd his youthful image in his son renew'd: to all his wishes nothing he denied; and made the charming annabell[ ] his bride. what faults he had (for who from faults is free?) his father could not, or he would not see. some warm excesses which the law forbore, were construed youth that purged by boiling o'er; and amnon's murder by a specious name, was call'd a just revenge for injured fame. thus praised and loved, the noble youth remain'd, while david undisturb'd in sion reign'd. but life can never be sincerely blest: heaven punishes the bad, and proves the best. the jews, a headstrong, moody, murmuring race, as ever tried the extent and stretch of grace; god's pamper'd people, whom, debauch'd with ease, no king could govern, nor no god could please; (gods they had tried of every shape and size, that god-smiths could produce, or priests devise): these adam-wits,[ ] too fortunately free, began to dream they wanted liberty; and when no rule, no precedent was found, of men by laws less circumscribed and bound; they led their wild desires to woods and caves, and thought that all but savages were slaves. they who, when saul was dead, without a blow, made foolish ishbosheth the crown forego; who banish'd david did from hebron bring, and with a general shout proclaim'd him king: those very jews, who, at their very best, their humour more than loyalty express'd, now wonder'd why so long they had obey'd an idol monarch, which their hands had made; thought they might ruin him they could create, or melt him to that golden calf--a state. but these were random bolts: no form'd design, nor interest made the factious crowd to join: the sober part of israel, free from stain, well knew the value of a peaceful reign; and, looking backward with a wise affright, saw seams of wounds dishonest to the sight: in contemplation of whose ugly scars, they cursed the memory of civil wars. the moderate sort of men thus qualified, inclined the balance to the better side; and david's mildness managed it so well, the bad found no occasion to rebel. but when to sin our biass'd nature leans, the careful devil is still at hand with means; and providently pimps for ill desires: the good old cause revived a plot requires. plots, true or false, are necessary things, to raise up commonwealths, and ruin kings. the inhabitants of old jerusalem were jebusites; the town so call'd from them; and theirs the native right-- but when the chosen people grew more strong, the rightful cause at length became the wrong; and every loss the men of jebus bore, they still were thought god's enemies the more. thus worn or weaken'd, well or ill content, submit they must to david's government: impoverish'd and deprived of all command, their taxes doubled as they lost their land; and, what was harder yet to flesh and blood, their gods disgraced, and burnt like common wood. this set the heathen priesthood in a flame; for priests of all religions are the same. of whatsoe'er descent their godhead be, stock, stone, or other homely pedigree, in his defence his servants are as bold, as if he had been born of beaten gold. the jewish rabbins, though their enemies, in this conclude them honest men and wise: for 'twas their duty, all the learned think, to espouse his cause by whom they eat and drink. from hence began that plot, the nation's curse, bad in itself, but represented worse; raised in extremes, and in extremes decried: with oaths affirm'd, with dying vows denied; not weigh'd nor winnow'd by the multitude; but swallow'd in the mass, unchew'd and crude. some truth there was, but dash'd and brew'd with lies, to please the fools, and puzzle all the wise. succeeding times did equal folly call, believing nothing, or believing all. the egyptian rites the jebusites embraced, where gods were recommended by their taste. such savoury deities must needs be good, as served at once for worship and for food. by force they could not introduce these gods; for ten to one in former days was odds. so fraud was used, the sacrificer's trade: fools are more hard to conquer than persuade. their busy teachers mingled with the jews, and raked for converts even the court and stews: which hebrew priests the more unkindly took, because the fleece accompanies the flock, some thought they god's anointed meant to slay by guns, invented since full many a day: our author swears it not; but who can know how far the devil and jebusites may go? this plot, which fail'd for want of common sense, had yet a deep and dangerous consequence: for as, when raging fevers boil the blood, the standing lake soon floats into a flood, and every hostile humour, which before slept quiet in its channels, bubbles o'er; so several factions from this first ferment, work up to foam, and threat the government. some by their friends, more by themselves thought wise, opposed the power to which they could not rise. some had in courts been great, and, thrown from thence, like fiends were harden'd in impenitence. some, by their monarch's fatal mercy, grown, from pardon'd rebels, kinsmen to the throne, were raised in power and public office high; strong bands, if bands ungrateful men could tie. of these, the false achitophel was first; a name to all succeeding ages cursed: for close designs, and crooked counsels fit; sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit; restless, unfix'd in principles and place; in power unpleased, impatient of disgrace: a fiery soul, which, working out its way, fretted the pigmy body to decay, and o'er-inform'd the tenement of clay. a daring pilot in extremity; pleased with the danger, when the waves went high, he sought the storms; but for a calm unfit, would steer too nigh the sands, to boast his wit. great wits are sure to madness near allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide; else why should he, with wealth and honour blest, refuse his age the needful hours of rest? punish a body which he could not please; bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease? and all to leave what with his toil he won, to that unfeather'd two-legg'd thing, a son; got, while his soul did huddled notions try; and born a shapeless lump, like anarchy. in friendship false, implacable in hate; resolved to ruin, or to rule the state. to compass this, the triple bond[ ] he broke; the pillars of the public safety shook; and fitted israel for a foreign yoke: then seized with fear, yet still affecting fame, usurp'd a patriot's all-atoning name. so easy still it proves, in factious times, with public zeal to cancel private crimes! how safe is treason, and how sacred ill, where none can sin against the people's will! where crowds can wink, and no offence be known, since in another's guilt they find their own! yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge; the statesman we abhor, but praise the judge. in israel's courts ne'er sat an abethdin with more discerning eyes, or hands more clean, unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress; swift of despatch, and easy of access. oh! had he been content to serve the crown, with virtues only proper to the gown; or had the rankness of the soil been freed from cockle, that oppress'd the noble seed; david for him his tuneful harp had strung, and heaven had wanted one immortal song. but wild ambition loves to slide, not stand, and fortune's ice prefers to virtue's land. achitophel, grown weary to possess a lawful fame, and lazy happiness, disdain'd the golden fruit to gather free, and lent the crowd his arm to shake the tree. now, manifest of crimes contrived long since, he stood at bold defiance with his prince; held up the buckler of the people's cause against the crown, and skulk'd behind the laws. the wish'd occasion of the plot he takes; some circumstances finds, but more he makes; by buzzing emissaries fills the ears of listening crowds with jealousies and fears of arbitrary counsels brought to light, and proves the king himself a jebusite. weak arguments! which yet he knew full well were strong with people easy to rebel. for, govern'd by the moon, the giddy jews tread the same track, when she the prime renews; and once in twenty years, their scribes record, by natural instinct they change their lord. achitophel still wants a chief, and none was found so fit as warlike absalom. not that he wish'd his greatness to create, for politicians neither love nor hate: but, for he knew his title not allow'd, would keep him still depending on the crowd: that kingly power, thus ebbing out, might be drawn to the dregs of a democracy. him he attempts with studied arts to please, and sheds his venom in such words as these: auspicious prince! at whose nativity some royal planet ruled the southern sky; thy longing country's darling and desire; their cloudy pillar and their guardian fire: their second moses, whose extended wand divides the seas, and shows the promised land: whose dawning day, in every distant age, has exercised the sacred prophet's rage: the people's prayer, the glad diviner's theme, the young men's vision, and the old men's dream! thee, saviour, thee the nation's vows confess, and, never satisfied with seeing, bless: swift, unbespoken pomps thy steps proclaim, and stammering babes are taught to lisp thy name. how long wilt thou the general joy detain, starve and defraud the people of thy reign! content ingloriously to pass thy days, like one of virtue's fools that feed on praise; till thy fresh glories, which now shine so bright, grow stale, and tarnish with our daily sight? believe me, royal youth, thy fruit must be or gather'd ripe, or rot upon the tree. heaven has to all allotted, soon or late, some lucky revolution of their fate: whose motions, if we watch and guide with skill, (for human good depends on human will,) our fortune rolls as from a smooth descent, and from the first impression takes the bent: but if, unseized, she glides away like wind, and leaves repenting folly far behind. now, now she meets you with a glorious prize, and spreads her locks before her as she flies. had thus old david, from whose loins you spring, not dared when fortune called him to be king, at gath an exile he might still remain, and heaven's anointing oil had been in vain. let his successful youth your hopes engage; but shun the example of declining age: behold him setting in his western skies, the shadows lengthening as the vapours rise. he is not now, as when on jordan's sand the joyful people throng'd to see him land, covering the beach and blackening all the strand; but, like the prince of angels, from his height comes tumbling downward with diminish'd light: betray'd by one poor plot to public scorn: (our only blessing since his cursed return:) those heaps of people which one sheaf did bind, blown off and scatter'd by a puff of wind. what strength can he to your designs oppose, naked of friends, and round beset with foes? if pharaoh's doubtful succour he should use, a foreign aid would more incense the jews: proud egypt would dissembled friendship bring; foment the war, but not support the king: nor would the royal party e'er unite with pharaoh's arms to assist the jebusite; or if they should, their interest soon would break, and with such odious aid make david weak. all sorts of men, by my successful arts, abhorring kings, estrange their alter'd hearts from david's rule: and 'tis their general cry-- religion, commonwealth, and liberty. if you, as champion of the public good, add to their arms a chief of royal blood, what may not israel hope, and what applause might such a general gain by such a cause? not barren praise alone--that gaudy flower, fair only to the sight--but solid power: and nobler is a limited command, given by the love of all your native land, than a successive title, long and dark, drawn from the mouldy rolls of noah's ark. what cannot praise effect in mighty minds, when flattery soothes, and when ambition blinds? desire of power, on earth a vicious weed, yet sprung from high, is of celestial seed: in god 'tis glory; and when men aspire, 'tis but a spark too much of heavenly fire. the ambitious youth, too covetous of fame, too full of angels' metal in his frame, unwarily was led from virtue's ways, made drunk with honour, and debauch'd with praise. half loath, and half consenting to the ill, for royal blood within him struggled still, he thus replied:--and what pretence have i to take up arms for public liberty? my father governs with unquestion'd right, the faith's defender, and mankind's delight; good, gracious, just, observant of the laws; and heaven by wonders has espoused his cause. whom has he wrong'd, in all his peaceful reign? who sues for justice to his throne in vain? what millions has he pardon'd of his foes, whom just revenge did to his wrath expose! mild, easy, humble, studious of our good; inclined to mercy, and averse from blood. if mildness ill with stubborn israel suit, his crime is god's beloved attribute. what could he gain his people to betray, or change his right for arbitrary sway? let haughty pharaoh curse with such a reign his fruitful nile, and yoke a servile train. if david's rule jerusalem displease, the dog-star heats their brains to this disease. why then should i, encouraging the bad, turn rebel and run popularly mad? were he a tyrant, who by lawless might oppress'd the jews, and raised the jebusite, well might i mourn; but nature's holy bands would curb my spirits, and restrain my hands: the people might assert their liberty; but what was right in them were crime in me. his favour leaves me nothing to require, prevents my wishes, and outruns desire. what more can i expect while david lives? all but his kingly diadem he gives: and that--but here he paused; then, sighing, said-- is justly destined for a worthier head. for when my father from his toils shall rest, and late augment the number of the blest, his lawful issue shall the throne ascend, or the collateral line, where that shall end. his brother, though oppress'd with vulgar spite, yet dauntless, and secure of native right, of every royal virtue stands possess'd; still dear to all the bravest and the best. his courage foes--his friends his truth proclaim; his loyalty the king--the world his fame. his mercy even the offending crowd will find; for sure he comes of a forgiving kind. why should i then repine at heaven's decree, which gives me no pretence to royalty? yet, oh! that fate, propitiously inclined, had raised my birth, or had debased my mind; to my large soul not all her treasure lent, and then betray'd it to a mean descent! i find, i find my mounting spirits bold, and david's part disdains my mother's mould. why am i scanted by a niggard birth? my soul disclaims the kindred of her earth; and, made for empire, whispers me within, desire of greatness is a god-like sin. him staggering so, when hell's dire agent found, while fainting virtue scarce maintain'd her ground, he pours fresh forces in, and thus replies: the eternal god, supremely good and wise, imparts not these prodigious gifts in vain; what wonders are reserved to bless your reign! against your will your arguments have shown, such virtue's only given to guide a throne. not that your father's mildness i contemn; but manly force becomes the diadem. 'tis true he grants the people all they crave; and more perhaps than subjects ought to have: for lavish grants suppose a monarch tame, and more his goodness than his wit proclaim. but when should people strive their bonds to break, if not when kings are negligent or weak? let him give on till he can give no more, the thrifty sanhedrim shall keep him poor; and every shekel which he can receive, shall cost a limb of his prerogative. to ply him with new plots shall be my care; or plunge him deep in some expensive war; which, when his treasure can no more supply, he must with the remains of kingship buy his faithful friends, our jealousies and fears call jebusites, and pharaoh's pensioners; whom when our fury from his aid has torn, he shall be naked left to public scorn. the next successor, whom i fear and hate, my arts have made obnoxious to the state; turn'd all his virtues to his overthrow, and gain'd our elders to pronounce a foe. his right, for sums of necessary gold, shall first be pawn'd, and afterwards be sold; till time shall ever-wanting david draw, to pass your doubtful title into law; if not, the people have a right supreme to make their kings, for kings are made for them. all empire is no more than power in trust, which, when resumed, can be no longer just. succession, for the general good design'd, in its own wrong a nation cannot bind: if altering that the people can relieve, better one suffer than a nation grieve. the jews well know their power: ere saul they chose, god was their king, and god they durst depose. urge now your piety, your filial name, a father's right, and fear of future fame; the public good, that universal call, to which even heaven submitted, answers all. nor let his love enchant your generous mind; 'tis nature's trick to propagate her kind. our fond begetters, who would never die, love but themselves in their posterity. or let his kindness by the effects be tried, or let him lay his vain pretence aside. god said, he loved your father; could he bring a better proof, than to anoint him king? it surely show'd he loved the shepherd well, who gave so fair a flock as israel. would david have you thought his darling son? what means he then to alienate the crown? the name of godly he may blush to bear: is't after god's own heart to cheat his heir? he to his brother gives supreme command, to you a legacy of barren land; perhaps the old harp, on which he thrums his lays, or some dull hebrew ballad in your praise. then the next heir, a prince severe and wise, already looks on you with jealous eyes; sees through the thin disguises of your arts, and marks your progress in the people's hearts; though now his mighty soul its grief contains: he meditates revenge who least complains; and like a lion, slumbering in the way, or sleep dissembling, while he waits his prey, his fearless foes within his distance draws, constrains his roaring, and contracts his paws; till at the last his time for fury found, he shoots with sudden vengeance from the ground; the prostrate vulgar passes o'er and spares, but with a lordly rage his hunters tears. your case no tame expedients will afford: resolve on death, or conquest by the sword, which for no less a stake than life you draw; and self-defence is nature's eldest law. leave the warm people no considering time: for then rebellion may be thought a crime. avail yourself of what occasion gives, but try your title while your father lives: and that your arms may have a fair pretence, proclaim you take them in the king's defence; whose sacred life each minute would expose to plots, from seeming friends, and secret foes. and who can sound the depth of david's soul? perhaps his fear, his kindness may control. he fears his brother, though he loves his son, for plighted vows too late to be undone. if so, by force he wishes to be gain'd: by women's lechery to seem constrain'd. doubt not; but, when he most affects the frown, commit a pleasing rape upon the crown. secure his person to secure your cause: they who possess the prince possess the laws. he said, and this advice above the rest, with absalom's mild nature suited best; unblamed of life, ambition set aside, not stain'd with cruelty, nor puff'd with pride, how happy had he been, if destiny had higher placed his birth, or not so high! his kingly virtues might have claim'd a throne, and bless'd all other countries but his own. but charming greatness since so few refuse, 'tis juster to lament him than accuse. strong were his hopes a rival to remove, with blandishments to gain the public love: to head the faction while their zeal was hot, and popularly prosecute the plot. to further this, achitophel unites the malcontents of all the israelites: whose differing parties he could wisely join, for several ends to serve the same design. the best--and of the princes some were such-- who thought the power of monarchy too much; mistaken men, and patriots in their hearts; not wicked, but seduced by impious arts. by these the springs of property were bent, and wound so high, they crack'd the government. the next for interest sought to embroil the state, to sell their duty at a dearer rate, and make their jewish markets of the throne; pretending public good, to serve their own. others thought kings an useless heavy load, who cost too much, and did too little good. these were for laying honest david by, on principles of pure good husbandry. with them join'd all the haranguers of the throng, that thought to get preferment by the tongue. who follow next a double danger bring, not only hating david, but the king; the solyimaean rout; well versed of old in godly faction, and in treason bold; cowering and quaking at a conqueror's sword, but lofty to a lawful prince restored; saw with disdain an ethnic plot begun, and scorn'd by jebusites to be outdone. hot levites headed these; who pull'd before from the ark, which in the judges' days they bore, resumed their cant, and with a zealous cry, pursued their old beloved theocracy: where sanhedrim and priest enslaved the nation, and justified their spoils by inspiration: for who so fit to reign as aaron's race, if once dominion they could found in grace? these led the pack; though not of surest scent, yet deepest mouth'd against the government. a numerous host of dreaming saints succeed, of the true old enthusiastic breed: 'gainst form and order they their power employ, nothing to build, and all things to destroy. but far more numerous was the herd of such, who think too little, and who talk too much. these out of mere instinct, they knew not why, adored their fathers' god and property; and by the same blind benefit of fate, the devil and the jebusite did hate: born to be saved, even in their own despite, because they could not help believing right. such were the tools: but a whole hydra more remains of sprouting heads too long to score. some of their chiefs were princes of the land: in the first rank of these did zimri stand; a man so various, that he seem'd to be not one, but all mankind's epitome: stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; was everything by starts, and nothing long; but, in the course of one revolving moon, was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon: then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. blest madman, who could every hour employ, with something new to wish, or to enjoy! railing and praising were his usual themes; and both, to show his judgment, in extremes: so over violent, or over civil, that every man with him was god or devil. in squandering wealth was his peculiar art: nothing went unrewarded but desert. beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too late; he had his jest, and they had his estate. he laugh'd himself from court; then sought relief by forming parties, but could ne'er be chief: for, spite of him the weight of business fell on absalom and wise achitophel: thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft, he left not faction, but of that was left. titles and names 'twere tedious to rehearse of lords, below the dignity of verse. wits, warriors, commonwealth's-men, were the best: kind husbands, and mere nobles, all the rest. and therefore, in the name of dulness, be the well-hung balaam and cold caleb free: and canting nadab let oblivion damn, who made new porridge for the paschal lamb. let friendship's holy band some names assure; some their own worth, and some let scorn secure. nor shall the rascal rabble here have place, whom kings no titles gave, and god no grace: not bull-faced jonas, who could statutes draw to mean rebellion, and make treason law. but he, though bad, is follow'd by a worse, the wretch who heaven's anointed dared to curse; shimei, whose youth did early promise bring of zeal to god and hatred to his king, did wisely from expensive sins refrain, and never broke the sabbath but for gain; nor ever was he known an oath to vent, or curse, unless against the government. thus heaping wealth by the most ready way among the jews, which was to cheat and pray; the city, to reward his pious hate against his master, chose him magistrate. his hand a vare[ ] of justice did uphold; his neck was loaded with a chain of gold. during his office treason was no crime; the sons of belial had a glorious time: for shimei, though not prodigal of pelf, yet loved his wicked neighbour as himself. when two or three were gather'd to declaim against the monarch of jerusalem, shimei was always in the midst of them; and if they cursed the king when he was by, would rather curse than break good company. if any durst his factious friends accuse, he pack'd a jury of dissenting jews; whose fellow-feeling in the godly cause would free the suffering saint from human laws. for laws are only made to punish those who serve the king, and to protect his foes. if any leisure time he had from power (because 'tis sin to misemploy an hour), his business was, by writing to persuade, that kings were useless and a clog to trade; and, that his noble style he might refine, no rechabite more shunn'd the fumes of wind. chaste were his cellars, and his shrivel board the grossness of a city feast abhorr'd; his cooks with long disuse their trade forgot; cool was his kitchen, though his brains were hot. such frugal virtue malice may accuse, but sure 'twas necessary to the jews; for towns, once burnt, such magistrates require as dare not tempt god's providence by fire. with spiritual food he fed his servants well, but free from flesh that made the jews rebel: and moses' laws he held in more account, for forty days of fasting in the mount. to speak the rest who better are forgot, would tire a well-breathed witness of the plot. yet corah, thou shalt from oblivion pass; erect thyself, thou monumental brass, high as the serpent of thy metal made, while nations stand secure beneath thy shade. what though his birth were base, yet comets rise from earthly vapours, ere they shine in skies. prodigious actions may as well be done by weaver's issue, as by prince's son. this arch attestor for the public good by that one deed ennobles all his blood. who ever ask'd the witness's high race, whose oath with martyrdom did stephen grace? ours was a levite, and as times went then, his tribe were god almighty's gentlemen. sunk were his eyes, his voice was harsh and loud, sure signs he neither choleric was, nor proud. his long chin proved his wit; his saint-like grace a church vermilion, and a moses' face. his memory miraculously great, could plots, exceeding man's belief, repeat; which therefore cannot be accounted lies, for human wit could never such devise. some future truths are mingled in his book; but where the witness fail'd, the prophet spoke. some things like visionary flights appear; the spirit caught him up the lord knows where; and gave him his rabbinical degree, unknown to foreign university. his judgment yet his memory did excel; which pieced his wondrous evidence so well, and suited to the temper of the times, then groaning under jebusitic crimes. let israel's foes suspect his heavenly call, and rashly judge his wit apocryphal; our laws for such affronts have forfeits made; he takes his life who takes away his trade. were i myself in witness corah's place, the wretch who did me such a dire disgrace, should whet my memory, though once forgot, to make him an appendix of my plot. his zeal to heaven made him his prince despise, and load his person with indignities. but zeal peculiar privilege affords, indulging latitude to deeds and words: and corah might for agag's murder call, in terms as coarse as samuel used to saul. what others in his evidence did join, the best that could be had for love or coin, in corah's own predicament will fall: for witness is a common name to all. surrounded thus with friends of every sort, deluded absalom forsakes the court: impatient of high hopes, urged with renown, and fired with near possession of a crown. the admiring crowd are dazzled with surprise, and on his goodly person feed their eyes. his joy conceal'd he sets himself to show; on each side bowing popularly low: his looks, his gestures, and his words he frames, and with familiar ease repeats their names. thus form'd by nature, furnish'd out with arts, he glides unfelt into their secret hearts. then, with a kind compassionating look, and sighs, bespeaking pity ere he spoke, few words he said; but easy those and fit, more slow than hybla-drops, and far more sweet. i mourn, my countrymen, your lost estate; though far unable to prevent your fate: behold a banish'd man for your dear cause exposed a prey to arbitrary laws! yet oh! that i alone could be undone, cut off from empire, and no more a son! now all your liberties a spoil are made; egypt and tyrus intercept your trade, and jebusites your sacred rites invade. my father, whom with reverence yet i name, charm'd into ease, is careless of his fame; and bribed with petty sums of foreign gold, is grown in bathsheba's embraces old; exalts his enemies, his friends destroys, and all his power against himself employs. he gives, and let him give, my right away: but why should he his own and yours betray? he, only he, can make the nation bleed, and he alone from my revenge is freed. take then my tears (with that he wiped his eyes), 'tis all the aid my present power supplies: no court-informer can these arms accuse; these arms may sons against their fathers use: and 'tis my wish, the next successor's reign, may make no other israelite complain. youth, beauty, graceful action seldom fail; but common interest always will prevail: and pity never ceases to be shown to him who makes the people's wrongs his own. the crowd, that still believe their kings oppress, with lifted hands their young messiah bless: who now begins his progress to ordain with chariots, horsemen, and a numerous train: from east to west his glories he displays, and, like the sun, the promised land surveys. fame runs before him as the morning-star, and shouts of joy salute him from afar: each house receives him as a guardian god, and consecrates the place of his abode. but hospitable treats did most commend wise issachar, his wealthy western friend. this moving court, that caught the people's eyes, and seem'd but pomp, did other ends disguise: achitophel had form'd it, with intent to sound the depths, and fathom where it went, the people's hearts, distinguish friends from foes, and try their strength, before they came to blows. yet all was colour'd with a smooth pretence of specious love, and duty to their prince. religion, and redress of grievances, two names that always cheat, and always please, are often urged; and good king david's life endanger'd by a brother and a wife. thus in a pageant show a plot is made; and peace itself is war in masquerade. o foolish israel! never warn'd by ill! still the same bait, and circumvented still! did ever men forsake their present ease, in midst of health imagine a disease; take pains contingent mischiefs to foresee, make heirs for monarchs, and for god decree? what shall we think? can people give away, both for themselves and sons, their native sway? then they are left defenceless to the sword of each unbounded, arbitrary lord: and laws are vain, by which we right enjoy, if kings unquestion'd can those laws destroy. yet if the crowd be judge of fit and just, and kings are only officers in trust, then this resuming covenant was declared when kings were made, or is for ever barr'd. if those who gave the sceptre could not tie, by their own deed, their own posterity, how then could adam bind his future race? how could his forfeit on mankind take place? or how could heavenly justice damn us all, who ne'er consented to our father's fall? then kings are slaves to those whom they command, and tenants to their people's pleasure stand. add, that the power for property allow'd is mischievously seated in the crowd; for who can be secure of private right, if sovereign sway may be dissolved by might? nor is the people's judgment always true: the most may err as grossly as the few? and faultless kings run down by common cry, for vice, oppression, and for tyranny. what standard is there in a fickle rout, which, flowing to the mark, runs faster out? nor only crowds but sanhedrims may be infected with this public lunacy, and share the madness of rebellious times, to murder monarchs for imagined crimes. if they may give and take whene'er they please, not kings alone, the godhead's images, but government itself at length must fall to nature's state, where all have right to all. yet, grant our lords the people kings can make, what prudent men a settled throne would shake? for whatsoe'er their sufferings were before, that change they covet makes them suffer more. all other errors but disturb a state; but innovation is the blow of fate. if ancient fabrics nod, and threat to fall, to patch their flaws, and buttress up the wall, thus far 'tis duty: but here fix the mark; for all beyond it is to touch the ark. to change foundations, cast the frame anew, is work for rebels, who base ends pursue; at once divine and human laws control, and mend the parts by ruin of the whole, the tampering world is subject to this curse, to physic their disease into a worse. now what relief can righteous david bring? how fatal 'tis to be too good a king! friends he has few, so high the madness grows; who dare be such must be the people's foes. yet some there were, even in the worst of days; some let me name, and naming is to praise. in this short file barzillai first appears; barzillai, crown'd with honour and with years. long since, the rising rebels he withstood in regions waste beyond the jordan's flood: unfortunately brave to buoy the state; but sinking underneath his master's fate: in exile with his godlike prince he mourn'd; for him he suffer'd, and with him return'd. the court he practised, not the courtier's art: large was his wealth, but larger was his heart, which well the noblest objects knew to choose, the fighting warrior, and recording muse. his bed could once a fruitful issue boast; now more than half a father's name is lost. his eldest hope, with every grace adorn'd, by me, so heaven will have it, always mourn'd, and always honour'd, snatch'd in manhood's prime by unequal fates, and providence's crime: yet not before the goal of honour won, all parts fulfill'd of subject and of son: swift was the race, but short the time to run. o narrow circle, but of power divine, scanted in space, but perfect in thy line! by sea, by land, thy matchless worth was known, arms thy delight, and war was all thy own: thy force infused the fainting tyrians propp'd; and haughty pharaoh found his fortune stopp'd. o ancient honour! o unconquer'd hand, whom foes unpunish'd never could withstand! but israel was unworthy of his name; short is the date of all immoderate fame. it looks as heaven our ruin had design'd, and durst not trust thy fortune and thy mind. now, free from earth, thy disencumber'd soul mounts up, and leaves behind the clouds and starry pole: from thence thy kindred legions mayst thou bring, to aid the guardian angel of thy king. here stop, my muse, here cease thy painful flight: no pinions can pursue immortal height: tell good barzillai thou canst sing no more, and tell thy soul she should have fled before: or fled she with his life, and left this verse to hang on her departed patron's hearse? now take thy steepy flight from heaven, and see if thou canst find on earth another he: another he would be too hard to find; see then whom thou canst see not far behind. zadoc the priest, whom, shunning power and place, his lowly mind advanced to david's grace. with him the sagan of jerusalem, of hospitable soul, and noble stem; him[ ] of the western dome, whose weighty sense flows in fit words and heavenly eloquence. the prophets' sons, by such example led, to learning and to loyalty were bred: for colleges on bounteous kings depend, and never rebel was to arts a friend. to these succeed the pillars of the laws, who best can plead, and best can judge a cause. next them a train of loyal peers ascend; sharp-judging adriel, the muses' friend, himself a muse: in sanhedrim's debate true to his prince, but not a slave of state: whom david's love with honours did adorn, that from his disobedient son were torn. jotham, of piercing wit, and pregnant thought; endued by nature, and by learning taught to move assemblies, who but only tried the worse awhile, then chose the better side: nor chose alone, but turn'd the balance too,-- so much the weight of one brave man can do. hushai, the friend of david in distress; in public storms of manly steadfastness: by foreign treaties he inform'd his youth, and join'd experience to his native truth. his frugal care supplied the wanting throne-- frugal for that, but bounteous of his own: 'tis easy conduct when exchequers flow; but hard the task to manage well the low; for sovereign power is too depress'd or high, when kings are forced to sell, or crowds to buy. indulge one labour more, my weary muse, for amiel: who can amiel's praise refuse? of ancient race by birth, but nobler yet in his own worth, and without title great: the sanhedrim long time as chief he ruled, their reason guided, and their passion cool'd: so dexterous was he in the crown's defence, so form'd to speak a loyal nation's sense, that, as their band was israel's tribes in small, so fit was he to represent them all. now rasher charioteers the seat ascend, whose loose careers his steady skill commend: they, like the unequal ruler of the day,[ ] misguide the seasons, and mistake the way; while he withdrawn, at their mad labours smiles, and safe enjoys the sabbath of his toils. these were the chief, a small but faithful band of worthies, in the breach who dared to stand, and tempt the united fury of the land: with grief they view'd such powerful engines bent, to batter down the lawful government. a numerous faction, with pretended frights, in sanhedrims to plume the regal rights; the true successor from the court removed; the plot, by hireling witnesses, improved. these ills they saw, and, as their duty bound, they show'd the king the danger of the wound; that no concessions from the throne would please, but lenitives fomented the disease: that absalom, ambitious of the crown, was made the lure to draw the people down: that false achitophel's pernicious hate had turn'd the plot to ruin church and state: the council violent, the rabble worse: that shimei taught jerusalem to curse. with all these loads of injuries oppress'd, and long revolving in his careful breast the event of things, at last his patience tired, thus, from his royal throne, by heaven inspired, the god-like david spoke; with awful fear, his train their maker in their master hear. thus long have i, by native mercy sway'd, my wrongs dissembled, my revenge delay'd: so willing to forgive the offending age; so much the father did the king assuage. but now so far my clemency they slight, the offenders question my forgiving right: that one was made for many, they contend; but 'tis to rule; for that's a monarch's end. they call my tenderness of blood, my fear: though manly tempers can the longest bear. yet, since they will divert my native course, 'tis time to show i am not good by force. those heap'd affronts that haughty subjects bring, are burdens for a camel, not a king. kings are the public pillars of the state, born to sustain and prop the nation's weight: if my young samson will pretend a call to shake the column, let him share the fall: but oh, that yet he would repent and live! how easy 'tis for parents to forgive! with how few tears a pardon might be won from nature, pleading for a darling son! poor, pitied youth, by my paternal care, raised up to all the height his frame could bear! had god ordain'd his fate for empire born, he would have given his soul another turn: gull'd with a patriot's name, whose modern sense is one that would by law supplant his prince; the people's brave, the politician's tool; never was patriot yet, but was a fool. whence comes it, that religion and the laws should more be absalom's than david's cause? his old instructor, ere he lost his place, was never thought endued with so much grace. good heavens, how faction can a patriot paint! my rebel ever proves my people's saint. would they impose an heir upon the throne, let sanhedrims be taught to give their own. a king's at least a part of government; and mine as requisite as their consent: without my leave a future king to choose, infers a right the present to depose. true, they petition me to approve their choice: but esau's hands suit ill with jacob's voice. my pious subjects for my safety pray, which to secure, they take my power away. from plots and treasons heaven preserve my years, but save me most from my petitioners! insatiate as the barren womb or grave, god cannot grant so much as they can crave. what then is left, but with a jealous eye to guard the small remains of royalty? the law shall still direct my peaceful sway, and the same law teach rebels to obey: votes shall no more establish'd power control, such votes as make a part exceed the whole. no groundless clamours shall my friends remove, nor crowds have power to punish ere they prove; for gods and god-like kings their care express, still to defend their servants in distress. o that my power to saving were confined! why am i forced, like heaven, against my mind; to make examples of another kind? must i at length the sword of justice draw? oh, cursed effects of necessary law! how ill my fear they by my mercy scan! beware the fury of a patient man! law they require, let law then show her face; they could not be content to look on grace, her hinder parts, but with a daring eye to tempt the terror of her front and die. by their own arts 'tis righteously decreed, those dire artificers of death shall bleed. against themselves their witnesses will swear, till, viper-like, their mother-plot they tear; and suck for nutriment that bloody gore, which was their principle of life before. their belial with their beelzebub will fight: thus on my foes, my foes shall do me right. nor doubt the event: for factious crowds engage, in their first onset, all their brutal rage. then let them take an unresisted course; retire, and traverse, and delude their force; but when they stand all breathless, urge the fight, and rise upon them with redoubled might-- for lawful power is still superior found; when long driven back, at length it stands the ground. he said: the almighty, nodding, gave consent; and peals of thunder shook the firmament. henceforth a series of new time began, the mighty years in long procession ran: once more the god-like david was restored, and willing nations knew their lawful lord. * * * * * part ii. "si quis tamen haec quoque, si quis captus amore leget." to the reader. in the year , mr dryden undertook the poem of absalom and achitophel, upon the desire of king charles the second. the performance was applauded by every one; and several persons pressing him to write a second part, he, upon declining it himself, spoke to mr tate[ ] to write one, and gave him his advice in the direction of it; and that part beginning with "next these, a troop of busy spirits press," and ending with "to talk like doeg, and to write like thee," containing near two hundred verses, mere entirely mr dryden's composition, besides some touches in other places. derrick. * * * * * since men like beasts each other's prey were made, since trade began, and priesthood grew a trade, since realms were form'd, none sure so cursed as those that madly their own happiness oppose; there heaven itself and god-like kings, in vain shower down the manna of a gentle reign; while pamper'd crowds to mad sedition run, and monarchs by indulgence are undone. thus david's clemency was fatal grown, while wealthy faction awed the wanting throne. for now their sovereign's orders to contemn was held the charter of jerusalem; his rights to invade, his tributes to refuse, a privilege peculiar to the jews; as if from heavenly call this licence fell, and jacob's seed were chosen to rebel! achitophel with triumph sees his crimes thus suited to the madness of the times; and absalom, to make his hopes succeed, of flattering charms no longer stands in need; while fond of change, though ne'er so dearly bought, our tribes outstrip the youth's ambitious thought; his swiftest hopes with swifter homage meet, and crowd their servile necks beneath his feet. thus to his aid while pressing tides repair, he mounts and spreads his streamers in the air. the charms of empire might his youth mislead, but what can our besotted israel plead? sway'd by a monarch, whose serene command seems half the blessing of our promised land: whose only grievance is excess of ease; freedom our pain, and plenty our disease! yet, as all folly would lay claim to sense, and wickedness ne'er wanted a pretence, with arguments they'd make their treason good, and righteous david's self with slanders load: that arts of foreign sway he did affect, and guilty jebusites from law protect, whose very chiefs, convict, were never freed, nay, we have seen their sacrificers bleed! accusers' infamy is urged in vain, while in the bounds of sense they did contain; but soon they launch into the unfathom'd tide, and in the depths they knew disdain'd to ride. for probable discoveries to dispense, was thought below a pension'd evidence; mere truth was dull, nor suited with the port of pamper'd corah when advanced to court. no less than wonders now they will impose, and projects void of grace or sense disclose. such was the charge on pious michal brought,-- michal that ne'er was cruel, even in thought,-- the best of queens, and most obedient wife, impeach'd of cursed designs on david's life! his life, the theme of her eternal prayer, 'tis scarce so much his guardian angel's care. not summer morns such mildness can disclose, the hermon lily, nor the sharon rose. neglecting each vain pomp of majesty, transported michal feeds her thoughts on high. she lives with angels, and, as angels do, quits heaven sometimes to bless the world below; where, cherish'd by her bounties' plenteous spring, reviving widows smile, and orphans sing. oh! when rebellious israel's crimes at height, are threaten'd with her lord's approaching fate, the piety of michal then remain in heaven's remembrance, and prolong his reign! less desolation did the pest pursue, that from dan's limits to beersheba flew; less fatal the repeated wars of tyre, and less jerusalem's avenging fire. with gentler terror these our state o'erran, than since our evidencing days began! on every cheek a pale confusion sate, continued fear beyond the worst of fate! trust was no more; art, science useless made; all occupations lost but corah's trade. meanwhile a guard on modest corah wait, if not for safety, needful yet for state. well might he deem each peer and prince his slave, and lord it o'er the tribes which he could save: even vice in him was virtue--what sad fate, but for his honesty had seized our state! and with what tyranny had we been cursed, had corah never proved a villain first! to have told his knowledge of the intrigue in gross, had been, alas! to our deponent's loss: the travell'd levite had the experience got, to husband well, and make the best of's plot; and therefore, like an evidence of skill, with wise reserves secured his pension still; nor quite of future power himself bereft, but limbos large for unbelievers left. and now his writ such reverence had got, 'twas worse than plotting to suspect his plot. some were so well convinced, they made no doubt themselves to help the founder'd swearers out. some had their sense imposed on by their fear, but more for interest sake believe and swear: even to that height with some the frenzy grew, they raged to find their danger not prove true. yet, than all these a viler crew remain, who with achitophel the cry maintain; not urged by fear, nor through misguided sense,-- blind zeal and starving need had some pretence; but for the good old cause, that did excite the original rebels' wiles--revenge and spite. these raise the plot, to have the scandal thrown upon the bright successor of the crown, whose virtue with such wrongs they had pursued, as seem'd all hope of pardon to exclude. thus, while on private ends their zeal is built, the cheated crowd applaud, and share their guilt. such practices as these, too gross to lie long unobserved by each discerning eye, the more judicious israelites unspell'd, though still the charm the giddy rabble held. even absalom, amidst the dazzling beams of empire, and ambition's flattering dreams, perceives the plot, too foul to be excused, to aid designs, no less pernicious, used. and, filial sense yet striving in his breast, thus to achitophel his doubts express'd: why are my thoughts upon a crown employ'd. which, once obtain'd, can be but half enjoy'd? not so when virtue did my arms require, and to my father's wars i flew entire. my regal power how will my foes resent, when i myself have scarce my own consent! give me a son's unblemish'd truth again, or quench the sparks of duty that remain. how slight to force a throne that legions guard the task to me! to prove unjust, how hard! and if the imagined guilt thus wound my thought, what will it when the tragic scene is wrought! dire war must first be conjured from below, the realm we rule we first must overthrow; and, when the civil furies are on wing, that blind and undistinguish'd slaughters fling, who knows what impious chance may reach the king? oh, rather let me perish in the strife, than have my crown the price of david's life! or if the tempest of the war he stand, in peace, some vile officious villain's hand his soul's anointed temple may invade; or, press'd by clamorous crowds, myself be made his murderer; rebellious crowds, whose guilt shall dread his vengeance till his blood be spilt. which, if my filial tenderness oppose, since to the empire by their arms i rose, those very arms on me shall be employ'd, a new usurper crown'd, and i destroy'd: the same pretence of public good will hold, and new achitophels be found as bold to urge the needful change--perhaps the old. he said. the statesman with a smile replies, a smile that did his rising spleen disguise: my thoughts presumed our labours at an end; and are we still with conscience to contend? whose want in kings as needful is allow'd, as 'tis for them to find it in the crowd. far in the doubtful passage you are gone, and only can be safe by pressing on. the crown's true heir, a prince severe and wise, has view'd your motions long with jealous eyes, your person's charms, your more prevailing arts, and mark'd your progress in the people's hearts, whose patience is the effect of stinted power, but treasures vengeance for the fatal hour; and if remote the peril he can bring, your present danger's greater from the king. let not a parent's name deceive your sense, nor trust the father in a jealous prince! your trivial faults if he could so resent, to doom you little less than banishment, what rage must your presumption since inspire! against his orders you return from tyre. nor only so, but with a pomp more high, and open court of popularity, the factious tribes.--and this reproof from thee! the prince replies; oh, statesman's winding skill, they first condemn that first advised the ill! illustrious youth! returned achitophel, misconstrue not the words that mean you well; the course you steer i worthy blame conclude, but 'tis because you leave it unpursued. a monarch's crown with fate surrounded lies, who reach, lay hold on death that miss the prize. did you for this expose yourself to show, and to the crowd bow popularly low? for this your glorious progress next ordain, with chariots, horsemen, and a numerous train? with fame before you, like the morning star, and shouts of joy saluting from afar? oh, from the heights you've reach'd but take a view, scarce leading lucifer could fall like you! and must i here my shipwreck'd arts bemoan? have i for this so oft made israel groan? your single interest with the nation weigh'd, and turn'd the scale where your desires were laid; even when at helm a course so dangerous moved to land your hopes, as my removal proved.-- i not dispute, the royal youth replies, the known perfection of your policies; nor in achitophel yet grudge or blame the privilege that statesmen ever claim; who private interest never yet pursued, but still pretended 'twas for others good: what politician yet e'er 'scaped his fate, who, saving his own neck, not saved the state? from hence, on every humorous wind that veer'd, with shifted sails a several course you steer'd. what form of sway did david e'er pursue, that seem'd like absolute, but sprung from you? who at your instance quash'd each penal law, that kept dissenting factious jews in awe; and who suspends fix'd laws, may abrogate, that done, form new, and so enslave the state. even property whose champion now you stand, and seem for this the idol of the land, did ne'er sustain such violence before, as when your counsel shut the royal store; advice, that ruin to whole tribes procured, but secret kept till your own banks secured. recount with this the triple covenant broke, and israel fitted for a foreign yoke; nor here your counsel's fatal progress stay'd, but sent our levied powers to pharaoh's aid. hence tyre and israel, low in ruins laid, and egypt, once their scorn, their common terror made. even yet of such a season can we dream, when royal rights you made your darling theme. for power unlimited could reasons draw, and place prerogative above the law; which, on your fall from office, grew unjust, the laws made king, the king a slave in trust: whom with state-craft, to interest only true, you now accuse of ills contrived by you. to this hell's agent: royal youth, fix here, let interest be the star by which you steer. hence to repose your trust in me was wise, whose interest most in your advancement lies. a tie so firm as always will avail, when friendship, nature, and religion fail; on ours the safety of the crowd depends; secure the crowd, and we obtain our ends, whom i will cause so far our guilt to share, till they are made our champions by their fear. what opposition can your rival bring, while sanhedrims are jealous of the king? his strength as yet in david's friendship lies, and what can david's self without supplies? who with exclusive bills must now dispense, debar the heir, or starve in his defence. conditions which our elders ne'er will quit, and david's justice never can admit. or forced by wants his brother to betray, to your ambition next he clears the way; for if succession once to nought they bring, their next advance removes the present king: persisting else his senates to dissolve, in equal hazard shall his reign involve. our tribes, whom pharaoh's power so much alarms, shall rise without their prince to oppose his arms; nor boots it on what cause at first they join, their troops, once up, are tools for our design. at least such subtle covenants shall be made, till peace itself is war in masquerade. associations of mysterious sense, against, but seeming for, the king's defence: even on their courts of justice fetters draw, and from our agents muzzle up their law. by which a conquest if we fail to make, 'tis a drawn game at worst, and we secure our stake. he said, and for the dire success depends on various sects, by common guilt made friends. whose heads, though ne'er so differing in their creed, i' th' point of treason yet were well agreed. 'mongst these, extorting ishban first appears, pursued by a meagre troop of bankrupt heirs. blest times when ishban, he whose occupation so long has been to cheat, reforms the nation! ishban of conscience suited to his trade, as good a saint as usurer ever made. yet mammon has not so engross'd him quite, but belial lays as large a claim of spite; who, for those pardons from his prince he draws, returns reproaches, and cries up the cause. that year in which the city he did sway, he left rebellion in a hopeful way, yet his ambition once was found so bold, to offer talents of extorted gold; could david's wants have so been bribed, to shame and scandalize our peerage with his name; for which, his dear sedition he'd forswear, and e'en turn loyal to be made a peer. next him, let railing rabsheka have place, so full of zeal he has no need of grace; a saint that can both flesh and spirit use, alike haunt conventicles and the stews: of whom the question difficult appears, if most i' th' preacher's or the bawd's arrears. what caution could appear too much in him that keeps the treasure of jerusalem! let david's brother but approach the town, double our guards, he cries, we are undone. protesting that he dares not sleep in 's bed lest he should rise next morn without his head. next[ ] these, a troop of busy spirits press, of little fortunes, and of conscience less; with them the tribe, whose luxury had drain'd their banks, in former sequestrations gain'd; who rich and great by past rebellions grew, and long to fish the troubled streams anew. some future hopes, some present payment draws, to sell their conscience and espouse the cause. such stipends those vile hirelings best befit, priests without grace, and poets without wit. shall that false hebronite escape our curse, judas, that keeps the rebels' pension-purse; judas, that pays the treason-writer's fee, judas, that well deserves his namesake's tree; who at jerusalem's own gates erects his college for a nursery of sects; young prophets with an early care secures, and with the dung of his own arts manures! what have the men of hebron here to do? what part in israel's promised land have you? here phaleg the lay-hebronite is come, 'cause like the rest he could not live at home; who from his own possessions could not drain an omer even of hebronitish grain; here struts it like a patriot, and talks high of injured subjects, alter'd property: an emblem of that buzzing insect just, that mounts the wheel, and thinks she raises dust. can dry bones live? or skeletons produce the vital warmth of cuckoldising juice? slim phaleg could, and at the table fed, return'd the grateful product to the bed. a waiting-man to travelling nobles chose, he his own laws would saucily impose, till bastinadoed back again he went, to learn those manners he to teach was sent. chastised he ought to have retreated home, but he reads politics to absalom. for never hebronite, though kick'd and scorn'd, to his own country willingly return'd. --but leaving famish'd phaleg to be fed, and to talk treason for his daily bread, let hebron, nay let hell, produce a man so made for mischief as ben-jochanan. a jew of humble parentage was he, by trade a levite, though of low degree: his pride no higher than the desk aspired, but for the drudgery of priests was hired to read and pray in linen ephod brave, and pick up single shekels from the grave. married at last, but finding charge come faster, he could not live by god, but changed his master: inspired by want, was made a factious tool, they got a villain, and we lost a fool. still violent, whatever cause he took, but most against the party he forsook; for renegadoes, who ne'er turn by halves, are bound in conscience to be double knaves. so this prose-prophet took most monstrous pains to let his masters see he earn'd his gains. but, as the devil owes all his imps a shame, he chose the apostate for his proper theme; with little pains he made the picture true, and from reflection took the rogue he drew. a wondrous work, to prove the jewish nation in every age a murmuring generation; to trace them from their infancy of sinning, and show them factious from their first beginning. to prove they could rebel, and rail, and mock, much to the credit of the chosen flock; a strong authority which must convince, that saints own no allegiance to their prince; as 'tis a leading-card to make a whore, to prove her mother had turn'd up before. but, tell me, did the drunken patriarch bless the son that show'd his father's nakedness? such thanks the present church thy pen will give, which proves rebellion was so primitive. must ancient failings be examples made? then murderers from cain may learn their trade. as thou the heathen and the saint hast drawn, methinks the apostate was the better man: and thy hot father, waving my respect, not of a mother-church but of a sect. and such he needs must be of thy inditing; this comes of drinking asses' milk and writing. if balak should be call'd to leave his place, as profit is the loudest call of grace, his temple, dispossess'd of one, would be replenished with seven devils more by thee. levi, thou art a load, i'll lay thee down, and show rebellion bare, without a gown; poor slaves in metre, dull and addle-pated, who rhyme below even david's psalms translated; some in my speedy pace i must outrun, as lame mephibosheth the wizard's son: to make quick way i'll leap o'er heavy blocks, shun rotten uzza, as i would the pox; and hasten og and doeg to rehearse, two fools that crutch their feeble sense on verse: who, by my muse, to all succeeding times shall live in spite of their own doggrel rhymes. doeg, though without knowing how or why, made still a blundering kind of melody; spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin, through sense and nonsense, never out nor in; free from all meaning, whether good or bad, and, in one word, heroically mad: he was too warm on picking-work to dwell, but fagoted his notions as they fell, and if they rhymed and rattled, all was well. spiteful he is not, though he wrote a satire, for still there goes some thinking to ill-nature: he needs no more than birds and beasts to think, all his occasions are to eat and drink. if he call rogue and rascal from a garret, he means you no more mischief than a parrot; the words for friend and foe alike were made, to fetter them in verse is all his trade. for almonds he'll cry whore to his own mother: and call young absalom king david's brother. let him be gallows-free by my consent, and nothing suffer, since he nothing meant. hanging supposes human soul and reason-- this animal's below committing treason: shall he be hang'd who never could rebel? that's a preferment for achitophel. the woman....... was rightly sentenced by the law to die; but 'twas hard fate that to the gallows led the dog that never heard the statute read. railing in other men may be a crime, but ought to pass for mere instinct in him: instinct he follows, and no further knows, for to write verse with him is to transpose. 'twere pity treason at his door to lay, _who makes heaven's gate a lock to its own key_:[ ] let him rail on, let his invective muse have four and twenty letters to abuse, which, if he jumbles to one line of sense, indict him of a capital offence. in fireworks give him leave to vent his spite-- those are the only serpents he can write; the height of his ambition is, we know, but to be master of a puppet-show; on that one stage his works may yet appear, and a month's harvest keeps him all the year. now stop your noses, readers, all and some, for here's a tun of midnight work to come; og, from a treason-tavern rolling home, round as a globe, and liquor'd every chink, goodly and great he sails behind his link; with all this bulk there's nothing lost in og, for every inch that is not fool is rogue: a monstrous mass of foul corrupted matter, as all the devils had spued to make the batter. when wine has given him courage to blaspheme, he curses god, but god before cursed him; and if man could have reason, none has more, that made his paunch so rich, and him so poor. with wealth he was not trusted, for heaven knew what 'twas of old to pamper up a jew; to what would he on quail and pheasant swell, that even on tripe and carrion could rebel? but though heaven made him poor (with reverence speaking), he never was a poet of god's making; the midwife laid her hand on his thick skull, with this prophetic blessing--be thou dull; drink, swear, and roar, forbear no lewd delight fit for thy bulk--do anything but write: thou art of lasting make, like thoughtless men, a strong nativity--but for the pen! eat opium, mingle arsenic in thy drink, still thou mayst live, avoiding pen and ink. i see, i see, 'tis counsel given in vain, for treason botch'd in rhyme will be thy bane; rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck, 'tis fatal to thy fame and to thy neck: why should thy metre good king david blast? a psalm of his will surely be thy last. dar'st thou presume in verse to meet thy foes, thou whom the penny pamphlet foil'd in prose? doeg, whom god for mankind's mirth has made, o'ertops thy talent in thy very trade; doeg to thee, thy paintings are so coarse, a poet is, though he's the poet's horse. a double noose thou on thy neck dost pull, for writing treason, and for writing dull; to die for faction is a common evil, but to be hang'd for nonsense is the devil: hadst thou the glories of thy king express'd, thy praises had been satire at the best; but thou in clumsy verse, unlick'd, unpointed, hast shamefully defied the lord's anointed: i will not rake the dunghill for thy crimes, for who would read thy life that reads thy rhymes? but of king david's foes, be this the doom, may all be like the young man absalom; and, for my foes, may this their blessing be, to talk like doeg, and to write like thee! achitophel, each rank, degree, and age, for various ends neglects not to engage; the wise and rich, for purse and counsel brought, the fools and beggars, for their number sought: who yet not only on the town depends, for even in court the faction had its friends; these thought the places they possess'd too small, and in their hearts wish'd court and king to fall: whose names the muse disdaining, holds i' the dark, thrust in the villain herd without a mark; with parasites and libel-spawning imps, intriguing fops, dull jesters, and worse pimps. disdain the rascal rabble to pursue, their set cabals are yet a viler crew: see where, involved in common smoke, they sit; some for our mirth, some for our satire fit: these, gloomy, thoughtful, and on mischief bent, while those, for mere good-fellowship, frequent the appointed club, can let sedition pass, sense, nonsense, anything to employ the glass; and who believe, in their dull honest hearts, the rest talk reason but to show their parts; who ne'er had wit or will for mischief yet, but pleased to be reputed of a set. but in the sacred annals of our plot, industrious arod never be forgot: the labours of this midnight-magistrate, may vie with corah's to preserve the state. in search of arms, he fail'd not to lay hold on war's most powerful, dangerous weapon--gold. and last, to take from jebusites all odds, their altars pillaged, stole their very gods; oft would he cry, when treasure he surprised, 'tis baalish gold in david's coin disguised; which to his house with richer relics came, while lumber idols only fed the flame: for our wise rabble ne'er took pains to inquire, what 'twas he burnt, so 't made a rousing fire. with which our elder was enrich'd no more than false gehazi with the syrian's store; so poor, that when our choosing-tribes were met, even for his stinking votes he ran in debt; for meat the wicked, and, as authors think, the saints he choused for his electing drink; thus every shift and subtle method past, and all to be no zaken at the last. now, raised on tyre's sad ruins, pharaoh's pride soar'd high, his legions threatening far and wide; as when a battering storm engender'd high, by winds upheld, hangs hovering in the sky, is gazed upon by every trembling swain-- this for his vineyard fears, and that, his grain; for blooming plants, and flowers new opening these, for lambs yean'd lately, and far-labouring bees: to guard his stock each to the gods does call, uncertain where the fire-charged clouds will fall: even so the doubtful nations watch his arms, with terror each expecting his alarms. where, judah! where was now thy lion's roar? thou only couldst the captive lands restore; but thou, with inbred broils and faction press'd, from egypt needst a guardian with the rest. thy prince from sanhedrims no trust allow'd, too much the representers of the crowd, who for their own defence give no supply, but what the crown's prerogatives must buy: as if their monarch's rights to violate more needful were, than to preserve the state! from present dangers they divert their care, and all their fears are of the royal heir; whom now the reigning malice of his foes unjudged would sentence, and e'er crown'd depose. religion the pretence, but their decree to bar his reign, whate'er his faith shall be! by sanhedrims and clamorous crowds thus press'd, what passions rent the righteous david's breast! who knows not how to oppose or to comply-- unjust to grant, or dangerous to deny! how near, in this dark juncture, israel's fate, whose peace one sole expedient could create, which yet the extremest virtue did require, even of that prince whose downfall they conspire! his absence david does with tears advise, to appease their rage. undaunted he complies. thus he, who, prodigal of blood and ease, a royal life exposed to winds and seas, at once contending with the waves and fire, and heading danger in the wars of tyre, inglorious now forsakes his native sand, and like an exile quits the promised land! our monarch scarce from pressing tears refrains, and painfully his royal state maintains, who now, embracing on the extremest shore, almost revokes what he enjoin'd before: concludes at last more trust to be allow'd to storms and seas than to the raging crowd! forbear, rash muse! the parting scene to draw, with silence charm'd as deep as theirs that saw! not only our attending nobles weep, but hardy sailors swell with tears the deep! the tide restrain'd her course, and more amazed, the twin-stars on the royal brothers gazed: while this sole fear-- does trouble to our suffering hero bring, lest next the popular rage oppress the king! thus parting, each for the other's danger grieved, the shore the king, and seas the prince received. go, injured hero! while propitious gales, soft as thy consort's breath, inspire thy sails; well may she trust her beauties on a flood, where thy triumphant fleets so oft have rode! safe on thy breast reclined, her rest be deep, rock'd like a nereid by the waves asleep; while happiest dreams her fancy entertain, and to elysian fields convert the main! go, injured hero! while the shores of tyre at thy approach so silent shall admire, who on thy thunder still their thoughts employ, and greet thy landing with a trembling joy! on heroes thus the prophet's fate is thrown, admired by every nation but their own; yet while our factious jews his worth deny, their aching conscience gives their tongue the lie. even in the worst of men the noblest parts confess him, and he triumphs in their hearts, whom to his king the best respects commend of subject, soldier, kinsman, prince, and friend; all sacred names of most divine esteem, and to perfection all sustain'd by him; wise, just, and constant, courtly without art, swift to discern and to reward desert; no hour of his in fruitless ease destroy'd, but on the noblest subjects still employ'd: whose steady soul ne'er learn'd to separate between his monarch's interest and the state; but heaps those blessings on the royal head, which he well knows must be on subjects shed. on what pretence could then the vulgar rage against his worth and native rights engage? religious fears their argument are made-- religious fears his sacred rights invade! of future superstition they complain, and jebusitic worship in his reign: with such alarms his foes the crowd deceive, with dangers fright, which not themselves believe. since nothing can our sacred rites remove, whate'er the faith of the successor prove: our jews their ark shall undisturb'd retain, at least while their religion is their gain, who know by old experience baal's commands not only claim'd their conscience, but their lands; they grudge god's tithes, how therefore shall they yield an idol full possession of the field? grant such a prince enthroned, we must confess the people's sufferings than that monarch's less, who must to hard conditions still be bound, and for his quiet with the crowd compound; or should his thoughts to tyranny incline, where are the means to compass the design? our crown's revenues are too short a store, and jealous sanhedrims would give no more. as vain our fears of egypt's potent aid, not so has pharaoh learn'd ambition's trade, nor ever with such measures can comply, as shock the common rules of policy; none dread like him the growth of israel's king, and he alone sufficient aids can bring; who knows that prince to egypt can give law, that on our stubborn tribes his yoke could draw: at such profound expense he has not stood, nor dyed for this his hands so deep in blood; would ne'er through wrong and right his progress take, grudge his own rest, and keep the world awake, to fix a lawless prince on judah's throne, first to invade our rights, and then his own; his dear-gain'd conquests cheaply to despoil, and reap the harvest of his crimes and toil. we grant his wealth vast as our ocean's sand, and curse its fatal influence on our land, which our bribed jews so numerously partake, that even an host his pensioners would make. from these deceivers our divisions spring, our weakness, and the growth of egypt's king; these, with pretended friendship to the state, our crowds' suspicion of their prince create; both pleased and frighten'd with the specious cry, to guard their sacred rites and property. to ruin thus the chosen flock are sold, while wolves are ta'en for guardians of the fold; seduced by these, we groundlessly complain, and loathe the manna of a gentle reign: thus our forefathers' crooked paths are trod-- we trust our prince no more than they their god. but all in vain our reasoning prophets preach, to those whom sad experience ne'er could teach, who can commence new broils in bleeding scars, and fresh remembrance of intestine wars; when the same household mortal foes did yield, and brothers stain'd with brothers' blood the field; when sons' cursed steel the fathers' gore did stain, and mothers mourn'd for sons by fathers slain! when thick as egypt's locusts on the sand, our tribes lay slaughter'd through the promised land, whose few survivors with worse fate remain, to drag the bondage of a tyrant's reign: which scene of woes, unknowing we renew, and madly, even those ills we fear, pursue; while pharaoh laughs at our domestic broils, and safely crowds his tents with nations' spoils. yet our fierce sanhedrim, in restless rage, against our absent hero still engage, and chiefly urge, such did their frenzy prove, the only suit their prince forbids to move, which, till obtain'd, they cease affairs of state, and real dangers waive for groundless hate. long david's patience waits relief to bring, with all the indulgence of a lawful king, expecting still the troubled waves would cease, but found the raging billows still increase. the crowd, whose insolence forbearance swells, while he forgives too far, almost rebels. at last his deep resentments silence broke, the imperial palace shook, while thus he spoke-- then justice wait, and rigour take her time, for lo! our mercy is become our crime: while halting punishment her stroke delays, our sovereign right, heaven's sacred trust, decays! for whose support even subjects' interest calls, woe to that kingdom where the monarch falls! that prince who yields the least of regal sway, so far his people's freedom does betray. right lives by law, and law subsists by power; disarm the shepherd, wolves the flock devour. hard lot of empire o'er a stubborn race, which heaven itself in vain has tried with grace! when will our reason's long-charm'd eyes unclose, and israel judge between her friends and foes? when shall we see expired deceivers' sway, and credit what our god and monarchs say? dissembled patriots, bribed with egypt's gold, even sanhedrims in blind obedience hold; those patriots falsehood in their actions see, and judge by the pernicious fruit the tree. if aught for which so loudly they declaim, religion, laws, and freedom, were their aim, our senates in due methods they had led, to avoid those mischiefs which they seem'd to dread: but first, e'er yet they propp'd the sinking state, to impeach and charge, as urged by private hate, proves that they ne'er believed the fears they press'd, but barbarously destroy'd the nation's rest! oh! whither will ungovern'd senates drive, and to what bounds licentious votes arrive? when their injustice we are press'd to share, the monarch urged to exclude the lawful heir; are princes thus distinguish'd from the crowd, and this the privilege of royal blood? but grant we should confirm the wrongs they press, his sufferings yet were than the people's less; condemn'd for life the murdering sword to wield, and on their heirs entail a bloody field. thus madly their own freedom they betray, and for the oppression which they fear make way; succession fix'd by heaven, the kingdom's bar, which once dissolved, admits the flood of war; waste, rapine, spoil, without the assault begin, and our mad tribes supplant the fence within. since then their good they will not understand, 'tis time to take the monarch's power in hand; authority and force to join with skill, and save the lunatics against their will. the same rough means that 'suage the crowd, appease our senates raging with the crowd's disease. henceforth unbiass'd measures let them draw from no false gloss, but genuine text of law; nor urge those crimes upon religion's score, themselves so much in jebusites abhor. whom laws convict, and only they, shall bleed, nor pharisees by pharisees be freed. impartial justice from our throne shall shower, all shall have right, and we our sovereign power. he said, the attendants heard with awful joy, and glad presages their fix'd thoughts employ; from hebron now the suffering heir return'd, a realm that long with civil discord mourn'd; till his approach, like some arriving god, composed and heal'd the place of his abode; the deluge check'd that to judea spread, and stopp'd sedition at the fountain's head. thus, in forgiving, david's paths he drives, and, chased from israel, israel's peace contrives. the field confess'd his power in arms before, and seas proclaim'd his triumphs to the shore; as nobly has his sway in hebron shown, how fit to inherit godlike david's throne. through sion's streets his glad arrival's spread, and conscious faction shrinks her snaky head; his train their sufferings think o'erpaid to see the crowd's applause with virtue once agree. success charms all, but zeal for worth distress'd, a virtue proper to the brave and best; 'mongst whom was jothran--jothran always bent to serve the crown, and loyal by descent; whose constancy so firm, and conduct just, deserved at once two royal masters' trust; who tyre's proud arms had manfully withstood on seas, and gather'd laurels from the flood; of learning yet no portion was denied, friend to the muses and the muses' pride. nor can benaiah's worth forgotten lie, of steady soul when public storms were high; whose conduct, while the moor fierce onsets made, secured at once our honour and our trade. such were the chiefs who most his sufferings mourn'd, and view'd with silent joy the prince return'd; while those that sought his absence to betray, press first their nauseous false respects to pay; him still the officious hypocrites molest, and with malicious duty break his rest. while real transports thus his friends employ, and foes are loud in their dissembled joy, his triumphs, so resounded far and near, miss'd not his young ambitious rival's ear; and as when joyful hunters' clamorous train, some slumbering lion wakes in moab's plain, who oft had forced the bold assailants yield, and scatter'd his pursuers through the field, disdaining, furls his mane and tears the ground, his eyes inflaming all the desert round, with roar of seas directs his chasers' way, provokes from far, and dares them to the fray: such rage storm'd now in absalom's fierce breast, such indignation his fired eyes confess'd. where now was the instructor of his pride? slept the old pilot in so rough a tide, whose wiles had from the happy shore betray'd, and thus on shelves the credulous youth convey'd? in deep revolving thoughts he weighs his state, secure of craft, nor doubts to baffle fate; at least, if his storm'd bark must go adrift, to balk his charge, and for himself to shift, in which his dexterous wit had oft been shown, and in the wreck of kingdoms saved his own. but now, with more than common danger press'd, of various resolutions stands possess'd, perceives the crowd's unstable zeal decay lest their recanting chief the cause betray, who on a father's grace his hopes may ground, and for his pardon with their heads compound. him therefore, e'er his fortune slip her time. the statesman plots to engage in some bold crime past pardon--whether to attempt his bed, or threat with open arms the royal head, or other daring method, and unjust, that may confirm him in the people's trust. but failing thus to ensnare him, nor secure how long his foil'd ambition may endure, plots next to lay him by as past his date, and try some new pretender's luckier fate; whose hopes with equal toil he would pursue, nor care what claimer's crown'd, except the true. wake, absalom! approaching ruin shun, and see, o see, for whom thou art undone! how are thy honours and thy fame betray'd, the property of desperate villains made! lost power and conscious fears their crimes create, and guilt in them was little less than fate; but why shouldst thou, from every grievance free, forsake thy vineyards for their stormy sea? for thee did canaan's milk and honey flow, love dress'd thy bowers, and laurels sought thy brow; preferment, wealth, and power thy vassals were, and of a monarch all things but the care. oh! should our crimes again that curse draw down, and rebel-arms once more attempt the crown, sure ruin waits unhappy absalom, alike by conquest or defeat undone. who could relentless see such youth and charms expire with wretched fate in impious arms? a prince so form'd, with earth's and heaven's applause, to triumph o'er crown'd heads in david's cause: or grant him victor, still his hopes must fail, who, conquering, would not for himself prevail; the faction whom he trusts for future sway, him and the public would alike betray; amongst themselves divide the captive state, and found their hydra-empire in his fate! thus having beat the clouds with painful flight, the pitied youth, with sceptres in his sight (so have their cruel politics decreed), must by that crew, that made him guilty, bleed! for, could their pride brook any prince's sway, whom but mild david would they choose to obey? who once at such a gentle reign repine, the fall of monarchy itself design: from hate to that their reformations spring, and david not their grievance, but the king. seized now with panic fear the faction lies, lest this clear truth strike absalom's charm'd eyes, lest he perceive, from long enchantment free, what all beside the flatter'd youth must see: but whate'er doubts his troubled bosom swell, fair carriage still became achitophel, who now an envious festival installs, and to survey their strength the faction calls,-- which fraud, religious worship too must gild. but oh! how weakly does sedition build! for lo! the royal mandate issues forth, dashing at once their treason, zeal, and mirth! so have i seen disastrous chance invade, where careful emmets had their forage laid, whether fierce vulcan's rage the furzy plain had seized, engender'd by some careless swain; or swelling neptune lawless inroads made, and to their cell of store his flood convey'd; the commonwealth broke up, distracted go, and in wild haste their loaded mates o'erthrow: even so our scatter'd guests confusedly meet, with boil'd, baked, roast, all justling in the street; dejecting all, and ruefully dismay'd, for shekel without treat or treason paid. sedition's dark eclipse now fainter shows, more bright each hour the royal planet grows, of force the clouds of envy to disperse, in kind conjunction of assisting stars. here, labouring muse! those glorious chiefs relate, that turn'd the doubtful scale of david's fate; the rest of that illustrious band rehearse, immortalized in laurell'd asaph's verse: hard task! yet will not i thy flight recall, view heaven, and then enjoy thy glorious fall. first write bezaliel, whose illustrious name forestalls our praise, and gives his poet fame. the kenites' rocky province his command, a barren limb of fertile canaan's land; which for its generous natives yet could be held worthy such a president as he. bezaliel, with each grace and virtue fraught, serene his looks, serene his life and thought; on whom so largely nature heap'd her store, there scarce remain'd for arts to give him more! to aid the crown and state his greatest zeal, his second care that service to conceal; of dues observant, firm to every trust, and to the needy always more than just; who truth from specious falsehood can divide, has all the gownsmen's skill without their pride. thus crown'd with worth, from heights of honour won, sees all his glories copied in his son, whose forward fame should every muse engage-- whose youth boasts skill denied to others' age. men, manners, language, books of noblest kind, already are the conquest of his mind; whose loyalty before its date was prime, nor waited the dull course of rolling time: the monster faction early he dismay'd, and david's cause long since confess'd his aid. brave abdael o'er the prophet's school was placed-- abdael with all his father's virtue graced; a hero who, while stars look'd wondering down, without one hebrew's blood restored the crown. that praise was his; what therefore did remain for following chiefs, but boldly to maintain that crown restored? and in this rank of fame, brave abdael with the first a place must claim. proceed, illustrious, happy chief! proceed, foreseize the garlands for thy brow decreed, while the inspired tribe attend with noblest strain to register the glories thou shalt gain: for sure the dew shall gilboa's hills forsake, and jordan mix his stream with sodom's lake; or seas retired, their secret stores disclose, and to the sun their scaly brood expose, or swell'd above the cliffs their billows raise, before the muses leave their patron's praise. eliab our next labour does invite, and hard the task to do eliab right. long with the royal wanderer he roved, and firm in all the turns of fortune proved. such ancient service and desert so large well claim'd the royal household for his charge. his age with only one mild heiress bless'd, in all the bloom of smiling nature dress'd, and bless'd again to see his flower allied to david's stock, and made young othniel's bride. the bright restorer of his father's youth, devoted to a son's and subject's truth; resolved to bear that prize of duty home, so bravely sought, while sought by absalom. ah, prince! the illustrious planet of thy birth, and thy more powerful virtue, guard thy worth! that no achitophel thy ruin boast; israel too much in one such wreck has lost. even envy must consent to helon's worth, whose soul, though egypt glories in his birth, could for our captive-ark its zeal retain. and pharaoh's altars in their pomp disdain: to slight his gods was small; with nobler pride, he all the allurements of his court defied; whom profit nor example could betray, but israel's friend, and true to david's sway. what acts of favour in his province fall on merit he confers, and freely all. our list of nobles next let amri grace, whose merits claim'd the abethdin's high place; who, with a loyalty that did excel, brought all the endowments of achitophel. sincere was amri, and not only knew, but israel's sanctions into practice drew; our laws, that did a boundless ocean seem, were coasted all, and fathom'd all by him. no rabbin speaks like him their mystic sense, so just, and with such charms of eloquence: to whom the double blessing does belong, with moses' inspiration, aaron's tongue. than sheva none more loyal zeal have shown, wakeful as judah's lion for the crown; who for that cause still combats in his age, for which his youth with danger did engage. in vain our factious priests the cant revive; in vain seditious scribes with libel strive to inflame the crowd; while he with watchful eye observes, and shoots their treasons as they fly; their weekly frauds his keen replies detect; he undeceives more fast than they infect: so moses, when the pest on legions prey'd, advanced his signal, and the plague was stay'd. once more, my fainting muse! thy pinions try, and strength's exhausted store let love supply. what tribute, asaph, shall we render thee? we'll crown thee with a wreath from thy own tree! thy laurel grove no envy's flash can blast; the song of asaph shall for ever last. with wonder late posterity shall dwell on absalom and false achitophel: thy strains shall be our slumbering prophets' dream, and when our sion virgins sing their theme; our jubilees shall with thy verse be graced, the song of asaph shall for ever last. how fierce his satire loosed! restrain'd, how tame! how tender of the offending young man's fame! how well his worth, and brave adventures styled, just to his virtues, to his error mild! no page of thine that fears the strictest view, but teems with just reproof, or praise as due; not eden could a fairer prospect yield, all paradise without one barren field: whose wit the censure of his foes has pass'd-- the song of asaph shall for ever last. what praise for such rich strains shall we allow? what just rewards the grateful crown bestow? while bees in flowers rejoice, and flowers in dew, while stars and fountains to their course are true; while judah's throne, and sion's rock stand fast, the song of asaph and the fame shall last! still hebron's honour'd, happy soil retains our royal hero's beauteous, dear remains; who now sails off with winds nor wishes slack, to bring his sufferings' bright companion back. but e'er such transport can our sense employ, a bitter grief must poison half our joy; nor can our coasts restored those blessings see without a bribe to envious destiny! cursed sodom's doom for ever fix the tide where by inglorious chance the valiant died! give not insulting askelon to know, nor let gath's daughters triumph in our woe; no sailor with the news swell egypt's pride, by what inglorious fate our valiant died. weep, arnon! jordan, weep thy fountains dry! while sion's rock dissolves for a supply. calm were the elements, night's silence deep, the waves scarce murmuring, and the winds asleep; yet fate for ruin takes so still an hour, and treacherous sands the princely bark devour; then death unworthy seized a generous race, to virtue's scandal, and the stars' disgrace! oh! had the indulgent powers vouchsafed to yield, instead of faithless shelves, a listed field; a listed field of heaven's and david's foes, fierce as the troops that did his youth oppose, each life had on his slaughter'd heap retired, not tamely, and unconquering, thus expired: but destiny is now their only foe, and dying, even o'er that they triumph too; with loud last breaths their master's 'scape applaud, of whom kind force could scarce the fates defraud; who for such followers lost, o matchless mind! at his own safety now almost repined! say, royal sir! by all your fame in arms, your praise in peace, and by urania's charms, if all your sufferings past so nearly press'd, or pierced with half so painful grief your breast? thus some diviner muse her hero forms, not soothed with soft delights, but toss'd in storms; nor stretch'd on roses in the myrtle grove, nor crowns his days with mirth, his nights with love, but far removed in thundering camps is found, his slumbers short, his bed the herbless ground. in tasks of danger always seen the first, feeds from the hedge, and slakes with ice his thirst, long must his patience strive with fortune's rage, and long-opposing gods themselves engage; must see his country flame, his friends destroy'd, before the promised empire be enjoy'd. such toil of fate must build a man of fame, and such, to israel's crown, the godlike david came. what sudden beams dispel the clouds so fast, whose drenching rains laid all our vineyards waste? the spring, so far behind her course delay'd, on the instant is in all her bloom array'd; the winds breathe low, the element serene; yet mark what motion in the waves is seen! thronging and busy as hyblaean swarms, or straggled soldiers summon'd to their arms, see where the princely bark in loosest pride, with all her guardian fleet, adorns the tide! high on her deck the royal lovers stand, our crimes to pardon, e'er they touch'd our land. welcome to israel and to david's breast! here all your toils, here all your sufferings rest. this year did ziloah rule jerusalem, and boldly all sedition's surges stem, howe'er encumber'd with a viler pair than ziph or shimei to assist the chair; yet ziloah's loyal labours so prevail'd, that faction at the next election fail'd, when even the common cry did justice found, and merit by the multitude was crown'd: with david then was israel's peace restored, crowds mourn'd their error, and obey'd their lord. * * * * * a key to both parts of absalom and achitophel. _aldael_--general monk, duke of albemarle. _abethdin_--the name given, through this poem, to a lord-chancellor in general. _absalom_--duke of monmouth, natural son of king charles ii. _achitophel_--anthony ashley cooper, earl of shaftesbury. _adriel_--john sheffield, earl of mulgrave. _agag_--sir edmundbury godfrey. _amiel_--mr seymour, speaker of the house of commons. _amri_--sir heneage finch, earl of winchelsea, and lord chancellor. _annabel_--duchess of monmouth. _arod_--sir william waller. _asaph_--a character drawn by tate for dryden, in the second part of this poem. _balaam_--earl of huntingdon. _balak_--barnet. _barzillai_--duke of ormond. _bathsheba_--duchess of portsmouth. _benaiah_--general sackville. _ben jochanan_--rev. samuel johnson. _bezaliel_--duke of beaufort. _caleb_--ford, lord grey of werk. _corah_--dr titus oates. _david_--king charles ii. _doeg_--elkanah settle, the city poet. _egypt_--france. _eliab_--sir henry bennet, earl of arlington. _ethnic-plot_--the popish plot. _gath_--the land of exile, more particularly brussels, where king charles ii. long resided. _hebrew priests_--the church of england clergy. _hebron_--scotland. _helon_--earl of feversham, a frenchman by birth, and nephew to marshal turenne. _hushai_--hyde, earl of rochester. _ishban_--sir robert clayton, alderman, and one of the city members. _ishbosheth_--richard cromwell. _israel_--england. _issachar_--thomas thynne, esq., who was shot in his coach. _jebusites_--papists. _jerusalem_--london. _jews_--english. _jonas_--sir william jones, a great lawyer. _jordan_--dover. _jotham_--saville, marquis of halifax. _jothram_--lord dartmouth. _judas_--mr ferguson, a canting teacher. _mephibosheth_--pordage. _michal_--queen catharine. _nadab_--lord howard of escrick. _og_--shadwell. _othniel_--henry, duke of grafton, natural son of king charles ii. by the duchess of cleveland. _phaleg_--forbes. _pharaoh_--king of france. _rabsheka_--sir thomas player, one of the city members. _sagan of jerusalem_--dr compton, bishop of london, youngest son to the earl of northampton. _sanhedrim_--parliament. _saul_--oliver cromwell. _sheva_--sir roger lestrange. _shimei_--slingsby bethel, sheriff of london in . _sion_--england. _solymaean rout_--london rebels. _tyre_--holland. _uzza_--jack hall. _zadoc_--sancroft, archbishop of canterbury. _zaken_--a member of the house of commons. _ziloah_--sir john moor, lord mayor in . _zimri_--villiers, duke of buckingham. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'annabel:' lady ann scott, daughter of francis, third earl of buccleuch.] [footnote : 'adam-wits:' comparing the discontented to adam and his fall.] [footnote : 'triple bond:' alliance between england, sweden, and holland; broken by the second dutch war through the influence of france and shaftesbury.] [footnote : 'vare:' _i.e._, wand, from spanish _vara_.] [footnote : 'him:' dr dolben, bishop of rochester.] [footnote : 'ruler of the day:' phaeton.] [footnote : the second part was written by mr nahum tate, and is by no means equal to the first, though dryden corrected it throughout. the poem is here printed complete.] [footnote : 'next:' from this to the line, 'to talk like doeg, and to write like thee,' is dryden's own.] [footnote : 'who makes,' &c.: a line quoted from settle.] * * * * * the medal.[ ] a satire against sedition. epistle to the whigs. for to whom can i dedicate this poem with so much justice as to you? it is the representation of your own hero: it is the picture drawn at length, which you admire and prize so much in little. none of your ornaments are wanting; neither the landscape of your tower, nor the rising sun; nor the anno domini of your new sovereign's coronation. this must needs be a grateful undertaking to your whole party; especially to those who have not been so happy as to purchase the original. i hear the graver has made a good market of it: all his kings are bought up already; or the value of the remainder so enhanced, that many a poor polander, who would be glad to worship the image, is not able to go to the cost of him, but must be content to see him here. i must confess i am no great artist; but sign-post painting will serve the turn to remember a friend by, especially when better is not to be had. yet, for your comfort, the lineaments are true; and though he sat not five times to me, as he did to b., yet i have consulted history, as the italian painters do when they would draw a nero or a caligula: though they have not seen the man, they can help their imagination by a statue of him, and find out the colouring from suetonius and tacitus. truth is, you might have spared one side of your medal: the head would be seen to more advantage if it were placed on a spike of the tower, a little nearer to the sun, which would then break out to better purpose. you tell us in your preface to the "no-protestant plot",[ ] that you shall be forced hereafter to leave off your modesty: i suppose you mean that little which is left you; for it was worn to rags when you put out this medal. never was there practised such a piece of notorious impudence in the face of an established government. i believe when he is dead you will wear him in thumb rings, as the turks did scanderbeg; as if there were virtue in his bones to preserve you against monarchy. yet all this while you pretend not only zeal for the public good, but a due veneration for the person of the king. but all men who can see an inch before them, may easily detect those gross fallacies. that it is necessary for men in your circumstances to pretend both, is granted you; for without them there could be no ground to raise a faction. but i would ask you one civil question, what right has any man among you, or any association of men (to come nearer to you), who, out of parliament, cannot be considered in a public capacity, to meet as you daily do in factious clubs, to vilify the government in your discourses, and to libel it in all your writings? who made you judges in israel? or how is it consistent with your zeal for the public welfare, to promote sedition? does your definition of loyal, which is to serve the king according to the laws, allow you the licence of traducing the executive power with which you own he is invested? you complain that his majesty has lost the love and confidence of his people; and by your very urging it, you endeavour what in you lies to make him lose them. all good subjects abhor the thought of arbitrary power, whether it be in one or many: if you were the patriots you would seem, you would not at this rate incense the multitude to assume it; for no sober man can fear it, either from the king's disposition or his practice; or even, where you would odiously lay it, from his ministers. give us leave to enjoy the government and the benefit of laws under which we were born, and which we desire to transmit to our posterity. you are not the trustees of the public liberty; and if you have not right to petition in a crowd, much less have you to intermeddle in the management of affairs; or to arraign what you do not like, which in effect is everything that is done by the king and council. can you imagine that any reasonable man will believe you respect the person of his majesty, when it is apparent that your seditious pamphlets are stuffed with particular reflections on him? if you have the confidence to deny this, it is easy to be evinced from a thousand passages, which i only forbear to quote, because i desire they should die and be forgotten. i have perused many of your papers; and to show you that i have, the third part of your "no-protestant plot" is much of it stolen from your dead author's pamphlet, called the "growth of popery;" as manifestly as milton's "defence of the english people" is from buchanan "de jure regni apud scotos:" or your first covenant and new association from the holy league of the french guisards. any one who reads davila, may trace your practices all along. there were the same pretences for reformation and loyalty, the same aspersions of the king, and the same grounds of a rebellion. i know not whether you will take the historian's word, who says it was reported, that poltrot, a huguenot, murdered francis duke of guise, by the instigations of theodore beza; or that it was a huguenot minister, otherwise called a presbyterian (for our church abhors so devilish a tenet), who first writ a treatise of the lawfulness of deposing and murdering kings of a different persuasion in religion: but i am able to prove, from the doctrine of calvin, and principles of buchanan, that they set the people above the magistrate; which, if i mistake not, is your own fundamental, and which carries your loyalty no further than your liking. when a vote of the house of commons goes on your side, you are as ready to observe it as if it were passed into a law; but when you are pinched with any former, and yet unrepealed act of parliament, you declare that in some cases you will not be obliged by it. the passage is in the same third part of the "no-protestant plot," and is too plain to be denied. the late copy of your intended association, you neither wholly justify nor condemn; but as the papists, when they are unopposed, fly out into all the pageantries of worship, but in times of war, when they are hard pressed by arguments, lie close intrenched behind the council of trent: so now, when your affairs are in a low condition, you dare not pretend that to be a legal combination, but whensoever you are afloat, i doubt not but it will be maintained and justified to purpose. for, indeed, there is nothing to defend it but the sword: it is the proper time to say anything when men have all things in their power. in the mean time, you would fain be nibbling at a parallel betwixt this association, and that in the time of queen elizabeth.[ ] but there is this small difference betwixt them, that the ends of one are directly opposite to the other: one with the queen's approbation and conjunction, as head of it; the other, without either the consent or knowledge of the king, against whose authority it is manifestly designed. therefore you do well to have recourse to your last evasion, that it was contrived by your enemies, and shuffled into the papers that were seized; which yet you see the nation is not so easy to believe as your own jury; but the matter is not difficult to find twelve men in newgate who would acquit a malefactor. i have only one favour to desire of you at parting, that when you think of answering this poem, you would employ the same pens against it, who have combated with so much success against absalom and achitophel: for then you may assure yourselves of a clear victory, without the least reply. rail at me abundantly; and, not to break a custom, do it without wit: by this method you will gain a considerable point, which is, wholly to waive the answer of my arguments. never own the bottom of your principles, for fear they should be treason. fall severely on the miscarriages of government; for if scandal be not allowed, you are no freeborn subjects. if god has not blessed you with the talent of rhyming, make use of my poor stock, and welcome: let your verses run upon my feet; and for the utmost refuge of notorious blockheads, reduced to the last extremity of sense, turn my own lines upon me, and, in utter despair of your own satire, make me satirize myself. some of you have been driven to this bay already; but, above all the rest, commend me to the nonconformist parson, who writ the "whip and key." i am afraid it is not read so much as the piece deserves, because the bookseller is every week crying help at the end of his gazette, to get it off. you see i am charitable enough to do him a kindness, that it may be published as well as printed; and that so much skill in hebrew derivations may not lie for waste-paper in the shop. yet i half suspect he went no further for his learning, than the index of hebrew names and etymologies, which is printed at the end of some english bibles. if achitophel signifies the brother of a fool, the author of that poem will pass with his readers for the next of kin. and perhaps it is the relation that makes the kindness. whatever the verses are, buy them up, i beseech you, out of pity; for i hear the conventicle is shut up, and the brother[ ] of achitophel out of service. now, footmen, you know, have the generosity to make a purse for a member of their society, who has had his livery pulled over his ears, and even protestant socks are bought up among you, out of veneration to the name. a dissenter in poetry from sense and english will make as good a protestant rhymer, as a dissenter from the church of england a protestant parson. besides, if you encourage a young beginner, who knows but he may elevate his style a little above the vulgar epithets of profane, and saucy jack, and atheistic scribbler, with which he treats me, when the fit of enthusiasm is strong upon him: by which well-mannered and charitable expressions i was certain of his sect before i knew his name. what would you have more of a man? he has damned me in your cause from genesis to the revelations; and has half the texts of both the testaments against me, if you will be so civil to yourselves as to take him for your interpreter; and not to take them for irish witnesses. after all, perhaps you will tell me, that you retained him only for the opening of your cause, and that your main lawyer is yet behind. now, if it so happen he meet with no more reply than his predecessors, you may either conclude that i trust to the goodness of my cause, or fear my adversary, or disdain him, or what you please; for the short of it is, it is indifferent to your humble servant, whatever your party says or thinks of him. * * * * * of all our antic sights and pageantry, which english idiots run in crowds to see, the polish[ ] medal bears the prize alone: a monster, more the favourite of the town than either fairs or theatres have shown. never did art so well with nature strive; nor ever idol seem'd so much alive: so like the man; so golden to the sight, so base within, so counterfeit and light. one side is fill'd with title and with face; and, lest the king should want a regal place, on the reverse, a tower the town surveys; o'er which our mounting sun his beams displays. the word, pronounced aloud by shrieval voice, laetamur, which, in polish, is rejoice. the day, month, year, to the great act are join'd: and a new canting holiday design'd. five days he sate, for every cast and look-- four more than god to finish adam took. but who can tell what essence angels are, or how long heaven was making lucifer? oh, could the style that copied every grace, and plough'd such furrows for an eunuch face, could it have form'd his ever-changing will, the various piece had tired the graver's skill! a martial hero first, with early care, blown, like a pigmy by the winds, to war. a beardless chief, a rebel, e'er a man: so young his hatred to his prince began. next this (how wildly will ambition steer!) a vermin wriggling in the usurper's ear. bartering his venal wit for sums of gold, he cast himself into the saint-like mould; groan'd, sigh'd, and pray'd, while godliness was gain-- the loudest bagpipe of the squeaking train. but, as 'tis hard to cheat a juggler's eyes, his open lewdness he could ne'er disguise. there split the saint: for hypocritic zeal allows no sins but those it can conceal. whoring to scandal gives too large a scope: saints must not trade; but they may interlope: the ungodly principle was all the same; but a gross cheat betrays his partner's game. besides, their pace was formal, grave, and slack; his nimble wit outran the heavy pack. yet still he found his fortune at a stay: whole droves of blockheads choking up his way; they took, but not rewarded, his advice; villain and wit exact a double price. power was his aim: but, thrown from that pretence, the wretch turn'd loyal in his own defence; and malice reconciled him to his prince. him, in the anguish of his soul he served; rewarded faster still than he deserved. behold him now exalted into trust; his counsel's oft convenient, seldom just. even in the most sincere advice he gave, he had a grudging still to be a knave. the frauds he learn'd in his fanatic years made him uneasy in his lawful gears; at best, as little honest as he could, and, like white witches[ ], mischievously good. to his first bias longingly he leans; and rather would be great by wicked means. thus framed for ill, he loosed our triple hold[ ]; advice unsafe, precipitous, and bold. from hence those tears! that ilium of our woe! who helps a powerful friend, forearms a foe. what wonder if the waves prevail so far, when he cut down the banks that made the bar? seas follow but their nature to invade; but he by art our native strength betray'd. so samson to his foe his force confess'd, and, to be shorn, lay slumbering on her breast. but when this fatal counsel, found too late, exposed its author to the public hate; when his just sovereign, by no impious way could be seduced to arbitrary sway; forsaken of that hope he shifts his sail, drives down the current with a popular gale; and shows the fiend confess'd without a veil. he preaches to the crowd that power is lent, but not convey'd, to kingly government; that claims successive bear no binding force, that coronation oaths are things of course; maintains the multitude can never err, and sets the people in the papal chair. the reason's obvious: interest never lies; the most have still their interest in their eyes; the power is always theirs, and power is ever wise. almighty crowd, thou shortenest all dispute-- power is thy essence; wit thy attribute! nor faith nor reason make thee at a stay, thou leap'st o'er all eternal truths, in thy pindaric way! athens, no doubt, did righteously decide, when phocion and when socrates were tried: as righteously they did those dooms repent; still they were wise whatever way they went. crowds err not, though to both extremes they run; to kill the father, and recall the son. some think the fools were most, as times went then, but now the world's o'erstock'd with prudent men. the common cry is even religion's test-- the turk's is at constantinople best; idols in india; popery at rome; and our own worship only true at home: and true, but for the time 'tis hard to know how long we please it shall continue so. this side to-day, and that to-morrow burns; so all are god almighties in their turns. a tempting doctrine, plausible and new; what fools our fathers were, if this be true! who, to destroy the seeds of civil war, inherent right in monarchs did declare: and, that a lawful power might never cease, secured succession to secure our peace. thus property and sovereign sway, at last, in equal balances were justly cast: but this new jehu spurs the hot-mouth'd horse-- instructs the beast to know his native force; to take the bit between his teeth, and fly to the next headlong steep of anarchy. too happy england, if our good we knew, would we possess the freedom we pursue! the lavish government can give no more: yet we repine, and plenty makes us poor. god tried us once; our rebel-fathers fought, he glutted them with all the power they sought: till, master'd by their own usurping brave, the free-born subject sunk into a slave. we loathe our manna, and we long for quails; ah, what is man when his own wish prevails! how rash, how swift to plunge himself in ill! proud of his power, and boundless in his will! that kings can do no wrong, we must believe; none can they do, and must they all receive? help, heaven! or sadly we shall see an hour, when neither wrong nor right are in their power! already they have lost their best defence-- the benefit of laws which they dispense. no justice to their righteous cause allow'd; but baffled by an arbitrary crowd. and medals graved their conquest to record, the stamp and coin of their adopted lord. the man[ ] who laugh'd but once, to see an ass mumbling make the cross-grain'd thistles pass, might laugh again to see a jury chaw the prickles of unpalatable law. the witnesses, that leech-like lived on blood, sucking for them was medicinally good; but when they fasten'd on their fester'd sore, then justice and religion they forswore, their maiden oaths debauch'd into a whore. thus men are raised by factions, and decried; and rogue and saint distinguish'd by their side. they rack even scripture to confess their cause, and plead a call to preach in spite of laws. but that's no news to the poor injured page; it has been used as ill in every age, and is constrain'd with patience all to take: for what defence can greek and hebrew make? happy who can this talking trumpet seize; they make it speak whatever sense they please: 'twas framed at first our oracle to inquire; but since our sects in prophecy grow higher, the text inspires not them, but they the text inspire. london, thou great emporium of our isle, o thou too bounteous, thou too fruitful nile! how shall i praise or curse to thy desert? or separate thy sound from thy corrupted part? i call thee nile; the parallel will stand; thy tides of wealth o'erflow the fatten'd land; yet monsters from thy large increase we find, engender'd on the slime thou leav'st behind. sedition has not wholly seized on thee, thy nobler parts are from infection free. of israel's tribes thou hast a numerous band, but still the canaanite is in the land. thy military chiefs are brave and true; nor are thy disenchanted burghers few. the head[ ] is loyal which thy heart commands, but what's a head with two such gouty hands? the wise and wealthy love the surest way, and are content to thrive and to obey. but wisdom is to sloth too great a slave; none are so busy as the fool and knave. those let me curse; what vengeance will they urge, whose ordures neither plague nor fire can purge? nor sharp experience can to duty bring, nor angry heaven, nor a forgiving king! in gospel-phrase, their chapmen they betray; their shops are dens, the buyer is their prey. the knack of trades is living on the spoil; they boast even when each other they beguile. customs to steal is such a trivial thing, that 'tis their charter to defraud their king. all hands unite of every jarring sect; they cheat the country first, and then infect. they for god's cause their monarchs dare dethrone, and they'll be sure to make his cause their own. whether the plotting jesuit laid the plan of murdering kings, or the french puritan, our sacrilegious sects their guides outgo, and kings and kingly power would murder too. what means their traitorous combination less, too plain to evade, too shameful to confess! but treason is not own'd when 'tis descried; successful crimes alone are justified. the men, who no conspiracy would find, who doubts, but had it taken, they had join'd, join'd in a mutual covenant of defence; at first without, at last against their prince? if sovereign right by sovereign power they scan, the same bold maxim holds in god and man: god were not safe, his thunder could they shun, he should be forced to crown another son. thus when the heir was from the vineyard thrown, the rich possession was the murderer's own. in vain to sophistry they have recourse: by proving theirs no plot, they prove 'tis worse-- unmask'd rebellion, and audacious force: which, though not actual, yet all eyes may see 'tis working in the immediate power to be. for from pretended grievances they rise, first to dislike, and after to despise; then, cyclop-like, in human flesh to deal, chop up a minister at every meal: perhaps not wholly to melt down the king, but clip his regal rights within the ring. from thence to assume the power of peace and war, and ease him, by degrees, of public care. yet, to consult his dignity and fame, he should have leave to exercise the name, and hold the cards, while commons play'd the game. for what can power give more than food and drink, to live at ease, and not be bound to think? these are the cooler methods of their crime, but their hot zealots think 'tis loss of time; on utmost bounds of loyalty they stand, and grin and whet like a croatian band, that waits impatient for the last command. thus outlaws open villainy maintain, they steal not, but in squadrons scour the plain; and if their power the passengers subdue, the most have right, the wrong is in the few. such impious axioms foolishly they show, for in some soils republics will not grow: our temperate isle will no extremes sustain, of popular sway or arbitrary reign; but slides between them both into the best, secure in freedom, in a monarch blest: and though the climate, vex'd with various winds, works through our yielding bodies on our minds. the wholesome tempest purges what it breeds, to recommend the calmness that succeeds. but thou, the pander of the people's hearts, o crooked soul, and serpentine in arts, whose blandishments a loyal land have whored, and broke the bonds she plighted to her lord; what curses on thy blasted name will fall! which age to age their legacy shall call; for all must curse the woes that must descend on all. religion thou hast none: thy mercury has pass'd through every sect, or theirs through thee. but what thou giv'st, that venom still remains, and the pox'd nation feels thee in their brains. what else inspires the tongues and swells the breasts of all thy bellowing renegado priests, that preach up thee for god, dispense thy laws, and with thy stum ferment their fainting cause? fresh fumes of madness raise; and toil and sweat to make the formidable cripple great. yet, should thy crimes succeed, should lawless power compass those ends thy greedy hopes devour, thy canting friends thy mortal foes would be, thy god and theirs will never long agree; for thine, if thou hast any, must be one that lets the world and human kind alone: a jolly god that passes hours too well to promise heaven, or threaten us with hell; that unconcern'd can at rebellion sit, and wink at crimes he did himself commit. a tyrant theirs; the heaven their priesthood paints a conventicle of gloomy, sullen saints; a heaven like bedlam, slovenly and sad, foredoom'd for souls with false religion mad. without a vision poets can foreshow what all but fools by common sense may know: if true succession from our isle should fail, and crowds profane with impious arms prevail, not thou, nor those thy factious arts engage, shall reap that harvest of rebellious rage, with which thou flatterest thy decrepit age. the swelling poison of the several sects, which, wanting vent, the nation's health infects, shall burst its bag; and, fighting out their way, the various venoms on each other prey. the presbyter, puff'd up with spiritual pride, shall on the necks of the lewd nobles ride: his brethren damn, the civil power defy; and parcel out republic prelacy. but short shall be his reign: his rigid yoke and tyrant power will puny sects provoke; and frogs and toads, and all the tadpole train, will croak to heaven for help, from this devouring crane. the cut-throat sword and clamorous gown shall jar, in sharing their ill-gotten spoils of war: chiefs shall be grudged the part which they pretend; lords envy lords, and friends with every friend about their impious merit shall contend. the surly commons shall respect deny, and justle peerage out with property. their general either shall his trust betray, and force the crowd to arbitrary sway; or they, suspecting his ambitious aim, in hate of kings shall cast anew the frame; and thrust out collatine that bore their name. thus inborn broils the factions would engage, or wars of exiled heirs, or foreign rage, till halting vengeance overtook our age: and our wild labours, wearied into rest, reclined us on a rightful monarch's breast. --"pudet hæc opprobria, vobis et dici potuisse, et non potuisse refelli." * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'the medal:' see 'life.'] [footnote : a pamphlet vindicating lord shaftesbury from being concerned in any plotting designs against the king. wood says, the general report was, that it was written by the earl himself.] [footnote : when england, in the sixteenth century, was supposed in danger from the designs of spain, the principal people, with the queen at their head, entered into an association for the defence of their country, and of the protestant religion, against popery, invasion, and innovation.] [footnote : 'brother:' george cooper, esq., brother to the earl of shaftesbury, was married to a daughter of alderman oldfield; and, being settled in the city, became a great man among the whigs and fanatics.] [footnote : 'polish:' shaftesbury was said to have entertained hopes of the crown of poland.] [footnote : 'white witches:' who wrought good ends by infernal means.] [footnote : 'loosed our triple hold:' our breaking the alliance with holland and sweden, was owing to the earl of shaftesbury's advice.] [footnote : 'the man:' crassus.] [footnote : 'the head,' &c.: alluding to the lord mayor and the two sheriffs: the former, sir john moor, being a tory; the latter, shute and pilkington, whigs.] * * * * * religio laici; or, a layman's faith. an epistle. the preface. a poem with so bold a title, and a name prefixed from which the handling of so serious a subject would not be expected, may reasonably oblige the author to say somewhat in defence, both of himself and of his undertaking. in the first place, if it be objected to me, that, being a layman, i ought not to have concerned myself with speculations which belong to the profession of divinity; i could answer, that perhaps laymen, with equal advantages of parts and knowledge, are not the most incompetent judges of sacred things; but in the due sense of my own weakness and want of learning, i plead not this: i pretend not to make myself a judge of faith in others, but only to make a confession of my own. i lay no unhallowed hand upon the ark, but wait on it, with the reverence that becomes me, at a distance. in the next place, i will ingenuously confess, that the helps i have used in this small treatise, were many of them taken from the works of our own reverend divines of the church of england: so that the weapons with which i combat irreligion, are already consecrated; though i suppose they may be taken down as lawfully as the sword of goliah was by david, when they are to be employed for the common cause against the enemies of piety. i intend not by this to entitle them to any of my errors, which yet i hope are only those of charity to mankind; and such as my own charity has caused me to commit, that of others may more easily excuse. being naturally inclined to scepticism in philosophy, i have no reason to impose my opinions in a subject which is above it; but whatever they are, i submit them with all reverence to my mother church, accounting them no farther mine, than as they are authorised, or at least uncondemned by her. and, indeed, to secure myself on this side, i have used the necessary precaution of showing this paper, before it was published, to a judicious and learned friend, a man indefatigably zealous in the service of the church and state; and whose writings have highly deserved of both. he was pleased to approve the body of the discourse, and i hope he is more my friend than to do it out of complaisance: it is true he had too good a taste to like it all; and amongst some other faults recommended to my second view, what i have written perhaps too boldly on st athanasius, which he advised me wholly to omit. i am sensible enough that i had done more prudently to have followed his opinion: but then i could not have satisfied myself that i had done honestly not to have written what was my own. it has always been my thought, that heathens who never did, nor without miracle could, hear of the name of christ, were yet in a possibility of salvation. neither will it enter easily into my belief, that before the coming of our saviour the whole world, excepting only the jewish nation, should lie under the inevitable necessity of everlasting punishment, for want of that revelation, which was confined to so small a spot of ground as that of palestine. among the sons of noah we read of one only who was accursed; and if a blessing in the ripeness of time was reserved for japhet (of whose progeny we are), it seems unaccountable to me, why so many generations of the same offspring, as preceded our saviour in the flesh, should be all involved in one common condemnation, and yet that their posterity should be entitled to the hopes of salvation: as if a bill of exclusion had passed only on the fathers, which debarred not the sons from their succession: or that so many ages had been delivered over to hell, and so many reserved for heaven; and that the devil had the first choice, and god the next. truly i am apt to think, that the revealed religion which was taught by noah to all his sons, might continue for some ages in the whole posterity. that afterwards it was included wholly in the family of shem is manifest; but when the progenies of ham and japhet swarmed into colonies, and those colonies were subdivided into many others, in process of time their descendants lost by little and little the primitive and purer rites of divine worship, retaining only the notion of one deity; to which succeeding generations added others: for men took their degrees in those ages from conquerors to gods. revelation being thus eclipsed to almost all mankind, the light of nature, as the next in dignity, was substituted; and that is it which st paul concludes to be the rule of the heathens, and by which they are hereafter to be judged. if my supposition be true, then the consequence which i have assumed in my poem may be also true; namely, that deism, or the principles of natural worship, are only the faint remnants or dying flames of revealed religion in the posterity of noah: and that our modern philosophers--nay, and some of our philosophising divines--have too much exalted the faculties of our souls, when they have maintained that by their force mankind has been able to find out that there is one supreme agent or intellectual being which we call god: that praise and prayer are his due worship; and the rest of those deducements, which i am confident are the remote effects of revelation, and unattainable by our discourse, i mean as simply considered, and without the benefit of divine illumination. so that we have not lifted up ourselves to god, by the weak pinions of our reason, but he has been pleased to descend to us; and what socrates said of him, what plato writ, and the rest of the heathen philosophers of several nations, is all no more than the twilight of revelation, after the sun of it was set in the race of noah. that there is something above us, some principle of motion, our reason can apprehend, though it cannot discover what it is by its own virtue. and, indeed, it is very improbable, that we, who by the strength of our faculties cannot enter into the knowledge of any being, not so much as of our own, should be able to find out by them, that supreme nature, which we cannot otherwise define than by saying it is infinite; as if infinite were definable, or infinity a subject for our narrow understanding. they who would prove religion by reason, do but weaken the cause which they endeavour to support: it is to take away the pillars from our faith, and to prop it only with a twig; it is to design a tower like that of babel, which, if it were possible, as it is not, to reach heaven, would come to nothing by the confusion of the workmen. for every man is building a several way; impotently conceited of his own model and his own materials: reason is always striving, and always at a loss; and of necessity it must so come to pass, while it is exercised about that which is not its own proper object. let us be content at last to know god by his own methods; at least, so much of him as he is pleased to reveal to us in the sacred scriptures: to apprehend them to be the word of god is all our reason has to do; for all beyond it is the work of faith, which is the seal of heaven impressed upon our human understanding. and now for what concerns the holy bishop athanasius; the preface of whose creed seems inconsistent with my opinion; which is, that heathens may possibly be saved. in the first place, i desire it may be considered that it is the preface only, not the creed itself, which, till i am better informed, is of too hard a digestion for my charity. it is not that i am ignorant how many several texts of scripture seemingly support that cause; but neither am i ignorant how all those texts may receive a kinder and more mollified interpretation. every man who is read in church history, knows that belief was drawn up after a long contestation with arius, concerning the divinity of our blessed saviour, and his being one substance with the father; and that thus compiled, it was sent abroad among the christian churches, as a kind of test, which whosoever took was looked upon as an orthodox believer. it is manifest from hence, that the heathen part of the empire was not concerned in it; for its business was not to distinguish betwixt pagans and christians, but betwixt heretics and true believers. this, well considered, takes off the heavy weight of censure, which i would willingly avoid, from so venerable a man; for if this proportion, "whosoever will be saved," be restrained only to those to whom it was intended, and for whom it was composed, i mean the christians; then the anathema reaches not the heathens, who had never heard of christ, and were nothing interested in that dispute. after all, i am far from blaming even that prefatory addition to the creed, and as far from cavilling at the continuation of it in the liturgy of the church, where, on the days appointed, it is publicly read: for i suppose there is the same reason for it now, in opposition to the socinians, as there was then against the arians; the one being a heresy, which seems to have been refined out of the other; and with how much more plausibility of reason it combats our religion, with so much more caution it ought to be avoided: therefore the prudence of our church is to be commended, which has interposed her authority for the recommendation of this creed. yet to such as are grounded in the true belief, those explanatory creeds, the nicene and this of athanasius, might perhaps be spared; for what is supernatural will always be a mystery, in spite of exposition; and for my own part, the plain apostles' creed is most suitable to my weak understanding, as the simplest diet is the most easy of digestion. i have dwelt longer on this subject than i intended, and longer than perhaps i ought; for having laid down, as my foundation, that the scripture is a rule; that in all things needful to salvation it is clear, sufficient, and ordained by god almighty for that purpose, i have left myself no right to interpret obscure places, such as concern the possibility of eternal happiness to heathens: because whatsoever is obscure is concluded not necessary to be known. but, by asserting the scripture to be the canon of oar faith, i have unavoidably created to myself two sorts of enemies: the papists indeed, more directly, because they have kept the scriptures from us what they could; and have reserved to themselves a right of interpreting what they have delivered under the pretence of infallibility: and the fanatics more collaterally, because they have assumed what amounts to an infallibility, in the private spirit; and have detorted those texts of scripture which are not necessary to salvation, to the damnable uses of sedition, disturbance, and destruction of the civil government. to begin with the papists, and to speak freely, i think them the less dangerous, at least in appearance to our present state; for not only the penal laws are in force against them, and their number is contemptible, but also their peers and commons are excluded from parliament, and consequently those laws in no probability of being repealed. a general and uninterrupted plot of their clergy, ever since the reformation, i suppose all protestants believe; for it is not reasonable to think but that so many of their orders, as were outed from their fat possessions, would endeavour a re-entrance against those whom they account heretics. as for the late design, mr coleman's letters, for aught i know, are the best evidence; and what they discover, without wiredrawing their sense, or malicious glosses, all men of reason conclude credible. if there be anything more than this required of me, i must believe it as well as i am able, in spite of the witnesses, and out of a decent conformity to the votes of parliament; for i suppose the fanatics will not allow the private spirit in this case. here the infallibility is at least in one part of the government; and our understandings as well as our wills are represented. but to return to the roman catholics, how can we be secure from the practice of jesuited papists in that religion? for not two or three of that order, as some of them would impose upon us, but almost the whole body of them are of opinion, that their infallible master has a right over kings, not only in spirituals but temporals. not to name mariana, bellarmine, emanuel sa, molina, santare, simancha,[ ] and at least twenty others of foreign countries; we can produce of our own nation, campian, and doleman or parsons; besides, many are named whom i have not read, who all of them attest this doctrine, that the pope can depose and give away the right of any sovereign prince, _si vel paulum deflexerit_, if he shall never so little warp: but if he once comes to be excommunicated, then the bond of obedience is taken off from subjects; and they may, and ought to drive him, like another nebuchadnezzar, _ex hominum christianorum dominatu_, from exercising dominion over christians; and to this they are bound by virtue of divine precept, and by all the ties of conscience, under no less penalty than damnation. if they answer me, as a learned priest has lately written, that this doctrine of the jesuits is not _de fide_; and that consequently they are not obliged by it, they must pardon me, if i think they have said nothing to the purpose; for it is a maxim in their church, where points of faith are not decided, and that doctors are of contrary opinions, they may follow which part they please; but more safely the most received and most authorised. and their champion bellarmine has told the world, in his apology, that the king of england is a vassal to the pope, _ratione directi domini_, and that he holds in villanage of his roman landlord: which is no new claim put in for england. our chronicles are his authentic witnesses, that king john was deposed by the same plea, and philip augustus admitted tenant. and which makes the more for bellarmine, the french king was again ejected when our king submitted to the church, and the crown was received under the sordid condition of a vassalage. it is not sufficient for the more moderate and well-meaning papists, of which i doubt not there are many, to produce the evidences of their loyalty to the late king, and to declare their innocency in this plot: i will grant their behaviour in the first to have been as loyal and as brave as they desire; and will be willing to hold them excused as to the second, i mean when it comes to my turn, and after my betters; for it is a madness to be sober alone, while the nation continues drank: but that saying of their father cres. is still running in my head, that they may be dispensed with in their obedience to an heretic prince, while the necessity of the times shall oblige them to it: for that, as another of them tells us, is only the effect of christian prudence; but when once they shall get power to shake him off, an heretic is no lawful king, and consequently to rise against him is no rebellion. i should be glad, therefore, that they would follow the advice which was charitably given them by a reverend prelate of our church; namely, that they would join in a public act of disowning and detesting those jesuitic principles; and subscribe to all doctrines which deny the pope's authority of deposing kings, and releasing subjects from their oath of allegiance: to which i should think they might easily be induced, if it be true that this present pope has condemned the doctrine of king-killing, a thesis of the jesuits maintained, amongst others, _ex cathedra_, as they call it, or in open consistory. leaving them, therefore, in so fair a way, if they please themselves, of satisfying all reasonable men of their sincerity and good meaning to the government, i shall make bold to consider that other extreme of our religion--i mean the fanatics, or schismatics, of the english church. since the bible has been translated into our tongue, they have used it so, as if their business was not to be saved, but to be damned by its contents. if we consider only them, better had it been for the english nation that it had still remained in the original greek and hebrew, or at least in the honest latin of st jerome, than that several texts in it should have been prevaricated, to the destruction of that government which put it into so ungrateful hands. how many heresies the first translation of tindal produced in few years, let my lord herbert's history of henry viii. inform you; insomuch, that for the gross errors in it, and the great mischiefs it occasioned, a sentence passed on the first edition of the bible, too shameful almost to be repeated. after the short reign of edward vi., who had continued to carry on the reformation on other principles than it was begun, every one knows that not only the chief promoters of that work, but many others, whose consciences would not dispense with popery, were forced, for fear of persecution, to change climates: from whence returning at the beginning of queen elizabeth's reign, many of them who had been in france, and at geneva, brought back the rigid opinions and imperious discipline of calvin, to graft upon our reformation: which, though they cunningly concealed at first, as well knowing how nauseously that drug would go down in a lawful monarchy, which was prescribed for a rebellious commonwealth, yet they always kept it in reserve; and were never wanting to themselves either in court or parliament, when either they had any prospect of a numerous party of fanatic members of the one, or the encouragement of any favourite in the other, whose covetousness was gaping at the patrimony of the church. they who will consult the works of our venerable hooker, or the account of his life, or more particularly the letter written to him on this subject by george cranmer, may see by what gradations they proceeded: from the dislike of cap and surplice, the very next step was admonitions to the parliament against the whole government ecclesiastical: then came out volumes in english and latin in defence of their tenets: and immediately practices were set on foot to erect their discipline without authority. those not succeeding, satire and railing was the next: and martin mar-prelate, the marvel of those times, was the first presbyterian scribbler, who sanctified libels and scurrility to the use of the good old cause: which was done, says my author, upon this account; that their serious treatises having been fully answered and refuted, they might compass by railing what they had lost by reasoning; and, when their cause was sunk in court and parliament, they might at least hedge in a stake amongst the rabble: for to their ignorance all things are wit which are abusive; but if church and state were made the theme, then the doctoral degree of wit was to be taken at billingsgate: even the most saint-like of the party, though they durst not excuse this contempt and vilifying of the government, yet were pleased, and grinned at it with a pious smile; and called it a judgment of god against the hierarchy. thus sectaries, we may see, were born with teeth, foul-mouthed and scurrilous from their infancy: and if spiritual pride, venom, violence, contempt of superiors, and slander, had been the marks of orthodox belief, the presbytery and the rest of our schismatics, which are their spawn, were always the most visible church in the christian world. it is true, the government was too strong at that time for a rebellion; but, to show what proficiency they had made in calvin's school, even then their mouths watered at it: for two of their gifted brotherhood, hacket[ ] and coppinger, as the story tells us, got up into a pease-cart and harangue the people, to dispose them to an insurrection, and to establish their discipline by force: so that however it comes about, that now they celebrate queen elizabeth's birth-night as that of their saint and patroness; yet then they were for doing the work of the lord by arms against her; and in all probability they wanted but a fanatic lord mayor and two sheriffs of their party to have compassed it. our venerable hooker, after many admonitions which he had given them, towards the end of his preface breaks out into this prophetic speech:-- "there is in every one of these considerations most just cause to fear, lest our hastiness to embrace a thing of so perilous consequence (meaning the presbyterian discipline) should cause posterity to feel those evils, which as yet are more easy for us to prevent, than they would be for them to remedy." how fatally this cassandra has foretold, we know too well by sad experience: the seeds were sown in the time of queen elizabeth, the bloody harvest ripened in the reign of king charles the martyr; and, because all the sheaves could not be carried off without shedding some of the loose grains, another crop is too like to follow; nay, i fear it is unavoidable, if the conventiclers be permitted still to scatter. a man may be suffered to quote an adversary to our religion, when he speaks truth; and it is the observation of maimbourg, in his "history of calvinism," that wherever that discipline was planted and embraced, rebellion, civil war, and misery attended it. and how, indeed, should it happen otherwise? reformation of church and state has always been the ground of our divisions in england. while we were papists, our holy father rid us, by pretending authority out of the scriptures to depose princes; when we shook off his authority, the sectaries furnished themselves with the same weapons, and out of the same magazine, the bible; so that the scriptures, which are in themselves the greatest security of governors, as commanding express obedience to them, are now turned to their destruction; and never since the reformation has there wanted a text of their interpreting to authorise a rebel. and it is to be noted, by the way, that the doctrines of king-killing and deposing, which have been taken up only by the worst party of the papists, the most frontless flatterers of the pope's authority, have been espoused, defended, and are still maintained by the whole body of nonconformists and republicans. it is but dubbing themselves the people of god, which it is the interest of their preachers to tell them they are, and their own interest to believe; and, after that, they cannot dip into the bible, but one text or another will turn up for their purpose: if they are under persecution, as they call it, then that is a mark of their election; if they flourish, then god works miracles for their deliverance, and the saints are to possess the earth. they may think themselves to be too roughly handled in this paper; but i, who know best how far i could have gone on this subject, must be bold to tell them they are spared: though at the same time i am not ignorant that they interpret the mildness of a writer to them, as they do the mercy of the government; in the one they think it fear, and conclude it weakness in the other. the best way for them to confute me is, as i before advised the papists, to disclaim their principles and renounce their practices. we shall all be glad to think them true englishmen when they obey the king, and true protestants when they conform to the church discipline. it remains that i acquaint the reader, that these verses were written for an ingenious young gentleman,[ ] my friend, upon his translation of "the critical history of the old testament," composed by the learned father simon: the verses, therefore, are addressed to the translator of that work, and the style of them is, what it ought to be, epistolary. if any one be so lamentable a critic as to require the smoothness, the numbers, and the turn of heroic poetry in this poem, i must tell him, that if he has not read horace, i have studied him, and hope the style of his epistles is not ill imitated here. the expressions of a poem designed purely for instruction, ought to be plain and natural, and yet majestic: for here the poet is presumed to be a kind of lawgiver, and those three qualities which i have named, are proper to the legislative style. the florid, elevated, and figurative way is for the passions; for love and hatred, fear and anger, are begotten in the soul, by showing their objects out of their true proportion, either greater than the life or less: but instruction is to be given by showing them what they naturally are. a man is to be cheated into passion, but to be reasoned into truth. * * * * * dim as the borrow'd beams of moon and stars to lonely, weary, wandering travellers, is reason to the soul: and as on high, those rolling fires discover but the sky, not light us here; so reason's glimmering ray was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, but guide us upward to a better day. and as those nightly tapers disappear when day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere; so pale grows reason at religion's sight; so dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light. some few, whose lamp shone brighter, have been led from cause to cause, to nature's secret head; and found that one first principle must be: but what, or who, that universal he: whether some soul encompassing this ball, unmade, unmoved; yet making, moving all; or various atoms' interfering dance leap'd into form, the noble work of chance; or this great all was from eternity; not even the stagyrite himself could see; and epicurus guess'd as well as he: as blindly groped they for a future state; as rashly judged of providence and fate: but least of all could their endeavours find what most concern'd the good of human kind: for happiness was never to be found, but vanish'd from them like enchanted ground. one thought content the good to be enjoy'd-- this every little accident destroy'd: the wiser madmen did for virtue toil-- a thorny, or at best a barren soil: in pleasure some their glutton souls would steep; but found their line too short, the well too deep; and leaky vessels which no bliss could keep. thus anxious thoughts in endless circles roll, without a centre where to fix the soul: in this wild maze their vain endeavours end: how can the less the greater comprehend? or finite reason reach infinity? for what could fathom god were more than he. the deist thinks he stands on firmer ground; cries [greek: eureka], the mighty secret's found: god is that spring of good; supreme and best; we made to serve, and in that service blest; if so, some rules of worship must be given, distributed alike to all by heaven: else god were partial, and to some denied the means his justice should for all provide. this general worship is to praise and pray: one part to borrow blessings, one to pay: and when frail nature slides into offence, the sacrifice for crimes is penitence. yet since the effects of providence, we find, are variously dispensed to human kind; that vice triumphs, and virtue suffers here-- a brand that sovereign justice cannot bear-- our reason prompts us to a future state: the last appeal from fortune and from fate; where god's all-righteous ways will be declared-- the bad meet punishment, the good reward. thus man by his own strength to heaven would soar, and would not be obliged to god for more. vain, wretched creature, how art thou misled, to think thy wit these god-like notions bred! these truths are not the product of thy mind, but dropp'd from heaven, and of a nobler kind. reveal'd religion first inform'd thy sight, and reason saw not, till faith sprung the light. hence all thy natural worship takes the source: 'tis revelation what thou think'st discourse. else how com'st thou to see these truths so clear, which so obscure to heathens did appear? not plato these, nor aristotle found: nor he whose wisdom oracles renown'd. hast thou a wit so deep, or so sublime, or canst thou lower dive, or higher climb? canst thou by reason more of godhead know than plutarch, seneca, or cicero? those giant wits, in happier ages born, when arms and arts did greece and rome adorn, knew no such system: no such piles could raise of natural worship, built on prayer and praise, to one sole god. nor did remorse to expiate sin prescribe, but slew their fellow-creatures for a bribe: the guiltless victim groan'd for their offence; and cruelty and blood was penitence. if sheep and oxen could atone for men, ah! at how cheap a rate the rich might sin! and great oppressors might heaven's wrath beguile, by offering his own creatures for a spoil! darest thou, poor worm, offend infinity? and must the terms of peace be given by thee? then thou art justice in the last appeal; thy easy god instructs thee to rebel: and, like a king remote, and weak, must take what satisfaction thou art pleased to make. but if there be a power too just and strong to wink at crimes, and bear unpunish'd wrong, look humbly upward, see his will disclose the forfeit first, and then the fine impose: a mulct thy poverty could never pay, had not eternal wisdom found the way: and with celestial wealth supplied thy store: his justice makes the fine, his mercy quits the score. see god descending in thy human frame; the offended suffering in the offender's name: all thy misdeeds to him imputed see, and all his righteousness devolved on thee. for, granting we have sinn'd, and that the offence of man is made against omnipotence, some price that bears proportion must be paid, and infinite with infinite be weigh'd. see then the deist lost: remorse for vice not paid; or paid, inadequate in price: what further means can reason now direct, or what relief from human wit expect? that shows us sick; and sadly are we sure still to be sick, till heaven reveal the cure: if, then, heaven's will must needs be understood (which must, if we want cure, and heaven be good), let all records of will reveal'd be shown; with scripure all in equal balance thrown, and our one sacred book will be that one. proof needs not here, for whether we compare that impious, idle, superstitious ware of rites, lustrations, offerings, which before, in various ages, various countries bore, with christian faith and virtues, we shall find none answering the great ends of human kind, but this one rule of life, that shows us best how god may be appeased, and mortals blest. whether from length of time its worth we draw, the word is scarce more ancient than the law: heaven's early care prescribed for every age; first, in the soul, and after, in the page. or, whether more abstractedly we look, or on the writers, or the written book, whence, but from heaven, could men unskill'd in arts, in several ages born, in several parts, weave such agreeing truths? or how, or why should all conspire to cheat us with a lie? unask'd their pains, ungrateful their advice, starving their gain, and martyrdom their price. if on the book itself we cast our view, concurrent heathens prove the story true: the doctrine, miracles; which must convince, for heaven in them appeals to human sense: and though they prove not, they confirm the cause, when what is taught agrees with nature's laws. then for the style, majestic and divine, it speaks no less than god in every line: commanding words; whose force is still the same as the first fiat that produced our frame. all faiths beside, or did by arms ascend; or, sense indulged, has made mankind their friend: this only doctrine does our lusts oppose-- unfed by nature's soil, in which it grows; cross to our interests, curbing sense, and sin; oppress'd without, and undermined within, it thrives through pain; its own tormentors tires; and with a stubborn patience still aspires. to what can reason such effects assign, transcending nature, but to laws divine? which in that sacred volume are contain'd; sufficient, clear, and for that use ordain'd. but stay: the deist here will urge anew, no supernatural worship can be true: because a general law is that alone which must to all, and every where be known: a style so large as not this book can claim, nor aught that bears reveal'd religion's name. 'tis said the sound of a messiah's birth is gone through all the habitable earth: but still that text must be confined alone to what was then inhabited, and known: and what provision could from thence accrue to indian souls, and worlds discover'd new? in other parts it helps, that ages past, the scriptures there were known, and were embraced, till sin spread once again the shades of night: what's that to these who never saw the light? of all objections this indeed is chief to startle reason, stagger frail belief: we grant, 'tis true, that heaven from human sense has hid the secret paths of providence: but boundless wisdom, boundless mercy may find even for those bewilder'd souls a way. if from his nature foes may pity claim, much more may strangers who ne'er heard his name. and though no name be for salvation known, but that of his eternal son alone; who knows how far transcending goodness can extend the merits of that son to man? who knows what reasons may his mercy lead; or ignorance invincible may plead? not only charity bids hope the best, but more the great apostle has express'd: that if the gentiles, whom no law inspired, by nature did what was by law required; they, who the written rule had never known, were to themselves both rule and law alone: to nature's plain indictment they shall plead; and by their conscience be condemn'd or freed. most righteous doom! because a rule reveal'd is none to those from whom it was conceal'd. then those who follow'd reason's dictates right, lived up, and lifted high their natural light; with socrates may see their maker's face, while thousand rubric-martyrs want a place. nor does it balk my charity to find the egyptian bishop[ ] of another mind: for though his creed eternal truth contains, 'tis hard for man to doom to endless pains all who believed not all his zeal required; unless he first could prove he was inspired. then let us either think he meant to say this faith, where publish'd, was the only way; or else conclude that, arius to confute, the good old man, too eager in dispute, flew high; and as his christian fury rose, damn'd all for heretics who durst oppose. thus far my charity this path has tried, (a much unskilful, but well meaning guide:) yet what they are, even these crude thoughts were bred by reading that which better thou hast read, thy matchless author's work: which thou, my friend, by well translating better dost commend; those youthful hours which, of thy equals most in toys have squander'd, or in vice have lost, those hours hast thou to nobler use employ'd; and the severe delights of truth enjoy'd. witness this weighty book, in which appears the crabbed toil of many thoughtful years, spent by thy author, in the sifting care of rabbins' old sophisticated ware from gold divine; which he who well can sort may afterwards make algebra a sport: a treasure, which if country curates buy, they junius and tremellius[ ] may defy; save pains in various readings, and translations; and without hebrew make most learn'd quotations. a work so full with various learning fraught, so nicely ponder'd, yet so strongly wrought, as nature's height and art's last hand required: as much as man could compass, uninspired. where we may see what errors have been made both in the copiers' and translators' trade; how jewish, popish interests have prevail'd, and where infallibility has fail'd. for some, who have his secret meaning guess'd, have found our author not too much a priest: for fashion-sake he seems to have recourse to pope, and councils, and tradition's force: but he that old traditions could subdue, could not but find the weakness of the new: if scripture, though derived from heavenly birth, has been but carelessly preserved on earth; if god's own people, who of god before knew what we know, and had been promised more, in fuller terms, of heaven's assisting care, and who did neither time nor study spare, to keep this book untainted, unperplex'd, let in gross errors to corrupt the text, omitted paragraphs, embroil'd the sense, with vain traditions stopp'd the gaping fence, which every common hand pull'd up with ease: what safety from such brushwood-helps as these! if written words from time are not secured, how can we think have oral sounds endured? which thus transmitted, if one mouth has fail'd, immortal lies on ages are entail'd: and that some such have been, is proved too plain, if we consider interest, church, and gain. o but, says one, tradition set aside, where can we hope for an unerring guide? for since the original scripture has been lost, all copies disagreeing, maim'd the most, or christian faith can have no certain ground, or truth in church tradition must be found. such an omniscient church we wish indeed: 'twere worth both testaments, cast in the creed: but if this mother be a guide so sure, as can all doubts resolve, all truth secure, then her infallibility, as well where copies are corrupt or lame, can tell; restore lost canon with as little pains, as truly explicate what still remains: which yet no council dare pretend to do; unless, like esdras, they could write it new: strange confidence still to interpret true, yet not be sure that all they have explain'd is in the blest original contain'd! more safe, and much more modest 'tis to say, god would not leave mankind without a way: and that the scriptures, though not every where free from corruption, or entire, or clear, are uncorrupt, sufficient, clear, entire, in all things which our needful faith require. if others in the same glass better see, 'tis for themselves they look, but not for me: for my salvation must its doom receive, not from what others, but what i believe. must all tradition then be set aside? this to affirm were ignorance or pride. are there not many points, some needful sure to saving faith, that scripture leaves obscure? which every sect will wrest a several way, for what one sect interprets, all sects may. we hold, and say we prove from scripture plain, that christ is god; the bold socinian from the same scripture urges he's but man. now, what appeal can end the important suit? both parts talk loudly, but the rule is mute. shall i speak plain, and in a nation free assume an honest layman's liberty? i think, according to my little skill, to my own mother church submitting still, that many have been saved, and many may, who never heard this question brought in play. th' unletter'd christian, who believes in gross, plods on to heaven, and ne'er is at a loss; for the strait gate would be made straiter yet, were none admitted there but men of wit. the few by nature form'd, with learning fraught, born to instruct, as others to be taught, must study well the sacred page; and see which doctrine, this or that, does best agree with the whole tenor of the work divine: and plainliest points to heaven's reveal'd design: which exposition flows from genuine sense; and which is forced by wit and eloquence. not that tradition's parts are useless here, when general, old, disinteress'd, and clear: that ancient fathers thus expound the page, gives truth the reverend majesty of age: confirms its force, by biding every test; for best authority's next rules are best. and still the nearer to the spring we go, more limpid, more unsoil'd, the waters flow. thus first traditions were a proof alone, could we be certain such they were, so known: but since some flaws in long descent may be, they make not truth but probability. even arius and pelagius durst provoke to what the centuries preceding spoke. such difference is there in an oft-told tale: but truth by its own sinews will prevail. tradition written, therefore, more commends authority, than what from voice descends: and this, as perfect as its kind can be, rolls down to us the sacred history: which from the universal church received, is tried, and after for itself believed. the partial papists would infer from hence, their church, in last resort, should judge the sense. but first they would assume, with wondrous art, themselves to be the whole, who are but part, of that vast frame the church; yet grant they were the handers down, can they from thence infer a right to interpret? or would they alone who brought the present, claim it for their own? the book's a common largess to mankind; not more for them than every man design'd: the welcome news is in the letter found; the carrier's not commissioned to expound; it speaks itself, and what it does contain in all things needful to be known is plain. in times o'ergrown with rust and ignorance, a gainful trade their clergy did advance: when want of learning kept the laymen low, and none but priests were authorised to know: when what small knowledge was, in them did dwell; and he a god, who could but read and spell: then mother church did mightily prevail; she parcell'd out the bible by retail: but still expounded what she sold or gave; to keep it in her power to damn and save. scripture was scarce, and as the market went, poor laymen took salvation on content; as needy men take money, good or bad: god's word they had not, but th' priest's they had. yet, whate'er false conveyances they made, the lawyer still was certain to be paid. in those dark times they learn'd their knack so well, that by long use they grew infallible. at last a knowing age began to inquire if they the book, or that did them inspire: and making narrower search, they found, though late, that what they thought the priest's, was their estate; taught by the will produced, the written word, how long they had been cheated on record. then every man who saw the title fair, claim'd a child's part, and put in for a share: consulted soberly his private good, and saved himself as cheap as e'er he could. 'tis true, my friend, (and far be flattery hence), this good had full as bad a consequence: the book thus put in every vulgar hand, which each presumed he best could understand, the common rule was made the common prey; and at the mercy of the rabble lay. the tender page with horny fists was gall'd; and he was gifted most that loudest bawl'd. the spirit gave the doctoral degree: and every member of a company was of his trade, and of the bible free. plain truths enough for needful use they found; but men would still be itching to expound: each was ambitious of the obscurest place, no measure ta'en from knowledge, all from grace. study and pains were now no more their care; texts were explain'd by fasting and by prayer: this was the fruit the private spirit brought; occasion'd by great zeal and little thought. while crowds unlearn'd, with rude devotion warm, about the sacred viands buzz and swarm. the fly-blown text creates a crawling brood, and turns to maggots what was meant for food. a thousand daily sects rise up and die; a thousand more the perish'd race supply; so all we make of heaven's discover'd will, is, not to have it, or to use it ill. the danger's much the same; on several shelves if others wreck us, or we wreck ourselves. what then remains, but, waiving each extreme, the tides of ignorance and pride to stem? neither so rich a treasure to forego; nor proudly seek beyond our power to know: faith is not built on disquisitions vain; the things we must believe are few and plain: but since men will believe more than they need, and every man will make himself a creed; in doubtful questions 'tis the safest way to learn what unsuspected ancients say: for 'tis not likely we should higher soar in search of heaven, than all the church before: nor can we be deceived, unless we see the scripture and the fathers disagree. if, after all, they stand suspected still, (for no man's faith depends upon his will): 'tis some relief, that points not clearly known, without much hazard may be let alone: and after hearing what our church can say, if still our reason runs another way, that private reason 'tis more just to curb, than by disputes the public peace disturb. for points obscure are of small use to learn: but common quiet is mankind's concern. thus have i made my own opinions clear; yet neither praise expect, nor censure fear: and this unpolish'd, rugged verse i chose, as fittest for discourse, and nearest prose: for while from sacred truth i do not swerve, tom sternhold's or tom shadwell's rhymes will serve. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'not to name mariana, bellarmine,' &c.: all jesuits and controversial writers in the roman catholic church.] [footnote : hacket was a man of learning; he had much of the scriptures by heart, and made himself remarkable by preaching in an enthusiastic strain. in , he made a great parade of sanctity, pretended to divine inspiration, and visions from god.] [footnote : the son of the celebrated john hampden. he was in the ryehouse plot, and fined £ , , which was remitted at the revolution.] [footnote : 'bishop:' athanasius.] [footnote : 'junius and tremellius:' francis junius and emanuel tremellius, two calvinist ministers, who, in the sixteenth century, joined in translating the bible from hebrew into latin.] * * * * * threnodia augustalis: a funeral pindaric poem, sacred to the happy memory of king charles ii. i. thus long my grief has kept me dumb: sure there's a lethargy in mighty woe, tears stand congeal'd, and cannot flow; and the sad soul retires into her inmost room: tears, for a stroke foreseen, afford relief; but, unprovided for a sudden blow, like niobe we marble grow; and petrify with grief. our british heaven was all serene, no threatening cloud was nigh, not the least wrinkle to deform the sky; we lived as unconcern'd and happily as the first age in nature's golden scene; supine amidst our flowing store, we slept securely, and we dreamt of more: when suddenly the thunder-clap was heard, it took us unprepared and out of guard, already lost before we fear'd. the amazing news of charles at once were spread, at once the general voice declared, "our gracious prince was dead." no sickness known before, no slow disease, to soften grief by just degrees: but like a hurricane on indian seas, the tempest rose; an unexpected burst of woes; with scarce a breathing space betwixt-- this now becalm'd, and perishing the next. as if great atlas from his height should sink beneath his heavenly weight, and with a mighty flaw, the flaming wall (at once it shall), should gape immense, and rushing down, o'erwhelm this nether ball; so swift and so surprising was our fear: our atlas fell indeed, but hercules was near. ii. his pious brother, sure the best who ever bore that name! was newly risen from his rest, and, with a fervent flame, his usual morning vows had just address'd for his dear sovereign's health; and hoped to have them heard, in long increase of years, in honour, fame, and wealth: guiltless of greatness thus he always pray'd, nor knew nor wish'd those vows he made, on his own head should be repaid. soon as the ill-omen'd rumour reach'd his ear, (ill news is wing'd with fate, and flies apace,) who can describe the amazement of his face! horror in all his pomp was there, mute and magnificent without a tear: and then the hero first was seen to fear. half unarray'd he ran to his relief, so hasty and so artless was his grief: approaching greatness met him with her charms of power and future state; but look'd so ghastly in a brother's fate, he shook her from his arms. arrived within the mournful room, he saw a wild distraction, void of awe, and arbitrary grief unbounded by a law. god's image, god's anointed lay without motion, pulse, or breath, a senseless lump of sacred clay, an image now of death. amidst his sad attendants' groans and cries, the lines of that adored, forgiving face, distorted from their native grace; an iron slumber sat on his majestic eyes. the pious duke--forbear, audacious muse! no terms thy feeble art can use are able to adorn so vast a woe: the grief of all the rest like subject-grief did show, his like a sovereign did transcend; no wife, no brother, such a grief could know, nor any name but friend. iii. o wondrous changes of a fatal scene, still varying to the last! heaven, though its hard decree was past, seem'd pointing to a gracious turn again: and death's uplifted arm arrested in its haste. heaven half repented of the doom, and almost grieved it had foreseen, what by foresight it will'd eternally to come. mercy above did hourly plead for her resemblance here below; and mild forgiveness intercede to stop the coming blow. new miracles approach'd the ethereal throne, such as his wondrous life had oft and lately known, and urged that still they might be shown. on earth his pious brother pray'd and vow'd, renouncing greatness at so dear a rate, himself defending what he could, from all the glories of his future fate. with him the innumerable crowd of armed prayers knock'd at the gates of heaven, and knock'd aloud; the first well-meaning rude petitioners, all for his life assail'd the throne, all would have bribed the skies by offering up their own. so great a throng not heaven itself could bar; 'twas almost borne by force as in the giants' war. the prayers, at least, for his reprieve were heard; his death, like hezekiah's, was deferr'd: against the sun the shadow went; five days, those five degrees, were lent to form our patience and prepare the event. the second causes took the swift command, the medicinal head, the ready hand, all eager to perform their part; all but eternal doom was conquer'd by their art: once more the fleeting soul came back to inspire the mortal frame; and in the body took a doubtful stand, doubtful and hovering like expiring flame, that mounts and falls by turns, and trembles o'er the brand. iv. the joyful short-lived news soon spread around, took the same train, the same impetuous bound: the drooping town in smiles again was dress'd, gladness in every face express'd, their eyes before their tongues confess'd. men met each other with erected look, the steps were higher that they took; friends to congratulate their friends made haste; and long inveterate foes saluted as they pass'd: above the rest heroic james appear'd-- exalted more, because he more had fear'd: his manly heart, whose noble pride was still above dissembled hate or varnish'd love, its more than common transport could not hide; but like an eagre[ ] rode in triumph o'er the tide. thus, in alternate course, the tyrant passions, hope and fear, did in extremes appear, and flash'd upon the soul with equal force. thus, at half ebb, a rolling sea returns and wins upon the shore; the watery herd, affrighted at the roar, rest on their fins awhile, and stay, then backward take their wondering way: the prophet wonders more than they, at prodigies but rarely seen before, and cries, a king must fall, or kingdoms change their sway. such were our counter-tides at land, and so presaging of the fatal blow, in their prodigious ebb and flow. the royal soul, that, like the labouring moon, by charms of art was hurried down, forced with regret to leave her native sphere, came but awhile on liking here: soon weary of the painful strife, and made but faint essays of life: an evening light soon shut in night; a strong distemper, and a weak relief, short intervals of joy, and long returns of grief. v. the sons of art all medicines tried, and every noble remedy applied; with emulation each essay'd his utmost skill, nay more, they pray'd: never was losing game with better conduct play'd. death never won a stake with greater toil, nor e'er was fate so near a foil: but like a fortress on a rock, the impregnable disease their vain attempts did mock; they mined it near, they batter'd from afar with, all the cannon of the medicinal war; no gentle means could be essay'd, 'twas beyond parley when the siege was laid: the extremest ways they first ordain, prescribing such intolerable pain, as none but cæsar could sustain: undaunted csesar underwent the malice of their art, nor bent beneath whate'er their pious rigour could invent: in five such days he suffer'd more than any suffer'd in his reign before; more, infinitely more, than he, against the worst of rebels, could decree, a traitor, or twice pardon'd enemy. now art was tried without success, no racks could make the stubborn malady confess. the vain insurancers of life, and they who most perform'd and promised less, even short and hobbes[ ] forsook the unequal strife. death and despair were in their looks, no longer they consult their memories or books; like helpless friends, who view from shore the labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar; so stood they with their arms across; not to assist, but to deplore the inevitable loss. vi. death was denounced; that frightful sound which even the best can hardly bear, he took the summons void of fear; and unconcern'dly cast his eyes around; as if to find and dare the grisly challenger. what death could do he lately tried, when in four days he more than died. the same assurance all his words did grace; the same majestic mildness held its place: nor lost the monarch in his dying face. intrepid, pious, merciful, and brave, he look'd as when he conquer'd and forgave. vii. as if some angel had been sent to lengthen out his government, and to foretell as many years again, as he had number'd in his happy reign, so cheerfully he took the doom of his departing breath; nor shrunk nor stepp'd aside for death; but with unalter'd pace kept on, providing for events to come, when he resign'd the throne. still he maintain'd his kingly state; and grew familiar with his fate. kind, good, and gracious to the last, on all he loved before his dying beams he cast: oh, truly good, and truly great, for glorious as he rose, benignly so he set! all that on earth he held most dear, he recommended to his care, to whom both heaven, the right had given and his own love bequeathed supreme command: he took and press'd that ever loyal hand which could in peace secure his reign, which could in wars his power maintain, that hand on which no plighted vows were ever vain. well for so great a trust he chose a prince who never disobey'd: not when the most severe commands were laid; nor want, nor exile with his duty weigh'd: a prince on whom, if heaven its eyes could close, the welfare of the world it safely might repose. viii. that king[ ] who lived to god's own heart, yet less serenely died than he: charles left behind no harsh decree for schoolmen with laborious art to salve from cruelty: those for whom love could no excuses frame, he graciously forgot to name. thus far my muse, though rudely, has design'd some faint resemblance of his godlike mind: but neither pen nor pencil can express the parting brothers' tenderness: though that's a term too mean and low; the blest above a kinder word may know. but what they did, and what they said, the monarch who triumphant went, the militant who staid, like painters, when their heightening arts are spent, i cast into a shade. that all-forgiving king, the type of him above, that inexhausted spring of clemency and love; himself to his next self accused, and asked that pardon--which he ne'er refused: for faults not his, for guilt and crimes of godless men, and of rebellious times: for an hard exile, kindly meant, when his ungrateful country sent their best camillus into banishment: and forced their sovereign's act--they could not his consent. oh, how much rather had that injured chief repeated all his sufferings past, than hear a pardon begg'd at last, which, given, could give the dying no relief! he bent, he sunk beneath his grief: his dauntless heart would fain have held from weeping, but his eyes rebell'd. perhaps the godlike hero in his breast disdain'd, or was ashamed to show, so weak, so womanish a woe, which yet the brother and the friend so plenteously confess'd. ix. amidst that silent shower, the royal mind an easy passage found, and left its sacred earth behind: nor murmuring groan express'd, nor labouring sound, nor any least tumultuous breath; calm was his life, and quiet was his death. soft as those gentle whispers were, in which the almighty did appear; by the still voice the prophet[ ] knew him there. that peace which made thy prosperous reign to shine, that peace thou leavest to thy imperial line, that peace, oh, happy shade, be ever thine! x. for all those joys thy restoration brought, for all the miracles it wrought, for all the healing balm thy mercy pour'd into the nation's bleeding wound, and care that after kept it sound, for numerous blessings yearly shower'd, and property with plenty crown'd; for freedom, still maintain'd alive-- freedom! which in no other land will thrive-- freedom! an english subject's sole prerogative, without whose charms even peace would be but a dull, quiet slavery: for these and more, accept our pious praise; 'tis all the subsidy the present age can raise, the rest is charged on late posterity: posterity is charged the more, because the large abounding store to them and to their heirs, is still entail'd by thee. succession of a long descent which chastely in the channels ran, and from our demi-gods began, equal almost to time in its extent, through hazards numberless and great, thou hast derived this mighty blessing down, and fix'd the fairest gem that decks the imperial crown not faction, when it shook thy regal seat, not senates, insolently loud, those echoes of a thoughtless crowd, not foreign or domestic treachery, gould warp thy soul to their unjust decree. so much thy foes thy manly mind mistook, who judged it by the mildness of thy look: like a well-temper'd sword it bent at will; but kept the native toughness of the steel. xi. be true, o clio, to thy hero's name! but draw him strictly so, that all who view the piece may know. he needs no trappings of fictitious fame: the load's too weighty: thou mayest choose some parts of praise, and some refuse: write, that his annals may be thought more lavish than the muse. in scanty truth thou hast confined the virtues of a royal mind, forgiving, bounteous, humble, just, and kind: his conversation, wit, and parts, his knowledge in the noblest useful arts, were such, dead authors could not give; but habitudes of those who live; who, lighting him, did greater lights receive: he drain'd from all, and all they knew; his apprehension quick, his judgment true: that the most learn'd, with shame, confess his knowledge more, his reading only less. xii. amidst the peaceful triumphs of his reign, what wonder if the kindly beams he shed revived the drooping arts again; if science raised her head, and soft humanity, that from rebellion fled! our isle, indeed, too fruitful was before; but all uncultivated lay out of the solar walk and heaven's highway; with rank geneva weeds run o'er, and cockle, at the best, amidst the corn it bore. the royal husbandman appear'd, and plough'd, and sow'd, and till'd; the thorns he rooted out, the rubbish clear'd, and bless'd the obedient field: when straight a double harvest rose; such as the swarthy indian mows; or happier climates near the line, or paradise manured and dress'd by hands divine. xiii. as when the new-born phoenix takes his way, his rich paternal regions to survey, of airy choristers a numerous train attends his wondrous progress o'er the plain; so, rising from his father's urn, so glorious did our charles return; the officious muses came along-- a gay harmonious quire, like angels ever young: the muse that mourns him now, his happy triumph sung, even they could thrive in his auspicious reign; and such a plenteous crop they bore of purest and well-winnow'd grain, as britain never knew before. though little was their hire, and light their gain, yet somewhat to their share he threw; fed from his hand, they sung and flew, like birds of paradise that lived on morning dew. oh, never let their lays his name forget! the pension of a prince's praise is great. live, then, thou great encourager of arts! live ever in our thankful hearts; live blest above, almost invoked below; live and receive this pious vow, our patron once, our guardian angel now! thou fabius of a sinking state, who didst by wise delays divert our fate, when faction like a tempest rose, in death's most hideous form, then art to rage thou didst oppose, to weather-out the storm: not quitting thy supreme command, thou held'st the rudder with a steady hand, till safely on the shore the bark did land: the bark that all our blessings brought, charged with thyself and james, a doubly royal fraught. xiv. oh, frail estate of human things, and slippery hopes below! now to our cost your emptiness we know, for 'tis a lesson dearly bought, assurance here is never to be sought. the best, and best beloved of kings, and best deserving to be so, when scarce he had escaped the fatal blow of faction and conspiracy, death did his promised hopes destroy: he toil'd, he gain'd, but lived not to enjoy. what mists of providence are these, through which we cannot see! so saints, by supernatural power set free, are left at last in martyrdom to die; such is the end of oft-repeated miracles. forgive me, heaven, that impious thought! 'twas grief for charles, to madness wrought, that question'd thy supreme decree. thou didst his gracious reign prolong, even in thy saints' and angels' wrong, his fellow-citizens of immortality: for twelve long years of exile borne, twice twelve we number'd since his blest return: so strictly wert thou just to pay, even to the driblet of a day. yet still we murmur and complain, the quails and manna should no longer rain; those miracles 'twas needless to renew; the chosen stock has now the promised land in view. xv. a warlike prince ascends the regal state, a prince long exercised by fate: long may he keep, though he obtains it late! heroes in heaven's peculiar mould are cast, they and their poets are not form'd in haste; man was the first in god's design, and man was made the last. false heroes, made by flattery so, heaven can strike out, like sparkles, at a blow; but ere a prince is to perfection brought, he costs omnipotence a second thought. with toil and sweat, with hardening cold, and forming heat, the cyclops did their strokes repeat, before the impenetrable shield was wrought. it looks as if the maker would not own the noble work for his, before 'twas tried and found a masterpiece. xvi. view, then, a monarch ripen'd for a throne! alcides thus his race began, o'er infancy he swiftly ran; the future god at first was more than man: dangers and toils, and juno's hate, even o'er his cradle lay in wait; and there he grappled first with fate: in his young hands the hissing snakes he press'd, so early was the deity confess'd. thus by degrees he rose to jove's imperial seat; thus difficulties prove a soul legitimately great. like his, our hero's infancy was tried; betimes the furies did their snakes provide; and to his infant arms oppose his father's rebels, and his brother's foes; the more oppress'd, the higher still he rose: those were the preludes of his fate, that form'd his manhood, to subdue the hydra of the many-headed hissing crew. xvii. as after numa's peaceful reign, the martial ancus did the sceptre wield, furbish'd the rusty sword again, resumed the long-forgotten shield, and led the latins to the dusty field; so james the drowsy genius wakes of britain, long entranced in charms, restive and slumbering on its arms: 'tis roused, and with a new-strung nerve, the spear already shakes, no neighing of the warrior steeds, no drum, or louder trumpet, needs to inspire the coward, warm the cold-- his voice, his sole appearance makes them bold. gaul and batavia dread the impending blow; too well the vigour of that arm they know; they lick the dust, and crouch beneath their fatal foe. long may they fear this awful prince, and not provoke his lingering sword; peace is their only sure defence, their best security his word: in all the changes of his doubtful state, his truth, like heaven's, was kept inviolate, for him to promise is to make it fate. his valour can triumph o'er land and main; with broken oaths his fame he will not stain; with conquest basely bought, and with inglorious gain. xviii. for once, o heaven! unfold thy adamantine book; and let his wondering senate see, if not thy firm immutable decree, at least the second page of strong contingency; such as consists with wills originally free: let them with glad amazement look on what their happiness may be: let them not still be obstinately blind, still to divert the good thou hast design'd, or with malignant penury, to starve the royal virtues of his mind. faith is a christian's and a subject's test, o give them to believe, and they are surely blest! they do; and with a distant view i see the amended vows of english loyalty. and all beyond that object, there appears the long retinue of a prosperous reign, a series of successful years, in orderly array, a martial, manly train. behold even the remoter shores, a conquering navy proudly spread; the british cannon formidably roars, while starting from his oozy bed, the asserted ocean rears his reverend head; to view and recognise his ancient lord again: and with a willing hand, restores the fasces of the main. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'an eagre:' a tide swelling above another tide--observed on the river trent.] [footnote : 'short and hobbes:' two physicians who attended on the king.] [footnote : 'king:' king david.] [footnote : 'the prophet:' elijah.] * * * * * veni creator spiritus, paraphrased. creator spirit, by whose aid the world's foundations first were laid, come, visit every pious mind; come, pour thy joys on human kind; from sin and sorrow set us free, and make thy temples worthy thee. o source of uncreated light, the father's promised paraclete! thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, our hearts with heavenly love inspire; come, and thy sacred unction bring to sanctify us, while we sing! plenteous of grace, descend from high, rich in thy sevenfold energy! thou strength of his almighty hand, whose power does heaven and earth command: proceeding spirit, our defence, who dost the gifts of tongues dispense, and crown'st thy gift with eloquence! refine and purge our earthly parts; but, oh, inflame and fire our hearts! our frailties help, our vice control, submit the senses to the soul; and when rebellious they are grown, then lay thy hand, and hold them down! chase from our minds the infernal foe, and peace, the fruit of love, bestow; and, lest our feet should step astray, protect and guide us in the way. make us eternal truths receive, and practise all that we believe: give us thyself, that we may see the father, and the son, by thee. immortal honour, endless fame, attend the almighty father's name the saviour son be glorified, who for lost man's redemption died: and equal adoration be, eternal paraclete, to thee! * * * * * the hind and the panther. a poem, in three parts. --antiquam exquirite matrem. et vera incessa patuit dea. virg. * * * * * preface. the nation is in too high a ferment for me to expect either fair war, or even so much as fair quarter, from a reader of the opposite party. all men are engaged either on this side or that; and though conscience is the common word, which is given by both, yet if a writer fall among enemies, and cannot give the marks of _their_ conscience, he is knocked down before the reasons of his own are heard. a preface, therefore, which is but a bespeaking of favour, is altogether useless. what i desire the reader should know concerning me, he will find in the body of the poem, if he have but the patience to peruse it. only this advertisement let him take beforehand, which relates to the merits of the cause. no general characters of parties (call them either sects or churches) can be so fully and exactly drawn, as to comprehend all the several members of them; at least all such as are received under that denomination. for example, there are some of the church by law established, who envy not liberty of conscience to dissenters, as being well satisfied that, according to their own principles, they ought not to persecute them. yet these, by reason of their fewness, i could not distinguish from the numbers of the rest, with whom they are embodied in one common name. on the other side, there are many of our sects, and more indeed than i could reasonably have hoped, who have withdrawn themselves from the communion of the panther, and embraced this gracious indulgence of his majesty in point of toleration. but neither to the one nor the other of these is this satire any way intended: it is aimed only at the refractory and disobedient on either side. for those who are come over to the royal party are consequently supposed to be out of gun-shot. our physicians have observed, that, in process of time, some diseases have abated of their virulence, and have in a manner worn out their malignity, so as to be no longer mortal; and why may not i suppose the same concerning some of those who have formerly been enemies to kingly government, as well as catholic religion? i hope they have now another notion of both, as having found, by comfortable experience, that the doctrine of persecution is far from being an article of our faith. it is not for any private man to censure the proceedings of a foreign prince; but, without suspicion of flattery, i may praise our own, who has taken contrary measures, and those more suitable to the spirit of christianity. some of the dissenters, in their addresses to his majesty, have said, "that he has restored god to his empire over conscience." i confess i dare not stretch the figure to so great a boldness; but i may safely say, that conscience is the royalty and prerogative of every private man. he is absolute in his own breast, and accountable to no earthly power, for that which passes only betwixt god and him. those who are driven into the fold are, generally speaking, rather made hypocrites than converts. this indulgence being granted to all the sects, it ought in reason to be expected, that they should both receive it, and receive it thankfully. for, at this time of day, to refuse the benefit, and adhere to those whom they have esteemed their persecutors, what is it else, but publicly to own, that they suffered not before for conscience-sake, but only out of pride and obstinacy, to separate from a church for those impositions, which they now judge may be lawfully obeyed? after they have so long contended for their classical ordination (not to speak of rites and ceremonies) will they at length submit to an episcopal? if they can go so far, out of complaisance to their old enemies, methinks a little reason should persuade them to take another step, and see whither that would lead them. of the receiving this toleration thankfully i shall say no more, than that they ought, and i doubt not they will consider from what hand they received it. it is not from a cyrus, a heathen prince, and a foreigner, but from a christian king, their native sovereign; who expects a return in specie from them, that the kindness, which he has graciously shown them, may be retaliated on those of his own persuasion. as for the poem in general, i will only thus far satisfy the reader, that it was neither imposed on me, nor so much as the subject given me by any man. it was written during the last winter, and the beginning of this spring; though with long interruptions of ill health and other hindrances. about a fortnight before i had finished it, his majesty's declaration for liberty of conscience came abroad; which, if i had so soon expected, i might have spared myself the labour of writing many things which are contained in the third part of it. but i was always in some hope, that the church of england might have been persuaded to have taken off the penal laws and the test, which was one design of the poem, when i proposed to myself the writing of it. it is evident that some part of it was only occasional, and not first intended: i mean that defence of myself, to which every honest man is bound, when he is injuriously attacked in print; and i refer myself to the judgment of those who have read the answer to the defence of the late king's papers, and that of the duchess (in which last i was concerned), how charitably i have been represented there. i am now informed both of the author and supervisors of this pamphlet, and will reply, when i think he can affront me; for i am of socrates's opinion, that all creatures cannot. in the mean time let him consider whether he deserved not a more severe reprehension than i gave him formerly, for using so little respect to the memory of those whom he pretended to answer; and at his leisure, look out for some original treatise of humility, written by any protestant in english; i believe i may say in any other tongue: for the magnified piece of duncomb on that subject, which either he must mean, or none, and with which another of his fellows has upbraided me, was translated from the spanish of rodriguez; though with the omission of the seventeenth, the twenty-fourth, the twenty-fifth, and the last chapter, which will be found in comparing of the books. he would have insinuated to the world, that her late highness died not a roman catholic. he declares himself to be now satisfied to the contrary, in which he has given up the cause; for matter of fact was the principal debate betwixt us. in the mean time, he would dispute the motives of her change; how preposterously, let all men judge, when he seemed to deny the subject of the controversy, the change itself. and because i would not take up this ridiculous challenge, he tells the world i cannot argue: but he may as well infer, that a catholic cannot fast, because he will not take up the cudgels against mrs james, to confute the protestant religion. i have but one word more to say concerning the poem as such, and abstracting from the matters, either religious or civil, which are handled in it. the first part, consisting most in general characters and narration, i have endeavoured to raise, and give it the majestic turn of heroic poesy. the second being matter of dispute, and chiefly concerning church authority, i was obliged to make as plain and perspicuous as possibly i could; yet not wholly neglecting the numbers, though i had not frequent occasions for the magnificence of verse. the third, which has more of the nature of domestic conversation, is, or ought to be, more free and familiar than the two former. there are in it two episodes, or fables, which are interwoven with the main design; so that they are properly parts of it, though they are also distinct stories of themselves. in both of these i have made use of the commonplaces of satire, whether true or false, which are urged by the members of the one church against the other: at which i hope no reader of either party will be scandalized, because they are not of my invention, but as old, to my knowledge, as the times of boccace and chaucer on the one side, and as those of the reformation on the other. * * * * * part i. a milk-white hind, immortal and unchanged, fed on the lawns, and in the forest ranged; without unspotted, innocent within, she fear'd no danger, for she knew no sin. yet had she oft been chased with horns and hounds, and scythian shafts; and many winged wounds aim'd at her heart; was often forced to fly, and doom'd to death, though fated not to die. not so her young; for their unequal line was hero's make, half human, half divine. their earthly mould obnoxious was to fate, the immortal part assumed immortal state. of these a slaughter'd army lay in blood, extended o'er the caledonian wood, their native walk; whose vocal blood arose, and cried for pardon on their perjured foes. their fate was fruitful, and the sanguine seed, endued with souls, increased the sacred breed. so captive israel multiplied in chains, a numerous exile, and enjoy'd her pains. with grief and gladness mix'd, the mother view'd her martyr'd offspring, and their race renew'd; their corpse to perish, but their kind to last, so much the deathless plant the dying fruit surpass'd. panting and pensive now she ranged alone, and wander'd in the kingdoms once her own, the common hunt, though from their rage restrain'd by sovereign power, her company disdain'd; grinn'd as they pass'd, and with a glaring eye gave gloomy signs of secret enmity. 'tis true, she bounded by, and tripp'd so light, they had not time to take a steady sight; for truth has such a face and such a mien, as to be loved needs only to be seen. the bloody bear, an independent beast, unlick'd to form, in groans her hate express'd. among the timorous kind the quaking hare[ ] profess'd neutrality, but would not swear. next her the buffoon ape[ ], as atheists use, mimick'd all sects, and had his own to choose: still when the lion look'd, his knees he bent, and paid at church a courtier's compliment. the bristled baptist boar, impure as he, but whiten'd with the foam of sanctity, with fat pollutions fill'd the sacred place, and mountains levell'd in his furious race; so first rebellion founded was in grace. but since the mighty ravage, which he made in german forests, had his guilt betray'd, with broken tusks, and with a borrow'd name; he shunn'd the vengeance, and conceal'd the shame: so lurk'd in sects unseen. with greater guile false reynard[ ] fed on consecrated spoil: the graceless beast by athanasius first was chased from nice, then by socinus nursed: his impious race their blasphemy renew'd, and nature's king through nature's optics view'd. reversed they view'd him lessen'd to their eye, nor in an infant could a god descry: new swarming sects to this obliquely tend, hence they began, and here they all will end. what weight of ancient witness can prevail, if private reason hold the public scale? but, gracious god, how well dost thou provide for erring judgments an unerring guide! thy throne is darkness in the abyss of light, a blaze of glory that forbids the sight. o teach me to believe thee thus conceal'd, and search no farther than thyself reveal'd; but her alone for my director take, whom thou hast promised never to forsake! my thoughtless youth was wing'd with vain desires; my manhood, long misled by wandering fires, follow'd false lights; and when their glimpse was gone, my pride struck out new sparkles of her own. such was i, such by nature still i am; be thine the glory, and be mine the shame. good life be now my task; my doubts are done: what more could fright my faith, than three in one? can i believe eternal god could lie disguised in mortal mould and infancy? that the great maker of the world could die? and after that trust my imperfect sense, which calls in question his omnipotence? can i my reason to my faith compel, and shall my sight, and touch, and taste rebel? superior faculties are set aside; shall their subservient organs be my guide? then let the moon usurp the rule of day, and winking tapers show the sun his way; for what my senses can themselves perceive, i need no revelation to believe. can they who say the host should be descried by sense, define a body glorified? impassable, and penetrating parts? let them declare by what mysterious arts he shot that body through the opposing might of bolts and bars impervious to the light, and stood before his train confess'd in open sight. for since thus wondrously he pass'd, 'tis plain, one single place two bodies did contain. and sure the same omnipotence as well can make one body in more places dwell. let reason, then, at her own quarry fly, but how can finite grasp infinity? 'tis urged again, that faith did first commence by miracles, which are appeals to sense, and thence concluded, that our sense must be the motive still of credibility. for latter ages must on former wait, and what began belief must propagate. but winnow well this thought, and you shall find 'tis light as chaff that flies before the wind. were all those wonders wrought by power divine, as means or ends of some more deep design? most sure as means, whose end was this alone, to prove the godhead of the eternal son. god thus asserted, man is to believe beyond what sense and reason can conceive, and for mysterious things of faith rely on the proponent, heaven's authority. if, then, our faith we for our guide admit, vain is the farther search of human wit; as when the building gains a surer stay, we take the unuseful scaffolding away. reason by sense no more can understand; the game is play'd into another hand. why choose we, then, like bilanders,[ ] to creep along the coast, and land in view to keep, when safely we may launch into the deep? in the same vessel which our saviour bore, himself the pilot, let us leave the shore, and with a better guide a better world explore. could he his godhead veil with flesh and blood, and not veil these again to be our food? his grace in both is equal in extent, the first affords us life, the second nourishment. and if he can, why all this frantic pain to construe what his clearest words contain, and make a riddle what he made so plain? to take up half on trust, and half to try, name it not faith, but bungling bigotry. both knave and fool the merchant we may call, to pay great sums, and to compound the small: for who would break with heaven, and would not break for all? rest, then, my soul, from endless anguish freed: nor sciences thy guide, nor sense thy creed. faith is the best insurer of thy bliss; the bank above must fail before the venture miss. but heaven and heaven-born faith are far from thee, thou first apostate[ ] to divinity. unkennell'd range in thy polonian plains; a fiercer foe the insatiate wolf[ ] remains. too boastful britain, please thyself no more, that beasts of prey are banish'd from thy shore: the bear, the boar, and every savage name, wild in effect, though in appearance tame, lay waste thy woods, destroy thy blissful bower, and, muzzled though they seem, the mutes devour. more haughty than the rest, the wolfish race appear with belly gaunt and famish'd face: never was so deform'd a beast of grace. his ragged tail betwixt his legs he wears, close clapp'd for shame; but his rough crest he rears, and pricks up his predestinating ears. his wild disorder'd walk, his haggard eyes, did all the bestial citizens surprise. though fear'd and hated, yet he ruled awhile, as captain or companion of the spoil. full many a year[ ] his hateful head had been for tribute paid, nor since in cambria seen: the last of all the litter 'scaped by chance, and from geneva first infested france. some authors thus his pedigree will trace, but others write him of an upstart race: because of wickliff's brood no mark he brings, but his innate antipathy to kings. these last deduce him from th' helvetian kind, who near the leman lake his consort lined: that fiery zuinglius first th' affection bred, and meagre calvin bless'd the nuptial bed. in israel some believe him whelp'd long since, when the proud sanhedrim oppress'd the prince; or, since he will be jew, derive him higher, when corah with his brethren did conspire from moses' hand the sovereign sway to wrest, and aaron of his ephod to divest: till opening earth made way for all to pass, and could not bear the burden of a class. the fox and he came shuffled in the dark, if ever they were stow'd in noah's ark: perhaps not made; for all their barking train the dog (a common species) will contain. and some wild curs, who from their masters ran, abhorring the supremacy of man, in woods and caves the rebel race began. o happy pair, how well have you increased! what ills in church and state have you redress'd! with teeth untried, and rudiments of claws, your first essay was on your native laws: those having torn with ease, and trampled down, your fangs you fasten'd on the mitred crown, and freed from god and monarchy your town. what though your native kennel[ ] still be small, bounded betwixt a puddle[ ] and a wall; yet your victorious colonies are sent where the north ocean girds the continent. quicken'd with fire below, your monsters breed in fenny holland, and in fruitful tweed: and, like the first, the last affects to be drawn to the dregs of a democracy. as, where in fields the fairy rounds are seen, a rank, sour herbage rises on the green; so, springing where those midnight elves advance, rebellion prints the footsteps of the dance. such are their doctrines, such contempt they show to heaven above and to their prince below, as none but traitors and blasphemers know. god, like the tyrant of the skies, is placed, and kings, like slaves, beneath the crowd debased. so fulsome is their food, that flocks refuse to bite, and only dogs for physic use. as, where the lightning runs along the ground, no husbandry can heal the blasting wound; nor bladed grass, nor bearded corn succeeds, but scales of scurf and putrefaction breeds: such wars, such waste, such fiery tracks of dearth their zeal has left, and such a teemless earth, but, as the poisons of the deadliest kind are to their own unhappy coasts confined; as only indian shades of sight deprive, and magic plants will but in colchos thrive; so presbytery and pestilential zeal can only nourish in a commonweal. from celtic woods is chased the wolfish crew; but ah! some pity even to brutes is due: their native walks methinks they might enjoy, curb'd of their native malice to destroy. of all the tyrannies on human kind, the worst is that which persecutes the mind. let us but weigh at what offence we strike; 'tis but because we cannot think alike. in punishing of this, we overthrow the laws of nations and of nature too. beasts are the subjects of tyrannic sway, where still the stronger on the weaker prey. man only of a softer mould is made, not for his fellows' ruin, but their aid: created kind, beneficent, and free, the noble image of the deity. one portion of informing fire was given to brutes, the inferior family of heaven: the smith divine, as with a careless beat, struck out the mute creation at a heat: but when arrived at last to human race, the godhead took a deep-considering space; and to distinguish man from all the rest, unlock'd the sacred treasures of his breast; and mercy mix'd with reason did impart, one to his head, the other to his heart: reason to rule, and mercy to forgive; the first is law, the last prerogative. and like his mind his outward form appear'd, when, issuing naked, to the wondering herd, he charm'd their eyes; and, for they loved, they fear'd: not arm'd with horns of arbitrary might, or claws to seize their furry spoils in fight, or with increase of feet to o'ertake them in their flight: of easy shape, and pliant every way; confessing still the softness of his clay, and kind as kings upon their coronation day: with open hands, and with extended space of arms, to satisfy a large embrace. thus kneaded up with milk, the new-made man his kingdom o'er his kindred world began: till knowledge misapplied, misunderstood, and pride of empire, sour'd his balmy blood. then, first rebelling, his own stamp he coins; the murderer cain was latent in his loins: and blood began its first and loudest cry, for differing worship of the deity. thus persecution rose, and further space produced the mighty hunter of his race[ ]. not so the blessed pan his flock increased, content to fold them from the famish'd beast: mild were his laws; the sheep and harmless hind were never of the persecuting kind. such pity now the pious pastor shows, such mercy from the british lion flows, that both provide protection from their foes. o happy regions, italy and spain, which never did those monsters entertain! the wolf, the bear, the boar, can there advance no native claim of just inheritance. and self-preserving laws, severe in show, may guard their fences from the invading foe. where birth has placed them, let them safely share the common benefit of vital air. themselves unharmful, let them live unharm'd; their jaws disabled, and their claws disarm'd: here, only in nocturnal howlings bold, they dare not seize the hind, nor leap the fold. more powerful, and as vigilant as they, the lion awfully forbids the prey. their rage repress'd, though pinch'd with famine sore, they stand aloof, and tremble at his roar: much is their hunger, but their fear is more. these are the chief: to number o'er the rest, and stand, like adam, naming every beast, were weary work; nor will the muse describe a slimy-born and sun-begotten tribe; who far from steeples and their sacred sound, in fields their sullen conventicles found. these gross, half-animated lumps i leave; nor can i think what thoughts they can conceive. but if they think at all, 'tis sure no higher than matter, put in motion, may aspire: souls that can scarce ferment their mass of clay; so drossy, so divisible are they, as would but serve pure bodies for allay: such souls as shards produce, such beetle things as only buzz to heaven with evening wings; strike in the dark, offending but by chance, such are the blindfold blows of ignorance. they know not beings, and but hate a name; to them the hind and panther are the same. the panther[ ] sure the noblest, next the hind, and fairest creature of the spotted kind; oh, could her inborn stains be wash'd away, she were too good to be a beast of prey! how can i praise, or blame, and not offend, or how divide the frailty from the friend? her faults and virtues lie so mix'd, that she nor wholly stands condemn'd, nor wholly free. then, like her injured lion, let me speak; he cannot bend her, and he would not break. unkind already, and estranged in part, the wolf begins to share her wandering heart. though unpolluted yet with actual ill, she half commits, who sins but in her will. if, as our dreaming platonists report, there could be spirits of a middle sort, too black for heaven, and yet too white for hell, who just dropt half way down, nor lower fell; so poised, so gently she descends from high, it seems a soft dismission from the sky. her house not ancient, whatsoe'er pretence her clergy heralds make in her defence. a second century not half-way run, since the new honours of her blood begun. a lion[ ] old, obscene, and furious made by lust, compress'd her mother in a shade; then, by a left-hand marriage, weds the dame, covering adultery with a specious name: so schism begot; and sacrilege and she, a well match'd pair, got graceless heresy. god's and king's rebels have the same good cause, to trample down divine and human laws: both would be call'd reformers, and their hate alike destructive both to church and state: the fruit proclaims the plant; a lawless prince by luxury reform'd incontinence; by ruins, charity; by riots, abstinence. confessions, fasts, and penance set aside, oh, with what ease we follow such a guide, where souls are starved, and senses gratified! where marriage pleasures midnight prayers supply, and matin bells, a melancholy cry, are tuned to merrier notes, increase and multiply. religion shows a rosy-colour'd face; not batter'd out with drudging works of grace: a down-hill reformation rolls apace. what flesh and blood would crowd the narrow gate, or, till they waste their pamper'd paunches, wait? all would be happy at the cheapest rate. though our lean faith these rigid laws has given, the full-fed mussulman goes fat to heaven; for his arabian prophet with delights of sense allured his eastern proselytes. the jolly luther, reading him, began to interpret scriptures by his alcoran; to grub the thorns beneath our tender feet, and make the paths of paradise more sweet; bethought him of a wife ere half way gone, for 'twas uneasy travelling alone; and, in this masquerade of mirth and love, mistook the bliss of heaven for bacchanals above. sure he presumed of praise, who came to stock the ethereal pastures with so fair a flock, burnish'd, and battening on their food, to show their diligence of careful herds below. our panther, though like these she changed her head, yet, as the mistress of a monarch's bed, her front erect with majesty she bore, the crosier wielded, and the mitre wore. her upper part of decent discipline show'd affectation of an ancient line; and fathers, councils, church, and church's head, were on her reverend phylacteries read. but what disgraced and disavow'd the rest, was calvin's brand, that stigmatized the beast. thus, like a creature of a double kind, in her own labyrinth she lives confined. to foreign lands no sound of her is come, humbly content to be despised at home. such is her faith, where good cannot be had, at least she leaves the refuse of the bad: nice in her choice of ill, though not of best, and least deform'd, because reform'd the least. in doubtful points betwixt her differing friends, where one for substance, one for sign contends, their contradicting terms she strives to join; sign shall be substance, substance shall be sign. a real presence all her sons allow, and yet 'tis flat idolatry to bow, because the godhead's there they know not how. her novices are taught that bread and wine are but the visible and outward sign, received by those who in communion join. but the inward grace, or the thing signified, his blood and body, who to save us died; the faithful this thing signified receive: what is't those faithful then partake or leave? for what is signified and understood, is, by her own confession, flesh and blood. then, by the same acknowledgment, we know they take the sign, and take the substance too. the literal sense is hard to flesh and blood, but nonsense never can be understood. her wild belief on every wave is toss'd; but sure no church can better morals boast: true to her king her principles are found; o that her practice were but half so sound! steadfast in various turns of state she stood, and seal'd her vow'd affection with her blood: nor will i meanly tax her constancy, that interest or obligement made the tie bound to the fate of murder'd monarchy. before the sounding axe so falls the vine, whose tender branches round the poplar twine. she chose her ruin, and resign'd her life, in death undaunted as an indian wife: a rare example! but some souls we see grow hard, and stiffen with adversity: yet these by fortune's favours are undone; resolved into a baser form they run, and bore the wind, but cannot bear the sun. let this be nature's frailty, or her fate, or isgrim's[ ] counsel, her new-chosen mate; still she's the fairest of the fallen crew, no mother more indulgent, but the true. fierce to her foes, yet fears her force to try, because she wants innate authority; for how can she constrain them to obey, who has herself cast off the lawful sway? rebellion equals all, and those who toil in common theft, will share the common spoil. let her produce the title and the right against her old superiors first to fight; if she reform by text, even that's as plain for her own rebels to reform again. as long as words a different sense will bear, and each may be his own interpreter, our airy faith will no foundation find: the word's a weathercock for every wind: the bear, the fox, the wolf, by turns prevail; the most in power supplies the present gale. the wretched panther cries aloud for aid to church and councils, whom she first betray'd; no help from fathers or tradition's train: those ancient guides she taught us to disdain, and, by that scripture, which she once abused to reformation, stands herself accused. what bills for breach of laws can she prefer, expounding which she owns herself may err? and, after all her winding ways are tried, if doubts arise, she slips herself aside, and leaves the private conscience for the guide. if then that conscience set the offender free, it bars her claim to church authority. how can she censure, or what crime pretend, but scripture may be construed to defend? even those, whom for rebellion she transmits to civil power, her doctrine first acquits; because no disobedience can ensue, where no submission to a judge is due; each judging for himself, by her consent, whom thus absolved she sends to punishment. suppose the magistrate revenge her cause, 'tis only for transgressing human laws. how answering to its end a church is made, whose power is but to counsel and persuade? oh, solid rock, on which secure she stands! eternal house, not built with mortal hands! oh, sure defence against the infernal gate,-- a patent during pleasure of the state! thus is the panther neither loved nor fear'd, a mere mock queen of a divided herd; whom soon by lawful power she might control, herself a part submitted to the whole. then, as the moon who first receives the light by which she makes our nether regions bright, so might she shine, reflecting from afar the rays she borrow'd from a better star; big with the beams which from her mother flow, and reigning o'er the rising tides below: now, mixing with a savage crowd, she goes, and meanly flatters her inveterate foes; ruled while she rules, and losing every hour her wretched remnants of precarious power. one evening, while the cooler shade she sought, revolving many a melancholy thought, alone she walk'd, and look'd around in vain, with rueful visage, for her vanish'd train: none of her sylvan subjects made their court; levées and couchées pass'd without resort. so hardly can usurpers manage well those whom they first instructed to rebel. more liberty begets desire of more; the hunger still increases with the store. without respect they brush'd along the wood, each in his clan, and, fill'd with loathsome food, ask'd no permission to the neighbouring flood. the panther, full of inward discontent, since they would go, before them wisely went; supplying want of power by drinking first, as if she gave them leave to quench their thirst. among the rest, the hind, with fearful face, beheld from far the common watering place, nor durst approach; till, with an awful roar, the sovereign lion[ ] bade her fear no more. encouraged thus she brought her younglings nigh, watching the motions of her patron's eye, and drank a sober draught; the rest amazed stood mutely still, and on the stranger gazed; survey'd her part by part, and sought to find the ten-horn'd monster in the harmless hind, such as the wolf and panther had design'd. they thought at first they dream'd; for 'twas offence with them to question certitude of sense, their guide in faith: but nearer when they drew, and had the faultless object full in view, lord, how they all admired her heavenly hue! some, who before her fellowship disdain'd, scarce, and but scarce, from in-born rage restrain'd, now frisk'd about her, and old kindred feign'd. whether for love or interest, every sect of all the savage nation show'd respect. the viceroy panther could not awe the herd; the more the company, the less they fear'd. the surly wolf with secret envy burst, yet could not howl; (the hind had seen him first:) but what he durst not speak the panther durst. for when the herd, sufficed, did late repair, to ferny heaths, and to their forest lair, she made a mannerly excuse to stay, proffering the hind to wait her half the way: that, since the sky was clear, an hour of talk might help her to beguile the tedious walk. with much good-will the motion was embraced, to chat a while on their adventures pass'd: nor had the grateful hind so soon forgot her friend and fellow-sufferer in the plot. yet, wondering how of late she grew estranged, her forehead cloudy, and her countenance changed, she thought this hour the occasion would present to learn her secret cause of discontent, which well she hoped might be with ease redress'd, considering her a well-bred civil beast, and more a gentlewoman than the rest. after some common talk what rumours ran, the lady of the spotted muff began. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'hare:' the quakers.] [footnote : 'ape:' latitudinarians in general.] [footnote : 'reynard:' the arians.] [footnote : 'bilanders:' an old word for a coasting boat.] [footnote : 'first apostate:' arius.] [footnote : 'wolf:' presbytery.] [footnote : 'many a year:' referring to the price put on the head of wolves in wales.] [footnote : 'kennel:' geneva.] [footnote : 'puddle:' its lake.] [footnote : 'mighty hunter of his race:' nimrod.] [footnote : 'panther:' church of england.] [footnote : 'lion:' henry viii.] [footnote : 'isgrim:' the wolf.] [footnote : 'lion:' james ii.] part ii. dame, said the panther, times are mended well, since late among the philistines[ ] you fell. the toils were pitch'd, a spacious tract of ground with expert huntsmen was encompass'd round; the enclosure narrow'd; the sagacious power of hounds and death drew nearer every hour. 'tis true, the younger lion[ ] 'scaped the snare, but all your priestly calves[ ] lay struggling there, as sacrifices on their altar laid; while you, their careful mother, wisely fled, not trusting destiny to save your head; for, whate'er promises you have applied to your unfailing church, the surer side is four fair legs in danger to provide. and whate'er tales of peter's chair you tell, yet, saving reverence of the miracle, the better luck was yours to 'scape so well. as i remember, said the sober hind, those toils were for your own dear self design'd, as well as me, and with the self-same throw, to catch the quarry and the vermin too. (forgive the slanderous tongues that call'd you so.) howe'er you take it now, the common cry then ran you down for your rank loyalty. besides, in popery they thought you nursed, as evil tongues will ever speak the worst, because some forms, and ceremonies some you kept, and stood in the main question dumb. dumb you were born indeed; but thinking long the test[ ] it seems at last has loosed your tongue. and to explain what your forefathers meant, by real presence in the sacrament, after long fencing push'd against the wall. your salvo comes, that he's not there at all: there changed your faith, and what may change may fall. who can believe what varies every day, nor ever was, nor will be at a stay? tortures may force the tongue untruths to tell, and i ne'er own'd myself infallible, replied the panther: grant such presence were, yet in your sense i never own'd it there. a real virtue we by faith receive, and that we in the sacrament believe. then, said the hind, as you the matter state, not only jesuits can equivocate; for real, as you now the word expound, from solid substance dwindles to a sound. methinks an Æsop's fable you repeat; you know who took the shadow for the meat: your church's substance thus you change at will, and yet retain your former figure still. i freely grant you spoke to save your life; for then you lay beneath the butcher's knife. long time you fought, redoubled battery bore, but, after all, against yourself you swore; your former self: for every hour your form is chopp'd and changed, like winds before a storm. thus fear and interest will prevail with some; for all have not the gift of martyrdom. the panther grinn'd at this, and thus replied: that men may err was never yet denied. but, if that common principle be true, the canon, dame, is levell'd full at you. but, shunning long disputes, i fain would see that wondrous wight infallibility. is he from heaven, this mighty champion, come; or lodged below in subterranean rome? first, seat him somewhere, and derive his race, or else conclude that nothing has no place. suppose (though i disown it), said the hind, the certain mansion were not yet assign'd; the doubtful residence no proof can bring against the plain existence of the thing. because philosophers may disagree if sight by emission or reception be, shall it be thence inferr'd, i do not see? but you require an answer positive, which yet, when i demand, you dare not give; for fallacies in universals live. i then affirm that this unfailing guide in pope and general councils must reside; both lawful, both combined: what one decrees by numerous votes, the other ratifies: on this undoubted sense the church relies. 'tis true, some doctors in a scantier space, i mean, in each apart, contract the place. some, who to greater length extend the line, the church's after-acceptation join. this last circumference appears too wide; the church diffused is by the council tied; as members by their representatives obliged to laws which prince and senate gives. thus some contract, and some enlarge the space: in pope and council, who denies the place, assisted from above with god's unfailing grace? those canons all the needful points contain; their sense so obvious, and their words so plain, that no disputes about the doubtful text have hitherto the labouring world perplex'd. if any should in after-times appear, new councils must be call'd, to make the meaning clear: because in them the power supreme resides; and all the promises are to the guides. this may be taught with sound and safe defence; but mark how sandy is your own pretence, who, setting councils, pope, and church aside, are every man his own presuming guide. the sacred books, you say, are full and plain. and every needful point of truth contain: all who can read interpreters may be: thus, though your several churches disagree, yet every saint has to himself alone the secret of this philosophic stone. these principles your jarring sects unite, when differing doctors and disciples fight. though luther, zuinglius, calvin, holy chiefs, have made a battle royal of beliefs; or, like wild horses, several ways have whirl'd the tortured text about the christian world; each jehu lashing on with furious force, that turk or jew could not have used it worse; no matter what dissension leaders make, where every private man may save a stake: ruled by the scripture and his own advice, each has a blind by-path to paradise; where, driving in a circle, slow or fast, opposing sects are sure to meet at last. a wondrous charity you have in store for all reform'd to pass the narrow door: so much, that mahomet had scarcely more. for he, kind prophet, was for damning none; but christ and moses were to save their own: himself was to secure his chosen race, though reason good for turks to take the place, and he allow'd to be the better man, in virtue of his holier alcoran. true, said the panther, i shall ne'er deny my brethren may be saved as well as i: though huguenots condemn our ordination, succession, ministerial vocation; and luther, more mistaking what he read, misjoins the sacred body with the bread: yet, lady, still remember, i maintain, the word in needful points is only plain. needless, or needful, i not now contend, for still you have a loop-hole for a friend; rejoin'd the matron: but the rule you lay has led whole flocks, and leads them still astray, in weighty points, and full damnation's way. for did not arius first, socinus now, the son's eternal godhead disavow? and did not these by gospel texts alone condemn our doctrine, and maintain their own? have not all heretics the same pretence to plead the scriptures in their own defence? how did the nicene council then decide that strong debate? was it by scripture tried? no, sure; to that the rebel would not yield; squadrons of texts he marshall'd in the field: that was but civil war, an equal set, where piles with piles[ ], and eagles eagles met. with texts point-blank and plain he faced the foe. and did not satan tempt our saviour so? the good old bishops took a simpler way; each ask'd but what he heard his father say, or how he was instructed in his youth, and by tradition's force upheld the truth. the panther smiled at this; and when, said she, were those first councils disallow'd by me? or where did i at sure tradition strike, provided still it were apostolic? friend, said the hind, you quit your former ground, where all your faith you did on scripture found: now 'tis tradition join'd with holy writ; but thus your memory betrays your wit. no, said the panther, for in that i view, when your tradition's forged, and when 'tis true. i set them by the rule, and, as they square, or deviate from, undoubted doctrine there, this oral fiction, that old faith declare. hind: the council steer'd, it seems, a different course; they tried the scripture by tradition's force: but you tradition by the scripture try; pursued by sects, from this to that you fly, nor dare on one foundation to rely. the word is then deposed, and in this view, you rule the scripture, not the scripture you. thus said the dame, and, smiling, thus pursued: i see tradition then is disallow'd, when not evinced by scripture to be true, and scripture, as interpreted by you. but here you tread upon unfaithful ground; unless you could infallibly expound: which you reject as odious popery, and throw that doctrine back with scorn on me. suppose we on things traditive divide, and both appeal to scripture to decide; by various texts we both uphold our claim, nay, often ground our titles on the same: after long labour lost, and time's expense, both grant the words, and quarrel for the sense. thus all disputes for ever must depend; for no dumb rule can controversies end. thus, when you said, tradition must be tried by sacred writ, whose sense yourselves decide, you said no more, but that yourselves must be the judges of the scripture sense, not we. against our church-tradition you declare, and yet your clerks would sit in moses' chair; at least 'tis proved against your argument, the rule is far from plain, where all dissent. if not by scriptures, how can we be sure, replied the panther, what tradition's pure? for you may palm upon us new for old: all, as they say, that glitters, is not gold. how but by following her, replied the dame, to whom derived from sire to son they came; where every age does on another move, and trusts no farther than the next above; where all the rounds like jacob's ladder rise, the lowest hid in earth, the topmost in the skies. sternly the savage did her answer mark, her glowing eye-balls glittering in the dark, and said but this: since lucre was your trade, succeeding times such dreadful gaps have made, 'tis dangerous climbing: to your sons and you i leave the ladder, and its omen too. hind: the panther's breath was ever famed for sweet; but from the wolf such wishes oft i meet: you learn'd this language from the blatant beast, or rather did not speak, but were possess'd. as for your answer, 'tis but barely urged: you must evince tradition to be forged; produce plain proofs: unblemish'd authors use as ancient as those ages they accuse; 'till when 'tis not sufficient to defame: an old possession stands, 'till elder quits the claim. then for our interest, which is named alone to load with envy, we retort your own, for when traditions in your faces fly, resolving not to yield, you must decry. as when the cause goes hard, the guilty man excepts, and thins his jury all he can; so when you stand of other aid bereft, you to the twelve apostles would be left. your friend the wolf did with more craft provide to set those toys, traditions, quite aside; and fathers too, unless when, reason spent, he cites them but sometimes for ornament. but, madam panther, you, though more sincere, are not so wise as your adulterer: the private spirit is a better blind, than all the dodging tricks your authors find. for they, who left the scripture to the crowd, each for his own peculiar judge allow'd; the way to please them was to make them proud. thus, with full sails, they ran upon the shelf: who could suspect a cozenage from himself? on his own reason safer 'tis to stand, than be deceived and damn'd at second-hand. but you, who fathers and traditions take, and garble some, and some you quite forsake, pretending church-authority to fix, and yet some grains of private spirit mix, are like a mule, made up of differing seed, and that's the reason why you never breed; at least not propagate your kind abroad, for home dissenters are by statutes awed. and yet they grow upon you every day, while you, to speak the best, are at a stay, for sects, that are extremes, abhor a middle way. like tricks of state, to stop a raging flood, or mollify a mad-brain'd senate's mood: of all expedients never one was good. well may they argue, nor can you deny, if we must fix on church authority, best on the best, the fountain, not the flood; that must be better still, if this be good. shall she command who has herself rebell'd? is antichrist by antichrist expell'd? did we a lawful tyranny displace, to set aloft a bastard of the race? why all these wars to win the book, if we must not interpret for ourselves, but she? either be wholly slaves, or wholly free. for purging fires traditions must not fight; but they must prove episcopacy's right. thus those led horses are from service freed; you never mount them but in time of need. like mercenaries, hired for home defence, they will not serve against their native prince. against domestic foes of hierarchy these are drawn forth, to make fanatics fly; but, when they see their countrymen at hand, marching against them under church-command, straight they forsake their colours, and disband. thus she, nor could the panther well enlarge with weak defence against so strong a charge; but said: for what did christ his word provide, if still his church must want a living guide? and if all saving doctrines are not there, or sacred penmen could not make them clear, from after ages we should hope in vain for truths, which men inspired could not explain. before the word was written, said the hind, our saviour preach'd his faith to human kind: from his apostles the first age received eternal truth, and what they taught believed. thus by tradition faith was planted first; succeeding flocks succeeding pastors nursed. this was the way our wise redeemer chose (who sure could all things for the best dispose), to fence his fold from their encroaching foes. he could have writ himself, but well foresaw the event would be like that of moses' law; some difference would arise, some doubts remain, like those which yet the jarring jews maintain. no written laws can be so plain, so pure, but wit may gloss, and malice may obscure; not those indited by his first command, a prophet graved the text, an angel held his hand. thus faith was ere the written word appear'd, and men believed not what they read, but heard. but since the apostles could not be confined to these, or those, but severally design'd their large commission round the world to blow, to spread their faith, they spread their labours too. yet still their absent flock their pains did share; they hearken'd still, for love produces care, and, as mistakes arose, or discords fell, or bold seducers taught them to rebel, as charity grew cold, or faction hot, or long neglect their lessons had forgot, for all their wants they wisely did provide, and preaching by epistles was supplied: so great physicians cannot all attend, but some they visit, and to some they send. yet all those letters were not writ to all; nor first intended but occasional, their absent sermons; nor if they contain all needful doctrines, are those doctrines plain. clearness by frequent preaching must be wrought: they writ but seldom, but they daily taught. and what one saint has said of holy paul, "he darkly writ," is true, applied to all. for this obscurity could heaven provide more prudently than by a living guide, as doubts arose, the difference to decide? a guide was therefore needful, therefore made; and, if appointed, sure to be obey'd. thus, with due reverence to the apostle's writ, by which my sons are taught, to which submit; i think those truths their sacred works contain, the church alone can certainly explain; that following ages, leaning on the past, may rest upon the primitive at last. nor would i thence the word no rule infer, but none without the church-interpreter. because, as i have urged before, 'tis mute, and is itself the subject of dispute. but what the apostles their successors taught, they to the next, from them to us is brought, the undoubted sense which is in scripture sought. from hence the church is arm'd, when errors rise, to stop their entrance, and prevent surprise; and, safe entrench'd within, her foes without defies. by these all festering sores her councils heal, which time or has disclosed, or shall reveal; for discord cannot end without a last appeal. nor can a council national decide, but with subordination to her guide; (i wish the cause were on that issue tried.) much less the scripture; for suppose debate betwixt pretenders to a fair estate, bequeath'd by some legator's last intent; (such is our dying saviour's testament:) the will is proved, is open'd, and is read; the doubtful heirs their differing titles plead: all vouch the words their interest to maintain, and each pretends by those his cause is plain. shall then the testament award the right? no, that's the hungary for which they fight; the field of battle, subject of debate; the thing contended for, the fair estate. the sense is intricate, 'tis only clear what vowels and what consonants are there. therefore 'tis plain, its meaning must be tried before some judge appointed to decide. suppose, the fair apostate said, i grant, the faithful flock some living guide should want, your arguments an endless chase pursue; produce this vaunted leader to our view, this mighty moses of the chosen crew. the dame, who saw her fainting foe retired, with force renew'd, to victory aspired; and, looking upward to her kindred sky, as once our saviour own'd his deity, pronounced his words:--"she whom ye seek am i," nor less amazed this voice the panther heard, than were those jews to hear a god declared. then thus the matron modestly renew'd: let all your prophets and their sects be view'd, and see to which of them yourselves think fit the conduct of your conscience to submit: each proselyte would vote his doctor best, with absolute exclusion to the rest: thus would your polish diet disagree, and end, as it began, in anarchy: yourself the fairest for election stand, because you seem crown-general of the land: but soon against your superstitious lawn some presbyterian sabre would be drawn: in your establish'd laws of sovereignty the rest some fundamental flaw would see, and call rebellion gospel-liberty. to church-decrees your articles require submission modified, if not entire. homage denied, to censures you proceed: but when curtana[ ] will not do the deed. you lay that pointless clergy-weapon by, and to the laws, your sword of justice, fly. now this your sects the more unkindly take (those prying varlets hit the blots you make), because some ancient friends of yours declare, your only rule of faith the scriptures are, interpreted by men of judgment sound, which every sect will for themselves expound; nor think less reverence to their doctors due for sound interpretation, than to you. if then, by able heads, are understood your brother prophets, who reform'd abroad; those able heads expound a wiser way, that their own sheep their shepherd should obey. but if you mean yourselves are only sound, that doctrine turns the reformation round, and all the rest are false reformers found; because in sundry points you stand alone, not in communion join'd with any one; and therefore must be all the church, or none. then, till you have agreed whose judge is best, against this forced submission they protest: while sound and sound a different sense explains, both play at hardhead till they break their brains; and from their chairs each other's force defy, while unregarded thunders vainly fly. i pass the rest, because your church alone of all usurpers best could fill the throne. but neither you, nor any sect beside, for this high office can be qualified, with necessary gifts required in such a guide. for that which must direct the whole must be bound in one bond of faith and unity: but all your several churches disagree. the consubstantiating church and priest refuse communion to the calvinist: the french reform'd from preaching you restrain, because you judge their ordination vain; and so they judge of yours, but donors must ordain. in short, in doctrine, or in discipline, not one reform'd can with another join: but all from each, as from damnation, fly; no union they pretend, but in non-popery. nor, should their members in a synod meet, could any church presume to mount the seat, above the rest, their discords to decide; none would obey, but each would be the guide: and face to face dissensions would increase; for only distance now preserves the peace. all in their turns accusers, and accused: babel was never half so much confused: what one can plead, the rest can plead as well; for amongst equals lies no last appeal, and all confess themselves are fallible. now since you grant some necessary guide, all who can err are justly laid aside: because a trust so sacred to confer shows want of such a sure interpreter; and how can he be needful who can err? then, granting that unerring guide we want, that such there is you stand obliged to grant: our saviour else were wanting to supply our needs, and obviate that necessity. it then remains, the church can only be the guide, which owns unfailing certainty; or else you slip your hold, and change your side, relapsing from a necessary guide. but this annex'd condition of the crown, immunity from errors, you disown; here then you shrink, and lay your weak pretensions down. for petty royalties you raise debate; but this unfailing universal state you shun; nor dare succeed to such a glorious weight; and for that cause those promises detest with which our saviour did his church invest; but strive to evade, and fear to find them true, as conscious they were never meant to you: all which the mother church asserts her own, and with unrivall'd claim ascends the throne. so, when of old the almighty father sate in council, to redeem our ruin'd state, millions of millions, at a distance round, silent the sacred consistory crown'd, to hear what mercy, mix'd with justice, could propound: all prompt, with eager pity, to fulfil the full extent of their creator's will. but when the stern conditions were declared, a mournful whisper through the host was heard, and the whole hierarchy, with heads hung down, submissively declined the ponderous proffer'd crown. then, not till then, the eternal son from high rose in the strength of all the deity: stood forth to accept the terms, and underwent a weight which all the frame of heaven had bent. nor he himself could bear, but as omnipotent. now, to remove the least remaining doubt, that even the blear-eyed sects may find her out, behold what heavenly rays adorn her brows, what from his wardrobe her beloved allows to deck the wedding-day of his unspotted spouse. behold what marks of majesty she brings; richer than ancient heirs of eastern kings! her right hand holds the sceptre and the keys, to show whom she commands, and who obeys: with these to bind, or set the sinner free, with that to assert spiritual royalty. one in herself, not rent by schism,[ ] but sound, entire, one solid shining diamond; not sparkles shatter'd into sects like you: one is the church, and must be to be true: one central principle of unity. as undivided, so from errors free, as one in faith, so one in sanctity. thus she, and none but she, the insulting rage of heretics opposed from age to age: still when the giant-brood invades her throne, she stoops from heaven, and meets them half way down, and with paternal thunder vindicates her crown. but like egyptian sorcerers you stand, and vainly lift aloft your magic wand, to sweep away the swarms of vermin from the land: you could like them, with like infernal force, produce the plague, but not arrest the course. but when the boils and blotches, with disgrace and public scandal, sat upon the face, themselves attack'd, the magi strove no more, they saw god's finger, and their fate deplore; themselves they could not cure of the dishonest sore. thus one, thus pure, behold her largely spread, like the fair ocean from her mother-bed; from east to west triumphantly she rides, all shores are water'd by her wealthy tides. the gospel-sound, diffused from pole to pole, where winds can carry, and where waves can roll, the self-same doctrine of the sacred page convey'd to every clime, in every age. here let my sorrow give my satire place, to raise new blushes on my british race; our sailing-ships like common sewers we use, and through our distant colonies diffuse the draught of dungeons, and the stench of stews, whom, when their home-bred honesty is lost, we disembogue on some far indian coast: thieves, panders, paillards,[ ] sins of every sort; those are the manufactures we export; and these the missioners our zeal has made: for, with my country's pardon be it said, religion is the least of all our trade. yet some improve their traffic more than we; for they on gain, their only god, rely, and set a public price on piety. industrious of the needle and the chart, they run full sail to their japonian mart; prevention fear, and, prodigal of fame, sell all of christian,[ ] to the very name; nor leave enough of that, to hide their naked shame. thus, of three marks, which in the creed we view, not one of all can be applied to you: much less the fourth; in vain, alas! you seek the ambitious title of apostolic: god-like descent! 'tis well your blood can be proved noble in the third or fourth degree: for all of ancient that you had before, (i mean what is not borrow'd from our store) was error fulminated o'er and o'er; old heresies condemn'd in ages past, by care and time recover'd from the blast. 'tis said with ease, but never can be proved, the church her old foundations has removed, and built new doctrines on unstable sands: judge that, ye winds and rains: you proved her, yet she stands. those ancient doctrines charged on her for new, show when and how, and from what hands they grew. we claim no power, when heresies grow bold, to coin new faith, but still declare the old. how else could that obscene disease be purged, when controverted texts are vainly urged? to prove tradition new, there's somewhat more required, than saying, 'twas not used before. those monumental arms are never stirr'd, till schism or heresy call down goliah's sword. thus, what you call corruptions, are, in truth, the first plantations of the gospel's youth; old standard faith: but cast your eyes again, and view those errors which new sects maintain, or which of old disturb'd the church's peaceful reign; and we can point each period of the time, when they began, and who begot the crime; can calculate how long the eclipse endured, who interposed, what digits were obscured: of all which are already pass'd away, we know the rise, the progress, and decay. despair at our foundations then to strike, till you can prove your faith apostolic; a limpid stream drawn from the native source; succession lawful in a lineal course. prove any church, opposed to this our head, so one, so pure, so unconfinedly spread, under one chief of the spiritual state, the members all combined, and all subordinate. show such a seamless coat, from schism so free, in no communion join'd with heresy. if such a one you find, let truth prevail: till when your weights will in the balance fail: a church unprincipled kicks up the scale. but if you cannot think (nor sure you can suppose in god what were unjust in man) that he, the fountain of eternal grace, should suffer falsehood, for so long a space, to banish truth, and to usurp her place: that seven successive ages should be lost, and preach damnation at their proper cost; that all your erring ancestors should die, drown'd in the abyss of deep idolatry: if piety forbid such thoughts to rise, awake, and open your unwilling eyes: god hath left nothing for each age undone, from this to that wherein he sent his son: then think but well of him, and half your work is done. see how his church, adorn'd with every grace, with open arms, a kind forgiving face, stands ready to prevent her long-lost son's embrace. not more did joseph o'er his brethren weep, nor less himself could from discovery keep, when in the crowd of suppliants they were seen, and in their crew his best-loved benjamin. that pious joseph in the church behold, to feed your famine,[ ] and refuse your gold: the joseph you exiled, the joseph whom you sold. thus, while with heavenly charity she spoke, a streaming blaze the silent shadows broke; shot from the skies; a cheerful azure light: the birds obscene to forests wing'd their flight, and gaping graves received the wandering guilty sprite. such were the pleasing triumphs of the sky, for james his late nocturnal victory; the pledge of his almighty patron's love, the fireworks which his angels made above. i saw myself the lambent easy light gild the brown horror, and dispel the night: the messenger with speed the tidings bore; news, which three labouring nations did restore; but heaven's own nuntius was arrived before. by this, the hind had reach'd her lonely cell, and vapours rose, and dews unwholesome fell. when she, by frequent observation wise, as one who long on heaven had fix'd her eyes, discern'd a change of weather in the skies; the western borders were with crimson spread, the moon descending look'd all flaming red; she thought good manners bound her to invite the stranger dame to be her guest that night. 'tis true, coarse diet, and a short repast, (she said) were weak inducements to the taste of one so nicely bred, and so unused to fast: but what plain fare her cottage could afford, a hearty welcome at a homely board, was freely hers; and, to supply the rest, an honest meaning, and an open breast: last, with content of mind, the poor man's wealth, a grace-cup to their common patron's health. this she desired her to accept, and stay for fear she might be wilder'd in her way, because she wanted an unerring guide; and then the dew-drops on her silken hide her tender constitution did declare, too lady-like a long fatigue to bear, and rough inclemencies of raw nocturnal air. but most she fear'd that, travelling so late, some evil-minded beasts might lie in wait, and, without witness, wreak their hidden hate. the panther, though she lent a listening ear, had more of lion in her than to fear: yet, wisely weighing, since she had to deal with many foes, their numbers might prevail, return'd her all the thanks she could afford, and took her friendly hostess at her word: who, entering first her lowly roof, a shed with hoary moss, and winding ivy spread, honest enough to hide an humble hermit's head, thus graciously bespoke her welcome guest: so might these walls, with your fair presence blest, become your dwelling-place of everlasting rest; not for a night, or quick revolving year; welcome an owner, not a sojourner. this peaceful seat my poverty secures; war seldom enters but where wealth allures: nor yet despise it; for this poor abode has oft received, and yet receives a god; a god victorious of the stygian race here laid his sacred limbs, and sanctified the place, this mean retreat did mighty pan contain: be emulous of him, and pomp disdain, and dare not to debase your soul to gain. the silent stranger stood amazed to see contempt of wealth, and wilful poverty: and, though ill habits are not soon controll'd, a while suspended her desire of gold. but civilly drew in her sharpen'd paws, not violating hospitable laws; and pacified her tail, and lick'd her frothy jaws. the hind did first her country cates provide; then couch'd herself securely by her side. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'philistines:' the cromwellians, &c.] [footnote : 'younger lion:' charles ii.] [footnote : 'priestly calves,' &c.: this alludes to the commons voting in that all deans, chapters, &c. should be abolished.] [footnote : 'the test:' the test act, passed in , enjoined the abjuration of the real presence in the sacrament.] [footnote : 'piles, &c.:' the roman arms--_pili_ and eagles.] [footnote : 'curtana:' the name of king edward the confessor's sword, without a point, an emblem of mercy, and carried before the king at the coronation.] [footnote : 'not rent by schism:' marks of the catholic church from the nicene creed.] [footnote : 'paillards:' a french word for licentious persons.] [footnote : 'sell all of christian,' &c.: it is said that the dutch, in order to secure to themselves the whole trade of japan, trample on the cross, and deny the name of jesus.] [footnote : 'feed your famine:' the renunciation of the benedictines to the abbey lands.] part iii. much malice, mingled with a little wit, perhaps may censure this mysterious writ: because the muse has peopled caledon with panthers, bears, and wolves, and beasts unknown, as if we were not stock'd with monsters of our own. let Æsop answer, who has set to view such kinds as greece and phrygia never knew; and mother hubbard,[ ] in her homely dress, has sharply blamed a british lioness; that queen, whose feast the factious rabble keep, exposed obscenely naked and asleep. led by those great examples, may not i the wanted organs of their words supply? if men transact like brutes, 'tis equal then for brutes to claim the privilege of men. others our hind of folly will indite, to entertain a dangerous guest by night. let those remember, that she cannot die till rolling time is lost in round eternity; nor need she fear the panther, though untamed, because the lion's peace[ ] was now proclaim'd: the wary savage would not give offence, to forfeit the protection of her prince; but watch'd the time her vengeance to complete, when all her furry sons in frequent senate met; meanwhile she quench'd her fury at the flood, and with a lenten salad cool'd her blood. their commons, though but coarse, were nothing scant, nor did their minds an equal banquet want. for now the hind, whose noble nature strove to express her plain simplicity of love, did all the honours of her house so well, no sharp debates disturb'd the friendly meal. she turn'd the talk, avoiding that extreme, to common dangers past, a sadly-pleasing theme; remembering every storm which toss'd the state, when both were objects of the public hate, and dropp'd a tear betwixt for her own children's fate. nor fail'd she then a full review to make of what the panther suffer'd for her sake: her lost esteem, her truth, her loyal care, her faith unshaken to an exiled heir,[ ] her strength to endure, her courage to defy; her choice of honourable infamy. on these, prolixly thankful, she enlarged; then with acknowledgment herself she charged; for friendship, of itself an holy tie, is made more sacred by adversity. now should they part, malicious tongues would say, they met like chance companions on the way, whom mutual fear of robbers had possess'd; while danger lasted, kindness was profess'd; but that once o'er, the short-lived union ends; the road divides, and there divide the friends. the panther nodded when her speech was done, and thank'd her coldly in a hollow tone: but said her gratitude had gone too far for common offices of christian care. if to the lawful heir she had been true, she paid but cæsar what was cæsar's due. i might, she added, with like praise describe your suffering sons, and so return your bribe: but incense from my hands is poorly prized; for gifts are scorn'd where givers are despised. i served a turn, and then was cast away; you, like the gaudy fly, your wings display, and sip the sweets, and bask in your great patron's day. this heard, the matron was not slow to find what sort of malady had seized her mind: disdain, with gnawing envy, fell despite, and canker'd malice stood in open sight: ambition, interest, pride without control, and jealousy, the jaundice of the soul; revenge, the bloody minister of ill, with all the lean tormentors of the will. 'twas easy now to guess from whence arose her new-made union with her ancient foes, her forced civilities, her faint embrace, affected kindness with an alter'd face: yet durst she not too deeply probe the wound, as hoping still the nobler parts were sound: but strove with anodynes to assuage the smart, and mildly thus her medicine did impart. complaints of lovers help to ease their pain; it shows a rest of kindness to complain; a friendship loath to quit its former hold; and conscious merit may be justly bold. but much more just your jealousy would show, if others' good were injury to you: witness, ye heavens, how i rejoice to see rewarded worth and rising loyalty! your warrior offspring that upheld the crown. the scarlet honour of your peaceful gown, are the most pleasing objects i can find, charms to my sight, and cordials to my mind: when virtue spooms before a prosperous gale, my heaving wishes help to fill the sail; and if my prayers for all the brave were heard, cæsar should still have such, and such should still reward. the labour'd earth your pains have sow'd and till'd; 'tis just you reap the product of the field: yours be the harvest, 'tis the beggar's gain to glean the fallings of the loaded wain. such scatter'd ears as are not worth your care, your charity, for alms, may safely spare, for alms are but the vehicles of prayer. my daily bread is literally implored; i have no barns nor granaries to hoard. if cæsar to his own his hand extends, say which of yours his charity offends: you know he largely gives to more than are his friends. are you defrauded when he feeds the poor? our mite decreases nothing of your store. i am but few, and by your fare you see my crying sins are not of luxury. some juster motive sure your mind withdraws, and makes you break our friendship's holy laws; for barefaced envy is too base a cause. show more occasion for your discontent; your love, the wolf, would help you to invent: some german quarrel, or, as times go now, some french, where force is uppermost, will do. when at the fountain's head, as merit ought to claim the place, you take a swilling draught, how easy 'tis an envious eye to throw, and tax the sheep for troubling streams below; or call her (when no farther cause you find) an enemy possess'd of all your kind! but then, perhaps, the wicked world would think, the wolf design'd to eat as well as drink. this last allusion gall'd the panther more, because indeed it rubb'd upon the sore. yet seem'd she not to wince, though shrewdly pain'd: but thus her passive character maintain'd. i never grudged, whate'er my foes report, your flaunting fortune in the lion's court. you have your day, or you are much belied, but i am always on the suffering side: you know my doctrine, and i need not say, i will not, but i cannot disobey. on this firm principle i ever stood; he of my sons who fails to make it good, by one rebellious act renounces to my blood. ah, said the hind, how many sons have you, who call you mother, whom you never knew! but most of them who that relation plead, are such ungracious youths as wish you dead. they gape at rich revenues which you hold, and fain would nibble at your grandame gold; inquire into your years, and laugh to find your crazy temper shows you much declined. were you not dim and doted, you might see a pack of cheats that claim a pedigree, no more of kin to you, than you to me. do you not know, that for a little coin, heralds can foist a name into the line? they ask you blessing but for what you have; but once possess'd of what with care you save, the wanton boys would piss upon your grave. your sons of latitude that court your grace, though most resembling you in form and face. are far the worst of your pretended race. and, but i blush your honesty to blot, pray god you prove them lawfully begot: for in some popish libels i have read, the wolf has been too busy in your bed; at least her hinder parts, the belly-piece, the paunch, and all that scorpio claims, are his. their malice too a sore suspicion brings; for though they dare not bark, they snarl at kings: nor blame them for intruding in your line; fat bishoprics are still of right divine. think you your new french proselytes[ ] are come to starve abroad, because they starved at home? your benefices twinkled from afar; they found the new messiah by the star: those swisses fight on any side for pay, and 'tis the living that conforms, not they. mark with what management their tribes divide, some stick to you, and some to the other side, that many churches may for many mouths provide. more vacant pulpits would more converts make; all would have latitude enough to take: the rest unbeneficed your sects maintain; for ordinations without cures are vain, and chamber practice is a silent gain. your sons of breadth at home are much like these; their soft and yielding metals run with ease: they melt, and take the figure of the mould; but harden and preserve it best in gold. your delphic sword, the panther then replied, is double-edged, and cuts on either side. some sons of mine, who bear upon their shield three steeples argent in a sable field, have sharply tax'd your converts, who unfed have follow'd you for miracles of bread; such who themselves of no religion are, allured with gain, for any will declare. bare lies with bold assertions they can face; but dint of argument is out of place. the grim logician puts them in a fright; 'tis easier far to flourish than to fight. thus our eighth henry's marriage they defame; they say the schism of beds began the game, divorcing from the church to wed the dame: though largely proved, and by himself profess'd, that conscience, conscience would not let him rest: i mean, not till possess'd of her he loved, and old, uncharming catherine was removed. for sundry years before he did complain, and told his ghostly confessor his pain. with the same impudence without a ground, they say, that look the reformation round, no treatise of humility is found. but if none were, the gospel does not want; our saviour preach'd it, and i hope you grant, the sermon on the mount was protestant. no doubt, replied the hind, as sure as all the writings of saint peter and saint paul: on that decision let it stand or fall. now for my converts, who, you say, unfed, have follow'd me for miracles of bread; judge not by hearsay, but observe at least, if since their change their loaves have been increased. the lion buys no converts; if he did, beasts would be sold as fast as he could bid. tax those of interest who conform for gain, or stay the market of another reign: your broad-way sons would never be too nice to close with calvin, if he paid their price; but, raised three steeples higher, would change their note, and quit the cassock for the canting-coat. now, if you damn this censure, as too bold, judge by yourselves, and think not others sold. meantime my sons, accused by fame's report, pay small attendance at the lion's court, nor rise with early crowds, nor flatter late; for silently they beg who daily wait. preferment is bestow'd, that comes unsought; attendance is a bribe, and then 'tis bought. how they should speed, their fortune is untried; for not to ask, is not to be denied. for what they have, their god and king they bless, and hope they should not murmur, had they less. but if reduced, subsistence to implore, in common prudence they should pass your door. unpitied hudibras,[ ] your champion friend, has shown how far your charities extend. this lasting verse shall on his tomb be read, "he shamed you living, and upbraids you dead." with odious atheist names[ ] you load your foes; your liberal clergy why did i expose? it never fails in charities like those. in climes where true religion is profess'd, that imputation were no laughing jest. but imprimatur,[ ] with a chaplain's name, is here sufficient licence to defame. what wonder is't that black detraction thrives? the homicide of names is less than lives; and yet the perjured murderer survives. this said, she paused a little, and suppress'd the boiling indignation of her breast. she knew the virtue of her blade, nor would pollute her satire with ignoble blood: her panting foe she saw before her eye, and back she drew the shining weapon dry. so when the generous lion has in sight his equal match, he rouses for the fight; but when his foe lies prostrate on the plain, he sheaths his paws, uncurls his angry mane, and, pleased with bloodless honours of the day, walks over and disdains the inglorious prey. so james, if great with less we may compare, arrests his rolling thunderbolts in air! and grants ungrateful friends a lengthen'd space, to implore the remnants of long-suffering grace. this breathing-time the matron took; and then resumed the thread of her discourse again. be vengeance wholly left to powers divine, and let heaven judge betwixt your sons and mine: if joys hereafter must be purchased here with loss of all that mortals hold so dear, then welcome infamy and public shame, and, last, a long farewell to worldly fame. 'tis said with ease, but, oh, how hardly tried by haughty souls to human honour tied! o sharp convulsive pangs of agonizing pride! down then, thou rebel, never more to rise, and what thou didst, and dost, so dearly prize, that fame, that darling fame, make that thy sacrifice. 'tis nothing thou hast given, then add thy tears for a long race of unrepenting years: 'tis nothing yet, yet all thou hast to give: then add those may-be years thou hast to live: yet nothing still; then poor, and naked come: thy father will receive his unthrift home, and thy blest saviour's blood discharge the mighty sum. thus (she pursued) i discipline a son, whose uncheck'd fury to revenge would run: he champs the bit, impatient of his loss, and starts aside, and flounders at the cross. instruct him better, gracious god, to know, as thine is vengeance, so forgiveness too: that, suffering from ill tongues, he bears no more than what his sovereign bears, and what his saviour bore. it now remains for you to school your child, and ask why god's anointed he reviled; a king and princess dead! did shimei worse? the cursor's punishment should fright the curse: your son was warn'd, and wisely gave it o'er, but he who counsell'd him has paid the score: the heavy malice could no higher tend, but woe to him on whom the weights descend. so to permitted ills the demon flies; his rage is aim'd at him who rules the skies: constrain'd to quit his cause, no succour found, the foe discharges every tire around, in clouds of smoke abandoning the fight; but his own thundering peals proclaim his flight. in henry's change his charge as ill succeeds; to that long story little answer needs: confront but henry's words with henry's deeds. were space allow'd, with ease it might be proved, what springs his blessed reformation moved. the dire effects appear'd in open sight, which from the cause he calls a distant flight, and yet no larger leap than from the sun to light. now let your sons a double pæan sound, a treatise of humility is found. 'tis found, but better it had ne'er been sought, than thus in protestant procession brought. the famed original through spain is known, rodriguez' work, my celebrated son, which yours, by ill-translating, made his own; conceal'd its author, and usurp'd the name, the basest and ignoblest theft of fame. my altars kindled first that living coal; restore, or practice better, what you stole: that virtue could this humble verse inspire, 'tis all the restitution i require. glad was the panther that the charge was closed, and none of all her favourite sons exposed. for laws of arms permit each injured man, to make himself a saver where he can. perhaps the plunder'd merchant cannot tell the names of pirates in whose hands he fell; but at the den of thieves he justly flies, and every algerine is lawful prize. no private person in the foe's estate can plead exemption from the public fate. yet christian laws allow not such redress; then let the greater supersede the less. but let the abettors of the panther's crime learn to make fairer wars another time. some characters may sure be found to write among her sons; for 'tis no common sight, a spotted dam, and all her offspring white. the savage, though she saw her plea controll'd, yet would not wholly seem to quit her hold, but offer'd fairly to compound the strife, and judge conversion by the convert's life. 'tis true, she said, i think it somewhat strange, so few should follow profitable change: for present joys are more to flesh and blood, than a dull prospect of a distant good. 'twas well alluded by a son of mine (i hope to quote him is not to purloin), two magnets, heaven and earth, allure to bliss; the larger loadstone that, the nearer this: the weak attraction of the greater fails; we nod a while, but neighbourhood prevails: but when the greater proves the nearer too, i wonder more your converts come so slow. methinks in those who firm with me remain, it shows a nobler principle than gain. your inference would be strong, the hind replied, if yours were in effect the suffering side: your clergy's sons their own in peace possess, nor are their prospects in reversion less. my proselytes are struck with awful dread; your bloody comet-laws hang blazing o'er their head; the respite they enjoy but only lent, the best they have to hope, protracted punishment. be judge yourself, if interest may prevail, which motives, yours or mine, will turn the scale. while pride and pomp allure, and plenteous ease, that is, till man's predominant passions cease, admire no longer at my slow increase. by education most have been misled; so they believe, because they so were bred. the priest continues what the nurse began, and thus the child imposes on the man. the rest i named before, nor need repeat: but interest is the most prevailing cheat, the sly seducer both of age and youth; they study that, and think they study truth. when interest fortifies an argument, weak reason serves to gain the will's assent; for souls, already warp'd, receive an easy bent. add long prescription of establish'd laws, and pique of honour to maintain a cause, and shame of change, and fear of future ill, and zeal, the blind conductor of the will; and chief among the still-mistaking crowd, the fame of teachers obstinate and proud, and, more than all, the private judge allow'd; disdain of fathers which the dance began, and last, uncertain whose the narrower span, the clown unread, and half-read gentleman. to this the panther, with a scornful smile: yet still you travel with unwearied toil, and range around the realm without control, among my sons for proselytes to prowl, and here and there you snap some silly soul. you hinted fears of future change in state; pray heaven you did not prophesy your fate! perhaps you think your time of triumph near, but may mistake the season of the year; the swallow's[ ] fortune gives you cause to fear. for charity, replied the matron, tell what sad mischance those pretty birds befell. nay, no mischance, the savage dame replied, but want of wit in their unerring guide, and eager haste, and gaudy hopes, and giddy pride. yet, wishing timely warning may prevail, make you the moral, and i'll tell the tale. the swallow, privileged above the rest of all the birds, as man's familiar guest, pursues the sun in summer, brisk and bold, but wisely shuns the persecuting cold: is well to chancels and to chimneys known, though 'tis not thought she feeds on smoke alone. from hence she has been held of heavenly line, endued with particles of soul divine. this merry chorister had long possess'd her summer seat, and feather'd well her nest: till frowning skies began to change their cheer, and time turn'd up the wrong side of the year; the shedding trees began the ground to strow with yellow leaves, and bitter blasts to blow. sad auguries of winter thence she drew, which by instinct, or prophecy, she knew: when prudence warn'd her to remove betimes, and seek a better heaven, and warmer climes. her sons were summon'd on a steeple's height, and, call'd in common council, vote a flight; the day was named, the next that should be fair: all to the general rendezvous repair, they try their fluttering wings, and trust themselves in air. but whether upward to the moon they go, or dream the winter out in caves below, or hawk at flies elsewhere, concerns us not to know. southwards, you may be sure, they bent their flight, and harbour'd in a hollow rock at night: next morn they rose, and set up every sail; the wind was fair, but blew a mackerel gale: the sickly young sat shivering on the shore, abhorr'd salt water never seen before, and pray'd their tender mothers to delay the passage, and expect a fairer day. with these the martin readily concurr'd, a church-begot, and church-believing bird; of little body, but of lofty mind, round-bellied, for a dignity design'd, and much a dunce, as martins are by kind. yet often quoted canon-laws, and code, and fathers which he never understood; but little learning needs in noble blood. for, sooth to say, the swallow brought him in, her household chaplain, and her next of kin: in superstition silly to excess, and casting schemes by planetary guess: in fine, short-wing'd, unfit himself to fly, his fears foretold foul weather in the sky. besides, a raven from a wither'd oak, left of their lodging, was observed to croak. that omen liked him not; so his advice was present safety, bought at any price; a seeming pious care, that cover'd cowardice. to strengthen this, he told a boding dream of rising waters, and a troubled stream, sure signs of anguish, dangers, and distress, with something more, not lawful to express: by which he slily seem'd to intimate some secret revelation of their fate. for he concluded, once upon a time, he found a leaf inscribed with sacred rhyme, whose antique characters did well denote the sibyl's hand of the cumæan grot: the mad divineress had plainly writ, a time should come (but many ages yet), in which, sinister destinies ordain, a dame should drown with all her feather'd train, and seas from thence be call'd the chelidonian main. at this, some shook for fear, the more devout arose, and bless'd themselves from head to foot. 'tis true, some stagers of the wiser sort made all these idle wonderments their sport: they said, their only danger was delay, and he, who heard what every fool could say, would never fix his thought, but trim his time away. the passage yet was good; the wind, 'tis true, was somewhat high, but that was nothing new, no more than usual equinoxes blew. the sun, already from the scales declined, gave little hopes of better days behind, but change, from bad to worse, of weather and of wind. nor need they fear the dampness of the sky should flag their wings, and hinder them to fly 'twas only water thrown on sails too dry. but, least of all, philosophy presumes of truth in dreams, from melancholy fumes: perhaps the martin, housed in holy ground, might think of ghosts that walk their midnight round, till grosser atoms, tumbling in the stream of fancy, madly met, and clubb'd into a dream: as little weight his vain presages bear, of ill effect to such alone who fear: most prophecies are of a piece with these, each nostradamus can foretell with ease: not naming persons, and confounding times, one casual truth supports a thousand lying rhymes. the advice was true; but fear had seized the most, and all good counsel is on cowards lost. the question crudely put to shun delay, 'twas carried by the major part to stay. his point thus gain'd, sir martin dated thence his power, and from a priest became a prince. he order'd all things with a busy care, and cells and refectories did prepare, and large provisions laid of winter fare: but now and then let fall a word or two of hope, that heaven some miracle might show, and for their sakes the sun should backward go; against the laws of nature upward climb, and, mounted on the ram, renew the prime: for which two proofs in sacred story lay, of ahaz' dial, and of joshua's day. in expectation of such times as these, a chapel housed them, truly call'd of ease: for martin much devotion did not ask: they pray'd sometimes, and that was all their task. it happen'd, as beyond the reach of wit blind prophecies may have a lucky hit, that this accomplish'd, or at least in part, gave great repute to their new merlin's art. some swifts, the giants of the swallow kind, large-limb'd, stout-hearted, but of stupid mind (for swisses, or for gibeonites design'd), these lubbers, peeping through a broken pane, to suck fresh air, survey'd the neighbouring plain; and saw (but scarcely could believe their eyes) new blossoms flourish, and new flowers arise; as god had been abroad, and, walking there, had left his footsteps, and reform'd the year: the sunny hills from far were seen to glow with glittering beams, and in the meads below the burnish'd brooks appear'd with liquid gold to flow. at last they heard the foolish cuckoo sing, whose note proclaim'd the holiday of spring. no longer doubting, all prepare to fly, and repossess their patrimonial sky. the priest before them did his wings display; and that good omens might attend their way, as luck would have it, 'twas st martin's day. who but the swallow triumphs now alone? the canopy of heaven is all her own: her youthful offspring to their haunts repair, and glide along in glades, and skim in air, and dip for insects in the purling springs, and stoop on rivers to refresh their wings. their mothers think a fair provision made, that every son can live upon his trade: and, now the careful charge is off their hands, look out for husbands, and new nuptial bands: the youthful widow longs to be supplied; but first the lover is by lawyers tied to settle jointure-chimneys on the bride. so thick they couple, in so short a space, that martin's marriage-offerings rise apace. their ancient houses running to decay, are furbish'd up, and cemented with clay; they teem already; store of eggs are laid, and brooding mothers call lucina's aid. fame spreads the news, and foreign fowls appear in flocks to greet the new returning year, to bless the founder, and partake the cheer. and now 'twas time (so fast their numbers rise) to plant abroad, and people colonies. the youth drawn forth, as martin had desired (for so their cruel destiny required), were sent far off on an ill-fated day; the rest would needs conduct them on their way, and martin went, because he fear'd alone to stay. so long they flew with inconsiderate haste, that now their afternoon began to waste; and, what was ominous, that very morn the sun was enter'd into capricorn; which, by their bad astronomer's account, that week the virgin balance should remount. an infant moon eclipsed him in his way, and hid the small remainders of his day. the crowd, amazed, pursued no certain mark; but birds met birds, and jostled in the dark: few mind the public in a panic fright; and fear increased the horror of the night. night came, but unattended with repose; alone she came, no sleep their eyes to close: alone, and black she came; no friendly stars arose. what should they do, beset with dangers round, no neighbouring dorp,[ ] no lodging to be found, but bleaky plains, and bare unhospitable ground. the latter brood, who just began to fly, sick-feather'd, and unpractised in the sky, for succour to their helpless mother call: she spread her wings; some few beneath them crawl; she spread them wider yet, but could not cover all. to augment their woes, the winds began to move, debate in air, for empty fields above, till boreas got the skies, and pour'd amain his rattling hailstones mix'd with snow and rain. the joyless morning late arose, and found a dreadful desolation reign around-- some buried in the snow, some frozen to the ground. the rest were struggling still with death, and lay the crows' and ravens' rights, an undefended prey: excepting martin's race; for they and he had gain'd the shelter of a hollow tree: but soon discover'd by a sturdy clown, he headed all the rabble of a town, and finish'd them with bats, or poll'd them down. martin himself was caught alive, and tried for treasonous crimes, because the laws provide no martin there in winter shall abide. high on an oak, which never leaf shall bear, he breathed his last, exposed to open air; and there his corpse, unbless'd, is hanging still, to show the change of winds with his prophetic bill. the patience of the hind did almost fail; for well she mark'd the malice of the tale;[ ] which ribald art their church to luther owes; in malice it began, by malice grows; he sow'd the serpent's teeth, an iron-harvest rose. but most in martin's character and fate, she saw her slander'd sons, the panther's hate, the people's rage, the persecuting state: then said, i take the advice in friendly part; you clear your conscience, or at least your heart: perhaps you fail'd in your foreseeing skill, for swallows are unlucky birds to kill: as for my sons, the family is bless'd, whose every child is equal to the rest; no church reform'd can boast a blameless line; such martins build in yours, and more than mine: or else an old fanatic[ ] author lies, who summ'd their scandals up by centuries. but through your parable i plainly see the bloody laws, the crowd's barbarity; the sunshine that offends the purblind sight: had some their wishes, it would soon be night. mistake me not; the charge concerns not you: your sons are malcontents, but yet are true, as far as non-resistance makes them so; but that's a word of neutral sense, you know, a passive term, which no relief will bring, but trims betwixt a rebel and a king. rest well assured, the pardelis replied, my sons would all support the regal side, though heaven forbid the cause by battle should be tried. the matron answer'd with a loud amen, and thus pursued her argument again. if, as you say, and as i hope no less, your sons will practise what yourselves profess, what angry power prevents our present peace? the lion, studious of our common good, desires (and kings' desires are ill withstood) to join our nations in a lasting love; the bars betwixt are easy to remove; for sanguinary laws were never made above. if you condemn that prince of tyranny, whose mandate forced your gallic friends to fly, make not a worse example of your own; or cease to rail at causeless rigour shown, and let the guiltless person throw the stone. his blunted sword your suffering brotherhood have seldom felt; he stops it short of blood: but you have ground the persecuting knife, and set it to a razor edge on life. cursed be the wit, which cruelty refines, or to his father's rod the scorpion's joins! your finger is more gross than the great monarch's loins. but you, perhaps, remove that bloody note, and stick it on the first reformer's coat. oh, let their crime in long oblivion sleep! 'twas theirs indeed to make, 'tis yours to keep. unjust, or just, is all the question now; 'tis plain, that not repealing you allow. to name the test would put you in a rage; you charge not that on any former age, but smile to think how innocent you stand, arm'd by a weapon put into your hand, yet still remember that you wield a sword forged by your foes against your sovereign lord; design'd to hew the imperial cedar down, defraud succession, and dis-heir the crown. to abhor the makers, and their laws approve, is to hate traitors, and the treason love. what means it else, which now your children say, we made it not, nor will we take away? suppose some great oppressor had by slight of law, disseised your brother of his right, your common sire surrendering in a fright; would you to that unrighteous title stand, left by the villain's will to heir the land? more just was judas, who his saviour sold; the sacrilegious bribe he could not hold, nor hang in peace, before he render'd back the gold. what more could you have done, than now you do, had oates and bedlow, and their plot been true? some specious reasons for those wrongs were found; their dire magicians threw their mists around, and wise men walk'd as on enchanted ground. but now when time has made the imposture plain (late though he follow'd truth, and limping held her train), what new delusion charms your cheated eyes again? the painted harlot might a while bewitch, but why the hag uncased, and all obscene with itch? the first reformers were a modest race; our peers possess'd in peace their native place; and when rebellious arms o'erturn'd the state, they suffer'd only in the common fate: but now the sovereign mounts the regal chair, and mitred seats are full, yet david's bench is bare. your answer is, they were not dispossess'd; they need but rub their metal on the test to prove their ore: 'twere well if gold alone were touch'd and tried on your discerning stone; but that unfaithful test unsound will pass the dross of atheists, and sectarian brass: as if the experiment were made to hold for base production, and reject the gold. thus men ungodded may to places rise, and sects may be preferr'd without disguise: no danger to the church or state from these; the papist only has his writ of ease. no gainful office gives him the pretence to grind the subject, or defraud the prince. wrong conscience, or no conscience, may deserve to thrive, but ours alone is privileged to starve. still thank yourselves, you cry; your noble race we banish not, but they forsake the place; our doors are open: true, but ere they come, you toss your 'censing test, and fume the room; as if 'twere toby's[ ] rival to expel, and fright the fiend who could not bear the smell. to this the panther sharply had replied; but having gain'd a verdict on her side, she wisely gave the loser leave to chide; well satisfied to have the but and peace, and for the plaintiff's cause she cared the less, because she sued in _forma pauperis_; yet thought it decent something should be said; for secret guilt by silence is betray'd. so neither granted all, nor much denied, but answer'd with a yawning kind of pride: methinks such terms of proffer'd peace you bring, as once Æneas to the italian king: by long possession all the land is mine; you strangers come with your intruding line, to share my sceptre, which you call to join. you plead, like him, an ancient pedigree, and claim a peaceful seat by fate's decree. in ready pomp your sacrificer stands, to unite the trojan and the latin bands, and, that the league more firmly may be tied, demand the fair lavinia for your bride. thus plausibly you veil the intended wrong, but still you bring your exiled gods along; and will endeavour, in succeeding space, those household puppets on our hearths to place. perhaps some barbarous laws have been preferr'd; i spake against the test, but was not heard; these to rescind, and peerage to restore, my gracious sovereign would my vote implore: i owe him much, but owe my conscience more. conscience is then your plea, replied the dame, which, well inform'd, will ever be the same. but yours is much of the chameleon hue, to change the dye with every distant view. when first the lion sat with awful sway, your conscience taught your duty to obey: he might have had your statutes and your test; no conscience but of subjects was profess'd. he found your temper, and no farther tried, but on that broken reed, your church, relied. in vain the sects assay'd their utmost art, with offer'd treasure to espouse their part; their treasures were a bribe too mean to move his heart. but when, by long experience, you had proved, how far he could forgive, how well he loved; a goodness that excell'd his godlike race, and only short of heaven's unbounded grace; a flood of mercy that o'erflow'd our isle, calm in the rise, and fruitful as the nile; forgetting whence our egypt was supplied, you thought your sovereign bound to send the tide: nor upward look'd on that immortal spring, but vainly deem'd, he durst not be a king: then conscience, unrestrain'd by fear, began to stretch her limits, and extend the span; did his indulgence as her gift dispose, and made a wise alliance with her foes. can conscience own the associating name, and raise no blushes to conceal her shame? for sure she has been thought a bashful dame. but if the cause by battle should be tried, you grant she must espouse the regal side: o proteous conscience, never to be tied! what phoebus from the tripod shall disclose, which are, in last resort, your friends or foes? homer, who learn'd the language of the sky, the seeming gordian knot would soon untie; immortal powers the term of conscience know, but interest is her name with men below. conscience or interest be 't, or both in one, the panther answer'd in a surly tone, the first commands me to maintain the crown, the last forbids to throw my barriers down. our penal laws no sons of yours admit, our test excludes your tribe from benefit. these are my banks your ocean to withstand, which, proudly rising, overlooks the land; and, once let in, with unresisted sway, would sweep the pastors and their flocks away. think not my judgment leads me to comply with laws unjust, but hard necessity; imperious need, which cannot be withstood, makes ill authentic, for a greater good. possess your soul with patience, and attend: a more auspicious planet may ascend; good fortune may present some happier time, with means to cancel my unwilling crime; (unwilling, witness all ye powers above!) to mend my errors, and redeem your love: that little space you safely may allow; your all-dispensing power protects you now. hold, said the hind, 'tis needless to explain; you would postpone me to another reign; till when you are content to be unjust: your part is to possess, and mine to trust. a fair exchange proposed of future chance, for present profit and inheritance. few words will serve to finish our dispute; who will not now repeal, would persecute. to ripen green revenge your hopes attend, wishing that happier planet would ascend. for shame let conscience be your plea no more: to will hereafter, proves she might before; but she's a bawd to gain, and holds the door. your care about your banks infers a fear of threatening floods and inundations near; if so, a just reprise would only be of what the land usurp'd upon the sea; and all your jealousies but serve to show your ground is, like your neighbour-nation, low. to intrench in what you grant unrighteous laws, is to distrust the justice of your cause; and argues that the true religion lies in those weak adversaries you despise. tyrannic force is that which least you fear; the sound is frightful in a christian's ear: avert it, heaven! nor let that plague be sent to us from the dispeopled continent. but piety commands me to refrain; those prayers are needless in this monarch's reign. behold! how he protects your friends oppress'd, receives the banish'd, succours the distress'd: behold, for you may read an honest open breast. he stands in day-light, and disdains to hide an act, to which by honour he is tied, a generous, laudable, and kingly pride. your test he would repeal, his peers restore; this when he says he means, he means no more. well, said the panther, i believe him just, and yet---- and yet, 'tis but because you must; you would be trusted, but you would not trust. the hind thus briefly; and disdain'd to enlarge on power of kings, and their superior charge, as heaven's trustees before the people's choice: though sure the panther did not much rejoice to hear those echoes given of her once loyal voice. the matron woo'd her kindness to the last, but could not win; her hour of grace was past. whom, thus persisting, when she could not bring to leave the wolf, and to believe her king, she gave her up, and fairly wish'd her joy of her late treaty with her new ally: which well she hoped would more successful prove, than was the pigeon's and the buzzard's love. the panther ask'd what concord there could be betwixt two kinds whose natures disagree? the dame replied: 'tis sung in every street, the common chat of gossips when they meet; but, since unheard by you, 'tis worth your while to take a wholesome tale, though told in homely style. a plain good man,[ ] whose name is understood (so few deserve the name of plain and good), of three fair lineal lordships stood possess'd, and lived, as reason was, upon the best. inured to hardships from his early youth, much had he done, and suffer'd for his truth: at land and sea, in many a doubtful fight, was never known a more adventurous knight, who oftener drew his sword, and always for the right. as fortune would (his fortune came, though late) he took possession of his just estate: nor rack'd his tenants with increase of rent; nor lived too sparing, nor too largely spent; but overlook'd his hinds; their pay was just, and ready, for he scorn'd to go on trust: slow to resolve, but in performance quick; so true, that he was awkward at a trick. for little souls on little shifts rely, and coward arts of mean expedients try; the noble mind will dare do anything but lie. false friends, his deadliest foes, could find no way but shows of honest bluntness, to betray: that unsuspected plainness he believed; he looked into himself, and was deceived. some lucky planet sure attends his birth, or heaven would make a miracle on earth; for prosperous honesty is seldom seen to bear so dead a weight, and yet to win. it looks as fate with nature's law would strive, to show plain-dealing once an age may thrive: and, when so tough a frame she could not bend, exceeded her commission to befriend. this grateful man, as heaven increased his store. gave god again, and daily fed his poor. his house with all convenience was purvey'd; the rest he found, but raised the fabric where he pray'd; and in that sacred place his beauteous wife employ'd her happiest hours of holy life. nor did their alms extend to those alone, whom common faith more strictly made their own; a sort of doves[ ] were housed too near their hall, who cross the proverb, and abound with gall. though some, 'tis true, are passively inclined, the greater part degenerate from their kind; voracious birds, that hotly bill and breed, and largely drink, because on salt they feed. small gain from them their bounteous owner draws; yet, bound by promise, he supports their cause, as corporations privileged by laws. that house which harbour to their kind affords, was built, long since, god knows for better birds; but fluttering there, they nestle near the throne, and lodge in habitations not their own, by their high crops and corny gizzards known. like harpies, they could scent a plenteous board, then to be sure they never fail'd their lord: the rest was form, and bare attendance paid; they drank, and ate, and grudgingly obey'd. the more they fed, they raven'd still for more; they drain'd from dan, and left beersheba poor. all this they had by law, and none repined; the preference was but due to levi's kind; but when some lay-preferment fell by chance, the gourmands made it their inheritance. when once possess'd, they never quit their claim; for then 'tis sanctified to heaven's high name; and, hallow'd thus, they cannot give consent, the gift should be profaned by worldly management. their flesh was never to the table served; though 'tis not thence inferr'd the birds were starved; but that their master did not like the food, as rank, and breeding melancholy blood. nor did it with his gracious nature suit, even though they were not doves, to persecute: yet he refused (nor could they take offence) their glutton kind should teach him abstinence. nor consecrated grain their wheat he thought, which, new from treading, in their bills they brought: but left his hinds each in his private power, that those who like the bran might leave the flour. he for himself, and not for others, chose, nor would he be imposed on, nor impose; but in their faces his devotion paid, and sacrifice with solemn rites was made, and sacred incense on his altars laid. besides these jolly birds, whose corpse impure repaid their commons with their salt-manure; another farm[ ] he had behind his house, not overstock'd, but barely for his use: wherein his poor domestic poultry fed, and from his pious hands received their bread. our pamper'd pigeons, with malignant eyes, beheld these inmates, and their nurseries: though hard their fare, at evening, and at morn, a cruise of water and an ear of corn; yet still they grudged that modicum, and thought a sheaf in every single grain was brought. fain would they filch that little food away, while unrestrain'd those happy gluttons prey. and much they grieved to see so nigh their hall, the bird that warn'd st peter of his fall; that he should raise his mitred crest on high, and clap his wings, and call his family to sacred rites; and vex the ethereal powers with midnight matins at uncivil hours: nay more, his quiet neighbours should molest, just in the sweetness of their morning rest. beast of a bird, supinely when he might lie snug and sleep, to rise before the light! what if his dull forefathers used that cry, could he not let a bad example die? the world was fallen into an easier way; this age knew better than to fast and pray. good sense in sacred worship would appear so to begin, as they might end the year. such feats in former times had wrought the falls of crowing chanticleers[ ] in cloister'd walls. expell'd for this, and for their lands, they fled; and sister partlet,[ ] with her hooded head, was hooted hence, because she would not pray a-bed. the way to win the restive world to god, was to lay by the disciplining rod, unnatural fasts, and foreign forms of prayer: religion frights us with a mien severe. 'tis prudence to reform her into ease, and put her in undress to make her please; a lively faith will bear aloft the mind, and leave the luggage of good works behind. such doctrines in the pigeon-house were taught: you need not ask how wondrously they wrought: but sure the common cry was all for these, whose life and precepts both encouraged ease. yet fearing those alluring baits might fail, and holy deeds o'er all their arts prevail; (for vice, though frontless, and of harden'd face, is daunted at the sight of awful grace;) an hideous figure of their foes they drew, nor lines, nor looks, nor shades, nor colours true; and this grotesque design exposed to public view. one would have thought it some egyptian piece, with garden-gods, and barking deities, more thick than ptolemy has stuck the skies. all so perverse a draught, so far unlike, it was no libel where it meant to strike. yet still the daubing pleased, and great and small, to view the monster, crowded pigeon hall. there chanticleer was drawn upon his knees adoring shrines, and stocks of sainted trees: and by him, a misshapen, ugly race; the curse of god was seen on every face: no holland emblem could that malice mend, but still the worse the look, the fitter for a fiend. the master of the farm, displeased to find so much of rancour in so mild a kind, enquired into the cause, and came to know, the passive church had struck the foremost blow; with groundless fears and jealousies possess'd, as if this troublesome intruding guest would drive the birds of venus from their nest; a deed his inborn equity abhorr'd; but interest will not trust, though god should plight his word. a law,[ ] the source of many future harms, had banish'd all the poultry from the farms; with loss of life, if any should be found to crow or peck on this forbidden ground. that bloody statute chiefly was design'd for chanticleer the white, of clergy kind; but after-malice did not long forget the lay that wore the robe and coronet. for them, for their inferiors and allies, their foes a deadly shibboleth devise: by which unrighteously it was decreed, that none to trust or profit should succeed, who would not swallow first a poisonous wicked weed:[ ] or that, to which old socrates was cursed, or henbane juice to swell them till they burst. the patron (as in reason) thought it hard to see this inquisition in his yard, by which the sovereign was of subjects' use debarr'd. all gentle means he tried, which might withdraw the effects of so unnatural a law: but still the dove-house obstinately stood deaf to their own and to their neighbours' good; and which was worse, if any worse could be, repented of their boasted loyalty: now made the champions of a cruel cause. and drunk with fumes of popular applause; for those whom god to ruin has design'd, he fits for fate, and first destroys their mind. new doubts indeed they daily strove to raise, suggested dangers, interposed delays; and emissary pigeons had in store, such as the meccan prophet used of yore, to whisper counsels in their patron's ear; and veil'd their false advice with zealous fear. the master smiled to see them work in vain, to wear him out, and make an idle reign: he saw, but suffer'd their protractive arts, and strove by mildness to reduce their hearts: but they abused that grace to make allies, and fondly closed with former enemies; for fools are doubly fools, endeavouring to be wise. after a grave consult what course were best, one, more mature in folly than the rest, stood up, and told them, with his head aside, that desperate cures must be to desperate ills applied: and therefore, since their main impending fear was from the increasing race of chanticleer, some potent bird of prey they ought to find, a foe profess'd to him, and all his kind: some haggard hawk, who had her eyrie nigh, well pounced to fasten, and well wing'd to fly; one they might trust, their common wrongs to wreak: the musquet and the coystrel were too weak, too fierce the falcon; but, above the rest, the noble buzzard[ ] ever pleased me best; of small renown, 'tis true; for, not to lie, we call him but a hawk by courtesy. i know he hates the pigeon-house and farm, and more, in time of war has done us harm: but all his hate on trivial points depends; give up our forms, and we shall soon be friends. for pigeons' flesh he seems not much to care; cramm'd chickens are a more delicious fare. on this high potentate, without delay, i wish you would confer the sovereign sway: petition him to accept the government, and let a splendid embassy be sent. this pithy speech prevail'd, and all agreed, old enmities forgot, the buzzard should succeed. their welcome suit was granted soon as heard, his lodgings furnish'd, and a train prepared, with b's upon their breast, appointed for his guard. he came, and crown'd with great solemnity; god save king buzzard, was the general cry. a portly prince, and goodly to the sight, he seem'd a son of anak for his height: like those whom stature did to crowns prefer: black-brow'd, and bluff, like homer's jupiter: broad-back'd, and brawny-built for love's delight; a prophet form'd to make a female proselyte. a theologue more by need than genial bent; by breeding sharp, by nature confident. interest in all his actions was discern'd; more learn'd than honest, more a wit than learn'd: or forced by fear, or by his profit led, or both conjoin'd, his native clime he fled: but brought the virtues of his heaven along; a fair behaviour, and a fluent tongue. and yet with all his arts he could not thrive; the most unlucky parasite alive. loud praises to prepare his paths he sent, and then himself pursued his compliment; but by reverse of fortune chased away, his gifts no longer than their author stay: he shakes the dust against the ungrateful race, and leaves the stench of ordures in the place. oft has he flatter'd and blasphemed the same; for in his rage he spares no sovereign's name: the hero and the tyrant change their style by the same measure that they frown or smile. when well received by hospitable foes, the kindness he returns, is to expose: for courtesies, though undeserved and great, no gratitude in felon-minds beget; as tribute to his wit, the churl receives the treat. his praise of foes is venomously nice; so touch'd, it turns a virtue to a vice: "a greek, and bountiful, forewarns us twice." seven sacraments he wisely does disown, because he knows confession stands for one; where sins to sacred silence are convey'd, and not for fear, or love, to be betray'd: but he, uncall'd, his patron to control, divulged the secret whispers of his soul; stood forth the accusing satan of his crimes, and offer'd to the moloch of the times. prompt to assail, and careless of defence, invulnerable in his impudence, he dares the world; and, eager of a name, he thrusts about, and jostles into fame. frontless, and satire-proof, he scours the streets, and runs an indian-muck at all he meets. so fond of loud report, that not to miss of being known (his last and utmost bliss) he rather would be known for what he is. such was, and is, the captain of the test, though half his virtues are not here express'd; the modesty of fame conceals the rest. the spleenful pigeons never could create a prince more proper to revenge their hate: indeed, more proper to revenge, than save; a king, whom in his wrath the almighty gave: for all the grace the landlord had allow'd, but made the buzzard and the pigeons proud; gave time to fix their friends, and to seduce the crowd. they long their fellow-subjects to enthral, their patron's promise into question call, and vainly think he meant to make them lords of all. false fears their leaders fail'd not to suggest, as if the doves were to be dispossess'd; nor sighs, nor groans, nor goggling eyes did want; for now the pigeons too had learn'd to cant. the house of prayer is stock'd with large increase; nor doors nor windows can contain the press: for birds of every feather fill the abode; even atheists out of envy own a god: and, reeking from the stews, adulterers come, like goths and vandals to demolish rome. that conscience, which to all their crimes was mute, now calls aloud, and cries to persecute: no rigour of the laws to be released, and much the less, because it was their lord's request: they thought it great their sovereign to control, and named their pride, nobility of soul. 'tis true, the pigeons, and their prince elect, were short of power, their purpose to effect: but with their quills did all the hurt they could, and cuff'd the tender chickens from their food: and much the buzzard in their cause did stir, though naming not the patron, to infer, with all respect, he was a gross idolater. but when the imperial owner did espy, that thus they turn'd his grace to villany, not suffering wrath to discompose his mind, he strove a temper for the extremes to find, so to be just, as he might still be kind; then, all maturely weigh'd, pronounced a doom of sacred strength for every age to come. by this the doves their wealth and state possess, no rights infringed, but licence to oppress: such power have they as factious lawyers long to crowns ascribed, that kings can do no wrong. but since his own domestic birds have tried the dire effects of their destructive pride, he deems that proof a measure to the rest, concluding well within his kingly breast, his fowls of nature too unjustly were oppress'd. he therefore makes all birds of every sect free of his farm, with promise to respect their several kinds alike, and equally protect. his gracious edict the same franchise yields to all the wild increase of woods and fields, and who in rocks aloof, and who in steeples builds: to crows the like impartial grace affords, and choughs and daws, and such republic birds: secured with ample privilege to feed, each has his district, and his bounds decreed; combined in common interest with his own, but not to pass the pigeon's rubicon. here ends the reign of this pretended dove; all prophecies accomplish'd from above, from shiloh comes the sceptre to remove. reduced from her imperial high abode, like dionysius to a private rod, the passive church, that with pretended grace did her distinctive mark in duty place, now touch'd, reviles her maker to his face. what after happen'd is not hard to guess: the small beginnings had a large increase, and arts and wealth succeed, the secret spoils of peace. 'tis said, the doves repented, though too late, become the smiths of their own foolish fate: nor did their owner hasten their ill hour; but, sunk in credit, they decreased in power: like snows in warmth that mildly pass away, dissolving in the silence of decay. the buzzard, not content with equal place, invites the feather'd nimrods of his race; to hide the thinness of their flock from sight, and all together make a seeming goodly flight: but each have separate interests of their own; two czars are one too many for a throne. nor can the usurper long abstain from food; already he has tasted pigeons' blood: and may be tempted to his former fare, when this indulgent lord shall late to heaven repair. bare benting times, and moulting months may come, when, lagging late, they cannot reach their home; or, rent in schism (for so their fate decrees), like the tumultuous college of the bees,[ ] they fight their quarrel, by themselves oppress'd; the tyrant smiles below, and waits the falling feast. thus did the gentle hind her fable end, nor would the panther blame it, nor commend; but, with affected yawnings at the close, seem'd to require her natural repose: for now the streaky light began to peep; and setting stars admonish'd both to sleep. the dame withdrew, and, wishing to her guest the peace of heaven, betook herself to rest. ten thousand angels on her slumbers wait, with glorious visions of her future state. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'mother hubbard:' mother hubbard's tale, written by spenser.] [footnote : 'lion's peace:' liberty of conscience, and toleration of all religions.] [footnote : 'exiled heir:' the duke of york, while opposed by the favourers and abettors of the bill of exclusion, was obliged to retire from london.] [footnote : 'french proselytes:' the french refugees that came into england after the revocation of the edict of nantes.] [footnote : 'hudibras:' butler.] [footnote : 'atheist names:' alluding here and afterwards to stillingfleet's attacks on dryden.] [footnote : 'imprimatur:' the bishop of london and his chaplains had formerly the examination of all books, and none could be printed without their imprimatur, or licence.] [footnote : 'swallow:' this story is supposed to refer to a meeting of roman catholics held in the savoy to deliberate on king james' measures, when father petre (m. martin) induced them to join the king's side, and to remain in england.] [footnote : 'dorp:' hamlet.] [footnote : 'the tale:' a parable of the fate of the papists, soon fulfilled.] [footnote : 'old fanatic:' century white, a vehement writer on the puritan side.] [footnote : 'toby's:' tobit; see apocrypha.] [footnote : 'a plain good man:' a character of king james ii.] [footnote : 'doves:' the clergy of the church of england, and other religions dissenting from that of rome.] [footnote : 'another farm,' &c.: this alludes to the popish priests, whom the king particularly favoured.] [footnote : 'chanticleers:' friars.] [footnote : 'partlet:' nuns.] [footnote : 'a law:' penal laws against popish recusants.] [footnote : 'wicked weed:' the test act.] [footnote : 'buzzard:' bishop burnet.] [footnote : 'college of the bees:' college of physicians.] * * * * * mac flecknoe.[ ] all human things are subject to decay, and when fate summons, monarchs must obey. this flecknoe found, who, like augustus, young was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long; in prose and verse, was own'd, without dispute, through all the realms of nonsense, absolute. this aged prince, now flourishing in peace, and blest with issue of a large increase; worn out with business, did at length debate to settle the succession of the state: and, pondering which of all his sons was fit to reign, and wage immortal war with wit, cried, 'tis resolved; for nature pleads, that he should only rule, who most resembles me. shadwell alone my perfect image bears, mature in dulness from his tender years: shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he who stands confirm'd in full stupidity. the rest to some faint meaning make pretence, but shadwell never deviates into sense. some beams of wit on other souls may fall, strike through, and make a lucid interval; but shadwell's genuine night admits no ray, his rising fogs prevail upon the day. besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye, and seems design'd for thoughtless majesty: thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain, and, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. heywood and shirley[ ] were but types of thee, thou last great prophet of tautology. even i, a dunce of more renown than they, was sent before but to prepare thy way; and, coarsely clad in norwich drugget, came to teach the nations in thy greater name. my warbling lute, the lute i whilom strung, when to king john of portugal i sung, was but the prelude to that glorious day, when thou on silver thames didst cut thy way, with well-timed oars before the royal barge, swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge; and big with hymn, commander of an host, the like was ne'er in epsom blankets toss'd. methinks i see the new arion sail, the lute still trembling underneath thy nail. at thy well-sharpen'd thumb, from shore to shore the trebles squeak for fear, the basses roar: echoes from pissing-alley, shadwell call, and shadwell they resound from aston-hall. about thy boat the little fishes throng, as at the morning toast that floats along. sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band, thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand. st andre's[ ] feet ne'er kept more equal time, not even the feet of thy own psyche's[ ] rhyme: though they in number as in sense excel; so just, so like tautology, they fell, that, pale with envy, singleton[ ] forswore the lute and sword, which he in triumph bore, and vow'd he ne'er would act villerius more. here stopp'd the good old sire, and wept for joy, in silent raptures of the hopeful boy. all arguments, but most his plays, persuade, that for anointed dulness he was made. close to the walls which fair augusta bind (the fair augusta much to fears inclined), an ancient fabric raised to inform the sight, there stood of yore, and barbican it hight: a watch-tower once; but now, so fate ordains, of all the pile an empty name remains: from its old ruins brothel-houses rise, scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys, where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep, and, undisturb'd by watch, in silence sleep. near these a nursery[ ] erects its head, where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred; where unfledged actors learn to laugh and cry, where infant punks their tender voices try, and little maximins the gods defy. great fletcher never treads in buskins here, nor greater jonson dares in socks appear; but gentle simkin[ ] just reception finds amidst this monument of vanish'd minds: pure clinches the suburban muse affords, and panton[ ] waging harmless war with words. here flecknoe, as a place to fame well known, ambitiously design'd his shadwell's throne. for ancient decker[ ] prophesied long since, that in this pile should reign a mighty prince, born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense: to whom true dulness should some psyches owe, but worlds of misers[ ] from his pen should flow; humourists and hypocrites it should produce, whole raymond families, and tribes of bruce.[ ] now empress fame had publish'd the renown of shadwell's coronation through the town. roused by report of fame, the nations meet, from near bunhill, and distant watling street. no persian carpets spread the imperial way, but scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay: from dusty shops neglected authors come, martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum. much heywood, shirley, ogleby[ ] there lay, but loads of shadwell almost choked the way. bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepared, and herringman[ ] was captain of the guard. the hoary prince in majesty appear'd, high on a throne of his own labours rear'd. at his right hand our young ascanius sate, rome's other hope, and pillar of the state. his brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, and lambent dulness play'd around his face. as hannibal did to the altars come, sworn by his fire, a mortal foe to rome; so shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain, that he till death true dulness would maintain; and, in his father's right, and realm's defence, ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense. the king himself the sacred unction made, as king by office, and as priest by trade. in his sinister hand, instead of ball, he placed a mighty mug of potent ale; love's kingdom[ ] to his right he did convey, at once his sceptre and his rule of sway; whose righteous lore the prince had practised young, and from whose loins recorded psyche sprung. his temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread, that nodding seem'd to consecrate his head. just at the point of time, if fame not lie, on his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly. so romulus, 'tis sung, by tiber's brook, presage of sway from twice six vultures took. the admiring throng loud acclamations make, and omens of his future empire take. the sire then shook the honours of his head, and from his brows damps of oblivion shed, full on the filial dulness: long he stood, repelling from his breast the raging god; at length burst out in this prophetic mood: heavens bless my son, from ireland let him reign to far barbadoes on the western main; of his dominion may no end be known, and greater than his father's be his throne; beyond love's kingdom let him stretch his pen!-- he paused, and all the people cried, amen. then thus continued he: my son, advance still in new impudence, new ignorance. success let others teach, learn thou from me pangs without birth, and fruitless industry. let virtuosos[ ] in five years be writ; yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. let gentle george[ ] in triumph tread the stage, make dorimant betray, and loveit rage; let cully, cockwood, fopling, charm the pit, and in their folly show the writer's wit. yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence, and justify their author's want of sense. let them be all by thy own model made of dulness, and desire no foreign aid; that they to future ages may be known, not copies drawn, but issue of thy own. nay, let thy men of wit too be the same, all full of thee, and differing but in name. but let no alien sedley[ ] interpose, to lard with wit thy hungry epsom prose.[ ] and when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst cull, trust nature, do not labour to be dull; but write thy best, and top; and, in each line, sir formal's[ ] oratory will be thine: sir formal, though unsought, attends thy quill, and does thy northern dedications fill. nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame, by arrogating jonson's hostile name. let father flecknoe fire thy mind with praise, and uncle ogleby thy envy raise. thou art my blood, where jonson has no part: what share have we in nature, or in art? where did his wit on learning fix a brand, and rail at arts he did not understand? where made he love in prince nicander's[ ] vein, or swept the dust in psyche's humble strain? where sold he bargains, whip-stitch, kiss my a--e, promised a play, and dwindled to a farce? when did his muse from fletcher scenes purloin, as thou whole etheridge dost transfuse to thine? but so transfused, as oil and waters flow, his always floats above, thine sinks below. this is thy province, this thy wondrous way, new humours to invent for each new play: this is that boasted bias of thy mind, by which one way to dulness 'tis inclined: which makes thy writings lean on one side still, and, in all changes, that way bends thy will. nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense. a tun of man in thy large bulk is writ, but sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit. like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep; thy tragic muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep. with whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write, thy inoffensive satires never bite. in thy felonious heart though venom lies, it does but touch thy irish pen, and dies. thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame in keen iambics, but mild anagram. leave writing plays, and choose for thy command, some peaceful province in acrostic land. there thou mayst wings display and altars[ ] raise, and torture one poor word ten thousand ways. or, if thou wouldst thy different talents suit, set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute. he said; but his last words were scarcely heard: for bruce and longville[ ] had a trap prepared, and down they sent the yet declaiming bard. sinking he left his drugget robe behind, borne upwards by a subterranean wind. the mantle fell to the young prophet's part, with double portion of his father's art. footnotes: [footnote : 'mac flecknoe:' richard flecknoe, from whom this poem derives its name, was an irish priest, and author of plays.] [footnote : 'heywood and shirley:' play writers in queen elizabeth's time.] [footnote : 'st andre:' a famous french dancing-master.] [footnote : 'psyche:' an opera of shadwell's.] [footnote : 'singleton:' a musician of the time.] [footnote : 'nursery:' a theatre for training actors.] [footnote : 'simkin:' a character of a cobbler, in an interlude.] [footnote : 'panton:' a famous punster.] [footnote : 'decker:' thomas decker, a dramatic poet of james i.'s reign.] [footnote : 'worlds of misers:' 'the miser' and 'the humourists' were two of shadwell's comedies.] [footnote : 'raymond' and 'bruce:' the first of these is an insipid character in 'the humourists'; the second, in 'the virtuoso.'] [footnote : 'ogleby:' translator of virgil.] [footnote : 'herringman:' henry herringman, a bookseller; see 'life.'] [footnote : 'love's kingdom:' this is the name of the only play of flecknoe's, which was acted, but miscarried in the representation.] [footnote : 'virtuoso:' a play of shadwell's.] [footnote : 'gentle george:' sir george etheredge.] [footnote : 'alien sedley:' sir charles sedley was supposed to assist shadwell in writing his plays.] [footnote : 'epsom prose:' alluding to shadwell's play of 'epsom wells.'] [footnote : 'formal:' a character in 'the virtuoso.'] [footnote : 'nicander:' a character of a lover in shadwell's opera of 'psyche.'] [footnote : 'wings and altars:' forms in which old acrostics were cast. see herbert's 'temple.'] [footnote : 'bruce and longville:' two characters in shadwell's 'virtuoso.'] * * * * * britannia rediviva: a poem on the prince, born june , . our vows are heard betimes! and heaven takes care to grant, before we can conclude the prayer: preventing angels met it half the way, and sent us back to praise, who came to pray. just on the day, when the high-mounted sun did furthest in his northern progress run, he bended forward, and even stretch'd the sphere beyond the limits of the lengthen'd year, to view a brighter sun in britain born; that was the business of his longest morn; the glorious object seen, 'twas time to turn. departing spring could only stay to shed her bloomy beauties on the genial bed, but left the manly summer in her stead, with timely fruit the longing land to cheer, and to fulfil the promise of the year. betwixt two seasons comes the auspicious heir, this age to blossom, and the next to bear. last solemn sabbath[ ] saw the church attend, the paraclete in fiery pomp descend; but when his wondrous octave[ ] roll'd again, he brought a royal infant in his train. so great a blessing to so good a king, none but the eternal comforter could bring. or did the mighty trinity conspire, as once in council, to create our sire? it seems as if they sent the new-born guest to wait on the procession of their feast; and on their sacred anniverse decreed to stamp their image on the promised seed. three realms united, and on one bestow'd, an emblem of their mystic union show'd: the mighty trine the triple empire shared, as every person would have one to guard. hail, son of prayers! by holy violence drawn down from heaven; but long be banish'd thence, and late to thy paternal skies retire: to mend our crimes, whole ages would require; to change the inveterate habit of our sins, and finish what thy godlike sire begins. kind heaven, to make us englishmen again, no less can give us than a patriarch's reign. the sacred cradle to your charge receive, ye seraphs, and by turns the guard relieve; thy father's angel, and thy father join, to keep possession, and secure the line; but long defer the honours of thy fate: great may they be like his, like his be late; that james this running century may view, and give his son an auspice to the new. our wants exact at least that moderate stay: for see the dragon[ ] winged on his way, to watch the travail,[ ] and devour the prey. or, if allusions may not rise so high, thus, when alcides[ ] raised his infant cry, the snakes besieged his young divinity: but vainly with their forked tongues they threat; for opposition makes a hero great. to needful succour all the good will run, and jove assert the godhead of his son. o still repining at your present state, grudging yourselves the benefits of fate, look up, and read in characters of light a blessing sent you in your own despite. the manna falls, yet that celestial bread like jews you munch, and murmur while you feed. may not your fortune be, like theirs, exiled, yet forty years to wander in the wild! or if it be, may moses live at least, to lead you to the verge of promised rest! though poets are not prophets, to foreknow what plants will take the blight, and what will grow, by tracing heaven, his footsteps may be found: behold! how awfully he walks the round! god is abroad, and, wondrous in his ways, the rise of empires, and their fall surveys; more, might i say, than with an usual eye, he sees his bleeding church in ruin lie, and hears the souls of saints beneath his altar cry. already has he lifted high the sign,[ ] which crown'd the conquering arms of constantine; the moon[ ] grows pale at that presaging sight, and half her train of stars have lost their light. behold another sylvester,[ ] to bless the sacred standard, and secure success; large of his treasures, of a soul so great, as fills and crowds his universal seat. now view at home a second constantine; (the former too was of the british line;)[ ] has not his healing balm your breaches closed, whose exile many sought, and few opposed? or, did not heaven by its eternal doom permit those evils, that this good might come? so manifest, that even the moon-eyed sects see whom and what this providence protects. methinks, had we within our minds no more than that one shipwreck on the fatal ore,[ ] that only thought may make us think again, what wonders god reserves for such a reign. to dream that chance his preservation wrought, were to think noah was preserved for nought; or the surviving eight were not design'd to people earth, and to restore their kind. when humbly on the royal babe we gaze, the manly lines of a majestic face give awful joy: 'tis paradise to look on the fair frontispiece of nature's book: if the first opening page so charms the sight, think how the unfolded volume will delight! see how the venerable infant lies in early pomp; how through the mother's eyes the father's soul, with an undaunted view, looks out, and takes our homage as his due. see on his future subjects how he smiles, nor meanly flatters, nor with craft beguiles; but with an open face, as on his throne, assures our birthrights, and assumes his own. born in broad day-light, that the ungrateful rout may find no room for a remaining doubt; truth, which itself is light, does darkness shun, and the true eaglet safely dares the sun. fain would the fiends[ ] have made a dubious birth, loath to confess the godhead clothed in earth: but sicken'd, after all their baffled lies, to find an heir-apparent of the skies: abandon'd to despair, still may they grudge, and, owning not the saviour, prove the judge. not great Æneas[ ] stood in plainer day, when, the dark mantling mist dissolved away, he to the tyrians show'd his sudden face, shining with all his goddess mother's grace: for she herself had made his countenance bright, breathed honour on his eyes, and her own purple light. if our victorious edward,[ ] as they say, gave wales a prince on that propitious day, why may not years, revolving with his fate, produce his like, but with a longer date; one, who may carry to a distant shore the terror that his famed forefather bore? but why should james or his young hero stay for slight presages of a name or day? we need no edward's fortune to adorn that happy moment when our prince was born: our prince adorns his day, and ages hence shall wish his birth-day for some future prince. great michael, prince of all the ethereal hosts, and whate'er inborn saints our britain boasts; and thou, the adopted patron of our isle,[ ] with cheerful aspects on this infant smile: the pledge of heaven, which, dropping from above, secures our bliss, and reconciles his love. enough of ills our dire rebellion wrought, when to the dregs we drank the bitter draught; then airy atoms did in plagues conspire, nor did the avenging angel yet retire, but purged our still increasing crimes with fire, then perjured plots, the still impending test, and worse--but charity conceals the rest: here stop the current of the sanguine flood; require not, gracious god, thy martyrs' blood; but let their dying pangs, their living toil, spread a rich harvest through their native soil: a harvest ripening for another reign, of which this royal babe may reap the grain. enough of early saints one womb has given; enough increased the family of heaven: let them for his and our atonement go; and, reigning blest above, leave him to rule below. enough already has the year foreshow'd his wonted course, the sea has overflow'd, the meads were floated with a weeping spring, and frighten'd birds in woods forgot to sing: the strong-limb'd steed beneath his harness faints, and the same shivering sweat his lord attaints. when will the minister of wrath give o'er? behold him at araunah's threshing-floor:[ ] he stops, and seems to sheathe his flaming brand, pleased with burnt incense from our david's hand. david has bought the jebusite's abode, and raised an altar to the living god. heaven, to reward him, makes his joys sincere; no future ills nor accidents appear, to sully and pollute the sacred infant's year. five months to discord and debate were given: he sanctifies the yet remaining seven. sabbath of months! henceforth in him be blest, and prelude to the realm's perpetual rest! let his baptismal drops for us atone; lustrations for offences not his own. let conscience, which is interest ill disguised, in the same font be cleansed, and all the land baptized. unnamed as yet;[ ] at least unknown to fame: is there a strife in heaven about his name, where every famous predecessor vies, and makes a faction for it in the skies? or must it be reserved to thought alone? such was the sacred tetragrammaton.[ ] things worthy silence must not be reveal'd; thus the true name of rome was kept conceal'd,[ ] to shun the spells and sorceries of those who durst her infant majesty oppose. but when his tender strength in time shall rise to dare ill tongues, and fascinating eyes; this isle, which hides the little thunderer's fame, shall be too narrow to contain his name: the artillery of heaven shall make him known; crete[ ] could not hold the god, when jove was grown. as jove's increase, who from his brain was born,[ ] whom arms and arts did equally adorn, free of the breast was bred, whose milky taste minerva's name to venus had debased; so this imperial babe rejects the food that mixes monarch's with plebeian blood: food that his inborn courage might control, extinguish all the father in his soul, and, for his estian race, and saxon strain, might reproduce some second richard's reign. mildness he shares from both his parents' blood: but kings too tame are despicably good: be this the mixture of this regal child, by nature manly, but by virtue mild. thus far the furious transport of the news had to prophetic madness fired the muse; madness ungovernable, uninspired, swift to foretell whatever she desired. was it for me the dark abyss to tread, and read the book which angels cannot read? how was i punish'd, when the sudden blast,[ ] the face of heaven, and our young sun o'ercast! fame, the swift ill, increasing as she roll'd, disease, despair, and death, at three reprises told; at three insulting strides she stalk'd the town, and, like contagion, struck the loyal down. down fell the winnow'd wheat; but, mounted high, the whirlwind bore the chaff, and hid the sky. here black rebellion shooting from below (as earth's gigantic brood by moments grow[ ]) and here the sons of god are petrified with woe: an apoplex of grief: so low were driven the saints, as hardly to defend their heaven. as, when pent vapours run their hollow round, earthquakes, which are convulsions of the ground, break bellowing forth, and no confinement brook, till the third settles what the former shook; such heavings had our souls; till, slow and late, our life with his return'd, and faith prevail'd on fate. by prayers the mighty blessing was implored, to prayers was granted, and by prayers restored. so, ere the shunamite[ ] a son conceived, the prophet promised, and the wife believed. a son was sent, the son so much desired; but soon upon the mother's knees expired. the troubled seer approach'd the mournful door, ran, pray'd, and sent his pastoral staff before, then stretch'd his limbs upon the child, and mourn'd, thus mercy stretches out her hand, and saves desponding peter sinking in the waves. as when a sudden storm of hail and rain beats to the ground the yet unbearded grain, think not the hopes of harvest are destroy'd on the flat field, and on the naked void; the light unloaded stem, from tempest freed, will raise the youthful honours of his head; and soon, restored by native vigour, bear the timely product of the bounteous year. nor yet conclude all fiery trials past: for heaven will exercise us to the last; sometimes will check us in our full career, with doubtful blessings, and with mingled fear; that, still depending on his daily grace, his every mercy for an alms may pass, with sparing hands will diet us to good; preventing surfeits of our pamper'd blood. so feeds the mother bird her craving young with little morsels, and delays them long. true, this last blessing was a royal feast; but where's the wedding-garment on the guest? our manners, as religion were a dream, are such as teach the nations to blaspheme. in lusts we wallow, and with pride we swell, and injuries with injuries repel; prompt to revenge, not daring to forgive, our lives unteach the doctrine we believe. thus israel sinn'd, impenitently hard, and vainly thought the present ark their guard;[ ] but when the haughty philistines appear, they fled, abandon'd to their foes and fear; their god was absent, though his ark was there. ah! lest our crimes should snatch this pledge away, and make our joys the blessings of a day! for we have sinn'd him hence, and that he lives, god to his promise, not our practice gives. our crimes would soon weigh down the guilty scale, but james and mary, and the church, prevail. nor amalek can rout the chosen bands,[ ] while hur and aaron hold up moses' hands. by living well, let us secure his days; moderate in hopes, and humble in our ways, no force the free-born spirit can constrain, but charity and great examples gain. forgiveness is our thanks for such a day: 'tis god-like god in his own coin to pay. but you, propitious queen, translated here, from your mild heaven, to rule our rugged sphere, beyond the sunny walks, and circling year: you, who your native climate have bereft of all the virtues, and the vices left; whom piety and beauty make their boast, though beautiful is well in pious lost; so lost, as star-light is dissolved away, and melts into the brightness of the day; or gold about the regal diadem, lost to improve the lustre of the gem. what can we add to your triumphant day? let the great gift the beauteous giver pay. for should our thanks awake the rising sun, and lengthen, as his latest shadows run, that, though the longest day, would soon, too soon be done. let angels' voices with their harps conspire, but keep the auspicious infant from the quire; late let him sing above, and let us know no sweeter music than his cries below. nor can i wish to you, great monarch, more than such an annual income to your store; the day which gave this unit, did not shine for a less omen, than to fill the trine. after a prince, an admiral beget; the royal sovereign wants an anchor yet. our isle has younger titles still in store, and when the exhausted land can yield no more, your line can force them from a foreign shore. the name of great your martial mind will suit; but justice is your darling attribute: of all the greeks, 'twas but one hero's[ ] due, and, in him, plutarch prophesied of you. a prince's favours but on few can fall, but justice is a virtue shared by all. some kings the name of conquerors have assumed, some to be great, some to be gods presumed; but boundless power and arbitrary lust made tyrants still abhor the name of just; they shunn'd the praise this godlike virtue gives, and fear'd a title that reproach'd their lives. the power, from which all kings derive their state, whom they pretend, at least, to imitate, is equal both to punish and reward; for few would love their god, unless they fear'd. resistless force and immortality make but a lame, imperfect, deity: tempests have force unbounded to destroy, and deathless being, even the damn'd enjoy; and yet heaven's attributes, both last and first, one without life, and one with life accurst: but justice is heaven's self, so strictly he, that could it fail, the godhead could not be. this virtue is your own; but life and state are one to fortune subject, one to fate: equal to all, you justly frown or smile; nor hopes nor fears your steady hand beguile; yourself our balance hold, the world's our isle. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'solemn sabbath:' whit-sunday.] [footnote : 'wondrous octave:' trinity sunday.] [footnote : 'the dragon:' alluding only to the commonwealth party, here and in other places of the poem.] [footnote : 'the travail:' see rev. xii. .] [footnote : 'alcides:' hercules.] [footnote : 'sign:' the sign of the cross, as denoting the roman catholic faith.] [footnote : 'the moon:' the turkish crescent.] [footnote : 'another sylvester:' the pope in james ii.'s time is here compared to him that governed the romish church in the time of constantine.] [footnote : 'british line:' st helen, mother of constantine the great, was an englishwoman.] [footnote : 'fatal ore:' the sandbank on which the duke of york had like to have been lost in , on his voyage to scotland, is known by the name of lemman ore.] [footnote : 'fiends:' the malcontents who doubted the truth of the birth are here compared to the evil spirits that tempted our saviour in the wilderness.] [footnote : 'Æneas:' see virgil; Æneid, i.] [footnote : 'edward:' edward the black prince, born on trinity sunday.] [footnote : 'patron of our isle': st george.] [footnote : 'araunah's threshing-floor:' alluding to the passage in kings xxiv.] [footnote : 'unnamed as yet:' the prince was christened but not named when this poem was published.] [footnote : 'tetragrammaton:' jehovah, or the name of god, unlawful to be pronounced by the jews.] [footnote : 'rome was kept concealed:' some authors say, that the true name of rome was kept a secret.] [footnote : 'crete:' candia, where jupiter was born and bred secretly.] [footnote : 'brain was born:' pallas or minerva, said by the poets to have sprung from the brain of jove, and to have been bred up by hand, as was this young prince.] [footnote : 'sudden blast:' the sudden false report of the prince's death.] [footnote : 'moments grow:' those giants are feigned to have grown fifteen yards every day.] [footnote : 'shunamite:' see kings iv.] [footnote : 'ark their guard:' see sam. iv. .] [footnote : 'amalek can rout the chosen bands:' see exod. xviii. .] [footnote : aristides, surnamed the just.] * * * * * end of first volume. proofreaders poetical works of john dryden. with life, critical dissertation, and explanatory notes, by the rev. george gilfillan. vol. ii. m. dccc. lv. critical estimate of the genius and poetical works of john dryden. in our life of dryden we promised to say something about the question, how far is a poet, particularly in the moral tendency and taste of his writings, to be tried--and either condemned or justified--by the character and spirit of his age? to a rapid consideration of this question we now proceed, before examining the constituent elements or the varied fruits of the poet's genius. and here, unquestionably, there are extremes, which every critic should avoid. some imagine that a writer of a former century should be tried, either by the standard which prevails in the cultured and civilised nineteenth, or by the exposition of moral principles and practice which is to be found in the scriptures. now, it is obviously, so far as taste is concerned, as unjust to judge a book written in the style and manner of one age by the merely arbitrary and conventional rules established in another, as to judge the dress of our ancestors by the fashions of the present day. and in respect of morality, it is as unfair to visit with the same measure of condemnation offences against decorum or decency, committed by writers living before or living after the promulgation of the christian code, as it would be to class the satyrs, priapi, and bacchantes of an antique sculptor, with their imitations, by inferior and coarser artists, in later times. there must be a certain measure of allowance made for the errors of genius when it was working as the galley-slave of its tradition and period, and when it had not yet received the divine light which, shining into the world from above, has supplied men with higher æsthetic as well as spiritual models of principles, and revealed man's body to be the temple of the holy ghost. to look for our modern philanthropy in that "greek gazette," the iliad of homer--to expect that reverence for the supreme being which the bible has taught us in the metamorphoses of ovid--or to seek that refinement of manners and language which has only of late prevailed amongst us, in the plays of aristophanes and plautus--were very foolish and very vain. in ages not so ancient, and which have revolved since the dawn of christianity, a certain coarseness of thought and language has been prevalent; and for it still larger allowance should be made, because it has been applied to simplicity rather than to sensuality--to rustic barbarism, not to civilised corruption--and carries along with it a rough raciness, and a reference to the sturdy aboriginal beast--just as acorns in the trough suggest the immemorial forests where they grew, and the rich greenswards on which they fell. in two cases, it thus appears, should the severest censor be prepared to modify his condemnation of the bad taste or the impurity to be found in writers of genius--first, in that of a civilization, perfect in its kind, but destitute of the refining and sublimating element which a revelation only can supply; and, secondly, in that of those ages in which the lights of knowledge and religion are contending with the gloom of barbarian rudeness. perhaps there are still two other cases capable of palliation--that of a mind so constituted as to be nothing, if not a mirror of its age, and faithfully and irresistibly reflecting even its vices and pollutions; or that of a mind morbidly in love with the morbidities and the vile passages of human nature. but suppose the case of a writer, sitting under the full blaze of gospel truth, professedly a believer in the gospel, and intimately acquainted with its oracles, living in a late and dissipated, not a rude and simple age--possessed of varied and splendid talents, which qualified him to make as well as to mirror, and with a taste naturally sound and manly, who should yet seek to shock the feelings of the pious, to gratify the low tendencies, and fire to frenzy the evil passions of his period--he is not to be shielded by the apology that he has only conformed to the bad age on which he was so unfortunate as to fall. prejudice may, indeed, put in such a plea in his defence; but the inevitable eye of common sense, distinguishing between necessity and choice, between coarseness and corruption, between a man's passively yielding to and actively inviting and encouraging the currents of false taste and immorality which he must encounter, will find that plea nugatory, and bring in against the author a verdict of guilty. now this, we fear, is exactly the case of dryden. he was neither a "barbarian" nor a "scythian." he was a conscious artist, not a high though helpless reflector of his age. he had not, we think, like his relative, swift, originally any diseased delight in filth for its own sake; was not--shall we say?--a natural, but an artificial _yahoo_. he wielded a power over the public mind, approaching the absolute, and which he could have turned to virtuous, instead of vicious account--at first, it might have been amidst considerable resistance and obloquy, but ultimately with triumphant success. this, however, he never attempted, and must therefore be classed, in this respect, with such writers as byron, whose powers gilded their pollutions, less than their pollutions degraded and defiled their powers; nay, perhaps he should be ranked even lower than the noble bard, whose obscenities are not so gross, and who had, besides, to account for them the double palliations of passion and of despair. in these remarks we refer principally to dryden's plays; for his poems, as we remarked in the life, are (with the exception of a few of the prologues, which we print under protest) in a great measure free from impurity. we pass gladly to consider him in his genius and his poetical works. the most obvious, and among the most remarkable characteristics of his poetic style, are its wondrous elasticity and ease of movement. there is never for an instant any real or apparent effort, any straining for effect, any of that "double, double, toil and trouble," by which many even of the weird cauldrons in which genius forms her creations are disturbed and bedimmed. that power of doing everything with perfect and _conscious_ ease, which dugald stewart has ascribed to barrow and to horsley in prose, distinguished dryden in poetry. whether he discusses the deep questions of fate and foreknowledge in "religio laici," or lashes shaftesbury in the "medal," or pours a torrent of contempt on shadwell in "macflecknoe," or describes the fire of london in the "annus mirabilis," or soars into lyric enthusiasm in his "ode on the death of mrs killigrew," and "alexander's feast," or paints a tournament in "palamon and arcite," or a fairy dance in the "flower and the leaf,"--he is always at home, and always aware that he is. his consciousness of his own powers amounts to exultation. he is like the steed who glories in that tremendous gallop which affects the spectator with fear. indeed, we never can separate our conception of dryden's vigorous and vaulting style from the image of a noble horse, devouring the dust of the field, clearing obstacles at a bound, taking up long leagues as a little thing, and the very strength and speed of whose motion give it at a distance the appearance of smoothness. pope speaks of his "long resounding march, and energy divine." perhaps "_ease_ divine" had been words more characteristic of that almost superhuman power of language by which he makes the most obstinate materials pliant, melts down difficulties as if by the touch of magic, and, to resume the former figure, comes into the goal without a hair turned on his mane, or a single sweat-drop confessing effort or extraordinary exertion. we know no poet since homer who can be compared to dryden in this respect, except scott, who occasionally, in "marmion," and the "lay of the last minstrel," exhibits the same impetuous ease and fiery fluent movement. scott does not, however, in general, carry the same weight as the other; and the species of verse he uses, in comparison to the heroic rhyme of dryden, gives you often the impression of a hard trot, rather than of a "long-resounding" and magnificent gallop. scott exhibits in his poetry the soul of a warrior; but it is of a warrior of the border--somewhat savage and coarse. dryden can, for the nonce at least, assume the appearance, and display the spirit, of a knight of ancient chivalry--gallant, accomplished, elegant, and gay. next to this poet's astonishing ease, spirit, and elastic vigour, may be ranked his clear, sharp intellect. he may be called more a logician than a poet. he reasons often, and always acutely, and his rhyme, instead of shackling, strengthens the movement of his argumentation. parts of his "religio laici" and the "hind and panther" resemble portions of duns scotus or aquinas set on fire. indeed, keen, strong intellect, inflamed with passion, and inspirited by that "ardour and impetuosity of mind" which wordsworth is compelled to allow to him, rather than creative or original genius, is the differentia of dryden. we have compared him to a courser, but he was not one of those coursers of achilles, who fed on no earthly food, but on the golden barley of heaven, having sprung from the gods-- [greek: xanthon kai balion, to ama pnoiaesi, petesthaen. tous eteke zephuro anemo arpua podargae.] dryden resembled rather the mortal steed which was yoked with these immortal twain, the brood of zephyr and the harpy podarga; only we can hardly say of the poet what homer says of pedasus-- [greek: os kai thnaetos eon, epeth ippois athanatoisi.] he was _not_, although a mortal, able to keep up with the immortal coursers. his path was on the plains or table-lands of earth--never or seldom in "cloudland, gorgeous land," or through the aerial altitudes which stretch away and above the clouds to the gates of heaven. he can hardly be said to have possessed the power of sublimity, in the high sense of that term, as the power of sympathising with the feeling of the infinite. often he gives us the impression of the picturesque, of the beautiful, of the heroic, of the nobly disdainful--but never (when writing, at least, entirely from his own mind) of that infinite and nameless grandeur which the imaginative soul feels shed on it from the multitudinous waves of ocean--from the cataract leaping from his rock, as if to consummate an act of prayer to god--from the hum of great assemblies of men--from the sight of far-extended wastes and wildernesses--and from the awful silence, and the still more mysterious sparkle of the midnight stars. this sense of the presence of the _shadow_ of immensity--immensity itself cannot be felt any more than measured--this sight like that vouchsafed to moses of the "backparts" of the divine--the divine itself cannot be seen--has been the inspiration of all the highest poetry of the world--of the "paradise lost," of the "divina commedia," of the "night thoughts," of wordsworth and coleridge, of "festus," and, highest far, of the hebrew prophets, as they cry, "whither can we go from thy presence? whither can we flee from thy spirit?" such poets have resembled a blind man, who feels, although he cannot see, that a stranger of commanding air is in the room beside him; so they stand awe-struck in the "wind of the going" of a majestic and unseen being. this feeling differs from mysticism, inasmuch as it is connected with a reality, while the mystic dreams a vague and unsupported dream, and the poetry it produces is simply the irresistible cry springing from the perception of this wondrous some one who is actually near them. the feeling is connected, in general, with a lofty moral and religious nature; and yet not always, since, while wanting in dryden, we find it intensely discovered, although in an imperfect and perverted shape, in byron and rousseau. in dryden certainly it exists not. we do not--and in this we have jeffrey's opinion to back us--remember a single line in his poetry that can be called sublime, or, which is the same thing, that gives us a thrilling shudder, as if a god or a ghost were passing by. pleasure, high excitement,--rapture even, he often produces; but such a feeling as is created by that line of milton, "to bellow through the vast and boundless deep," never. compare, in proof of this, the description of the tournament in "palamon and arcite"--amazingly spirited as it is--to the description of the war-horse in job; or, if that appear too high a test, to the contest of achilles with the rivers in homer; to the war of the angels, and the interrupted preparations for contest between gabriel and satan in milton; to the contest between apollyon and christian in the "pilgrim's progress;" to some of the combats in spenser; and to that wonderful one of the princess and the magician in midair in the "arabian nights," in order to understand the distinction between the most animated literal pictures of battle and those into which the element of imagination is strongly injected by the poet, who can, to the inevitable shiver of human nature at the sight of struggle and carnage, add the far more profound and terrible shiver, only created by a vision of the concomitants, the consequences--the unseen borders of the bloody scene. take these lines, for instance:-- "they look anew: the beauteous form of fight is changed, and war appears a grisly sight; two troops in fair array one moment showed-- the next, a field with fallen bodies strowed; not half the number in their seats are found, but men and steeds lie grovelling on the ground. the points of spears are stuck within the shield, the steeds without their riders scour the field; the knights, unhorsed, on foot renew the fight-- the glittering faulchions cast a gleaming light; hauberks and helms are hew'd with many a wound, out-spins the streaming blood, and dyes the ground." this is vigorous and vivid, but is not imaginative or suggestive. it does not carry away the mind from the field to bring back thoughts and images, which shall, so to speak, brood over, and aggravate the general horror. it is, in a word, plain, good painting, but it is not poetry. there is not a metaphor, such as "he _laugheth_ at the shaking of a spear," in it all. in connexion with this defect in imagination is the lack of natural imagery in dryden's poetry. wordsworth, indeed, greatly overcharges the case, when he says (in a letter to scott), "that there is not a single image from nature in the whole body of his poetry." we have this minute taken up the "hind and the panther," and find two images from nature in one page:-- "as where in fields the fairy rounds are seen, a rank sour herbage rises on the green; so," &c. and a few lines down:-- "as where the lightning runs along the ground, no husbandry can heal the blasting wound." and some pages farther on occurs a description of spring, not unworthy of wordsworth himself; beginning-- "new blossoms flourish and new flowers arise, as _god had been abroad_, and walking there, had left his footsteps, and reform'd the year." still it is true, that, taking his writings as a whole, they are thin in natural images; and even those which occur, are often rather the echoes of his reading, than the results of his observation. and what wordsworth adds is, we fear, true; in his translation of virgil, where virgil can be fairly said to have his eye upon his object, dryden always spoils the passage. the reason of this, apart from his want of high imaginative sympathy, may be found in his long residence in london; and his lack of that intimate daily familiarity with natural scenes, which can alone supply thorough knowledge, or enkindle thorough love. nature is not like the majority of other mistresses. her charms deepen the longer she is known; and he that loves her most warmly, has watched her with the narrowest inspection. she can bear the keenest glances of the microscope, and to see all her glory would exhaust an antediluvian life. the appetite, in her case, "grows with what it feeds on;" but such an appetite was not dryden's. another of his great defects is, in true tenderness of feeling. he has very few passages which can be called pathetic. his elegies and funeral odes, such as those on "mrs killigrew" and "eleonora," are eloquent; but they move you to admiration, not to tears. dryden's long immersion in the pollutions of the playhouses, had combined, with his long course of domestic infelicity, and his employments as a hack author, a party scribe, and a satirist, to harden his heart, to brush away whatever fine bloom of feeling there had been originally on his mind, and to render him incapable of even simulating the softer emotions of the soul. but for the discovered fact, that he was in early life a lover of his relative, honor driden, you would have judged him from his works incapable of a pure passion. "lust hard by hate," being his twin idols, how could he represent human, far less ethereal love; and how could he touch those springs of holy tears, which lie deep in man's heart, and which are connected with all that is dignified, and all that is divine in man's nature? what could the author of "limberham" know of love, or the author of "macflecknoe" of pity? wordsworth, in that admirable letter to which we have repeatedly referred, says, "whenever his language is poetically impassioned, it is mostly upon unpleasing subjects, such as the follies, vices, and crimes of classes of men, or individuals." this is unquestionable. he never so nearly reaches the sublime, as when he is expressing contempt. he never rises so high, as in the act of trampling. he is a "good hater," and expresses his hatred with a mixture of _animus_ and ease, of fierceness and of trenchant rapidity, which makes it very formidable. he only, as it were, waves off his adversaries disdainfully, but the very wave of his hand cuts like a sabre. his satire is not savage and furious, like juvenal's; not cool, collected, and infernal, like that of junius; not rabid and reckless, like that of swift; and never darkens into the unearthly grandeur of byron's: but it is strong, swift, dashing, and decisive. nor does it want deep and subtle touches. his pictures of shaftesbury and buckingham are as delicately finished, as they are powerfully conceived. he flies best at the highest game; but even in dealing with settles and shadwells, he can be as felicitous as he is fierce. no satire in the world contains lines more exquisitely inverted, more ingeniously burlesqued, more artfully turned out of their apparently proper course, like rays at once refracted and cooled, than those which thus ominously panegyrise shadwell:-- "his brows thick fogs, instead of glories grace, and _lambent dulness_ play'd about his face. as hannibal did to the altar come, sworn by his sire, a mortal foe to rome; so shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain, that he till death true dulness would maintain." better still the following picture, in imitation of the homeric or miltonic manner:-- "the sire then shook the honours of his head, and from his brows damps of oblivion shed full on the _filial dulness_--long he stood repelling from his breast the _raging_ god." what inimitable irony in this epithet! the god of dulness _raging_! a stagnant pool in a passion; a canal insane; a _mouton enragé_, as the french says; or a snail in a tumultuous state of excitement, were but types of the satirical ideas implied in these words. what a description of labouring nonsense--of the pythonic genius of absurdity, panting and heaving on his solemnly ridiculous tripod! the language and versification of dryden have been praised, and justly. his style is worthy of a still more powerful and original vein of genius than his own. it is a masculine, clear, elastic, and varied diction, fitted to express all feelings, save the deepest; all fancies, save the subtlest; all passions, save the loftiest; all moods of mind, save the most disinterested and rapt; to represent incidents, however strange; characters, however contradictory to each other; shades of meaning, however evasive: and to do all this, as if it were doing nothing, in point of ease, and as if it were doing everything in point of felt and rejoicing energy. no poetic style since can, in such respects, be compared to dryden's. pope's to his is feeble--and byron's forced. he can say the strongest things in the swiftest way, and the most felicitous expressions seem to fall unconsciously from his lips. had his matter, you say, but been equal to his manner, his thought in originality and imaginative power but commensurate with the boundless quantity, and no less admirable quality, of his words! his versification deserves a commendation scarcely inferior. it is "all ear," if we may so apply an expression of shakspeare's. no studied rules,--no elaborate complication of harmonies,--it is the mere sinking and swelling of the wave of his thought as it moves onward to the shore of his purpose. and, as in the sea, there are no furrows absolutely isolated from each other, but each leans on, or melts into each, and the subsidence of the one is the rise of the other--so with the versification of his better poetry. the beginning of the "hind and panther," we need not quote; but it will be remembered, as a good specimen of that peculiar style of running the lines into one another, and thereby producing a certain free and noble effect, which the uniform tinkle of pope and his school is altogether unable to reach; a style which has since been copied by some of our poets--by churchill, by cowper, and by shelley. the lines of the artificial school, on the other hand, may be compared to _rollers_, each distinct from each other,--each being in itself a whole,--but altogether forming none. pope, says hazlitt, has turned pegasus into a rocking-horse. we are, perhaps, nearly right when we call dryden the most _eloquent_ and _rhetorical_ of english poets. he bears in this respect an analogy to lucretius among the romans, who, inferior in polish to virgil, was incomparably more animated and energetic in style; who exhibited, besides, traits of lofty imagination rarely met with in virgil, and never in dryden; and who equalled the english poet in the power of reasoning in verse, and setting the severe abstractions of metaphysical thought to music. with the shakspeares, chaucers, spensers, miltons, byrons, wordsworths, and coleridges, the _dii majorum gentium_ of the poetic pantheon of britain, dryden ranks not, although towering far above the moores, goldsmiths, gays, and priors. he may be classed with a middle, but still high order, in which we find the names of scott, as a _poet_, johnson, pope, cowper, southey, crabbe, and two or three others, who, while all excelling dryden in some qualities, are all excelled by him in others, and bulk on the whole about as largely as he on the public eye. we come to make a few remarks, in addition to some we have already incidentally made, on dryden's separate works. and first of his lyrics. his songs, properly so called, are lively, buoyant, and elastic; yet, compared to those of shakspeare, they are of "the earth, earthy." they are the down of the thistle, carried on a light breeze upwards. shakspeare's resemble aerial notes--snatches of superhuman melody--descending from above. compared to the warm-gushing songs of burns, dryden's are cold. better than his songs are his odes. that on the death of mrs killigrew has much divided the opinion of critics--dr johnson calling it magnificent, and warton denying it any merit. we incline to a mediate view. it has bold passages; the first and the last stanzas are very powerful, and the whole is full of that rushing torrent-movement characteristic of the poet. but the sinkings are as deep as the swellings, and the inequality disturbs the general effect. this is still more true of "threnodia augustalis," the ode on the death of charles ii. not only is its spirit fulsome, and its statement of facts grossly partial, but many of its lines are feeble, and the whole is wire-spun. yet what can be nobler in thought and language than the following, descriptive of the joy at the king's partial recovery!-- "men met each other with erected look, the steps were higher that they took; each to congratulate his friend made haste, and long inveterate foes saluted as they pass'd." how admirably this last line describes that sudden solution of the hostile elements in human nature-that swift sense of unity in society, produced by some glad tidings or great public enthusiasm, when for an hour the millennium is anticipated, and the poet's wish, that "man wi' man, the warld o'er, shall brithers be, for a' that," is fulfilled! the two odes on st cecilia's day are both admirable in different ways. "alexander's feast," like burns's "tam o' shanter," seems to come out at once "as from a mould." it is pure inspiration, but of the second order--rather that of the greek pythoness than of the hebrew prophet. coleridge or wordsworth makes the objection to it, that the bacchus it describes is the mere vulgar deity of drink-- "flush'd with a purple grace, he shows his honest face"-- not the ideal bacchus, clad in vine-leaves, returning from the conquest of india, and attended by a procession of the lions and tigers he had tamed. but this, although a more imaginative representation of the god of wine, had not been so suitably sung at an entertainment presided over by an alexander and a thais, a drunk conqueror and a courtezan. dryden himself, we have seen, thought this the best ode that ever was or would be written in the english language. in a certain sense he was right. for vivacity, freedom of movement, and eloquence, it has never been equalled. but there are some odes--such as coleridge's "ode to france" and wordsworth's "power of sound"--which as certainly excel it in strength of imagination, grandeur of conception, and unity of execution and effect. of dryden's satires we have already spoken in a general way. "absalom and achitophel" is of course the masterpiece, and cannot be too highly praised as a gallery of portraits, and for the daring force and felicity of its style. why enlarge on a poem, almost every line of which has become a proverb? "the medal" is inferior only in condensation--in spirit and energy it is quite equal. in "macflecknoe," the mock-heroic is sustained with unparalleled vigour from the first line to the last. shadwell is a favourite of dryden's ire. he _fancies_ him, and loves to empty out on his head all the riches of his wrath. what can be more terrible than the words occurring in the second part of "absalom and achitophel"-- "when wine hath given him courage to blaspheme, he curses god--but _god before curst him_!" he has written two pieces, which may be called didactic or controversial poems--"religio laici" and "the hind and panther." the chief power of the former is in its admirable combination of two things, often dissociated--reason and rhyme; and its chief interest lies in the light it casts upon dryden's uncertainty of religious view. the thought has little originality, the versification less varied music than is his wont, and no passage of transcendent power occurs. far more faulty in plan, and far more unequal, is "the hind and panther;" but it has, on the other hand, many passages of amazing eloquence--some satirical pictures equal to anything in "absalom and achitophel"--some vivid natural descriptions; and even the absurdities of the fable, and the sophistries of the argument add to its character as the most exquisitely perverted piece of ingenuity in the language. nothing but high genius, very vigorously exerted, could reconcile us to a story so monstrous, and to reasoning so palpably one-sided and weak. his epistles are of divers merit, but all discover dryden's usual sense, sarcastic observation, and sweeping force of style. the best are that to sir godfrey kneller--remarkable for its knowledge of, and graceful tribute to, the "serene and silent art" of painting; and the very noble epistle addressed to congreve, which reminds you of one giant hand of genius held out to welcome and embrace another. gross flatterer as dryden often was, there is something in this epistle that rings true, and the emotion in it you feel even all his powers could never have enabled him to counterfeit. such generous patronage of rising, by acknowledged merit, was as rare then as it is still. the envy of the literary man too often crowns his gray hairs with a chaplet of nightshade, and pours its dark poison into the latest cup of existence. his "annus mirabilis" is another instance of perverted power, and ingenuity astray. written in that bad style he found prevalent in his early days--the style of the metaphysical poets, cowley, donne, and drayton--the author ever and anon soars out of his trammels into strong and simple poetry, fervid description, and in one passage--that about the future fortunes of london--into eloquent prophecy. the fire of london is vigorously pictured, but its breath of flame should have burned up petty conceit and tawdry ornament. he should have sternly daguerreotyped the spectacle of the capital of the civilised world burning--a spectacle awful, not only in the sight of men, but, as hall says of the french revolution, in that of superior beings. we need not dwell on the far-famed absurdities which the poem contains--about god turning a "crystal pyramid into a broad extinguisher" to put out the fire--of the ship compared to a sea-wasp floating on the waves--and of men in the fight killed by "aromatic splinters" from the spice islands! criticism has long ago said its best and its worst about these early escapades of a writer whose taste, to the last, was never commensurate with his genius. his translations we have not included in this edition, as we reserve them, along with other masterpieces of translated verse, for a separate issue afterwards. that of the "art of poetry," sometimes included in editions of his works, was not his, but only revised by him. we may say here, in general, however, that although there are more learned and more correct translators than dryden, there are few who have produced versions so vigorous, so full of exuberant life, and, in those parts of the authors suitable to the peculiarities of the translator's own genius, so faithful to their spirit and soul, if not to their letter and their body, as he. parts of virgil he does not translate well; he has no sympathy with maro's elegance, _concinnitas_, chaste grandeur, and minute knowledge of nature; but wherever virgil begins to glow and gallop, dryden glows and gallops with him; and wherever virgil is nearest homer, dryden is nearest him. we have reserved to the close his fables, as, on the whole, forming the culmination of dryden the artist, if not, perhaps, of dryden the poet. in preparing his poems for publication, how refreshing we found it to pass from a needful although cursory perusal of his plays, and a revision of his prologues, to these comparatively pure, right-manly, and eloquent compositions--the fables of dryden! we do not, because it would be hardly fair, with wordsworth, seek to compare them with the chaucerian originals--a comparison under which they would be infallibly crushed. we prefer looking at them as bearing only the relation to chaucer which macpherson's, did to the original, ossian. and regarding them in this light, as adaptations, where the original author furnishes only the ground-work, they are surely masterpieces and models of composition, if not exemplars of creative power and genius. how free and majestic their numbers! how bold and buoyant their language! how interesting the stories they tell! how perfect the preservation, and artful the presentment, of the various characters! what a fine chivalrous spirit breathes in "palamon and arcite!" what a soft yet purple, pure yet gorgeous, light of love hovers over the "flower and the leaf!"--the only poem of dryden's in which--thanks perhaps to his master, chaucer--the poet discovers the slightest perception of that "love which spirits feel in climes where all is equable and pure." what gay and gallant badinage, exquisite irony, and interesting narrative, in the story of "the cock and fox!" and what knowledge of human nature and skilful construction in "the wife of bath's tale!" we are half inclined, with george ellis, to call these fables the "noblest specimen of versification to be found in any modern language." we gather, too, from them a notion about dryden's capabilities, which we may state. it is, that had dryden lived in a novel and romance-writing age, and turned his great powers in that direction, he might have easily become the best fictionist--next to cervantes and scott--that ever lived, possessing, as he did, most of the qualities of a good novelist--vigorous and facile diction; dramatic skill; an eye for character; the power of graphic description, and rapid changeful narrative; the command of the grave and the gay, the severe and the lively; and a sympathy both with the bustling activities and the wild romance of human life, if not with its more solemn aspects, its transcendental references, and its aerial heights and giddy abysses of imagination and poetry. [we have followed the judicious example of warton and mitford in excluding several prologues which appear in some editions, but which reflect no honour on their author. dryden's translations will be published in the separate series of "translations," which it is the intention of the publisher to issue, independent of the "poetical works" of the various authors.] contents. epistles. i. to my honoured friend, sir robert howard, on his excellent poems ii. to my honoured friend, dr charleton, on his learned and useful works; but more particularly his treatise of stonehenge, by him restored to the true founder iii. to the lady castlemain, upon her encouraging his first play iv. to mr lee, on his "alexander" v. to the earl of roscommon, on his excellent essay on translated verse vi. to the duchess of york, on her return from scotland in the year vii. a letter to sir george etherege viii. to mr southerne, on his comedy called "the wives' excuse" ix. to henry higden, esq., on his translation of the tenth satire of juvenal x. to my dear friend, mr congreve, on his comedy called "the double-dealer" xi. to mr granville, on his excellent tragedy called "heroic love" xii. to my friend, mr motteux, on his tragedy called "beauty in distress" xiii. to my honoured kinsman, john dryden of chesterton, in the county of huntingdon, esq. xiv. to sir godfrey kneller, principal painter to his majesty xv. to his friend the author, john hoddesdon, on his divine epigrams xvi. to my friend, mr j. northleigh, author of "the parallel" on his "triumph of the british monarchy" elegies and epitaphs. i. to the memory of mr oldham ii. to the pious memory of the accomplished young lady, mrs anne killigrew, excellent in the two sister arts of poesy and painting: an ode iii. upon the death of the earl of dundee iv. eleonora: a panegyrical poem, dedicated to the memory of the late countess of abingdon v. on the death of amyntas: a pastoral elegy vi. on the death of a very young gentleman vii. upon young mr rogers of gloucestershire viii. on the death of mr purcell ix. epitaph on the lady whitmore x. epitaph on sir palmes fairbone's tomb in westminster abbey xi. under mr milton's picture, before his "paradise lost" xii. on the monument of a fair maiden lady, who died at bath, and is there interred xiii. epitaph on mrs margaret paston of burningham, in norfolk xiv. on the monument of the marquis of winchester songs, odes, and a masque. i. the fair stranger ii. on the young statesmen iii. a song for st cecilia's day, iv. the tears of amynta for the death of damon v. the lady's song vi. a song vii. a song viii. roundelay ix. a song x. a song to a fair young lady going out of town in spring xi. song in the "indian emperor" xii. song in "the maiden queen" xiii. songs in "the conquest of granada" xiv. song of the sea-fight in "amboyna" xv. incantation in "oedipus" xvi. songs in "albion and albanius" xvii. songs in "king arthur" xviii. song of jealousy in "love triumphant" xix. song--farewell, fair armida xx. alexander's feast; or, the power of music: an ode in honour of st cecilia's day xxi. the secular masque xxii. song of a scholar and his mistress prologues and epilogues. i. prologue to "the rival ladies" ii. prologue to "the indian queen" iii. epilogue to "the indian queen" iv. epilogue to "the indian emperor" v. prologue to "sir martin marr-all" vi. prologue to "the tempest" vii. prologue to "tyrannic love" viii. epilogue to "the wild gallant" ix. prologue, spoken the first day of the king's house acting after the fire of london x. epilogue to the second part of the "conquest of granada" xi. prologue to "aboyna" xii. epilogue to "aboyna" xiii. prologue, spoken at the opening of the new house, march , xiv. prologue to the university of oxford, xv. prologue to "circe," a tragic opera xvi. epilogue, intended to have been spoken by the lady hen. mar. wentworth, when "calista" was acted at court xvii. prologue to "aurenzebe" xviii. epilogue to "the man of mode; or, sir fopling flutter" xix. epilogue to "all for love" xx. prologue to "limberham" xxi. epilogue to "mithridates, king of pontus" xxii. prologue to "oedipus" xxiii. epilogue to "oedipus" xxiv. prologue to "troilus and cressida" xxv. prologue to "cæsar borgia" xxvi. prologue to "sophonisba" xxvii. prologue to "the royal general" xxviii. prologue to "the university of oxford," xxix. prologue to his royal highness, upon his first appearance at the duke's theatre, after his return from scotland, xxx. prologue to "the earl of essex; or, the unhappy favourite" xxxi. epilogue for "the king's house" xxxii. prologue to "the loyal brother; or, the persian prince". xxxiii. prologue to "the king and queen" xxxiv. prologue to the university of oxford xxxv. epilogue xxxvi. epilogue spoken at oxford by mrs marshall xxxvii. prologue to the university of oxford xxxviii. prologue to the university of oxford xxxix. prologue to "albion and albanins" xl. epilogue to "albion and albanius" xli. prologue to "aviragus and philicia revived" xlii. prologue to "don sebastian" xliii. prologue to "the prophetess" xliv. prologue to "the mistakes" xlv. prologue to "king arthur" xlvi. prologue to "albumazar" xlvii. an epilogue xlviii. prologue to "the husband his own cuckold" xlix. prologue to "the pilgrim" l. epilogue to "the pilgrim" tales from chaucer. to her grace the duchess of ormond palamon and arcite; or, the knight's tale the cock and the fox; or, the tale of the nun's priest the flower and the leaf; or, the lady in the arbour: a vision the wife of bath, her tale the character of a good parson dryden's poems. epistles. epistle i. to my honoured friend sir robert howard,[ ] on his excellent poems. as there is music uninform'd by art in those wild notes, which, with a merry heart, the birds in unfrequented shades express, who, better taught at home, yet please us less: so in your verse a native sweetness dwells, which shames composure, and its art excels. singing no more can your soft numbers grace, than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face. yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep, their even calmness does suppose them deep; such is your muse: no metaphor swell'd high with dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky: those mounting fancies, when they fall again, show sand and dirt at bottom do remain. so firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet, did never but in samson's riddle meet. 'tis strange each line so great a weight should bear, and yet no sign of toil, no sweat appear. either your art hides art, as stoics feign then least to feel when most they suffer pain; and we, dull souls, admire, but cannot see what hidden springs within the engine be: or 'tis some happiness that still pursues each act and motion of your graceful muse. or is it fortune's work, that in your head the curious net,[ ] that is for fancies spread, lets through its meshes every meaner thought, while rich ideas there are only caught? sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair to be the child of chance, and not of care. no atoms casually together hurl'd could e'er produce so beautiful a world. nor dare i such a doctrine here admit, as would destroy the providence of wit. 'tis your strong genius, then, which does not feel those weights would make a weaker spirit reel. to carry weight, and run so lightly too, is what alone your pegasus can do. great hercules himself could ne'er do more, than not to feel those heavens and gods he bore. your easier odes, which for delight were penn'd, yet our instruction make their second end: we're both enrich'd and pleased, like them that woo at once a beauty and a fortune too. of moral knowledge poesy was queen, and still she might, had wanton wits not been; who, like ill guardians, lived themselves at large, and, not content with that, debauch'd their charge. like some brave captain, your successful pen restores the exiled to her crown again: and gives us hope, that having seen the days when nothing flourish'd but fanatic bays, all will at length in this opinion rest,-- "a sober prince's government is best." this is not all: your art the way has found to make the improvement of the richest ground; that soil which those immortal laurels bore, that once the sacred maro's temples wore. eliza's griefs are so express'd by you, they are too eloquent to have been true. had she so spoke, Æneas had obey'd what dido, rather than what jove had said. if funeral rites can give a ghost repose, your muse so justly has discharged those; eliza's shade may now its wandering cease, and claim a title to the fields of peace. but if Æneas be obliged, no less your kindness great achilles doth confess; who, dress'd by statius[ ] in too bold a look, did ill become those virgin robes he took. to understand how much we owe to you, we must your numbers, with your author's, view: then we shall see his work was lamely rough, each figure stiff, as if design'd in buff: his colours laid so thick on every place, as only show'd the paint, but hid the face. but as in perspective we beauties see, which in the glass, not in the picture, be; so here our sight obligingly mistakes that wealth, which his your bounty only makes. thus vulgar dishes are by cooks disguised, more for their dressing than their substance prized. your curious notes so search into that age, when all was fable but the sacred page, that, since in that dark night we needs must stray, we are at least misled in pleasant way. but what we most admire, your verse no less the prophet than the poet doth confess. ere our weak eyes discern'd the doubtful streak of light, you saw great charles his morning break. so skilful seamen ken the land from far, which shows like mists to the dull passenger. to charles your muse first pays her duteous love, as still the ancients did begin from jove; with monk you end,[ ] whose name preserved shall be, as rome recorded rufus' [ ] memory, who thought it greater honour to obey his country's interest, than the world to sway. but to write worthy things of worthy men, is the peculiar talent of your pen: yet let me take your mantle up, and i will venture in your right to prophesy-- "this work, by merit first of fame secure, is likewise happy in its geniture: for, since 'tis born when charles ascends the throne, it shares at once his fortune and its own." * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'sir robert howard:' brother to dryden's wife.] [footnote : 'the curious net,' &c.: a compliment to a poem of sir robert's, called 'rete mirabile.'] [footnote : 'statius:' author of 'thebaid' and the 'achilleid;' the latter translated by sir robert howard.] [footnote : 'with monk you end,' &c.: alluding to a poem of this gentleman's on general monk.] [footnote : 'rufus:' a roman consul, banished to smyrna through intrigues, but greatly respected.]le ii. * * * * * epistle ii to my honoured friend dr charleton, on his learned and useful works; but more particularly his treatise of stonehenge,[ ] by him restored to the true founder. the longest tyranny that ever sway'd, was that wherein our ancestors betray'd their free-born reason to the stagyrite, and made his torch their universal light. so truth, while only one supplied the state, grew scarce, and dear, and yet sophisticate. still it was bought, like empiric wares, or charms, hard words seal'd up with artistotle's arms. columbus was the first that shook his throne, and found a temperate in a torrid zone, the feverish air fann'd by a cooling breeze, the fruitful vales set round with shady trees: and guiltless men, who danced away their time, fresh as their groves, and happy as their clime. had we still paid that homage to a name, which only god and nature justly claim, the western seas had been our utmost bound, where poets still might dream the sun was drown'd: and all the stars that shine in southern skies, had been admired by none but savage eyes. among the asserters of free reason's claim, our nation's not the least in worth or fame. the world to bacon does not only owe its present knowledge, but its future too. gilbert[ ] shall live, till loadstones cease to draw, our british fleets the boundless ocean awe. and noble boyle, not less in nature seen, than his great brother read in states and men. the circling streams, once thought but pools, of blood (whether life's fuel, or the body's food) from dark oblivion harvey's[ ] name shall save; while ent[ ] keeps all the honour that he gave. nor are you, learned friend, the least renown'd, whose fame, not circumscribed with english ground, flies like the nimble journeys of the light; and is, like that, unspent too in its flight. whatever truths have been, by art or chance, redeem'd from error, or from ignorance, thin in their authors, like rich veins of ore, your works unite, and still discover more. such is the healing virtue of your pen, to perfect cures on books, as well as men. nor is this work the least: you well may give to men new vigour, who make stones to live. through you, the danes, their short dominion lost, a longer conquest than the saxons boast. stonehenge, once thought a temple, you have found a throne, where kings, our earthly gods, were crown'd; where by their wondering subjects they were seen, joy'd with their stature, and their princely mien. our sovereign here above the rest might stand, and here be chose again to rule the land. these ruins[ ] shelter'd once his sacred head, when he from worcester's fatal battle fled; watch'd by the genius of this royal place, and mighty visions of the danish race. his refuge then was for a temple shown: but, he restored, 'tis now become a throne. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'treatise of stonehenge:' charleton wrote a book proving, against inigo jones, that stonehenge was built by the danes.] [footnote : 'gilbert:' dr william gilbert, a physician both to queen elizabeth and king james, and author of a treatise on the magnet.] [footnote : 'harvey:' discoverer of the circulation of the blood.] [footnote : 'ent:' a physician of the day.] [footnote : 'these ruins,' &c.: in the dedication of this book to charles ii. is the following passage, which gave occasion to the last six lines of this poem:--'i have had the honour to hear from your majesty's own mouth, that you were pleased to visit this monument, and entertain yourself with the delightful view thereof, after the defeat of your army at worcester.'] * * * * * epistle iii. to the lady castlemain,[ ] upon her encouraging his first play. as seamen, shipwreck'd on some happy shore, discover wealth in lands unknown before; and, what their art had labour'd long in vain, by their misfortunes happily obtain: so my much-envied muse, by storms long tost, is thrown upon your hospitable coast, and finds more favour by her ill success, than she could hope for by her happiness. once cato's virtue did the gods oppose; while they the victor, he the vanquish'd chose: but you have done what cato could not do, to choose the vanquish'd, and restore him too. let others triumph still, and gain their cause by their deserts, or by the world's applause; let merit crowns, and justice laurels give, but let me happy by your pity live. true poets empty fame and praise despise; fame is the trumpet, but your smile the prize. you sit above, and see vain men below contend for what you only can bestow: but those great actions others do by chance, are, like your beauty, your inheritance; so great a soul, such sweetness join'd in one, could only spring from noble grandison.[ ] you, like the stars, not by reflection bright, are born to your own heaven, and your own light; like them are good, but from a nobler cause, from your own knowledge, not from nature's laws. your power you never use, but for defence, to guard your own, or other's innocence: your foes are such as they, not you, have made, and virtue may repel, though not invade. such courage did the ancient heroes show, who, when they might prevent, would wait the blow: with such assurance as they meant to say, we will o'ercome, but scorn the safest way. what further fear of danger can there be? beauty, which captives all things, sets me free. posterity will judge by my success. i had the grecian poet's happiness, who, waving plots, found out a better way; some god descended, and preserved the play. when first the triumphs of your sex were sung by those old poets, beauty was but young, and few admired the native red and white, till poets dress'd them up to charm the sight; so beauty took on trust, and did engage for sums of praises till she came to age. but this long-growing debt to poetry you justly, madam, have discharged to me, when your applause and favour did infuse new life to my condemn'd and dying muse. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'lady castlemain' this lady was for many years a favourite mistress of charles ii., and was afterwards created duchess of cleveland.] [footnote : 'grandison:' her father, killed at edgehill.] * * * * * epistle iv. to mr lee, on his "alexander." the blast of common censure could i fear, before your play my name should not appear; for 'twill be thought, and with some colour too, i pay the bribe i first received from you; that mutual vouchers for our fame we stand, and play the game into each other's hand; and as cheap pen'orths to ourselves afford, as bessus[ ] and the brothers of the sword. such libels private men may well endure, when states and kings themselves are not secure: for ill men, conscious of their inward guilt, think the best actions on by-ends are built. and yet my silence had not 'scaped their spite; then, envy had not suffer'd me to write; for, since i could not ignorance pretend, such merit i must envy or commend. so many candidates there stand for wit, a place at court is scarce so hard to get: in vain they crowd each other at the door; for even reversions are all begg'd before: desert, how known soe'er, is long delay'd; and then, too, fools and knaves are better paid. yet, as some actions bear so great a name, that courts themselves are just, for fear of shame; so has the mighty merit of your play extorted praise, and forced itself away. 'tis here as 'tis at sea; who farthest goes, or dares the most, makes all the rest his foes. yet when some virtue much outgrows the rest, it shoots too fast and high to be express'd; as his heroic worth struck envy dumb, who took the dutchman, and who cut the boom. such praise is yours, while you the passions move, that 'tis no longer feign'd, 'tis real love, where nature triumphs over wretched art; we only warm the head, but you the heart. always you warm; and if the rising year, as in hot regions, brings the sun too near, 'tis but to make your fragrant spices blow, which in our cooler climates will not grow. they only think you animate your theme with too much fire, who are themselves all phlegm. prizes would be for lags of slowest pace, were cripples made the judges of the race. despise those drones, who praise, while they accuse the too much vigour of your youthful muse. that humble style which they your virtue make, is in your power; you need but stoop and take. your beauteous images must be allow'd by all, but some vile poets of the crowd. but how should any sign-post dauber know the worth of titian or of angelo? hard features every bungler can command; to draw true beauty shows a master's hand. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'bessus:' a cowardly character in beaumont and fletcher's comedy of 'a king and no king.'] * * * * * epistle v. to the earl of roscommon, on his excellent essay on translated verse. whether the fruitful nile, or tyrian shore, the seeds of arts and infant science bore, 'tis sure the noble plant, translated first, advanced its head in grecian gardens nursed. the grecians added verse: their tuneful tongue made nature first, and nature's god their song. nor stopp'd translation here: for conquering rome, with grecian spoils, brought grecian numbers home; enrich'd by those athenian muses more, than all the vanquish'd world could yield before. till barbarous nations, and more barbarous times, debased the majesty of verse to rhymes: those rude at first; a kind of hobbling prose, that limp'd along, and tinkled in the close. but italy, reviving from the trance of vandal, goth, and monkish ignorance, with pauses, cadence, and well-vowell'd words, and all the graces a good ear affords, made rhyme an art, and dante's polish'd page restored a silver, not a golden age. then petrarch follow'd, and in him we see what rhyme improved in all its height can be: at best a pleasing sound, and fair barbarity. the french pursued their steps; and britain, last, in manly sweetness all the rest surpass'd. the wit of greece, the gravity of rome, appear exalted in the british loom: the muses' empire is restored again, in charles' reign, and by roscommon's pen. yet modestly he does his work survey, and calls a finish'd poem an essay; for all the needful rules are scatter'd here; truth smoothly told, and pleasantly severe; so well is art disguised, for nature to appear. nor need those rules to give translation light: his own example is a flame so bright, that he who but arrives to copy well unguided will advance, unknowing will excel. scarce his own horace could such rules ordain, or his own virgil sing a nobler strain. how much in him may rising ireland boast-- how much in gaining him has britain lost! their island in revenge has ours reclaim'd; the more instructed we, the more we still are shamed. 'tis well for us his generous blood did flow, derived from british channels long ago, that here his conquering ancestors were nursed; and ireland but translated england first: by this reprisal we regain our right, else must the two contending nations fight; a nobler quarrel for his native earth, than what divided greece for homer's birth. to what perfection will our tongue arrive, how will invention and translation thrive, when authors nobly born will bear their part, and not disdain the inglorious praise of art! great generals thus, descending from command, with their own toil provoke the soldier's hand. how will sweet ovid's ghost be pleased to hear his fame augmented by an english peer;[ ] how he embellishes his helen's loves, outdoes his softness, and his sense improves; when these translate, and teach translators too, nor firstling kid, nor any vulgar vow, should at apollo's grateful altar stand. roscommon writes; to that auspicious hand, muse, feed the bull that spurns the yellow sand. roscommon, whom both court and camps commend, true to his prince, and faithful to his friend; roscommon first in fields of honour known, first in the peaceful triumphs of the gown; who both minervas justly makes his own. now let the few beloved by jove, and they whom infused titan form'd of better clay, on equal terms with ancient wit engage, nor mighty homer fear, nor sacred virgil's page: our english palace opens wide in state; and without stooping they may pass the gate. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'an english peer:' the earl of mulgrave.] * * * * * epistle vi. to the duchess of york, on her return from scotland in the year . when factious rage to cruel exile drove the queen of beauty,[ ] and the court of love, the muses droop'd, with their forsaken arts, and the sad cupids broke their useless darts: our fruitful plains to wilds and deserts turn'd like eden's face, when banish'd man it mourn'd, love was no more, when loyalty was gone, the great supporter of his awful throne. love could no longer after beauty stay, but wander'd northward to the verge of day, as if the sun and he had lost their way. but now the illustrious nymph, return'd again, brings every grace triumphant in her train. the wondering nereids, though they raised no storm, foreflow'd her passage, to behold her form: some cried, a venus; some, a thetis, pass'd; but this was not so fair, nor that so chaste. far from her sight flew faction, strife, and pride; and envy did but look on her, and died. whate'er we suffer'd from our sullen fate, her sight is purchased at an easy rate. three gloomy years against this day were set, but this one mighty sum has clear'd the debt: like joseph's dream, but with a better doom, the famine past, the plenty still to come. for her the weeping heavens become serene; for her the ground is clad in cheerful green: for her the nightingales are taught to sing, and nature has for her delay'd the spring. the muse resumes her long-forgotten lays; and love, restored his ancient realm surveys, recalls our beauties, and revives our plays; his waste dominions peoples once again, and from her presence dates his second reign. but awful charms on her fair forehead sit, dispensing what she never will admit: pleasing, yet cold, like cynthia's silver beam, the people's wonder, and the poet's theme. distemper'd zeal, sedition, canker'd hate, no more shall vex the church, and tear the state: no more shall faction civil discords move, or only discords of too tender love: discord, like that of music's various parts; discord, that makes the harmony of hearts; discord, that only this dispute shall bring, who best should love the duke, and serve the king. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'queen of beauty:' mary d'este, the beautiful second wife of the duke of york; she had been banished to scotland.] * * * * * epistle vii. a letter to sir george etherege.[ ] to you who live in chill degree, as map informs, of fifty-three, and do not much for cold atone, by bringing thither fifty-one, methinks all climes should be alike, from tropic e'en to pole arctique; since you have such a constitution as nowhere suffers diminution. you can be old in grave debate, and young in love-affairs of state; and both to wives and husbands show the vigour of a plenipo. like mighty missioner you come "ad partes infidelium." a work of wondrous merit sure, so far to go, so much t' endure; and all to preach to german dame, where sound of cupid never came. less had you done, had you been sent as far as drake or pinto went, for cloves or nutmegs to the line-a, or even for oranges to china. that had indeed been charity; where love-sick ladies helpless lie, chapt, and for want of liquor dry. but you have made your zeal appear within the circle of the bear. what region of the earth's so dull that is not of your labours full? triptolemus (so sung the nine) strew'd plenty from his cart divine, but spite of all these fable-makers, he never sow'd on almain acres: no; that was left by fate's decree, to be perform'd and sung by thee. thou break'st through forms with as much ease as the french king through articles. in grand affairs thy days are spent, in waging weighty compliment, with such as monarchs represent. they, whom such vast fatigues attend, want some soft minutes to unbend, to show the world that now and then great ministers are mortal men. then rhenish rammers walk the round; in bumpers every king is crown'd; besides three holy mitred hectors, and the whole college of electors, no health of potentate is sunk, that pays to make his envoy drunk. these dutch delights i mention'd last suit not, i know, your english taste: for wine to leave a whore or play was ne'er your excellency's way. nor need this title give offence, for here you were your excellence, for gaming, writing, speaking, keeping, his excellence for all but sleeping. now if you tope in form, and treat, 'tis the sour sauce to the sweet meat, the fine you pay for being great. nay, here's a harder imposition, which is indeed the court's petition, that setting worldly pomp aside, which poet has at font denied, you would be pleased in humble way to write a trifle call'd a play. this truly is a degradation, but would oblige the crown and nation next to your wise negotiation. if you pretend, as well you may, your high degree, your friends will say, the duke st aignon made a play. if gallic wit convince you scarce, his grace of bucks has made a farce, and you, whose comic wit is terse all, can hardly fall below rehearsal. then finish what you have began; but scribble faster, if you can: for yet no george, to our discerning, has writ without a ten years' warning. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : written to etherege, then at ratisbon, in reply to one from sir george to the earl of middleton, at the earl's request.] * * * * * epistle viii. to mr southerne, on his comedy called "the wives' excuse." sure there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain to write, while these malignant planets reign. some very foolish influence rules the pit, not always kind to sense, or just to wit: and whilst it lasts, let buffoonry succeed to make us laugh; for never was more need. farce, in itself, is of a nasty scent; but the gain smells not of the excrement. the spanish nymph, a wit and beauty too, with all her charms, bore but a single show: but let a monster muscovite appear, he draws a crowded audience round the year. may be thou hast not pleased the box and pit; yet those who blame thy tale applaud thy wit: so terence plotted, but so terence writ. like his thy thoughts are true, thy language clean even lewdness is made moral in thy scene. the hearers may for want of nokes repine; but rest secure, the readers will be thine. nor was thy labour'd drama damn'd or hiss'd, but with a kind civility dismiss'd; with such good manners, as the wife[ ] did use, who, not accepting, did but just refuse. there was a glance at parting; such a look, as bids thee not give o'er, for one rebuke. but if thou wouldst be seen, as well as read, copy one living author, and one dead: the standard of thy style let etherege be; for wit, the immortal spring of wycherly: learn, after both, to draw some just design, and the next age will learn to copy thine. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'wife:' the wife in the play, mrs friendall.] * * * * * epistle ix. to henry higden,[ ] esq., on his translation of the tenth satire of juvenal. the grecian wits, who satire first began, were pleasant pasquins on the life of man; at mighty villains, who the state oppress'd, they durst not rail, perhaps; they lash'd, at least, and turn'd them out of office with a jest. no fool could peep abroad, but ready stand the drolls to clap a bauble in his hand. wise legislators never yet could draw a fop within the reach of common law; for posture, dress, grimace, and affectation, though foes to sense, are harmless to the nation. our last redress is dint of verse to try, and satire is our court of chancery. this way took horace to reform an age, not bad enough to need an author's rage: but yours,[ ] who lived in more degenerate times, was forced to fasten deep, and worry crimes. yet you, my friend, have temper'd him so well, you make him smile in spite of all his zeal: an art peculiar to yourself alone, to join the virtues of two styles in one. oh! were your author's principle received, half of the labouring world would be relieved: for not to wish is not to be deceived. revenge would into charity be changed, because it costs too dear to be revenged: it costs our quiet and content of mind, and when 'tis compass'd leaves a sting behind. suppose i had the better end o' the staff, why should i help the ill-natured world to laugh? 'tis all alike to them, who get the day; they love the spite and mischief of the fray. no; i have cured myself of that disease; nor will i be provoked, but when i please: but let me half that cure to you restore; you gave the salve, i laid it to the sore. our kind relief against a rainy day, beyond a tavern, or a tedious play, we take your book, and laugh our spleen away. if all your tribe, too studious of debate, would cease false hopes and titles to create, led by the rare example you begun, clients would fail, and lawyers be undone. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'higden:' author of a bad comedy, which was condemned.] [footnote : 'yours:' juvenal, the tenth satire of whom higden had translated.] * * * * * epistle x. to my dear friend mr congreve, on his comedy called "the double-dealer." well, then, the promised hour is come at last, the present age of wit obscures the past: strong were our sires, and as they fought they writ, conquering with force of arms, and dint of wit: theirs was the giant race, before the flood; and thus, when charles return'd, our empire stood. like janus he the stubborn soil manured, with rules of husbandry the rankness cured; tamed us to manners, when the stage was rude; and boisterous english wit with art endued. our age was cultivated thus at length; but what we gain'd in skill we lost in strength. our builders were with want of genius cursed; the second temple was not like the first: till you, the best vitruvius, come at length; our beauties equal, but excel our strength. firm doric pillars found your solid base: the fair corinthian crowns the higher space: thus all below is strength, and all above is grace. in easy dialogue is fletcher's praise; he moved the mind, but had not power to raise. great jonson did by strength of judgment please; yet, doubling fletcher's force, he wants his ease. in differing talents both adorn'd their age; one for the study, the other for the stage. but both to congreve justly shall submit-- one match'd in judgment, both o'ermatch'd in wit. in him all beauties of this age we see, etherege's courtship, southerne's purity, the satire, wit, and strength of manly wycherly. all this in blooming youth you have achieved: nor are your foil'd contemporaries grieved. so much the sweetness of your manners move, we cannot envy you, because we love. fabius might joy in scipio, when he saw a beardless consul made against the law, and join his suffrage to the votes of rome; though he with hannibal was overcome. thus old romano bow'd to raphael's fame, and scholar to the youth he taught became. o that your brows my laurel had sustain'd! well had i been deposed, if you had reign'd: the father had descended for the son; for only you are lineal to the throne. thus, when the state one edward did depose, a greater edward in his room arose: but now, not i, but poetry is cursed; for tom the second reigns like tom the first. but let them not mistake my patron's part, nor call his charity their own desert. yet this i prophesy: thou shalt be seen (though with some short parenthesis between) high on the throne of wit, and, seated there, not mine, that's little, but thy laurel wear. thy first attempt an early promise made; that early promise this has more than paid. so bold, yet so judiciously you dare, that your least praise is to be regular. time, place, and action, may with pains be wrought; but genius must be born, and never can be taught, this is your portion; this your native store; heaven, that but once was prodigal before, to shakspeare gave as much; she could not give him more. maintain your post: that's all the fame you need; for 'tis impossible you should proceed. already i am worn with cares and age, and just abandoning the ungrateful stage: unprofitably kept at heaven's expense, i live a rent-charge on his providence: but you, whom every muse and grace adorn, whom i foresee to better fortune born, be kind to my remains; and o defend, against your judgment, your departed friend! let not the insulting foe my fame pursue, but shade those laurels which descend to you: and take for tribute what these lines express: you merit more; nor could my love do less. * * * * * epistle xi. to mr granville,[ ] on his excellent tragedy called "heroic love." auspicious poet, wert thou not my friend, how could i envy, what i must commend! but since 'tis nature's law, in love and wit, that youth should reign, and withering age submit, with less regret those laurels i resign, which, dying on my brows, revive on thine. with better grace an ancient chief may yield the long-contended honours of the field, than venture all his fortune at a cast, and fight, like hannibal, to lose at last. young princes, obstinate to win the prize, though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise: old monarchs, though successful, still in doubt, catch at a peace, and wisely turn devout. thine be the laurel, then; thy blooming age can best, if any can, support the stage; which so declines, that shortly we may see players and plays reduced to second infancy. sharp to the world, but thoughtless of renown, they plot not on the stage, but on the town, and, in despair, their empty pit to fill, set up some foreign monster in a bill. thus they jog on, still tricking, never thriving, and murdering plays, which they miscall reviving. our sense is nonsense, through their pipes convey'd: scarce can a poet know the play he made; 'tis so disguised in death; nor thinks 'tis he that suffers in the mangled tragedy. thus itys first was kill'd, and after dress'd for his own sire, the chief invited guest. i say not this of thy successful scenes, where thine was all the glory, theirs the gains. with length of time, much judgment, and more toil, not ill they acted, what they could not spoil. their setting sun[ ] still shoots a glimmering ray, like ancient rome majestic in decay: and better gleanings their worn soil can boast, than the crab-vintage of the neighbouring coast.[ ] this difference yet the judging world will see; thou copiest homer, and they copy thee. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'mr granville:' lord lansdowne.] [footnote : 'setting sun,' &c.: betterton, who had mustered up a company, and played in lincoln's-inn fields.] [footnote : 'neighbouring coast:' drury lane play-house.] * * * * * epistle xii. to my friend mr motteux,[ ] on his tragedy called "beauty in distress." 'tis hard, my friend, to write in such an age, as damns, not only poets, but the stage. that sacred art, by heaven itself infused, which moses, david, solomon have used, is now to be no more: the muses' foes would sink their maker's praises into prose. were they content to prune the lavish vine of straggling branches, and improve the wine, who but a madman would his thoughts defend? all would submit; for all but fools will mend. but when to common sense they give the lie, and turn distorted words to blasphemy, they give the scandal; and the wise discern, their glosses teach an age, too apt to learn. what i have loosely, or profanely, writ, let them to fires, their due desert, commit: nor, when accused by me, let them complain: their faults, and not their function, i arraign. rebellion, worse than witchcraft, they pursued; the pulpit preach'd the crime, the people rued. the stage was silenced; for the saints would see in fields perform'd their plotted tragedy. but let us first reform, and then so live, that we may teach our teachers to forgive: our desk be placed below their lofty chairs; ours be the practice, as the precept theirs. the moral part, at least, we may divide, humility reward, and punish pride; ambition, interest, avarice, accuse: these are the province of a tragic muse. these hast thou chosen; and the public voice has equall'd thy performance with thy choice. time, action, place, are so preserved by thee, that even cornëille might with envy see the alliance of his tripled unity. thy incidents, perhaps, too thick are sown; but too much plenty is thy fault alone. at least but two can that good crime commit, thou in design, and wycherly in wit. let thy own gauls condemn thee, if they dare; contented to be thinly regular: born there, but not for them, our fruitful soil with more increase rewards thy happy toil. their tongue, enfeebled, is refined too much; and, like pure gold, it bends at every touch: our sturdy teuton yet will art obey, more fit for manly thought, and strengthen'd with allay. but whence art thou inspired, and thou alone, to flourish in an idiom not thy own? it moves our wonder, that a foreign guest should over-match the most, and match the best. in under-praising thy deserts, i wrong; here find the first deficience of our tongue: words, once my stock, are wanting, to commend so great a poet, and so good a friend. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'motteux:' an exiled frenchman, translator of 'don quixote,' and a play-wright. dryden alludes here to collier's attacks on himself.] * * * * * epistle xiii. to my honoured kinsman, john dryden,[ ] of chesterton, in the county of huntingdon, esq. how bless'd is he who leads a country life, unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of strife! who studying peace, and shunning civil rage, enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age: all who deserve his love, he makes his own; and, to be loved himself, needs only to be known. just, good, and wise, contending neighbours come, from your award to wait their final doom; and, foes before, return in friendship home. without their cost, you terminate the cause; and save the expense of long litigious laws: where suits are traversed; and so little won, that he who conquers, is but last undone: such are not your decrees; but so design'd, the sanction leaves a lasting peace behind; like your own soul, serene; a pattern of your mind. promoting concord, and composing strife, lord of yourself, uncumber'd with a wife; where, for a year, a month, perhaps a night, long penitence succeeds a short delight: minds are so hardly match'd, that even the first, though pair'd by heaven, in paradise were cursed. for man and woman, though in one they grow, yet, first or last, return again to two. he to god's image, she to his was made; so farther from the fount the stream at random stray'd. how could he stand, when, put to double pain, he must a weaker than himself sustain! each might have stood perhaps; but each alone; two wrestlers help to pull each other down. not that my verse would blemish all the fair; but yet, if some be bad, 'tis wisdom to beware; and better shun the bait, than struggle in the snare. thus have you shunn'd, and shun the married state, trusting as little as you can to fate. no porter guards the passage of your door, to admit the wealthy, and exclude the poor; for god, who gave the riches, gave the heart, to sanctify the whole, by giving part; heaven, who foresaw the will, the means has wrought, and to the second son a blessing brought; the first-begotten had his father's share: but you, like jacob, are rebecca's heir.[ ] so may your stores and fruitful fields increase; and ever be you bless'd, who live to bless. as ceres sow'd, where'er her chariot flew; as heaven in deserts rain'd the bread of dew; so free to many, to relations most, you feed with manna your own israel host. with crowds attended of your ancient race, you seek the champion sports, or sylvan chase: with well-breath'd beagles you surround the wood, even then, industrious of the common good: and often have you brought the wily fox to suffer for the firstlings of the flocks; chased even amid the folds; and made to bleed, like felons, where they did the murderous deed. this fiery game your active youth maintain'd; not yet by years extinguish'd, though restrain'd: you season still with sports your serious hours: for age but tastes of pleasures youth devours. the hare in pastures or in plains is found, emblem of human life, who runs the round; and, after all his wandering ways are done, his circle fills, and ends where he begun-- just as the setting meets the rising sun. thus princes ease their cares; but happier he, who seeks not pleasure through necessity, than such as once on slippery thrones were placed; and chasing, sigh to think themselves are chased. so lived our sires, ere doctors learn'd to kill, and multiplied with theirs the weekly bill. the first physicians by debauch were made: excess began, and sloth sustains the trade, pity the generous kind their cares bestow to search forbidden truths (a sin to know), to which, if human science could attain, the doom of death, pronounced by god, were vain. in vain the leech would interpose delay; fate fastens first, and vindicates the prey. what help from art's endeavours can we have? gibbons[ ] but guesses, nor is sure to save: but maurus[ ] sweeps whole parishes, and peoples every grave; and no more mercy to mankind will use, than when he robb'd and murder'd maro's muse. wouldst thou be soon despatch'd, and perish whole, trust maurus with thy life, and milbourn[ ] with thy soul. by chase our long-lived fathers earn'd their food; toil strung the nerves, and purified the blood: but we their sons, a pamper'd race of men, are dwindled down to threescore years and ten. better to hunt in fields for health unbought, than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught. the wise, for cure, on exercise depend; god never made his work for man to mend. the tree of knowledge, once in eden placed, was easy found, but was forbid the taste: oh, had our grandsire walk'd without his wife, he first had sought the better plant of life! now both are lost: yet, wandering in the dark, physicians, for the tree, have found the bark: they, labouring for relief of human kind, with sharpen'd sight some remedies may find; the apothecary-train is wholly blind, from files a random recipe they take, and many deaths of one prescription make. garth,[ ] generous as his muse, prescribes and gives; the shopman sells; and by destruction lives: ungrateful tribe! who, like the viper's brood, from medicine issuing, suck their mother's blood! let these obey; and let the learn'd prescribe; that men may die, without a double bribe: let them, but under their superiors, kill; when doctors first have sign'd the bloody bill; he 'scapes the best, who, nature to repair, draws physic from the fields, in draughts of vital air. you hoard not health, for your own private use; but on the public spend the rich produce. when, often urged, unwilling to be great, your country calls you from your loved retreat, and sends to senates, charged with common care, which none more shuns, and none can better bear; where could they find another form'd so fit, to poise, with solid sense, a sprightly wit? were these both wanting, as they both abound, where could so firm integrity be found? well born, and wealthy, wanting no support, you steer betwixt the country and the court: nor gratify whate'er the great desire, nor grudging give what public needs require. part must be left, a fund when foes invade; and part employ'd to roll the watery trade: even canaan's happy land, when worn with toil, required a sabbath-year to mend the meagre soil. good senators (and such as you) so give, that kings may be supplied, the people thrive. and he, when want requires, is truly wise, who slights not foreign aids, nor over-buys; but on our native strength, in time of need, relies. munster was bought, we boast not the success; who fights for gain, for greater makes his peace. our foes, compell'd by need, have peace embraced: the peace both parties want, is like to last: which, if secure, securely we may trade; or, not secure, should never have been made. safe in ourselves, while on ourselves we stand, the sea is ours, and that defends the land. be then the naval stores the nation's care, new ships to build, and batter'd to repair. observe the war, in every annual course; what has been done, was done with british force: namur subdued,[ ] is england's palm alone; the rest besieged, but we constrain'd the town; we saw the event that follow'd our success; france, though pretending arms, pursued the peace; obliged, by one sole treaty,[ ] to restore what twenty years of war had won before. enough for europe has our albion fought: let us enjoy the peace our blood has bought. when once the persian king was put to flight, the weary macedons refused to fight: themselves their own mortality confess'd: and left the son of jove to quarrel for the rest. even victors are by victories undone; thus hannibal, with foreign laurels won, to carthage was recall'd, too late to keep his own. while sore of battle, while our wounds are green, why should we tempt the doubtful die again? in wars renew'd, uncertain of success; sure of a share, as umpires of the peace. a patriot both the king and country serves: prerogative and privilege preserves: of each our laws the certain limit show; one must not ebb, nor the other overflow: betwixt the prince and parliament we stand; the barriers of the state on either hand: may neither overflow, for then they drown the land. when both are full, they feed our bless'd abode; like those that water'd once the paradise of god. some overpoise of sway, by turns, they share; in peace the people, and the prince in war: consuls of moderate power in calms were made; when the gauls came, one sole dictator sway'd. patriots, in peace, assert the people's right; with noble stubbornness resisting might: no lawless mandates from the court receive, nor lend by force, but in a body give. such was your generous grandsire; free to grant in parliaments, that weigh'd their prince's want: but so tenacious of the common cause, as not to lend the king against his laws; and, in a loathsome dungeon doom'd to lie, in bonds retain'd his birthright liberty, and shamed oppression, till it set him free. o true descendant of a patriot line, who, while thou shar'st their lustre, lend'st them thine! vouchsafe this picture of thy soul to see; 'tis so far good, as it resembles thee: the beauties to the original i owe; which when i miss, my own defects i show: nor think the kindred muses thy disgrace: a poet is not born in every race. two of a house few ages can afford; one to perform, another to record. praiseworthy actions are by thee embraced; and 'tis my praise, to make thy praises last. for even when death dissolves our human frame, the soul returns to heaven from whence it came; earth keeps the body--verse preserves the fame. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'john dryden:' this poem was written in ; the person to whom it is addressed was cousin-german to the poet, and a younger brother of the baronet. he repaid this poem by a 'noble present' to his kinsman.] [footnote : 'rebecca's heir:' he inherited his mother's fortune.] [footnote : 'gibbons:' dr gibbons, physician.] [footnote : 'maurus:' sir richard blackmore.] [footnote : 'milbourn:' the foe of dryden's 'virgil,' and a clergyman.] [footnote : 'garth:' author of 'the dispensary.'] [footnote : 'namur subdued:' in , king william took namur, after a siege of one month.] [footnote : 'treaty:' the treaty of ryswick, concluded in september .] * * * * * epistle xiv.[ ] to sir godfrey kneller, principal painter to his majesty. once i beheld the fairest of her kind, and still the sweet idea charms my mind: true, she was dumb; for nature gazed so long, pleased with her work, that she forgot her tongue; but, smiling, said, she still shall gain the prize; i only have transferr'd it to her eyes. such are thy pictures, kneller: such thy skill, that nature seems obedient to thy will; comes out and meets thy pencil in the draught; lives there, and wants but words to speak her thought. at least thy pictures look a voice; and we imagine sounds, deceived to that degree, we think 'tis somewhat more than just to see. shadows are but privations of the light; yet, when we walk, they shoot before the sight; with us approach, retire, arise, and fall; nothing themselves, and yet expressing all. such are thy pieces, imitating life so near, they almost conquer in the strife; and from their animated canvas came, demanding souls, and loosen'd from the frame. prometheus, were he here, would cast away his adam, and refuse a soul to clay; and either would thy noble work inspire, or think it warm enough, without his fire. but vulgar hands may vulgar likeness raise; this is the least attendant on thy praise: from hence the rudiments of art began; a coal, or chalk, first imitated man: perhaps the shadow, taken on a wall, gave outlines to the rude original; ere canvas yet was strain'd, before the grace of blended colours found their use and place, or cypress tablets first received a face. by slow degrees the godlike art advanced; as man grew polish'd, picture was enhanced: greece added posture, shade, and perspective; and then the mimic piece began to live. yet pérspective was lame, no distance true, but all came forward in one common view: no point of light was known, no bounds of art; when light was there, it knew not to depart, but glaring on remoter objects play'd; not languish'd, and insensibly decay'd. rome raised not art, but barely kept alive, and with old greece unequally did strive: till goths, and vandals, a rude northern race, did all the matchless monuments deface. then all the muses in one ruin be, and rhyme began to enervate poetry. thus, in a stupid military state, the pen and pencil find an equal fate. flat faces, such as would disgrace a screen, such as in bantam's embassy were seen, unraised, unrounded, were the rude delight of brutal nations only born to fight. long time, the sister arts, in iron sleep, a heavy sabbath did supinely keep: at length, in raphael's age, at once they rise, stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes. thence rose the roman, and the lombard line: one colour'd best, and one did best design. raphael's, like homer's, was the nobler part, but titian's painting look'd like virgil's art. thy genius gives thee both; where true design, postures unforced, and lively colours join. likeness is ever there; but still the best, like proper thoughts in lofty language dress'd: where light, to shades descending, plays, not strives, dies by degrees, and by degrees revives. of various parts a perfect whole is wrought: thy pictures think, and we divine their thought. shakspeare, thy gift, i place before my sight; with awe, i ask his blessing ere i write; with reverence look on his majestic face; proud to be less, but of his godlike race. his soul inspires me, while thy praise i write, and i, like teucer, under ajax fight: bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntless breast contemn the bad, and emulate the best. like his, thy critics in the attempt are lost: when most they rail, know then, they envy most. in vain they snarl aloof; a noisy crowd, like women's anger, impotent and loud. while they their barren industry deplore, pass on secure, and mind the goal before. old as she is, my muse shall march behind, bear off the blast, and intercept the wind. our arts are sisters, though not twins in birth; for hymns were sung in eden's happy earth: but oh! the painter muse, though last in place, has seized the blessing first, like jacob's race. apelles' art an alexander found; and raphael did with leo's gold abound; but homer was with barren laurel crown'd. thou hadst thy charles a while, and so had i; but pass we that unpleasing image by. rich in thyself, and of thyself divine, all pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine. a graceful truth thy pencil can command; the fair themselves go mended from thy hand. likeness appears in every lineament; but likeness in thy work is eloquent. though nature there her true resemblance bears, a nobler beauty in thy peace appears. so warm thy work, so glows the generous frame, flesh looks less living in the lovely dame. thou paint'st as we describe, improving still, when on wild nature we ingraft our skill; but not creating beauties at our will. but poets are confined in narrower space, to speak the language of their native place: the painter widely stretches his command; thy pencil speaks the tongue of every land. from hence, my friend, all climates are your own, nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none. all nations all immunities will give to make you theirs, where'er you please to live; and not seven cities, but the world would strive. sure some propitious planet, then, did smile, when first you were conducted to this isle: our genius brought you here to enlarge our fame; for your good stars are everywhere the same. thy matchless hand, of every region free, adopts our climate, not our climate thee. great rome and venice early did impart to thee the examples of their wondrous art. those masters then, but seen, not understood, with generous emulation fired thy blood: for what in nature's dawn the child admired, the youth endeavour'd, and the man acquired. if yet thou hast not reach'd their high degree, 'tis only wanting to this age, not thee. thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine, drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design a more exalted work, and more divine. for what a song, or senseless opera is to the living labour of a play; or what a play to virgil's work would be, such is a single piece to history. but we, who life bestow, ourselves must live: kings cannot reign, unless their subjects give; and they who pay the taxes, bear the rule: thus thou, sometimes, art forced to draw a fool: but so his follies in thy posture sink, the senseless idiot seems at last to think. good heaven! that sots and knaves should be so vain, to wish their vile resemblance may remain! and stand recorded, at their own request, to future days, a libel or a jest! else should we see your noble pencil trace our unities of action, time, and place: a whole composed of parts, and those the best, with every various character express'd; heroes at large, and at a nearer view, less, and at distance, an ignobler crew. while all the figures in one action join, as tending to complete the main design. more cannot be by mortal art express'd; but venerable age shall add the rest: for time shall with his ready pencil stand; retouch your fingers with his ripening hand; mellow your colours, and embrown the tint; add every grace, which time alone can grant; to future ages shall your fame convey, and give more beauties than he takes away. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : supposed to be an acknowledgment of a copy of the chandos portrait of shakspeare given to dryden by kneller.] * * * * * epistle xv. to his friend the author, john hoddesdon, on his divine epigrams. thou hast inspired me with thy soul, and i who ne'er before could ken of poetry, am grown so good proficient, i can lend a line in commendation of my friend. yet 'tis but of the second hand; if ought there be in this, 'tis from thy fancy brought. good thief, who dar'st, prometheus-like, aspire, and fill thy poems with celestial fire: enliven'd by these sparks divine, their rays add a bright lustre to thy crown of bays. young eaglet, who thy nest thus soon forsook, so lofty and divine a course hast took as all admire, before the down begin to peep, as yet, upon thy smoother chin; and, making heaven thy aim, hast had the grace to look the sun of righteousness i' the face. what may we hope, if thou go'st on thus fast, scriptures at first; enthusiasms at last! thou hast commenced, betimes, a saint; go on, mingling diviner streams with helicon; that they who view what epigrams here be, may learn to make like, in just praise of thee. reader, i've done, nor longer will withhold thy greedy eyes; looking on this pure gold thou'lt know adulterate copper, which, like this, will only serve to be a foil to his. * * * * * epistle xvi. to my friend mr j. northleigh, author of "the parallel," on his "triumph of the british monarchy." so joseph, yet a youth, expounded well the boding dream, and did the event foretell; judged by the past, and drew the parallel. thus early solomon the truth explored, the right awarded, and the babe restored. thus daniel, ere to prophecy he grew, the perjured presbyters did first subdue, and freed susanna from the canting crew. well may our monarchy triumphant stand, while warlike james protects both sea and land; and, under covert of his sevenfold shield, thou send'st thy shafts to scour the distant field. by law thy powerful pen has set us free; thou studiest that, and that may study thee. * * * * * elegies and epitaphs. i. to the memory of mr oldham.[ ] farewell, too little, and too lately known, whom i began to think, and call my own: for sure our souls were near allied, and thine cast in the same poetic mould with mine! one common note on either lyre did strike, and knaves and fools we both abhorr'd alike. to the same goal did both our studies drive; the last set out, the soonest did arrive. thus nisus fell upon the slippery place, whilst his young friend performed, and won the race. o early ripe! to thy abundant store what could advancing age have added more? it might (what nature never gives the young) have taught the smoothness of thy native tongue. but satire needs not those, and wit will shine through the harsh cadence of a rugged line. a noble error, and but seldom made, when poets are by too much force betray'd. thy generous fruits, though gather'd ere their prime, still show'd a quickness; and maturing time but mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of rhyme. once more, hail! and farewell, farewell, thou young, but, ah! too short, marcellus of our tongue! thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound; but fate and gloomy night encompass thee around. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'mr oldham:' john oldham, the satirist, died of the small-pox in his th year, .] * * * * * ii. to the pious memory of the accomplished young lady mrs anne killigrew,[ ] excellent in the two sister arts of poesy and painting. an ode. . i. thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, made in the last promotion of the blest; whose palms, new pluck'd from paradise, in spreading branches more sublimely rise, rich with immortal green above the rest: whether, adopted to some neighbouring star, thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race, or, in procession fix'd and regular, mov'st with the heavens' majestic pace; or, call'd to more superior bliss, thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss: whatever happy region is thy place, cease thy celestial song a little space; thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, since heaven's eternal year is thine. hear then a mortal muse thy praise rehearse, in no ignoble verse; but such as thy own voice did practise here, when thy first fruits of poesy were given; to make thyself a welcome inmate there: while yet a young probationer, and candidate of heaven. ii. if by traduction came thy mind, our wonder is the less to find a soul so charming from a stock so good; thy father was transfused into thy blood: so wert thou born into a tuneful strain, an early, rich, and inexhausted vein. but if thy pre-existing soul was form'd, at first, with myriads more, it did through all the mighty poets roll, who greek or latin laurels wore, and was that sappho last, which once it was before. if so, then cease thy flight, o heaven-born mind! thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore: nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, than was the beauteous frame she left behind: return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind. iii. may we presume to say, that, at thy birth, new joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on earth? for sure the milder planets did combine on thy auspicious horoscope to shine, and even the most malicious were in trine. thy brother angels at thy birth strung each his lyre, and tuned it high, that all the people of the sky might know a poetess was born on earth. and then, if ever, mortal ears had heard the music of the spheres, and if no clustering swarm of bees on thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew, 'twas that such vulgar miracles heaven had not leisure to renew: for all thy blest fraternity of love solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above. iv. o gracious god! how far have we profaned thy heavenly gift of poesy! made prostitute and profligate the muse, debased to each obscene and impious use, whose harmony was first ordain'd above for tongues of angels, and for hymns of love! o wretched we! why were we hurried down this lubrique and adulterate age, (nay added fat pollutions of our own,) to increase the streaming ordures of the stage? what can we say to excuse our second fall? let this thy vestal, heaven, atone for all: her arethusian stream remains unsoil'd, unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefiled: her wit was more than man, her innocence a child. v. art she had none, yet wanted none; for nature did that want supply: so rich in treasures of her own, she might our boasted stores defy: such noble vigour did her verse adorn, that it seem'd borrow'd where 'twas only born. her morals too were in her bosom bred. by great examples daily fed, what in the best of books, her father's life, she read: and to be read herself she need not fear; each test, and every light, her muse will bear, though epictetus with his lamp were there. even love (for love sometimes her muse express'd) was but a lambent flame which play'd about her breast: light as the vapours of a morning dream, so cold herself, whilst she such warmth express'd, 'twas cupid bathing in diana's stream. vi. born to the spacious empire of the nine, one would have thought she should have been content to manage well that mighty government; but what can young ambitious souls confine? to the next realm she stretch'd her sway, for painture near adjoining lay, a plenteous province, and alluring prey. a chamber of dependencies was framed, (as conquerors will never want pretence, when arm'd, to justify the offence) and the whole fief, in right of poetry, she claim'd. the country open lay without defence: for poets frequent inroads there had made, and perfectly could represent the shape, the face, with every lineament, and all the large domains which the dumb sister sway'd; all bow'd beneath her government, received in triumph wheresoe'er she went. her pencil drew whate'er her soul design'd, and oft the happy draft surpass'd the image in her mind. the sylvan scenes of herds and flocks, and fruitful plains and barren rocks, of shallow brooks that flow'd so clear, the bottom did the top appear: of deeper, too, and ampler floods, which, as in mirrors, show'd the woods; of lofty trees, with sacred shades, and pérspectives of pleasant glades, where nymphs of brightest form appear, and shaggy satyrs standing near, which them at once admire and fear. the ruins, too, of some majestic piece, boasting the power of ancient rome or greece, whose statues, friezes, columns broken lie, and, though defaced, the wonder of the eye; what nature, art, bold fiction e'er durst frame, her forming hand gave feature to the name. so strange a concourse ne'er was seen before, but when the peopled ark the whole creation bore. vii. the scene then changed: with bold erected look our martial king the sight with reverence strook: for not content to express his outward part, her hand call'd out the image of his heart: his warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, his high-designing thoughts were figured there, as when, by magic, ghosts are made appear. our phoenix queen was portray'd too so bright, beauty alone could beauty take so right; her dress, her shape, her matchless grace, were all observed, as well as heavenly face. with such a peerless majesty she stands, as in that day she took the crown from sacred hands: before a train of heroines was seen, in beauty foremost, as in rank, the queen. thus nothing to her genius was denied, but like a ball of fire the further thrown, still with a greater blaze she shone, and her bright soul broke out on every side. what next she had design'd heaven only knows: to such immoderate growth her conquest rose, that fate alone its progress could oppose. viii. now all those charms, that blooming grace, the well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face, shall never more be seen by mortal eyes; in earth the much lamented virgin lies. not wit, nor piety could fate prevent; nor was the cruel destiny content to finish all the murder at a blow, to sweep at once her life, and beauty too; but, like a harden'd felon, took a pride to work more mischievously slow, and plunder'd first, and then destroy'd. oh, double sacrilege on things divine, to rob the relic, and deface the shrine! but thus orinda[ ] died: heaven, by the same disease, did both translate: as equal were their souls, so equal was their fate. ix. meantime her warlike brother on the seas his waving streamers to the wind displays, and vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays. ah, generous youth! that wish forbear, the winds too soon will waft thee here: slack all thy sails, and fear to come, alas, thou know'st not thou art wreck'd at home! no more shalt thou behold thy sister's face, thou hast already had her last embrace. but look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far among the pleiads a new-kindled star, if any sparkles than the rest more bright, 'tis she that shines in that propitious light. x. when in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, to raise the nations under ground: when in the valley of jehoshaphat, the judging god shall close the book of fate: and there the last assizes keep, for those who wake, and those who sleep; when rattling bones together fly, from the four corners of the sky; when sinews o'er the skeletons are spread, those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead; the sacred poets first shall hear the sound, and foremost from the tomb shall bound, for they are cover'd with the lightest ground; and straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing, like mounting larks, to the new morning sing. there thou, sweet saint, before the quire shalt go, as harbinger of heaven, the way to show, the way which thou so well hast learn'd below. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'killigrew:' a lady of remarkable promise alike in painting and poetry; maid of honour to the duchess of york; died at the age of , in ; her father an eminent clergyman, her brother a wit.] [footnote : 'orinda:' mrs catherine philips, author of a book of poems, died, like mrs killigrew, of the small-pox, in , being only thirty-two years of age.] * * * * * iii. upon the death of the earl of dundee.[ ] oh, last and best of scots! who didst maintain thy country's freedom from a foreign reign; new people fill the land now thou art gone, new gods the temples, and new kings the throne. scotland and thee did each in other live; nor wouldst thou her, nor could she thee survive. farewell! who dying didst support the state, and couldst not fall but with thy country's fate. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : this is translated from a latin elegy by dr pitcairn.] * * * * * iv. eleonora: a panegyrical poem, dedicated to the memory of the late countess of abingdon. to the right honourable the earl of abingdon, &c. my lord,--the commands, with which you honoured me some months ago, are now performed: they had been sooner; but betwixt ill health, some business, and many troubles, i was forced to defer them till this time. ovid, going to his banishment, and writing from on shipboard to his friends, excused the faults of his poetry by his misfortunes; and told them, that good verses never flow but from a serene and composed spirit. wit, which is a kind of mercury, with wings fastened to his head and heels, can fly but slowly in a damp air. i therefore chose rather to obey you late than ill: if at least i am capable of writing anything, at any time, which is worthy your perusal and your patronage. i cannot say that i have escaped from a shipwreck; but have only gained a rock by hard swimming, where i may pant a while and gather breath: for the doctors give me a sad assurance, that my disease never took its leave of any man, but with a purpose to return. however, my lord, i have laid hold on the interval, and managed the small stock, which age has left me, to the best advantage, in performing this inconsiderable service to my lady's memory. we, who are priests of apollo, have not the inspiration when we please; but must wait until the god comes rushing on us, and invades us with a fury which we are not able to resist: which gives us double strength while the fit continues, and leaves us languishing and spent at its departure. let me not seem to boast, my lord, for i have really felt it on this occasion, and prophesied beyond my natural power. let me add, and hope to be believed, that the excellency of the subject contributed much to the happiness of the execution; and that the weight of thirty years was taken off me while i was writing. i swam with the tide, and the water under me was buoyant. the reader will easily observe that i was transported by the multitude and variety of my similitudes; which are generally the product of a luxuriant fancy, and the wantonness of wit. had i called in my judgment to my assistance, i had certainly retrenched many of them. but i defend them not; let them pass for beautiful faults amongst the better sort of critics: for the whole poem, though written in that which they call heroic verse, is of the pindaric nature, as well in the thought as the expression; and, as such, requires the same grains of allowance for it. it was intended, as your lordship sees in the title, not for an elegy, but a panegyric: a kind of apotheosis, indeed, if a heathen word may be applied to a christian use. and on all occasions of praise, if we take the ancients for our patterns, we are bound by prescription to employ the magnificence of words, and the force of figures, to adorn the sublimity of thoughts. isocrates amongst the grecian orators, and cicero, and the younger pliny, amongst the romans, have left us their precedents for our security; for i think i need not mention the inimitable pindar, who stretches on these pinions out of sight, and is carried upward, as it were, into another world. this, at least, my lord, i may justly plead, that if i have not performed so well as i think i have, yet i have used my best endeavours to excel myself. one disadvantage i have had; which is, never to have known or seen my lady: and to draw the lineaments of her mind, from the description which i have received from others, is for a painter to set himself at work without the living original before him: which, the more beautiful it is, will be so much the more difficult for him to conceive, when he has only a relation given him of such and such features by an acquaintance or a friend, without the nice touches, which give the best resemblance, and make the graces of the picture. every artist is apt enough to flatter himself (and i amongst the rest) that their own ocular observations would have discovered more perfections, at least others, than have been delivered to them: though i have received mine from the best hands, that is, from persons who neither want a just understanding of my lady's worth, nor a due veneration for her memory. dr donne, the greatest wit, though not the greatest poet of our nation, acknowledges, that he had never seen mrs drury, whom he has made immortal in his admirable "anniversaries." i have had the same fortune, though i have not succeeded to the same genius. however, i have followed his footsteps in the design of his panegyric; which was to raise an emulation in the living, to copy out the example of the dead. and therefore it was, that i once intended to have called this poem "the pattern:" and though, on a second consideration, i changed the title into the name of the illustrious person, yet the design continues, and eleonora is still the pattern of charity, devotion, and humility; of the best wife, the best mother, and the best of friends. and now, my lord, though i have endeavoured to answer your commands; yet i could not answer it to the world, nor to my conscience, if i gave not your lordship my testimony of being the best husband now living: i say my testimony only; for the praise of it is given you by yourself. they who despise the rules of virtue both in their practice and their morals, will think this a very trivial commendation. but i think it the peculiar happiness of the countess of abingdon to have been so truly loved by you while she was living, and so gratefully honoured after she was dead. few there are who have either had, or could have, such a loss; and yet fewer who carried their love and constancy beyond the grave. the exteriors of mourning, a decent funeral, and black habits, are the usual stints of common husbands: and perhaps their wives deserve no better than to be mourned with hypocrisy, and forgot with ease. but you have distinguished yourself from ordinary lovers, by a real and lasting grief for the deceased; and by endeavouring to raise for her the most durable monument, which is that of verse. and so it would have proved, if the workman had been equal to the work, and your choice of the artificer as happy as your design. yet, as phidias, when he had made the statue of minerva, could not forbear to engrave his own name, as author of the piece: so give me leave to hope, that, by subscribing mine to this poem, i may live by the goddess, and transmit my name to posterity by the memory of hers. it is no flattery to assure your lordship, that she is remembered, in the present age, by all who have had the honour of her conversation and acquaintance; and that i have never been in any company since the news of her death was first brought me, where they have not extolled her virtues, and even spoken the same things of her in prose, which i have done in verse. i therefore think myself obliged to thank your lordship for the commission which you have given me: how i have acquitted myself of it, must be left to the opinion of the world, in spite of any protestation which i can enter against the present age, as incompetent or corrupt judges. for my comfort, they are but englishmen, and, as such, if they think ill of me to-day, they are inconstant enough to think well of me to-morrow. and after all, i have not much to thank my fortune that i was born amongst them. the good of both sexes are so few, in england, that they stand like exceptions against general rules: and though one of them has deserved a greater commendation than i could give her, they have taken care that i should not tire my pen with frequent exercise on the like subjects; that praises, like taxes, should be appropriated, and left almost as individual as the person. they say, my talent is satire: if it be so, it is a fruitful age, and there is an extraordinary crop to gather. but a single hand is insufficient for such a harvest: they have sown the dragons' teeth themselves, and it is but just they should reap each other in lampoons. you, my lord, who have the character of honour, though it is not my happiness to know you, may stand aside, with the small remainders of the english nobility, truly such, and, unhurt yourselves, behold the mad combat. if i have pleased you and some few others, i have obtained my end. you see i have disabled myself, like an elected speaker of the house: yet like him i have undertaken the charge, and find the burden sufficiently recompensed by the honour. be pleased to accept of these my unworthy labours, this paper-monument; and let her pious memory, which i am sure is sacred to you, not only plead the pardon of my many faults, but gain me your protection, which is ambitiously sought by, my lord, your lordship's most obedient servant, john dryden. * * * * * as when some great and gracious monarch dies, soft whispers, first, and mournful murmurs rise among the sad attendants; then the sound soon gathers voice, and spreads the news around, through town and country, till the dreadful blast is blown to distant colonies at last; who then, perhaps, were offering vows in vain, for his long life, and for his happy reign: so slowly, by degrees, unwilling fame did matchless eleonora's fate proclaim, till public as the loss the news became. the nation felt it in the extremest parts, with eyes o'erflowing, and with bleeding hearts; but most the poor, whom daily she supplied, beginning to be such, but when she died. for, while she lived, they slept in peace by night, secure of bread, as of returning light; and with such firm dependence on the day, that need grew pamper'd, and forgot to pray: so sure the doll, so ready at their call, they stood prepared to see the manna fall. such multitudes she fed, she clothed, she nursed, that she herself might fear her wanting first. of her five talents, other five she made; heaven, that had largely given, was largely paid: and in few lives, in wondrous few, we find a fortune better fitted to the mind. nor did her alms from ostentation fall, or proud desire of praise; the soul gave all: unbribed it gave; or, if a bribe appear, no less than heaven--to heap huge treasures there. want pass'd for merit at her open door; heaven saw, he safely might increase his poor, and trust their sustenance with her so well, as not to be at charge of miracle. none could be needy, whom she saw, or knew; all in the compass of her sphere she drew: he, who could touch her garment, was as sure, as the first christians of the apostles' cure. the distant heard, by fame, her pious deeds, and laid her up for their extremest needs; a future cordial for a fainting mind; for, what was ne'er refused, all hoped to find, each in his turn; the rich might freely come, as to a friend; but to the poor 'twas home. as to some holy house the afflicted came, the hunger-starved, the naked and the lame; want and diseases fled before her name. for zeal like her's her servants were too slow; she was the first, where need required, to go; herself the foundress and attendant too. sure she had guests sometimes to entertain, guests in disguise, of her great master's train: her lord himself might come, for aught we know; since in a servant's form he lived below: beneath her roof he might be pleased to stay; or some benighted angel, in his way, might ease his wings, and, seeing heaven appear in its best work of mercy, think it there: where all the deeds of charity and love were, in as constant method as above, all carried on; all of a piece with theirs; as free her alms, as diligent her cares; as loud her praises, and as warm her prayers. yet was she not profuse; but feared to waste, and wisely managed, that the stock might last; that all might be supplied, and she not grieve, when crowds appear'd, she had not to relieve: which to prevent, she still increased her store; laid up, and spared, that she might give the more. so pharaoh, or some greater king than he, provided for the seventh necessity: taught from above his magazines to frame, that famine was prevented ere it came. thus heaven, though all-sufficient, shows a thrift in his economy, and bounds his gift: creating, for our day, one single light; and his reflection, too, supplies the night. perhaps a thousand other worlds, that lie remote from us, and latent in the sky, are lighten'd by his beams, and kindly nursed; of which our earthly dunghill is the worst. now, as all virtues keep the middle line, yet somewhat more to one extreme incline, such was her soul; abhorring avarice, bounteous, but almost bounteous to a vice: had she given more, it had profusion been, and turn'd the excess of goodness into sin. these virtues raised her fabric to the sky; for that, which is next heaven, is charity. but, as high turrets, for their airy steep, require foundations in proportion deep; and lofty cedars as far upward shoot, as to the nether heavens they drive the root: so low did her secure foundation lie, she was not humble, but humility. scarcely she knew that she was great, or fair, or wise, beyond what other women are; or, which is better, knew, but never durst compare: for to be conscious of what all admire, and not be vain, advances virtue higher. but still she found, or rather thought she found, her own worth wanting, others' to abound; ascribed above their due to every one-- unjust and scanty to herself alone. such her devotion was, as might give rules of speculation to disputing schools, and teach us equally the scales to hold betwixt the two extremes of hot and cold; that pious heat may moderately prevail, and we be warm'd, but not be scorch'd with zeal: business might shorten, not disturb, her prayer; heaven had the best, if not the greater share. an active life long orisons forbids; yet still she pray'd, for still she pray'd by deeds. her every day was sabbath; only free from hours of prayer, for hours of charity: such as the jews from servile toil released; where works of mercy were a part of rest; such as blest angels exercise above, varied with sacred hymns and acts of love: such sabbaths as that one she now enjoys, even that perpetual one, which she employs (for such vicissitudes in heaven there are) in praise alternate, and alternate prayer. all this she practised here; that when she sprung amidst the choirs, at the first sight she sung: sung, and was sung herself in angels' lays; for, praising her, they did her maker praise. all offices of heaven so well she knew, before she came, that nothing there was new: and she was so familiarly received, as one returning, not as one arrived. muse, down again precipitate thy flight! for how can mortal eyes sustain immortal light? but as the sun in water we can bear-- yet not the sun, but his reflection there, so let us view her, here, in what she was, and take her image in this watery glass: yet look not every lineament to see; some will be cast in shades, and some will be so lamely drawn, you'll scarcely know 'tis she. for where such various virtues we recite, 'tis like the milky-way, all over bright, but sown so thick with stars,'tis undistinguish'd light. her virtue, not her virtues, let us call; for one heroic comprehends them all: one, as a constellation is but one, though 'tis a train of stars, that, rolling on, rise in their turn, and in the zodiac run: ever in motion; now 'tis faith ascends, now hope, now charity, that upward tends, and downwards with diffusive good descends. as in perfumes composed with art and cost, 'tis hard to say what scent is uppermost; nor this part musk or civet can we call, or amber, but a rich result of all; so she was all a sweet, whose every part, in due proportion mix'd, proclaim'd the maker's art. no single virtue we could most commend, whether the wife, the mother, or the friend; for she was all, in that supreme degree, that as no one prevail'd, so all was she. the several parts lay hidden in the piece; the occasion but exerted that, or this. a wife as tender, and as true withal, as the first woman was before her fall: made for the man, of whom she was a part; made to attract his eyes, and keep his heart. a second eve, but by no crime accursed; as beauteous, not as brittle, as the first: had she been first, still paradise had been, and death had found no entrance by her sin: so she not only had preserved from ill her sex and ours, but lived their pattern still. love and obedience to her lord she bore; she much obey'd him, but she loved him more: not awed to duty by superior sway, but taught by his indulgence to obey. thus we love god, as author of our good; so subjects love just kings, or so they should. nor was it with ingratitude return'd; in equal fires the blissful couple burn'd; one joy possess'd them both, and in one grief they mourn'd. his passion still improved; he loved so fast as if he fear'd each day would be her last. too true a prophet to foresee the fate that should so soon divide their happy state; when he to heaven entirely must restore that love, that heart, where he went halves before. yet as the soul is all in every part, so god and he might each have all her heart. so had her children too; for charity was not more fruitful, or more kind than she: each under other by degrees they grew; a goodly perspective of distant view. anchises look'd not with so pleased a face, in numbering o'er his future roman race, and marshalling the heroes of his name, as, in their order, next to light they came. nor cybele, with half so kind an eye, survey'd her sons and daughters of the sky; proud, shall i say, of her immortal fruit? as far as pride with heavenly minds may suit. her pious love excell'd to all she bore; new objects only multiplied it more. and as the chosen found the pearly grain as much as every vessel could contain; as in the blissful vision each shall share as much of glory as his soul can bear; so did she love, and so dispense her care. her eldest thus, by consequence, was best, as longer cultivated than the rest. the babe had all that infant care beguiles, and early knew his mother in her smiles: but when dilated organs let in day to the young soul, and gave it room to play, at his first aptness, the maternal love those rudiments of reason did improve: the tender age was pliant to command; like wax it yielded to the forming hand: true to the artificer, the labour'd mind with ease was pious, generous, just, and kind; soft for impression, from the first prepared, till virtue with long exercise grew hard: with every act confirm'd, and made at last so durable as not to be effaced, it turn'd to habit; and, from vices free, goodness resolved into necessity. thus fix'd she virtue's image, that's her own, till the whole mother in the children shone; for that was their perfection: she was such, they never could express her mind too much. so unexhausted her perfections were, that, for more children, she had more to spare; for souls unborn, whom her untimely death deprived of bodies, and of mortal breath; and (could they take the impressions of her mind) enough still left to sanctify her kind. then wonder not to see this soul extend the bounds, and seek some other self, a friend: as swelling seas to gentle rivers glide, to seek repose, and empty out the tide; so this full soul, in narrow limits pent, unable to contain her, sought a vent to issue out, and in some friendly breast discharge her treasures, and securely rest: to unbosom all the secrets of her heart, take good advice, but better to impart: for 'tis the bliss of friendship's holy state, to mix their minds, and to communicate; though bodies cannot, souls can penetrate. fix'd to her choice, inviolably true, and wisely choosing, for she chose but few. some she must have; but in no one could find a tally fitted for so large a mind. the souls of friends, like kings in progress, are still in their own, though from the palace far: thus her friend's heart her country dwelling was a sweet retirement to a coarser place; where pomp and ceremonies enter'd not, where greatness was shut out, and business well forgot. this is the imperfect draught; but short as far as the true height and bigness of a star exceeds the measures of the astronomer. she shines above, we know; but in what place, how near the throne, and heaven's imperial face, by our weak optics is but vainly guess'd; distance and altitude conceal the rest. though all these rare endowments of the mind were in a narrow space of life confined, the figure was with full perfection crown'd; though not so large an orb, as truly round. as when in glory, through the public place, the spoils of conquer'd nations were to pass, and but one day for triumph was allow'd, the consul was constrain'd his pomp to crowd; and so the swift procession hurried on, that all, though not distinctly, might be shown: so in the straiten'd bounds of life confined, she gave but glimpses of her glorious mind: and multitudes of virtues pass'd along; bach pressing foremost in the mighty throng, ambitious to be seen, and then make room for greater multitudes that were to come. yet unemploy'd no minute slipp'd away; moments were precious in so short a stay. the haste of heaven to have her was so great, that some were single acts, though each complete; but every act stood ready to repeat. her fellow-saints with busy care will look for her bless'd name in fate's eternal book; and, pleased to be outdone, with joy will see numberless virtues, endless charity: but more will wonder at so short an age, to find a blank beyond the thirtieth page; and with a pious fear begin to doubt the piece imperfect, and the rest torn out. but 'twas her saviour's time; and, could there be a copy near the original, 'twas she. as precious gums are not for lasting fire, they but perfume the temple, and expire: so was she soon exhaled, and vanish'd hence; a short sweet odour, of a vast expense. she vanish'd, we can scarcely say she died; for but a now did heaven and earth divide: she pass'd serenely with a single breath; this moment perfect health, the next was death: one sigh did her eternal bliss assure; so little penance needs, when souls are almost pure. as gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue; or, one dream pass'd, we slide into a new; so close they follow, such wild order keep, we think ourselves awake, and are asleep: so softly death succeeded life in her, she did but dream of heaven, and she was there. no pains she suffer'd, nor expired with noise; her soul was whisper'd out with god's still voice; as an old friend is beckon'd to a feast, and treated like a long-familiar guest. he took her as he found, but found her so, as one in hourly readiness to go: even on that day, in all her trim prepared; as early notice she from heaven had heard, and some descending courier from above had given her timely warning to remove; or counsell'd her to dress the nuptial room, for on that night the bridegroom was to come. he kept his hour, and found her where she lay clothed all in white, the livery of the day. scarce had she sinn'd in thought, or word, or act; unless omissions were to pass for fact: that hardly death a consequence could draw, to make her liable to nature's law: and, that she died, we only have to show the mortal part of her she left below: the rest, so smooth, so suddenly she went, look'd like translation through the firmament; or, like the fiery car, on the third errand[ ] sent. o happy soul! if thou canst view from high, where thou art all intelligence, all eye; if, looking up to god, or down to us, thou find'st that any way be pervious, survey the ruins of thy house, and see thy widow'd, and thy orphan family: look on thy tender pledges left behind; and, if thou canst a vacant minute find from heavenly joys, that interval afford to thy sad children, and thy mourning lord. see how they grieve, mistaken in their love, and shed a beam of comfort from above; give them, as much as mortal eyes can bear, a transient view of thy full glories there; that they with moderate sorrow may sustain and mollify their losses in thy gain: or else divide the grief; for such thou wert, that should not all relations bear a part, it were enough to break a single heart. let this suffice: nor thou, great saint, refuse this humble tribute of no vulgar muse: who, not by cares, or wants, or age depress'd, stems a wild deluge with a dauntless breast; and dares to sing thy praises in a clime where vice triumphs, and virtue is a crime; where even to draw the picture of thy mind, is satire on the most of human kind: take it, while yet 'tis praise; before my rage, unsafely just, break loose on this bad age; so bad, that thou thyself hadst no defence from vice, but barely by departing hence. be what, and where thou art: to wish thy place, were, in the best, presumption more than grace. thy relics (such thy works of mercy are) have, in this poem, been my holy care. as earth thy body keeps, thy soul the sky, so shall this verse preserve thy memory; for thou shalt make it live, because it sings of thee. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'third errand:' enoch and elias were the first two.] * * * * * v. on the death of amyntas. a pastoral elegy. 'twas on a joyless and a gloomy morn, wet was the grass, and hung with pearls the thorn; when damon, who design'd to pass the day with hounds and horns, and chase the flying prey, rose early from his bed; but soon he found the welkin pitch'd with sullen clouds around, an eastern wind, and dew upon the ground. thus while he stood, and, sighing, did survey the fields, and cursed the ill omens of the day, he saw menalcas come with heavy pace; wet were his eyes, and cheerless was his face: he wrung his hands, distracted with his care, and sent his voice before him from afar. return, he cried, return, unhappy swain! the spungy clouds are fill'd with gathering rain: the promise of the day not only cross'd, but even the spring, the spring itself is lost. amyntas--oh!--he could not speak the rest, nor needed, for presaging damon guess'd. equal with heaven young damon loved the boy, the boast of nature, both his parents' joy, his graceful form revolving in his mind; so great a genius, and a soul so kind, gave sad assurance that his fears were true; too well the envy of the gods he knew: for when their gifts too lavishly are placed, soon they repent, and will not make them last. for sure it was too bountiful a dole, the mother's features, and the father's soul. then thus he cried; the morn bespoke the news: the morning did her cheerful light diffuse: but see how suddenly she changed her face, and brought on clouds and rain, the day's disgrace! just such, amyntas, was thy promised race: what charms adorn'd thy youth, where nature smiled, and more than man was given us in a child! his infancy was ripe: a soul sublime in years so tender that prevented time: heaven gave him all at once; then snatch'd away, ere mortals all his beauties could survey: just like the flower that buds and withers in a day. menalcas. the mother, lovely, though with grief oppress'd, reclined his dying head upon her breast. the mournful family stood all around; one groan was heard, one universal sound: all were in floods of tears and endless sorrow drown'd. so dire a sadness sat on every look, even death repented he had given the stroke. he grieved his fatal work had been ordain'd but promised length of life to those who yet remain'd. the mother's and her eldest daughter's grace, it seems, had bribed him to prolong their space. the father bore it with undaunted soul, like one who durst his destiny control: yet with becoming grief he bore his part, resign'd his son, but not resign'd his heart: patient as job; and may he live to see, like him, a new increasing family! damon. such is my wish, and such my prophecy. for yet, my friend, the beauteous mould remains; long may she exercise her fruitful pains! but, ah! with better hap, and bring a race more lasting, and endued with equal grace! equal she may, but further none can go: for he was all that was exact below. menalcas. damon! behold yon breaking purple cloud; hear'st thou not hymns and songs divinely loud? there mounts amyntas; the young cherubs play about their godlike mate, and sing him on his way! he cleaves the liquid air, behold he flies, and every moment gains upon the skies! the new-come guest admires the ethereal state, the sapphire portal, and the golden gate; and now admitted in the shining throng, he shows the passport which he brought along: his passport is his innocence and grace, well known to all the natives of the place. now sing, ye joyful angels, and admire your brother's voice that conies to mend your quire sing you,--while endless tears our eyes bestow: for like amyntas none is left below. * * * * * vi. on the death of a very young gentleman. he who could view the book of destiny, and read whatever there was writ of thee, o charming youth, in the first opening page, so many graces in so green an age, such wit, such modesty, such strength of mind, a soul at once so manly and so kind; would wonder, when he turn'd the volume o'er, and after some few leaves should find no more, nought but a blank remain, a dead void space, a step of life that promised such a race. we must not, dare not think, that heaven began a child, and could not finish him a man; reflecting what a mighty store was laid of rich materials, and a model made: the cost already furnish'd; so bestow'd, as more was never to one soul allow'd: yet after this profusion spent in vain, nothing but mouldering ashes to remain, i guess not, lest i split upon the shelf, yet durst i guess, heaven kept it for himself; and giving us the use, did soon recall, ere we could spare, the mighty principal. thus then he disappeared, was rarified; for 'tis improper speech to say he died: he was exhaled; his great creator drew his spirit, as the sun the morning dew. 'tis sin produces death; and he had none, but the taint adam left on every son. he added not, he was so pure, so good, 'twas but the original forfeit of his blood: and that so little, that the river ran more clear than the corrupted fount began. nothing remain'd of the first muddy clay; the length of course had wash'd it in the way: so deep, and yet so clear, we might behold the gravel bottom, and that bottom gold. as such we loved, admired, almost adored, gave all the tribute mortals could afford. perhaps we gave so much, the powers above grew angry at our superstitious love: for when we more than human homage pay, the charming cause is justly snatch'd away. thus was the crime not his, but ours alone: and yet we murmur that he went so soon; though miracles are short and rarely shown. learn, then, ye mournful parents, and divide that love in many, which in one was tied. that individual blessing is no more, but multiplied in your remaining store. the flame's dispersed, but does not all expire; the sparkles blaze, though not the globe of fire. love him by parts, in all your numerous race, and from those parts form one collected grace: then, when you have refined to that degree, imagine all in one, and think that one is he. * * * * * vii. upon young mr rogers of gloucestershire. of gentle blood, his parents' only treasure, their lasting sorrow, and their vanish'd pleasure, adorn'd with features, virtues, wit, and grace, a large provision for so short a race; more moderate gifts might have prolong'd his date, too early fitted for a better state; but, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay, he leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way. * * * * * viii. on the death of mr purcell. set to music by dr blow. mark how the lark and linnet sing; with rival notes they strain their warbling throats, to welcome in the spring. but in the close of night, when philomel begins her heavenly lay, they cease their mutual spite, drink in her music with delight, and, listening, silently obey. so ceased the rival crew, when purcell came; they sung no more, or only sung his fame: struck dumb, they all admired the godlike man: the godlike man, alas! too soon retired, as he too late began. we beg not hell our orpheus to restore: had he been there, their sovereign's fear had sent him back before. the power of harmony too well they knew: he long ere this had tuned their jarring sphere, and left no hell below. the heavenly choir, who heard his notes from high, let down the scale of music from the sky: they handed him along, and all the way he taught, and all the way they sung ye brethren of the lyre, and tuneful voice, lament his lot; but at your own rejoice: now live secure, and linger out your days; the gods are pleased alone with purcell's lays, nor know to mend their choice. * * * * * ix. epitaph on the lady whitmore. fair, kind, and true, a treasure each alone, a wife, a mistress, and a friend in one, rest in this tomb, raised at thy husband's cost, here sadly summing what he had, and lost. come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join, come first, and offer at her sacred shrine; pray but for half the virtues of this wife, compound for all the rest, with longer life; and wish your vows, like hers, may be return'd, so loved when living, and when dead so mourn'd. * * * * * x. epitaph on sir palmes fairbone's tomb in westminster abbey. sacred to the immortal memory of sir palmes fairbone, knight, governor of tangier; in execution of which command, he was mortally wounded by a shot from the moors, then besieging the town, in the forty-sixth year of his age. october , . ye sacred relics, which your marble keep, here, undisturb'd by wars, in quiet sleep: discharge the trust, which, when it was below, pairbone's undaunted soul did undergo, and be the town's palladium from the foe. alive and dead these walls he will defend: great actions great examples must attend. the candian siege his early valour knew, where turkish blood did his young hands imbrue. from thence returning with deserved applause, against the moors his well-flesh'd sword he draws; the same the courage, and the same the cause. his youth and age, his life and death, combine, as in some great and regular design, all of a piece throughout, and all divine. still nearer heaven his virtues shone more bright, like rising flames expanding in their height; the martyr's glory crown'd the soldier's fight. more bravely british general never fell, nor general's death was e'er revenged so well; which his pleased eyes beheld before their close, follow'd by thousand victims of his foes. to his lamented loss for time to come his pious widow consecrates this tomb. * * * * * xi. under mr milton's picture, before his paradise lost.[ ] three poets, in three distant ages born, greece, italy, and england, did adorn. the first, in loftiness of thought surpass'd; the next, in majesty; in both the last. the force of nature could no further go; to make a third, she join'd the former two. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : in tonson's folio edition.] * * * * * xii on the monument of a fair maiden lady[ ], who died at bath, and is there interred. below this marble monument is laid all that heaven wants of this celestial maid. preserve, o sacred tomb! thy trust consign'd; the mould was made on purpose for the mind: and she would lose, if, at the latter day, one atom could be mix'd of other clay. such were the features of her heavenly face, her limbs were form'd with such harmonious grace: so faultless was the frame, as if the whole had been an emanation of the soul: which her own inward symmetry reveal'd and like a picture shone, in glass anneal'd. or like the sun eclipsed, with shaded light: too piercing, else, to be sustain'd by sight. each thought was visible that roll'd within: as through a crystal case the figured hours are seen. and heaven did this transparent veil provide, because she had no guilty thought to hide. all white, a virgin-saint, she sought the skies: for marriage, though it sullies not, it dyes. high though her wit, yet humble was her mind: as if she could not, or she would not find how much her worth transcended all her kind. yet she had learn'd so much of heaven below, that, when arrived, she scarce had more to know: but only to refresh the former hint, and read her maker in a fairer print. so pious, as she had no time to spare for human thoughts, but was confined to prayer. yet in such charities she pass'd the day, 'twas wondrous how she found an hour to pray. a soul so calm, it knew not ebbs or flows, which passion could but curl, not discompose. a female softness, with a manly mind: a daughter duteous, and a sister kind: in sickness patient, and in death resign'd. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : this lady is interred in the abbey-church. her name was mary frampton. she died in .] * * * * * xiii. epitaph on mrs margaret paston, of burningham in norfolk. so fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet, so ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit, require at least an age in one to meet. in her they met; but long they could not stay, 'twas gold too fine to mix without allay. heaven's image was in her so well express'd, her very sight upbraided all the rest; too justly ravish'd from an age like this, now she is gone, the world is of a piece. * * * * * xiv. on the monument of the marquis of winchester.[ ] he who in impious times undaunted stood, and 'midst rebellion durst be just and good; whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more confirm'd the cause for which he sought before, rests here, rewarded by an heavenly prince, for what his earthly could not recompense. pray, reader, that such times no more appear: or, if they happen, learn true honour here. ask of this age's faith and loyalty, which, to preserve them, heaven confined in thee. few subjects could a king like thine deserve; and fewer such a king so well could serve. blest king, blest subject, whose exalted state by sufferings rose, and gave the law to fate! such souls are rare, but mighty patterns given to earth, and meant for ornaments to heaven. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : winchester, a staunch royalist, besieged two years in his castle of basing, died in .] * * * * * songs, odes, and a masque i. the fair stranger.[ ] a song. happy and free, securely blest, no beauty could disturb my rest; my amorous heart was in despair, to find a new victorious fair. till you descending on our plains, with foreign force renew my chains: where now you rule without control the mighty sovereign of my soul. your smiles have more of conquering charms, than all your native country arms; their troops we can expel with ease, who vanquish only when we please. but in your eyes, oh! there's the spell, who can see them, and not rebel? you make us captives by your stay, yet kill us if you go away. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : this song is a compliment to the duchess of portsmouth, charles's mistress, on her first coming to england.] * * * * * ii on the young statesmen. written in . clarendon had law and sense, clifford was fierce and brave; bennet's grave look was a pretence, and danby's matchless impudence help'd to support the knave. but sunderland, godolphin, lory[ ], these will appear such chits in story, 'twill turn all politics to jests, to be repeated like john dory, when fiddlers sing at feasts. protect us, mighty providence! what would these madmen have? first, they would bribe us without pence, deceive us without common sense, and without power enslave. shall free-torn men, in humble awe, submit to servile shame; who from consent and custom draw the same right to be ruled by law, which kings pretend to reign? the duke shall wield his conquering sword, the chancellor make a speech, the king shall pass his honest word, the pawn'd revenue sums afford, and then, come kiss my breech. so have i seen a king on chess (his rooks and knights withdrawn, his queen and bishops in distress) shifting about, grow less and less, with here and there a pawn. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'laurence hyde,' afterwards earl of rochester, is the person here called lory.] * * * * * iii. a song for st cecilia's day,[ ] . from harmony, from heavenly harmony this universal frame began: when nature underneath a heap of jarring atoms lay, and could not heave her head, the tuneful voice was heard from high, arise, ye more than dead. then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, in order to their stations leap, and music's power obey. from harmony, from heavenly harmony this universal frame began: from harmony to harmony through all the compass of the notes it rail, the diapason closing full in man. what passion cannot music raise and quell? when jubal struck the chorded shell, his listening brethren stood around, and, wondering, on their faces fell to worship that celestial sound. less than a god they thought there could not dwell within the hollow of that shell, that spoke so sweetly and so well. what passion cannot music raise and quell? the trumpet's loud clangour excites us to arms, with shrill notes of anger, and mortal alarms. the double double double beat of the thundering drum cries, hark! the foes come; charge, charge!'tis too late to retreat. the soft complaining flute in dying notes discovers the woes of hopeless lovers, whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. sharp violins proclaim their jealous pangs, and desperation, fury, frantic indignation, depth of pains, and height of passion, for the fair, disdainful dame. but oh! what art can teach, what human voice can reach, the sacred organ's praise? notes inspiring holy love, notes that wing their heavenly ways to mend the choirs above. orpheus could lead the savage race; and trees uprooted left their place, sequacious of the lyre: but bright cecilia raised the wonder higher: when to her organ vocal breath was given, an angel heard, and straight appear'd, mistaking earth for heaven. grand chorus. as from the power of sacred lays the spheres began to move, and sung the great creator's praise to all the bless'd above; so when the last and dreadful hour this crumbling pageant shall devour, the trumpet shall be heard on high, the dead shall live, the living die, and music shall untune the sky. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'st cecilia's day': d november-birthday of st cecilia, the patron saint of music-a roman lady martyred in the third century, said to have been taught music by an angel.] * * * * * iv. the tears of amynta, for the death of damon. a song. on a bank, beside a willow, heaven her covering, earth her pillow, sad amynta sigh'd alone: from the cheerless dawn of morning till the dews of night returning, singing thus she made her moan: hope is banish'd, joys are vanish'd, damon, my beloved, is gone! time, i dare thee to discover such a youth and such a lover; oh, so true, so kind was he! damon was the pride of nature, charming in his every feature; damon lived alone for me; melting kisses, murmuring blisses: who so lived and loved as we? never shall we curse the morning. never bless the night returning, sweet embraces to restore: never shall we both lie dying, nature failing, love supplying all the joys he drain'd before: death come end me, to befriend me: love and damon are no more. * * * * * v. the lady's song.[ ] a choir of bright beauties in spring did appear, to choose a may-lady to govern the year; all the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green; the garland was given, and phyllis was queen: but phyllis refused it, and sighing did say, i'll not wear a garland while pan is away. while pan and fair syrinx are fled from our shore, the graces are banish'd, and love is no more: the soft god of pleasure, that warm'd our desires, has broken his bow, and extinguish'd his fires; and vows that himself and his mother will mourn, till pan and fair syrinx in triumph return. forbear your addresses, and court us no more; for we will perform what the deity swore: but if you dare think of deserving our charms, away with your sheephooks, and take to your arms; then laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn, when pan, and his son, and fair syrinx return. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : intended to apply to the banishment of king james and his wife, mary of este.] * * * * * vi. a song. fair, sweet, and young, receive a prize reserved for your victorious eyes: from crowds, whom at your feet you see, o pity, and distinguish me! as i from thousand beauties more distinguish you, and only you adore. your face for conquest was design'd, your every motion charms my mind; angels, when you your silence break, forget their hymns, to hear you speak; but when at once they hear and view, are loth to mount, and long to stay with you. no graces can your form improve, but all are lost, unless you love; while that sweet passion you disdain, your veil and beauty are in vain: in pity then prevent my fate, for after dying all reprieve's too late. * * * * * vii. a song. high state and honours to others impart, but give me your heart: that treasure, that treasure alone, i beg for my own. so gentle a love, so fervent a fire, my soul does inspire; that treasure, that treasure alone, i beg for my own. your love let me crave; give me in possessing so matchless a blessing; that empire is all i would have. love's my petition, all my ambition; if e'er you discover so faithful a lover, so real a flame, i'll die, i'll die, so give up my game. * * * * * viii. rondelay. chloe found amyntas lying, all in tears upon the plain; sighing to himself, and crying, wretched i, to love in vain! kiss me, dear, before my dying; kiss me once, and ease my pain! sighing to himself, and crying, wretched i, to love in vain! ever scorning and denying to reward your faithful swain: kiss me, dear, before my dying; kiss me once, and ease my pain: ever scorning, and denying to reward your faithful swain: chloe, laughing at his crying, told him, that he loved in vain: kiss me, dear, before my dying; kiss me once, and ease my pain! chloe, laughing at his crying, told him, that he loved in vain: but repenting, and complying, when he kiss'd, she kiss'd again: kiss'd him up before his dying; kiss'd him up, and eased his pain. * * * * * ix. a song. go tell amynta, gentle swain, i would not die, nor dare complain: thy tuneful voice with numbers join, thy words will more prevail than mine. to souls oppress'd and dumb with grief, the gods ordain this kind relief; that music should in sounds convey, what dying lovers dare not say. a sigh or tear perhaps she'll give, but love on pity cannot live. tell her that hearts for hearts were made, and love with love is only paid. tell her my pains so fast increase, that soon they will be past redress; but ah! the wretch that speechless lies, attends but death to close his eyes. * * * * * x. a song to a fair young lady, going out of town in the spring. ask not the cause, why sullen spring so long delays her flowers to bear; why warbling birds forget to sing, and winter storms invert the year: chloris is gone, and fate provides to make it spring, where she resides. chloris is gone, the cruel fair; she cast not back a pitying eye; but left her lover in despair, to sigh, to languish, and to die: ah, how can those fair eyes endure to give the wounds they will not cure? great god of love, why hast thou made a face that can all hearts command, that all religions can evade, and change the laws of every land? where thou hadst placed such power before, thou shouldst have made her mercy more. when chloris to the temple comes, adoring crowds before her fall; she can restore the dead from tombs, and every life but mine recall. i only am by love design'd to be the victim for mankind. * * * * * xi. songs in the "indian emperor." i. ah, fading joy! how quickly art thou past! yet we thy ruin haste. as if the cares of human life were few, we seek out new: and follow fate, which would too fast pursue. see how on every bough the birds express, in their sweet notes, their happiness. they all enjoy, and nothing spare; but on their mother nature lay their care: why then should man, the lord of all below, such troubles choose to know, as none of all his subjects undergo? hark, hark, the waters fall, fall, fall, and with a murmuring sound dash, dash upon the ground, to gentle slumbers call. ii. i look'd, and saw within the book of fate, when many days did lour, when lo! one happy hour leap'd up, and smiled to save the sinking state; a day shall come when in thy power thy cruel foes shall be; then shall thy land be free: and then in peace shall reign; but take, o take that opportunity, which, once refused, will never come again. * * * * * xii. song in the "maiden queen." i feed a flame within, which so torments me, that it both pains my heart, and yet contents me: 'tis such a pleasing smart, and i so love it, that i had rather die than once remove it. yet he for whom i grieve shall never know it: my tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it. not a sigh, not a tear, my pain discloses, but they fall silently, like dew on roses. thus, to prevent my love from being cruel, my heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel: and while i suffer this to give him quiet, my faith rewards my love, though he deny it. on his eyes will i gaze, and there delight me; where i conceal my love no frown can fright me: to be more happy, i dare not aspire; nor can i fall more low, mounting no higher. * * * * * xiii. songs in "the conquest of granada." i. wherever i am, and whatever i do, my phyllis is still in my mind; when angry, i mean not to phyllis to go, my feet, of themselves, the way find: unknown to myself i am just at her door, and when i would rail, i can bring out no more, than, phyllis too fair and unkind! when phyllis i see, my heart bounds in my breast, and the love i would stifle is shown; but asleep or awake i am never at rest, when from my eyes phyllis is gone. sometimes a sad dream does delude my sad mind; but, alas! when i wake, and no phyllis i find, how i sigh to myself all alone! should a king be my rival in her i adore, he should offer his treasure in vain: oh, let me alone to be happy and poor, and give me my phyllis again! let phyllis be mine, and but ever be kind, i could to a desert with her be confined, and envy no monarch his reign. alas! i discover too much of my love, and she too well knows her own power! she makes me each day a new martyrdom prove, and makes me grow jealous each hour: but let her each minute torment my poor mind, i had rather love phyllis, both false and unkind, than ever be freed from her power. ii. he. how unhappy a lover am i, while i sigh for my phyllis in vain: all my hopes of delight are another man's right, who is happy, while i am in pain! she. since her honour allows no relief, but to pity the pains which you bear, 'tis the best of your fate, in a hopeless estate, to give o'er, and betimes to despair. he. i have tried the false medicine in vain; for i wish what i hope not to win: from without, my desire has no food to its fire; but it burns and consumes me within. she. yet, at least, 'tis a pleasure to know that you are not unhappy alone: for the nymph you adore is as wretched, and more; and counts all your sufferings her own. he. o ye gods, let me suffer for both; at the feet of my phyllis i'll lie: i'll resign up my breath, and take pleasure in death, to be pitied by her when i die. she. what her honour denied you in life, in her death she will give to your love. such a flame as is true after fate will renew, for the souls to meet closer above. * * * * * xiv. song of the sea-fight, in amboyna. who ever saw a noble sight, that never view'd a brave sea-fight! hang up your bloody colours in the air, up with your fights, and your nettings prepare; your merry mates cheer, with a lusty bold spright. now each man his brindace, and then to the fight. st george, st george, we cry, the shouting turks reply. oh, now it begins, and the gun-room grows hot, ply it with culverin and with small shot; hark, does it not thunder? no, 'tis the guns' roar, the neighbouring billows are turn'd into gore; now each man must resolve to die, for here the coward cannot fly. drums and trumpets toll the knell, and culverins the passing bell. now, now they grapple, and now board amain; blow up the hatches, they're off all again: give them a broadside, the dice run at all, down comes the mast and yard, and tacklings fall; she grows giddy now, like blind fortune's wheel, she sinks there, she sinks, she turns up her keel. who ever beheld so noble a sight, as this so brave, so bloody sea-fight! * * * * * xv. incantation in oedipus. tir. choose the darkest part o' th' grove, such as ghosts at noonday love. dig a trench, and dig it nigh where the bones of laius lie; altars raised, of turf or stone, will th' infernal powers have none, answer me, if this be done? all pr. 'tis done. tir. is the sacrifice made fit? draw her backward to the pit: draw the barren heifer back; barren let her be, and black. cut the curl'd hair that grows full betwixt her horns and brows: and turn your faces from the sun, answer me, if this be done? all pr. 'tis done. tir. pour in blood, and blood-like wine, to mother earth and proserpine: mingle milk into the stream; feast the ghosts that love the steam: snatch a brand from funeral pile: toss it in to make them boil; and turn your faces from the sun, answer me, if this be done? all pr. 'tis done. * * * * * xvi. songs in albion and albanius. i. cease, augusta! cease thy mourning, happy days appear, godlike albion is returning, loyal hearts to cheer! every grace his youth adorning, glorious as the star of morning, or the planet of the year. ii. albion, by the nymph attended, was to neptune recommended, peace and plenty spread the sails: venus, in her shell before him, from the sands in safety bore him, and supplied etesian gales. archon on the shore commanding, lowly met him at his landing, crowds of people swarm'd around; welcome, rang like peals of thunder, welcome, rent the skies asunder, welcome, heaven and earth resound. iii. infernal offspring of the night, debarr'd of heaven your native right, and from the glorious fields of light, condemn'd in shades to drag the chain, and fill with groans the gloomy plain; since pleasures here are none below, be ill our good, our joy be woe; our work t' embroil the worlds above, disturb their union, disunite their love, and blast the beauteous frame of our victorious foe. iv. see the god of seas attends thee, nymphs divine, a beauteous train: all the calmer gales befriend thee in thy passage o'er the main: every maid her locks is binding, every triton's horn is winding, welcome to the watery plain. v. albion, loved of gods and men, prince of peace too mildly reigning, cease thy sorrow and complaining, thou shalt be restored again: albion, loved of gods and men. still thou art the care of heaven, in thy youth to exile driven: heaven thy ruin then prevented, till the guilty land repented: in thy age, when none could aid thee, foes conspired, and friends betray'd thee. to the brink of danger driven, still thou art the care of heaven. * * * * * xvii. songs in king arthur. where a battle is supposed to be given behind the scenes, with drums, trumpets, and military shouts and excursions; after which, the britons, expressing their joy for the victory, sing this song of triumph. i. come, if you dare, our trumpets sound; come, if you dare, the foes rebound: we come, we come, we come, we come, says the double, double, double beat of the thundering drum. now they charge on amain, now they rally again: the gods from above the mad labour behold, and pity mankind, that will perish for gold. the fainting saxons quit their ground, their trumpets languish in the sound: they fly, they fly, they fly, they fly; victoria, victoria, the bold britons cry. now the victory's won, to the plunder we run: we return to our lasses like fortunate traders, triumphant with spoils of the vanquish'd invaders. ii. man sings. o sight, the mother of desires, what charming objects dost thou yield! 'tis sweet, when tedious night expires, to see the rosy morning gild the mountain-tops, and paint the field! but when clarinda comes in sight, she makes the summer's day more bright; and when she goes away, 'tis night. chorus. when fair clarinda comes in sight, &c. woman sings. 'tis sweet the blushing morn to view; and plains adorn'd with pearly dew: but such cheap delights to see, heaven and nature give each creature; they have eyes, as well as we; this is the joy, all joys above, to see, to see, that only she, that only she we love! chorus. this is the joy, all joys above, &c. iii. two daughters of this aged stream are we; and both our sea-green locks have comb'd for thee; come bathe with us an hour or two, come naked in, for we are so: what danger from a naked foe? come bathe with us, come bathe, and share what pleasures in the floods appear; we'll beat the waters till they bound, and circle round, around, around, and circle round, around. iv. ye blustering brethren of the skies, whose breath has ruffled all the watery plain, retire, and let britannia rise, in triumph o'er the main. serene and calm, and void of fear, the queen of islands must appear: serene and calm, as when the spring the new-created world began, and birds on boughs did softly sing their peaceful homage paid to man; while eurus did his blasts forbear, in favour of the tender year. retreat, rude winds, retreat to hollow rocks, your stormy seat; there swell your lungs, and vainly, vainly threat. v. foe folded flocks, on fruitful plains, the shepherd's and the farmer's gains, fair britain all the world outvies; and pan, as in arcadia, reigns, where pleasure mix'd with profit lies. though jason's fleece was famed of old, the british wool is growing gold; no mines can more of wealth supply; it keeps the peasant from the cold, and takes for kings the tyrian dye. vi. fairest isle, all isles excelling, seat of pleasures and of loves; venus here will choose her dwelling, and forsake her cyprian groves. cupid from his favourite nation care and envy will remove; jealousy, that poisons passion, and despair, that dies for love, gentle murmurs, sweet complaining, sighs, that blow the fire of love; soft repulses, kind disdaining, shall be all the pains you prove. every swain shall pay his duty, grateful every nymph shall prove; and as these excel in beauty, those shall be renown'd for love. * * * * * xviii. song of jealousy, in love triumphant. what state of life can be so blest as love, that warms a lover's breast? two souls in one, the same desire to grant the bliss, and to require! but if in heaven a hell we find, 'tis all from thee, o jealousy! 'tis all from thee, o jealousy! thou tyrant, tyrant jealousy, thou tyrant of the mind! all other ills, though sharp they prove, serve to refine, and perfect love: in absence, or unkind disdain, sweet hope relieves the lover's pain. but, ah! no cure but death we find, to set us free from jealousy: o jealousy! thou tyrant, tyrant jealousy, thou tyrant of the mind! false in thy glass all objects are, some set too near, and some too far; thou art the fire of endless night, the fire that burns, and gives no light. all torments of the damn'd we find in only thee, o jealousy! thou tyrant, tyrant jealousy, thou tyrant of the mind! * * * * * xix. song. farewell, fair armida. farewell, fair armida, my joy and my grief, in vain i have loved you, and hope no relief; undone by your virtue, too strict and severe, your eyes gave me love, and you gave me despair; now call'd by my honour, i seek with content the fate which in pity you would not prevent: to languish in love, were to find by delay a death that's more welcome the speediest way. on seas and in battles, in bullets and fire, the danger is less than in hopeless desire; my death's-wound you give, though far off i bear my fall from your sight--not to cost you a tear: but if the kind flood on a wave should convey, and under your window my body should lay, the wound on my breast when you happen to see, you'll say with a sigh--it was given by me. * * * * * xx. alexander's feast; or, the power of music. an ode, in honour of st cecilia's day. 'twas at the royal feast, for persia won by philip's warlike son: aloft in awful state the godlike hero sate on his imperial throne: his valiant peers were placed around; their brows with roses and with myrtles bound (so should desert in arms be crown'd). the lovely thais, by his side, sate like a blooming eastern bride in flower of youth and beauty's pride. happy, happy, happy pair! none but the brave, none but the brave, none but the brave deserves the fair. chorus. happy, happy, happy pair! none but the brave, none but the brave, none but the brave deserves the fair. timotheus, placed on high amid the tuneful quire, with flying fingers touch'd the lyre: the trembling notes ascend the sky, and heavenly joys inspire. the song began from jove, who left his blissful seats above (such is the power of mighty love). a dragon's fiery form belied the god: sublime on radiant spires he rode, when he to fair olympia press'd: and while he sought her snowy breast: then, round her slender waist he curl'd, and stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. the listening crowd admire the lofty sound, a present deity, they shout around, a present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound: with ravish'd ears the monarch hears, assumes the god, affects to nod, and seems to shake the spheres. chorus. with ravish'd ears the monarch hears, assumes the god, affects to nod, and seems to shake the spheres. the praise of bacchus then, the sweet musician sung; of bacchus ever fair and ever young: the jolly god in triumph comes; sound the trumpets; beat the drums; flush'd with a purple grace he shows his honest face: now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes. bacchus, ever fair and young, drinking joys did first ordain; bacchus' blessings are a treasure, drinking is the soldier's pleasure: rich the treasure, sweet the pleasure; sweet is pleasure after pain. chorus. bacchus' blessings are a treasure, drinking is the soldier's pleasure: rich the treasure, sweet the pleasure; sweet is pleasure after pain. soothed with the sound the king grew vain; fought all his battles o'er again; and thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he slew the slain. the master saw the madness rise; his glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; and while he heaven and earth defied, changed his hand, and check'd his pride. he chose a mournful muse soft pity to infuse: he sung darius great and good, by too severe a fate, fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen from his high estate, and weltering in his blood; deserted, at his utmost need, by those his former bounty fed; on the bare earth exposed he lies, with not a friend to close his eyes. with downcast looks the joyless victor sate, revolving in his alter'd soul the various turns of chance below; and now and then a sigh he stole; and tears began to flow. chorus. revolving in his alter'd soul the various turns of chance below; and now and then a sigh he stole; and tears began to flow. the mighty master smiled, to see that love was in the next degree: 'twas but a kindred sound to move, for pity melts the mind to love. softly sweet, in lydian measures, soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. war, he sung, is toil and trouble; honour, but an empty bubble; never ending, still beginning, fighting still, and still destroying: if the world be worth thy winning, think, o think it worth enjoying: lovely thais sits beside thee, take the good the gods provide thee. the many rend the skies with loud applause; so love was crown'd, but music won the cause. the prince, unable to conceal his pain, gazed on the fair who caused his care, and sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again: at length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, the vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. chorus. the prince, unable to conceal his pain, gazed on the fair who caused his care, and sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again: at length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, the vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. now strike the golden lyre again: a louder yet, and yet a louder strain. break his bands of sleep asunder, and rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. hark, hark, the horrid sound has raised up his head: as awaked from the dead, and amazed, he stares around. revenge, revenge, timotheus cries, see the furies arise: see the snakes that they rear, how they hiss in their hair, and the sparkles that flash from their eyes! behold a ghastly band, each a torch in his hand! those are grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, and unburied remain inglorious on the plain: give the vengeance due to the valiant crew. behold how they toss their torches on high, how they point to the persian abodes, and glittering temples of their hostile gods. the princes applaud, with a furious joy; and the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; thais led the way, to light him to his prey, and, like another helen, fired another troy. chorus. and the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; thais led the way, to light him to his prey, and, like another helen, fired another troy. thus, long ago, ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, while organs yet were mute; timotheus, to his breathing flute, and sounding lyre, could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. at last divine cecilia came, inventress of the vocal frame; the sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, enlarged the former narrow bounds, and added length to solemn sounds, with nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. let old timotheus yield the prize, or both divide the crown; he raised a mortal to the skies; she drew an angel down. grand chorus. at last, divine cecilia came, inventress of the vocal frame; the sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, enlarged the former narrow bounds, and added length to solemn sounds, with nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. let old timotheus yield the prize, or both divide the crown; he raised a mortal to the skies; she drew an angel down. * * * * * xxi the secular masque.[ ] _enter_ janus. _janus_. chronos, chronos, mend thy pace; an hundred times the rolling sun around the radiant belt has run in his revolving race. behold, behold the goal in sight, spread thy fans, and wing thy flight. _enter_ chronos, _with a scythe in his hand, and a globe on his back; which he sets down at his entrance_. _chronos_. weary, weary of my weight, let me, let me drop my freight, and leave the world behind. i could not bear, another year, the load of human kind. _enter_ momus, _laughing_. _momus_. ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! well hast thou done to lay down thy pack, and lighten thy back. the world was a fool, ere since it begun, and since neither janus nor chronos, nor i, can hinder the crimes, or mend the bad times, 'tis better to laugh than to cry. _chorus of all three_. 'tis better to laugh than to cry. _janus_. since momus comes to laugh below, old time begin the show, that he may see, in every scene, what changes in this age have been. _chronos_. then goddess of the silver bow begin. [_horns, or hunting-music within._] _enter_ diana. _diana_. with horns and with hounds, i waken the day, and hie to the woodland walks away; i tuck up my robe, and am buskin'd soon, and tie to my forehead a waxing moon; i course the fleet stag, unkennel the fox, and chase the wild goats o'er summits of rocks; with shouting and hooting we pierce through the sky, and echo turns hunter, and doubles the cry. _chorus of all_. with shouting and hooting we pierce through the sky, and echo turns hunter, and doubles the cry. _janus_. then our age was in its prime: _chronos_. free from rage: _diana_.--and free from crime. _momus_. a very merry, dancing, drinking, laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time. _chorus of all_. then our age was in its prime, free from rage, and free from crime, a very merry, dancing, drinking, laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time. [_dance of diana's attendants_.] _enter_ mars. _mars_. inspire the vocal brass, inspire; the world is past its infant age: arms and honour, arms and honour, set the martial mind on fire, and kindle manly rage. mars has look'd the sky to red; and peace, the lazy god, is fled. plenty, peace, and pleasure fly; the sprightly green, in woodland walks, no more is seen; the sprightly green has drunk the tyrian dye. _chorus of all._ plenty, peace, &c. _mars._ sound the trumpet, beat the drum; through all the world around, sound a reveillie, sound, sound, the warrior god is come. _chorus of all._ sound the trumpet, &c. _momus._ thy sword within the scabbard keep, and let mankind agree; better the world were fast asleep, than kept awake by thee. the fools are only thinner, with all our cost and care: but neither side a winner, for things are as they were. _chorus of all_. the fools are only, &c. _enter_ venus. _venus_. calms appear when storms are past; love will have his hour at last: nature is my kindly care; mars destroys, and i repair; take me, take me, while you may, venus comes not every day. _chorus of all_. take her, take her, &c. _chronos_. the world was then so light, i scarcely felt the weight; joy ruled the day, and love the night. but, since the queen of pleasure left the ground, i faint, i lag, and feebly drag the ponderous orb around. _momus_. all, all of a piece throughout; [_pointing to diana_.] thy chase had a beast in view; [_to mars_.] thy wars brought nothing about; [_to venus_.] thy lovers were all untrue. _janus_. 'tis well an old age is out. _chronos_. and time to begin a new. _cho. of all_. all, all of a piece throughout; thy chase had a beast in view: thy wars brought nothing about; thy lovers were all untrue. 'tis well an old age is out, and time to begin a new. _dance of huntsmen, nymphs, warriors, and lovers_. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : this masque, with the song of a scholar and his mistress, was performed in , for the author's benefit, with the play of the pilgrim, altered by sir john vanbrugh, his fortune and health being at that time in a declining state.] * * * * * xxii. song of a scholar and his mistress, who, being crossed by their friends, fell mad for one another; and now first meet in bedlam. [music within.] _the lovers enter at opposite doors, each held by a keeper._ _phillis_. look, look i see--i see my love appear! 'tis he--'tis he alone; for, like him, there is none: 'tis the dear, dear man, 'tis thee, dear. _amyntas_. hark! the winds war; the foamy waves roar; i see a ship afar: tossing and tossing, and making to the shore: but what's that i view, so radiant of hue, st hermo, st hermo, that sits upon the sails? ah! no, no, no. st hermo never, never shone so bright; 'tis phillis, only phillis, can shoot so fair a light; 'tis phillis, 'tis phillis, that saves the ship alone, for all the winds are hush'd, and the storm is overblown. _phillis_. let me go, let me run, let me fly to his arms. _amyntas_. if all the fates combine, and all the furies join, i'll force my way to phillis, and break through the charm. [_here they break from their keepers, run to each other, and embrace_.] _phillis_. shall i marry the man i love? and shall i conclude my pains? now bless'd be the powers above, i feel the blood bound in my veins; with a lively leap it began to move, and the vapours leave my brains. _amyntas_. body join'd to body, and heart join'd to heart, to make sure of the cure, go call the man in black, to mumble o'er his part. _phillis_. but suppose he should stay-- _amyntas_. at worst if he delay, 'tis a work must be done, we'll borrow but a day, and the better, the sooner begun. _cho. of both_. at worst if he delay, &c. [_they run out together hand in hand._] * * * * * prologues and epilogues. i. prologue to the rival ladies. 'tis much desired, you judges of the town would pass a vote to put all prologues down: for who can show me, since they first were writ, they e'er converted one hard-hearted wit? yet the world's mended well; in former days good prologues were as scarce as now good plays. for the reforming poets of our age, in this first charge, spend their poetic rage: expect no more when once the prologue's done: the wit is ended ere the play's begun. you now have habits, dances, scenes, and rhymes; high language often; ay, and sense, sometimes. as for a clear contrivance, doubt it now; they blow out candles to give light to the plot. and for surprise, two bloody-minded men fight till they die, then rise and dance again, such deep intrigues you're welcome to this day: but blame yourselves, not him who writ the play; though his plot's dull, as can be well desired, wit stiff as any you have e'er admired: he's bound to please, not to write well; and knows there is a mode in plays as well as clothes; therefore, kind judges.... a second prologue enters. . hold; would you admit for judges all you see within the pit? . whom would he then except, or on what score? . all who (like him) have writ ill plays before; for they, like thieves condemn'd, are hangmen made, to execute the members of their trade. all that are writing now he would disown, but then he must except--even all the town; all choleric, losing gamesters, who, in spite, will damn to-day, because they lost last night; all servants, whom their mistress' scorn upbraids; all maudlin lovers, and all slighted maids; all who are out of humour, all severe; all that want wit, or hope to find it here. * * * * * ii. prologue to the indian queen. as the music plays a soft air, the curtain rises slowly and discovers an indian boy and girl sleeping under two plantain-trees; and, when the curtain is almost up, the music turns into a tune expressing an alarm, at which the boy awakes, and speaks: boy. wake, wake, quevira! our soft rest must cease, and fly together with our country's peace! no more must we sleep under plantain shade, which neither heat could pierce, nor cold invade; where bounteous nature never feels decay, and opening buds drive falling fruits away. que. why should men quarrel here, where all possess as much as they can hope for by success?-- none can have most, where nature is so kind, as to exceed man's use, though not his mind. boy. by ancient prophecies we have been told, our world shall be subdued by one more old;-- and, see, that world already's hither come. que. if these be they, we welcome then our doom! their loots are such, that mercy flows from thence, more gentle than our native innocence. boy. why should we then fear these, our enemies, that rather seem to us like deities? que. by their protection, let us beg to live; they came not here to conquer, but forgive. if so, your goodness may your power express, and we shall judge both best by our success. * * * * * iii. epilogue to the indian queen. spoken by montezuma. you see what shifts we are enforced to try, to help out wit with some variety; shows may be found that never yet were seen, 'tis hard to find such wit as ne'er has been: you have seen all that this old world can do, we therefore try the fortune of the new, and hope it is below your aim to hit at untaught nature with your practised wit: our naked indians, then, when wits appear, would as soon choose to have the spaniards here. 'tis true, you have marks enough, the plot, the show, the poet's scenes, nay, more, the painter's too; if all this fail, considering the cost, 'tis a true voyage to the indies lost: but if you smile on all, then these designs, like the imperfect treasure of our minds, will pass for current wheresoe'er they go, when to your bounteous hands their stamps they owe. * * * * * iv. epilogue to the indian emperor, by a mercury. to all and singular in this full meeting, ladies and gallants, phoebus sends ye greeting. to all his sons, by whate'er title known, whether of court, or coffee-house, or town; from his most mighty sons, whose confidence is placed in lofty sound, and humble sense, even to his little infants of the time, who write new songs, and trust in tune and rhyme be 't known, that phoebus (being daily grieved to see good plays condemn'd, and bad received) ordains your judgment upon every cause, henceforth, be limited by wholesome laws. he first thinks fit no sonnetteer advance his censure farther than the song or dance, your wit burlesque may one step higher climb, and in his sphere may judge all doggrel rhyme; all proves, and moves, and loves, and honours too; all that appears high sense, and scarce is low. as for the coffee wits, he says not much; their proper business is to damn the dutch: for the great dons of wit-- phoebus gives them full privilege alone, to damn all others, and cry up their own. last, for the ladies, 'tis apollo's will, they should have power to save, but not to kill: for love and he long since have thought it fit, wit live by beauty, beauty reign by wit. * * * * * v. prologue to sir martin marr-all. fools, which each man meets in his dish each day, are yet the great regalios of a play; in which to poets you but just appear, to prize that highest, which cost them so dear: fops in the town more easily will pass; one story makes a statutable ass: but such in plays must be much thicker sown, like yolks of eggs, a dozen beat to one. observing poets all their walks invade, as men watch woodcocks gliding through a glade: and when they have enough for comedy, they stow their several bodies in a pie: the poet's but the cook to fashion it, for, gallants, you yourselves have found the wit. to bid you welcome, would your bounty wrong; none welcome those who bring their cheer along. * * * * * vi. prologue to the tempest. as when a tree's cut down, the secret root lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot; so from old shakspeare's honour'd dust, this day springs up and buds a new reviving play: shakspeare, who (taught by none) did first impart to fletcher wit, to labouring jonson art. he, monarch like, gave those, his subjects, law; and is that nature which they paint and draw. fletcher reach'd that which on his heights did grow, while jonson crept, and gather'd all below. this did his love, and this his mirth digest: one imitates him most, the other best. if they have since outwrit all other men, 'tis with the drops which fell from shakspeare's pen. the storm, which vanish'd on the neighbouring shore, was taught by shakspeare's tempest first to roar. that innocence and beauty, which did smile in fletcher, grew on this enchanted isle. but shakspeare's magic could not copied be; within that circle none durst walk but he. i must confess 'twas bold, nor would you now that liberty to vulgar wits allow, which works by magic supernatural things: but shakspeare's power is sacred as a king's. those legends from old priesthood were received, and he then writ, as people then believed. but if for shakspeare we your grace implore, we for our theatre shall want it more: who, by our dearth of youths, are forced to employ one of our women to present a boy; and that's a transformation, you will say, exceeding all the magic in the play. let none expect in the last act to find, her sex transform'd from man to womankind. whate'er she was before the play began, all you shall see of her is perfect man. or, if your fancy will be further led to find her woman--it must be a-bed. * * * * * vii. prologue to tyrannic love. self-love, which, never rightly understood, makes poets still conclude their plays are good, and malice in all critics reigns so high, that for small errors, they whole plays decry; so that to see this fondness, and that spite, you'd think that none but madmen judge or write, therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit to impose upon you what he writes for wit; so hopes, that, leaving you your censures free, you equal judges of the whole will be: they judge but half, who only faults will see. poets, like lovers, should be bold and dare, they spoil their business with an over care; and he, who servilely creeps after sense, is safe, but ne'er will reach an excellence. hence 'tis, our poet, in his conjuring, allow'd his fancy the full scope and swing. but when a tyrant for his theme he had, he loosed the reins, and bid his muse run mad: and though he stumbles in a full career, yet rashness is a better fault than fear. he saw his way; but in so swift a pace, to choose the ground might be to lose the race. they, then, who of each trip the advantage take, find but those faults, which they want wit to make. * * * * * viii. epilogue to the wild gallant, when revived. of all dramatic writing, comic wit, as 'tis the best, so 'tis most hard to hit, for it lies all in level to the eye, where all may judge, and each defect may spy. humour is that which every day we meet, and therefore known as every public street; in which, if e'er the poet go astray, you all can point, 'twas there he lost his way. but, what's so common, to make pleasant too, is more than any wit can always do. for 'tis like turks, with hen and rice to treat; to make regalios out of common meat. but, in your diet, you grow savages: nothing but human flesh your taste can please; and, as their feasts with slaughter'd slaves began, so you, at each new play, must have a man. hither you come, as to see prizes fought; if no blood's drawn, you cry, the prize is nought. but fools grow wary now: and, when they see a poet eyeing round the company, straight each man for himself begins to doubt; they shrink like seamen when a press comes out. few of them will be found for public use, except you charge an oaf upon each house, like the train bands, and every man engage for a sufficient fool, to serve the stage, and when, with much ado, you get him there, where he in all his glory should appear. your poets make him such rare things to say, that he's more wit than any man i' th' play: but of so ill a mingle with the rest, as when a parrot's taught to break a jest. thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show, as tawdry squires in country churches do. things well consider'd, 'tis so hard to make a comedy, which should the knowing take, that our dull poet, in despair to please, does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease. 'tis a land-tax, which he's too poor to pay; you therefore must some other impost lay. would you but change, for serious plot and verse, this motley garniture of fool and farce, nor scorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home, which does, like vests, our gravity become, our poet yields you should this play refuse: as tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lose, with some content, their fripperies of france, in hope it may their staple trade advance. * * * * * ix. prologue. spoken the first day of the king's house acting after the fire of london. so shipwreck'd passengers escape to land, so look they, when on the bare beach they stand, dropping and cold, and their first fear scarce o'er, expecting famine on a desert shore. from that hard climate we must wait for bread, whence even the natives, forced by hunger, fled. our stage does human chance present to view, but ne'er before was seen so sadly true: you are changed too, and your pretence to see is but a nobler name for charity. your own provisions furnish out our feasts, while you the founders make yourselves the guests. of all mankind beside fate had some care, but for poor wit no portion did prepare, 'tis left a rent-charge to the brave and fair. you cherish'd it, and now its fall you mourn, which blind unmanner'd zealots make their scorn, who think that fire a judgment on the stage, which spared not temples in its furious rage. but as our new-built city rises higher, so from old theatres may new aspire, since fate contrives magnificence by fire. our great metropolis does far surpass whate'er is now, and equals all that was: our wit as far does foreign wit excel, and, like a king, should in a palace dwell. but we with golden hopes are vainly fed, talk high, and entertain you in a shed: your presence here, for which we humbly sue, will grace old theatres, and build up new. * * * * * x. epilogue to the second part of the conquest of granada. they who have best succeeded on the stage, have still conform'd their genius to their age. thus jonson did mechanic humour show, when men were dull, and conversation low. then comedy was faultless, but 'twas coarse: cobb's tankard was a jest, and otter's horse. and, as their comedy, their love was mean; except, by chance, in some one labour'd scene, which must atone for an ill-written play. they rose, but at their height could seldom stay. fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped; and they have kept it since, by being dead. but, were they now to write, when critics weigh each line, and every word, throughout a play, none of them, no not jonson in his height, could pass, without allowing grains for weight. think it not envy, that these truths are told: our poet's not malicious, though he's bold. 'tis not to brand them, that their faults are shown, but, by their errors, to excuse his own. if love and honour now are higher raised, 'tis not the poet, but the age is praised. wit's now arrived to a more high degree: our native language more refined and free. our ladies and our men now speak more wit in conversation, than those poets writ. then, one of these is, consequently, true: that what this poet writes comes short of you, and imitates you ill (which most he fears), or else his writing is not worse than theirs. yet though you judge (as sure the critics will), that some before him writ with greater skill, in this one praise he has their fame surpass'd, to please an age more gallant than the last. * * * * * xi. prologue to amboyna.[ ] as needy gallants in the scrivener's hands, court the rich knave that gripes their mortgaged lands, the first fat buck of all the season's sent, and keeper takes no fee in compliment: the dotage of some englishmen is such, to fawn on those who ruin them--the dutch. they shall have all, rather than make a war with those who of the same religion are. the straits, the guinea trade, the herrings too, nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you. some are resolved not to find out the cheat, but, cuckold-like, love him who does the feat: what injuries soe'er upon us fall, yet, still the same religion answers all: religion wheedled you to civil war, drew english blood, and dutchmen's now would spare: be gull'd no longer, for you'll find it true, they have no more religion, faith--than you; interest's the god they worship in their state; and you, i take it, have not much of that. well, monarchies may own religion's name, but states are atheists in their very frame. they share a sin, and such proportions fall, that, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all. how they love england, you shall see this day; no map shows holland truer than our play: their pictures and inscriptions well we know; we may be bold one medal sure to show. view then their falsehoods, rapine, cruelty; and think what once they were, they still would he: but hope not either language, plot, or art; 'twas writ in haste, but with an english heart: and least hope wit; in dutchmen that would be as much improper, as would honesty. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'amboyna:' a play written against the dutch.] * * * * * xii. epilogue to amboyna. a poet once the spartans led to fight, and made them conquer in the muse's right; so would our poet lead you on this day, showing your tortured fathers in his play. to one well born the affront is worse, and more, when he's abused and baffled by a boor: with an ill grace the dutch their mischiefs do, they've both ill nature and ill manners too. well may they boast themselves an ancient nation, for they were bred ere manners were in fashion, and their new commonwealth has set them free, only from honour and civility. venetians do not more uncouthly ride, than did their lubber state mankind bestride; their sway became them with as ill a mien, as their own paunches swell above their chin: yet is their empire no true growth, but humour, and only two kings' touch can cure the tumour. as cato did his afric fruits display, so we before your eyes their indies lay: all loyal english will, like him, conclude, let cæsar live, and carthage be subdued! * * * * * xiii. prologue. spoken at the opening of the new house, march , . a plain-built[ ] house, after so long a stay, will send you half unsatisfied away; when, fallen from your expected pomp, you find a bare convenience only is design'd. you, who each day can theatres behold, like nero's palace, shining all with gold, our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear, and, for the homely room, disdain the cheer. yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown, and a plain suit, since we can make but one, is better than to be by tarnish'd gawdry known. they, who are by your favours wealthy made, with mighty sums may carry on the trade: we, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire, with our small stock to humble roofs retire: pity our loss, while you their pomp admire. for fame and honour we no longer strive, we yield in both, and only beg to live: unable to support their vast expense, who build and treat with such magnificence; that, like the ambitious monarchs of the age, they give the law to our provincial stage. great neighbours enviously promote excess, while they impose their splendour on the less. but only fools, and they of vast estate, the extremity of modes will imitate, the dangling knee-fringe, and the bib-cravat. yet if some pride with want may be allow'd, we in our plainness may be justly proud: our royal master will'd it should be so; whate'er he's pleased to own, can need no show: that sacred name gives ornament and grace, and, like his stamp, makes basest metals pass. 'twere folly now a stately[ ] pile to raise, to build a playhouse, while you throw down plays; while scenes, machines, and empty operas reign, and for the pencil you the pen disdain: while troops of famish'd frenchmen hither drive, and laugh at those upon whose alms they live: old english authors vanish, and give place to these new conquerors of the norman race. more tamely than your fathers you submit; you're now grown vassals to them in your wit. mark, when they play, how our fine fops advance the mighty merits of their men of france, keep time, cry _bon_, and humour the cadence. well, please yourselves; but sure 'tis understood, that french machines have ne'er done england good. i would not prophesy our house's fate: but while vain shows and scenes you over-rate, tis to be fear'd-- that as a fire the former house o'erthrew, machines and tempests will destroy the new. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : this prologue was written for the king's company, who had just opened their house in drury-lane.] [footnote : the reflection on the taste of the town in these four lines is levelled at the duke's company, who had exhibited the siege of rhodes, and other expensive operas, and were now getting up the operas of psyche, circe, &c.] * * * * * xiv. prologue to the university of oxford, . spoken by mr hart. poets, your subjects have their parts assign'd to unbend, and to divert their sovereign's mind: when tired with following nature, you think fit to seek repose in the cool shades of wit, and, from the sweet retreat, with joy survey what rests, and what is conquer'd, of the way. here, free yourselves from envy, care, and strife you view the various turns of human life: safe in our scene, through dangerous courts you go, and, undebauch'd, the vice of cities know. your theories are here to practice brought, as in mechanic operations wrought; and man, the little world, before you set, as once the sphere[ ] of crystal show'd the great. blest, sure, are you above all mortal kind, if to your fortunes you can suit your mind: content to see, and shun, those ills we show, and crimes on theatres alone to know. with joy we bring what our dead authors writ, and beg from you the value of their wit: that shakspeare's, fletcher's, and great jonson's claim, may be renew'd from those who gave them fame. none of our living poets dare appear; for muses so severe are worshipp'd here, that, conscious of their faults, they shun the eye, and, as profane, from sacred places fly, rather than see the offended god, and die. we bring no imperfections but our own; such faults as made are by the makers shown: and you have been so kind, that we may boast, the greatest judges still can pardon most. poets must stoop, when they would please our pit, debased even to the level of their wit; disdaining that, which yet they know will take, hating themselves what their applause must make. but when to praise from you they would aspire, though they like eagles mount, your jove is higher. so far your knowledge all their power transcends, as what _should be_ beyond what _is_ extends. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'sphere,' &c.: referring to the macrocosm--the universe; and the microcosm--man] * * * * * xv. prologue to "circe," a tragic opera; by dr davenant,[ ] . were you but half so wise as you're severe, our youthful poet should not need to fear: to his green years your censures you would suit, not blast the blossom, but expect the fruit. the sex, the best does pleasure understand, will always choose to err on the other hand. they check not him that's awkward in delight, but clap the young rogue's cheek, and set him right. thus hearten'd well, and flesh'd upon his prey, the youth may prove a man another day. your ben and fletcher, in their first young flight, did no volpone, nor arbaces write; but hopp'd about, and short excursions made from bough to bough, as if they were afraid, and each was guilty of some slighted maid. shakspeare's own muse her pericles first bore; the prince of tyre was elder than the moor: 'tis miracle to see a first good play; all hawthorns do not bloom on christmas-day. a slender poet must have time to grow, and spread and burnish, as his brothers do. who still looks lean, sure with some pox is cursed: but no man can be falstaff-fat at first. then damn not, but indulge his rude essays; encourage him, and bloat him up with praise, that he may get more bulk before he dies: he's not yet fed enough for sacrifice. perhaps, if now your grace you will not grudge, he may grow up to write, and you to judge. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : son of sir william davenant, and author of several political pieces, much esteemed.] * * * * * xvi. epilogue, intended to have been spoken by the lady hen. mar. wentworth, when "calisto"[ ] was acted at court. as jupiter i made my court in vain; i'll now assume my native shape again. i'm weary to be so unkindly used, and would not be a god to be refused. state grows uneasy when it hinders love; a glorious burden, which the wise remove. now, as a nymph i need not sue, nor try the force of any lightning but the eye. beauty and youth more than a god command; no jove could e'er the force of these withstand. 'tis here that sovereign power admits dispute; beauty sometimes is justly absolute. our sullen catos, whatsoe'er they say, even while they frown, and dictate laws, obey. you, mighty sir,[ ] our bonds more easy make, and gracefully, what all must suffer, take: above those forms the grave affect to wear; for 'tis not to be wise to be severe. true wisdom may some gallantry admit, and soften business with the charms of wit. these peaceful triumphs with your cares you bought, and from the midst of fighting nations brought. you only hear it thunder from afar, and sit in peace the arbiter of war: peace, the loathed manna, which hot brains despise. you knew its worth, and made it early prize: and in its happy leisure sit and see the promises of more felicity: two glorious nymphs,[ ] of your own godlike line, whose morning rays like noontide strike and shine: whom you to suppliant monarchs shall dispose, to bind your friends, and to disarm your foes. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'calisto:' a masque, written by crowne, dryden's rival and rochester's protégé; this epilogue was through rochester's influence rejected.] [footnote : this part of the epilogue is addressed to the king.] * * * * * xvii. prologue to "aurengzebe." our author, by experience, finds it true, 'tis much more hard to please himself than you; and out of no feign'd modesty, this day damns his laborious trifle of a play; not that it's worse than what before he writ, but he has now another taste of wit; and, to confess a truth, though out of time, grows weary of his long-loved mistress, rhyme. passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound, and nature flies him like enchanted ground: what verse can do, he has perform'd in this, which he presumes the most correct of his; but spite of all his pride, a secret shame invades his breast at shakspeare's sacred name: awed when he hears his godlike romans rage, he, in a just despair, would quit the stage; and to an age less polish'd, more unskill'd, does, with disdain, the foremost honours yield. as with the greater dead he dares not strive, he would not match his verse with those who live: let him retire, betwixt two ages cast, the first of this, and hindmost of the last. a losing gamester, let him sneak away; he bears no ready money from the play. the fate which governs poets, thought it fit he should not raise his fortunes by his wit. the clergy thrive, and the litigious bar; dull heroes fatten with the spoils of war: all southern vices, heaven be praised, are here; but wit's a luxury you think too dear. when you to cultivate the plant are loth, 'tis a shrewd sign, 'twas never of your growth; and wit in northern climates will not blow, except, like orange trees, 'tis housed with snow. there needs no care to put a playhouse down, 'tis the most desert place of all the town: we, and our neighbours, to speak proudly, are, like monarchs, ruin'd with expensive war; while, likewise english, unconcern'd you sit, and see us play the tragedy of wit. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : the duke of york's two daughters, mary and ann.] * * * * * xviii. epilogue to "the man of mode; or, sir fopling flutter;" by sir george etherege, . most modern wits such monstrous fools have shown, they seem not of heaven's making, but their own. those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass; but there goes more to a substantial ass: something of man must be exposed to view, that, gallants, they may more resemble you. sir fopling is a fool so nicely writ, the ladies would mistake him for a wit; and, when he sings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry, i vow, methinks, he's pretty company: so brisk, so gay, so travell'd, so refined, as he took pains to graff upon his kind. true fops help nature's work, and go to school to file and finish god almighty's fool. yet none sir fopling him, or him can call; he's knight o' the shire, and represents ye all. from each he meets he culls whate'er he can; legion's his name, a people in a man. his bulky folly gathers as it goes, and, rolling o'er you, like a snow-ball grows. his various modes from various fathers follow; one taught the toss, and one the new french wallow: his sword-knot this, his cravat that design'd; and this the yard-long snake he twirls behind. from one the sacred periwig he gain'd, which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profaned. another's diving bow he did adore, which with a shog casts all the hair before, till he, with full decorum, brings it back, and rises with a water-spaniel shake. as for his songs, the ladies' dear delight, these sure he took from most of you who write. yet every man is safe from what he fear'd; for no one fool is hunted from the herd. * * * * * xix. epilogue to "all for love." poets, like disputants, when reasons fail, have one sure refuge left--and that's to rail. fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the pit; and this is all their equipage of wit. we wonder how the devil this difference grows, betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose: for, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood, 'tis civil war with their own flesh and blood. the threadbare author hates the gaudy coat; and swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot: for 'tis observed of every scribbling man, he grows a fop as fast as e'er he can; prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass, if pink and purple best become his face. for our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays; nor likes your wit, just as you like his plays; he has not yet so much of mr bayes. he does his best; and if he cannot please, would quietly sue out his writ of ease. yet, if he might his own grand jury call, by the fair sex he begs to stand or fall. let cæsar's power the men's ambition move, but grace you him who lost the world for love! yet if some antiquated lady say, the last age is not copied in his play; heaven help the man who for that face must drudge, which only has the wrinkles of a judge. let not the young and beauteous join with those; for should you raise such numerous hosts of foes, young wits and sparks he to his aid must call; 'tis more than one man's work to please you all. * * * * * xx. prologue to "limberham." true wit has seen its best days long ago; it ne'er look'd up, since we were dipp'd in show: when sense in doggerel rhymes and clouds was lost, and dulness flourish'd at the actors' cost. nor stopp'd it here; when tragedy was done, satire and humour the same fate have run, and comedy is sunk to trick and pun. now our machining lumber will not sell, and you no longer care for heaven or hell; what stuff can please you next, the lord can tell. let them, who the rebellion first began to wit restore the monarch, if they can; our author dares not be the first bold man. he, like the prudent citizen, takes care to keep for better marts his staple ware; his toys are good enough for sturbridge fair. tricks were the fashion; if it now be spent, 'tis time enough at easter to invent; no man will make up a new suit for lent. if now and then he takes a small pretence, to forage for a little wit and sense, pray pardon him, he meant you no offence. next summer, nostradamus tells, they say, that all the critics shall be shipp'd away, and not enow be left to damn a play. to every sail beside, good heaven, be kind: but drive away that swarm with such a wind, that not one locust may be left behind! * * * * * xxi. epilogue to "mithridates, king of pontus;" by nathan lee, . you've seen a pair of faithful lovers die: and much you care; for most of you will cry, 'twas a just judgment on their constancy. for, heaven be thank'd, we live in such an age, when no man dies for love, but on the stage: and even those martyrs are but rare in plays; a cursed sign how much true faith decays. love is no more a violent desire; 'tis a mere metaphor, a painted fire. in all our sex, the name examined well, tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell. in woman, 'tis of subtle interest made: curse on the punk that made it first a trade! she first did wit's prerogative remove, and made a fool presume to prate of love. let honour and preferment go for gold; but glorious beauty is not to be sold: or, if it be, 'tis at a rate so high, that nothing but adoring it should buy. yet the rich cullies may their boasting spare; they purchase but sophisticated ware. 'tis prodigality that buys deceit, where both the giver and the taker cheat. men but refine on the old half-crown way; and women fight, like swissers, for their pay. * * * * * xxii. prologue to "oedipus." when athens all the grecian state did guide, and greece gave laws to all the world beside; then sophocles with socrates did sit, supreme in wisdom one, and one in wit: and wit from wisdom differ'd not in those, but as 'twas sung in verse, or said in prose. then, oedipus, on crowded theatres, drew all admiring eyes and listening ears: the pleased spectator shouted every line, the noblest, manliest, and the best design! and every critic of each learned age, by this just model has reform'd the stage. now, should it fail (as heaven avert our fear), damn it in silence, lest the world should hear. for were it known this poem did not please, you might set up for perfect savages: your neighbours would not look on you as men, but think the nation all turn'd picts again. faith, as you manage matters, 'tis not fit you should suspect yourselves of too much wit: drive not the jest too far, but spare this piece; and, for this once, be not more wise than greece. see twice: do not pellmell to damning fall, like true-born britons, who ne'er think at all: pray be advised; and though at mons you won, on pointed cannon do not always run. with some respect to ancient wit proceed; you take the four first councils for your creed. but, when you lay tradition wholly by, and on the private spirit alone rely, you turn fanatics in your poetry. if, notwithstanding all that we can say, you needs will have your penn'orths of the play, and come resolved to damn, because you pay, record it, in memorial of the fact, the first play buried since the woollen act. * * * * * xxiii. epilogue to "oedipus." what sophocles could undertake alone, our poets found a work for more than one; and therefore two lay tugging at the piece, with all their force, to draw the ponderous mass from greece; a weight that bent e'en seneca's strong muse, and which corneille's shoulders did refuse: so hard it is the athenian harp to string! so much two consuls yield to one just king! terror and pity this whole poem sway; the mightiest machines that can mount a play. how heavy will those vulgar souls be found, whom two such engines cannot move from ground! when greece and rome have smiled upon this birth, you can but damn for one poor spot of earth: and when your children find your judgment such, they'll scorn their sires, and wish themselves born dutch; each haughty poet will infer, with ease, how much his wit must underwrite to please. as some strong churl would, brandishing, advance the monumental sword that conquer'd france; so you, by judging this, your judgment teach, thus far you like, that is, thus far you reach. since, then, the vote of full two thousand years has crown'd this plot, and all the dead are theirs, think it a debt you pay, not alms you give, and, in your own defence, let this play live. think them not vain, when sophocles is shown, to praise his worth they humbly doubt their own. yet as weak states each other's power assure, weak poets by conjunction are secure. their treat is what your palates relish most, charm! song! and show! a murder and a ghost! we know not what you can desire or hope to please you more, but burning of a pope. * * * * * xxiv. prologue to "troilus and cressida." spoken by mr betterton, representing the ghost of shakspeare. see, my loved britons, see your shakspeare rise, an awful ghost, confess'd, to human eyes! unnamed, methinks, distinguish'd i had been from other shades, by this eternal green, about whose wreaths the vulgar poets strive, and with a touch their wither'd bays revive. untaught, unpractised in a barbarous age, i found not, but created first the stage. and, if i drain'd no greek or latin store, 'twas that my own abundance gave me more. on foreign trade i needed not rely, like fruitful britain, rich without supply. in this my rough-drawn play you shall behold some master strokes, so manly and so bold, that he who meant to alter, found 'em such, he shook, and thought it sacrilege to touch. now, where are the successors to my name? what bring they to fill out a poet's fame? weak, short-lived issues of a feeble age; scarce living to be christen'd on the stage! for humour, farce--for love they rhyme dispense, that tolls the knell for their departed sense. dulness might thrive in any trade, but this 'twould recommend to some fat benefice: dulness, that in a playhouse meets disgrace, might meet with reverence in its proper place. the fulsome clench, that nauseates the town, would from a judge or alderman go down; such virtue is there in a robe and gown! and that insipid stuff, which here you hate, might somewhere else be call'd a grave debate: dulness is decent in the church and state. but i forget that still 'tis understood, bad plays are best decried by showing good. sit silent, then, that my pleased soul may see a judging audience once, and worthy me; my faithful scene from true records shall tell, how trojan valour did the greek excel; your great forefathers shall their fame regain, and homer's angry ghost repine in vain. * * * * * xxv. prologue to "cÆsar borgia;"[ ] by nathan lee, . the unhappy man, who once has trail'd a pen, lives not to please himself, but other men; is always drudging, wastes his life and blood, yet only eats and drinks what you think good. what praise soe'er the poetry deserve, yet every fool can bid the poet starve. that fumbling lecher to revenge is bent, because he thinks himself or whore is meant: name but a cuckold, all the city swarms; from leadenhall to ludgate is in arms: were there no fear of antichrist, or france, in the bless'd time poor poets live by chance. either you come not here, or, as you grace some old acquaintance, drop into the place, careless and qualmish, with a yawning face: you sleep o'er wit, and, by my troth, you may; most of your talents lie another way. you love to hear of some prodigious tale, the bell that toll'd alone, or irish whale. news is your food, and you enough provide, both for yourselves, and all the world beside; one theatre there is of vast resort, which whilome of requests was called the court; but now the great exchange of news 'tis hight, and full of hum and buzz from noon till night. up stairs and down you run, as for a race, and each man wears three nations in his face. so big you look, though claret you retrench, that, arm'd with bottled ale, you huff the french. but all your entertainment still is fed by villains in your own dull island bred. would you return to us, we dare engage to show you better rogues upon the stage. you know no poison but plain ratsbane here; death's more refined, and better bred elsewhere. they have a civil way in italy, by smelling a perfume to make you die: a trick would make you lay your snuff-box by. murder's a trade, so known and practised there, that 'tis infallible as is the chair. but mark their feast, you shall behold such pranks; the pope says grace, but 'tis the devil gives thanks. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'cæsar borgia:' a play produced about the time of the popish plot.] * * * * * xxvi. prologue to "sophonisba," acted at oxford, . written by nathan lee. thespis,[ ] the first professor of our art, at country wakes sung ballads from a cart. to prove this true, if latin be no trespass, "dicitur et plaustris vexisse poemata thespis." but Æschylus, says horace in some page, was the first mountebank that trod the stage: yet athens never knew your learned sport of tossing poets in a tennis-court. but 'tis the talent of our english nation, still to be plotting some new reformation: and few years hence, if anarchy goes on, jack presbyter shall here erect his throne, knock out a tub with preaching once a day, and every prayer be longer than a play. then all your heathen wits shall go to pot, for disbelieving of a popish plot: your poets shall be used like infidels, and worst, the author of the oxford bells: nor should we 'scape the sentence, to depart, even in our first original, a cart. no zealous brother there would want a stone to maul us cardinals, and pelt pope joan: religion, learning, wit, would be suppress'd-- rags of the whore, and trappings of the beast: scot, suarez, tom of aquin, must go down, as chief supporters of the triple crown; and aristotle's for destruction ripe; some say he call'd the soul an organ-pipe, which by some little help of derivation, shall then be proved a pipe of inspiration. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'thespis:' the inventor of tragedy.] * * * * * xxvii. prologue to "the loyal general;" by mr tate, . if yet there be a few that take delight in that which reasonable men should write; to them alone we dedicate this night. the rest may satisfy their curious itch with city-gazettes, or some factious speech, or whate'er libel, for the public good, stirs up the shrove-tide crew to fire and blood. remove your benches, you apostate pit, and take, above, twelve pennyworth of wit; go back to your dear dancing on the rope, or see, what's worse, the devil and the pope. the plays that take on our corrupted stage, methinks, resemble the distracted age; noise, madness, all unreasonable things, that strike at sense, as rebels do at kings. the style of forty-one our poets write, and you are grown to judge like forty-eight,[ ] such censures our mistaking audience make, that 'tis almost grown scandalous to take. they talk of fevers that infect the brains; but nonsense is the new disease that reigns. weak stomachs, with a long disease oppress'd, cannot the cordials of strong wit digest. therefore thin nourishment of farce ye choose, decoctions of a barley-water muse: a meal of tragedy would make ye sick, unless it were a very tender chick. some scenes in sippets would be worth our time; those would go down; some love that's poach'd in rhyme: if these should fail-- we must lie down, and, after all our cost, keep holiday, like watermen in frost; while you turn players on the world's great stage, and act yourselves the farce of your own age. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'forty-one, forty-eight:' referring to the puritan era, which some were then seeking to revive.] * * * * * xxviii. prologue[ ] to the university of oxford, . the famed italian muse, whose rhymes advance orlando and the paladins of france, records, that, when our wit and sense is flown, 'tis lodged within the circle of the moon, in earthen jars, which one, who thither soar'd, set to his nose, snuff'd up, and was restored. whate'er the story be, the moral's true; the wit we lost in town, we find in you. our poets their fled parts may draw from hence, and fill their windy heads with sober sense. when london votes with southwark's disagree, here may they find their long-lost loyalty. here busy senates, to the old cause inclined, may snuff the votes their fellows left behind: your country neighbours, when their grain grows dear, may come, and find their last provision here: whereas we cannot much lament our loss, who neither carried back, nor brought one cross. we look'd what representatives would bring; but they help'd us, just as they did the king. yet we despair not; for we now lay forth the sibyl's books to those who know their worth; and though the first was sacrificed before, these volumes doubly will the price restore. our poet bade us hope this grace to find, to whom by long prescription you are kind. he whose undaunted muse, with loyal rage, has never spared the vices of the age, here finding nothing that his spleen can raise, is forced to turn his satire into praise. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'prologue:' spoken during the sitting of parliament there. see macaulay's history.] * * * * * xxix. prologue[ ] to his royal highness, upon his first appearance at the duke's theatre, after his return from scotland, . in those cold regions which no summers cheer, where brooding darkness covers half the year, to hollow caves the shivering natives go; bears range abroad, and hunt in tracks of snow: but when the tedious twilight wears away, and stars grow paler at the approach of day, the longing crowds to frozen mountains run; happy who first can see the glimmering sun: the surly savage offspring disappear, and curse the bright successor of the year. yet, though rough bears in covert seek defence, white foxes stay, with seeming innocence: that crafty kind with daylight can dispense. still we are throng'd so full with reynard's race, that loyal subjects scarce can find a place: thus modest truth is cast behind the crowd: truth speaks too low: hypocrisy too loud. let them be first to flatter in success; duty can stay, but guilt has need to press. once, when true zeal the sons of god did call, to make their solemn show at heaven's whitehall, the fawning devil appear'd among the rest, and made as good a courtier as the best. the friends of job, who rail'd at him before, came, cap in hand, when he had three times more. yet late repentance may, perhaps, be true; kings can forgive, if rebels can but sue: a tyrant's power in rigour is express'd; the father yearns in the true prince's breast. we grant, an o'ergrown whig no grace can mend; but most are babes, that know not they offend. the crowd, to restless motion still inclined, are clouds, that tack according to the wind. driven by their chiefs, they storms of hailstones pour; then mourn, and soften to a silent shower. o welcome to this much-offending land, the prince that brings forgiveness in his hand! thus angels on glad messages appear: their first salute commands us not to fear. thus heaven, that could constrain us to obey, (with reverence if we might presume to say) seems to relax the rights of sovereign sway: permits to man the choice of good and ill, and makes us happy by our own free will. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'prologue:' spoken when the duke of york returned from scotland in triumph. he went to the theatre in dorset gardens, when this was uttered as the prologue to "venice preserved."] * * * * * xxx. prologue to "the earl of essex; or, the unhappy favourite;" by mr j. banks, . spoken to the king and queen at their coming to the house. when first the ark was landed on the shore, and heaven had vow'd to curse the ground no more; when tops of hills the longing patriarch saw, and the new scene of earth began to draw; the dove was sent to view the waves' decrease, and first brought back to man the pledge of peace. 'tis needless to apply, when those appear, who bring the olive, and who plant it here. we have before our eyes the royal dove, still innocent, as harbinger of love: the ark is open'd to dismiss the train, and people with a better race the plain. tell me, ye powers! why should vain man pursue, with endless toil, each object that is new, and for the seeming substance leave the true? why should he quit for hopes his certain good, and loathe the manna of his daily food? must england still the scene of changes be, tost and tempestuous, like our ambient sea? must still our weather and our wills agree? without our blood our liberties we have: who that is free would fight to be a slave? or, what can wars to after-times assure, of which our present age is not secure? all that our monarch would for us ordain, is but to enjoy the blessings of his reign. our land's an eden, and the main's our fence, while we preserve our state of innocence: that lost, then beasts their brutal force employ, and first their lord, and then themselves destroy. what civil broils have cost, we know too well; oh! let it be enough that once we fell! and every heart conspire, and every tongue, still to have such a king, and this king long. * * * * * xxxi. epilogue for "the king's house."[ ] we act by fits and starts, like drowning men, but just peep up, and then pop down again. let those who call us wicked change their sense; for never men lived more on providence. not lottery cavaliers are half so poor, nor broken cits, nor a vacation whore; not courts, nor courtiers living on the rents of the three last ungiving parliaments: so wretched, that, if pharaoh could divine, he might have spared his dream of seven lean kine, and changed his vision for the muses nine. the comet that, they say, portends a dearth, was but a vapour drawn from play-house earth: pent there since our last fire, and, lilly says, foreshows our change of state, and thin third-days. 'tis not our want of wit that keeps us poor; for then the printer's press would suffer more. their pamphleteers each day their venom spit; they thrive by treason, and we starve by wit. confess the truth, which of you has not laid four farthings out to buy the hatfield maid? or, which is duller yet, and more would spite us, democritus his wars with heraclitus? such are the authors who have run us down, and exercised you critics of the town. yet these are pearls to your lampooning rhymes, ye abuse yourselves more dully than the times. scandal, the glory of the english nation, is worn to rags, and scribbled out of fashion. such harmless thrusts, as if, like fencers wise, they had agreed their play before their prize. faith! they may hang their harps upon the willows; 'tis just like children when they box with pillows. then put an end to civil wars for shame; let each knight-errant, who has wrong'd a dame, throw down his pen, and give her, as he can, the satisfaction of a gentleman. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : epilogue spoken in ; and full of temporary allusions now of no earthly interest.] * * * * * xxxii. prologue to "the loyal brother; or, the persian prince;"[ ] by mr southern, . poets, like lawful monarchs, ruled the stage, till critics, like damn'd whigs, debauch'd our age. mark how they jump: critics would regulate our theatres, and whigs reform our state: both pretend love, and both (plague rot them!) hate. the critic humbly seems advice to bring; the fawning whig petitions to the king: but one's advice into a satire slides; the other's petition a remonstrance hides. these will no taxes give, and those no pence; critics would starve the poet, whigs the prince. the critic all our troops of friends discards; just so the whig would fain pull down the guards. guards are illegal, that drive foes away, as watchful shepherds, that fright beasts of prey. kings, who disband such needless aids as these, are safe--as long as e'er their subjects please: and that would be till next queen bess's night: [ ] which thus grave penny chroniclers indite. sir edmondbury first, in woful wise, leads up the show, and milks their maudlin eyes. there's not a butcher's wife but dribs her part, and pities the poor pageant from her heart; who, to provoke revenge, rides round the fire, and, with a civil congé, does retire: but guiltless blood to ground must never fall; there's antichrist behind, to pay for all. the punk of babylon in pomp appears, a lewd old gentleman of seventy years: whose age in vain our mercy would implore; for few take pity on an old cast whore. the devil, who brought him to the shame, takes part; sits cheek by jowl, in black, to cheer his heart; like thief and parson in a tyburn-cart. the word is given, and with a loud huzza the mitred puppet from his chair they draw: on the slain corpse contending nations fall: alas! what's one poor pope among them all! he burns; now all true hearts your triumphs ring: and, next, for fashion, cry, god save the king! a needful cry in midst of such alarms, when forty thousand men are up in arms. but after he's once saved, to make amends, in each succeeding health they damn his friends: so god begins, but still the devil ends. what if some one, inspired with zeal, should call, come, let's go cry, god save him at whitehall? his best friends would not like this over-care, or think him ere the safer for this prayer. five praying saints are by an act allow'd;[ ] but not the whole church-militant in crowd. yet, should heaven all the true petitions drain of presbyterians, who would kings maintain, of forty thousand, five would scarce remain. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'the loyal brother; or, the persian prince,' mr southern's first play, acted at drury-lane in . the loyal brother was intended for the duke of york.] [footnote : 'queen bess's night:' alluding to a procession of the whigs, carrying party effigies, and a representation of the dead body of sir e. godfrey, on the th of november, the birthday of queen elizabeth.] [footnote : by the bartholomew act not more than five dissenters were allowed to commune together at one time.] * * * * * xxxiii. prologue to "the king and queen."[ ] upon the union of the two companies in . since faction ebbs, and rogues grow out of fashion, their penny scribes take care to inform the nation, how well men thrive in this or that plantation: how pennsylvania's air agrees with quakers, and carolina's with associators: both even too good for madmen and for traitors. truth is, our land with saints is so run o'er, and every age produces such a store, that now there's need of two new-englands more. what's this, you'll say, to us and our vocation? only thus much, that we have left our station, and made this theatre our new plantation. the factious natives never could agree; but aiming, as they call'd it, to be free, those playhouse whigs set up for property. some say, they no obedience paid of late; but would new fears and jealousies create; till topsy-turvy they had turn'd the state. plain sense, without the talent of foretelling, might guess 'twould end in downright knocks and quelling: for seldom comes there better of rebelling. when men will, needlessly, their freedom barter for lawless power, sometimes they catch a tartar; there's a damn'd word that rhymes to this call'd charter. but, since the victory with us remains, you shall be call'd to twelve in all our gains; if you'll not think us saucy for our pains. old men shall have good old plays to delight them and you, fair ladies and gallants, that slight them, we'll treat with good new plays; if our new wits can write them. we'll take no blundering verse, no fustian tumour, no dribbling love, from this or that presumer; no dull fat fool shamm'd on the stage for humour. for, faith, some of them such vile stuff have made, as none but fools or fairies ever play'd; but 'twas, as shopmen say, to force a trade. we've given you tragedies, all sense defying, and singing men, in woful metre dying; this 'tis when heavy lubbers will be flying. all these disasters we well hope to weather; we bring you none of our old lumber hither; whig poets and whig sheriffs may hang together. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : two theatrical companies: the duke's and the king's houses--both full of every species of abomination--at last united in , and the most profligate poet of the age was fitly chosen to proclaim the banns.] * * * * * xxxiv. prologue to the university of oxford, spoken by mr hart, at the acting of "the silent woman." what greece, when learning flourish'd, only knew, athenian judges, you this day renew; here too are annual rites to pallas done, and here poetic prizes lost or won. methinks i see you, crown'd with olives, sit, and strike a sacred horror from the pit. a day of doom is this of your decree, where even the best are but by mercy free: a day, which none but jonson durst have wish'd to see. here they, who long have known the useful stage, come to be taught themselves to teach the age. as your commissioners our poets go, to cultivate the virtue which you sow; in your lycaeum first themselves refined, and delegated thence to human-kind. but as ambassadors, when long from home, for new instructions to their princes come; so poets, who your precepts have forgot, return, and beg they may be better taught: follies and faults elsewhere by them are shown, but by your manners they correct their own. the illiterate writer, empiric-like, applies to minds diseased unsafe, chance remedies: the learn'd in schools, where knowledge first began, studies with care the anatomy of man; sees virtue, vice, and passions in their cause, and fame from science, not from fortune, draws. so poetry, which is in oxford made an art, in london only is a trade. there haughty dunces, whose unlearned pen could ne'er spell grammar, would be reading men. such build their poems the lucretian way; so many huddled atoms make a play; and if they hit in order, by some chance, they call that nature, which is ignorance. to such a fame let mere town wits aspire, and their gay nonsense their own cits admire. our poet, could he find forgiveness here, would wish it rather than a plaudit there. he owns no crown from those prætorian bands, but knows that right is in the senate's hands; not impudent enough to hope your praise, low at the muses' feet his wreath he lays, and, where he took it up, resigns his bays. kings make their poets whom themselves think fit, but 'tis your suffrage makes authentic wit. * * * * * xxxv. epilogue, spoken by the same. no poor dutch peasant, wing'd with all his fear, flies with more haste, when the french arms draw near, than we with our poetic train come down, for refuge hither, from the infected town: heaven, for our sins, this summer has thought fit to visit us with all the plagues of wit. a french troop first swept all things in its way; but those hot monsieurs were too quick to stay: yet, to our cost, in that short time, we find they left their itch of novelty behind. the italian merry-andrews took their place, and quite debauch'd the stage with lewd grimace: instead of wit and humours, your delight was there to see two hobby-horses fight; stout scaramoucha with rush-lance rode in, and ran a tilt at centaur arlequin. for love you heard how amorous asses bray'd, and cats in gutters gave their serenade. nature was out of countenance, and each day some new-born monster shown you for a play. but when all fail'd, to strike the stage quite dumb, those wicked engines call'd machines are come. thunder and lightning now for wit are play'd, and shortly scenes in lapland will be laid: art magic is for poetry profess'd; and cats and dogs, and each obscener beast, to which egyptian dotards once did bow, upon our english stage are worshipp'd now. witchcraft reigns there, and raises to renown macbeth and simon magus of the town, fletcher's despised, your jonson's out of fashion, and wit the only drug in all the nation. in this low ebb our wares to you are shown; by you those staple authors' worth is known; for wit's a manufacture of your own. when you, who only can, their scenes have praised, we'll boldly back, and say, their price is raised. * * * * * xxxvi. epilogue, spoken at oxford, by mrs marshall. oft has our poet wish'd, this happy seat might prove his fading muse's last retreat: i wonder'd at his wish, but now i find he sought for quiet, and content of mind; which noiseful towns, and courts can never know, and only in the shades like laurels grow. youth, ere it sees the world, here studies rest, and age returning thence concludes it best. what wonder if we court that happiness yearly to share, which hourly you possess; teaching even you, while the vex'd world we show, your peace to value more, and better know? 'tis all we can return for favours past, whose holy memory shall ever last; for patronage from him whose care presides o'er every noble art, and every science guides: bathurst,[ ] a name the learn'd with reverence know, and scarcely more to his own virgil owe; whose age enjoys but what his youth deserved, to rule those muses whom before he served. his learning, and untainted manners too, we find, athenians, are derived to you: such ancient hospitality there rests in yours, as dwelt in the first grecian breasts, whose kindness was religion to their guests. such modesty did to our sex appear, as, had there been no laws, we need not fear, since each of you was our protector here. converse so chaste, and so strict virtue shown, as might apollo with the muses own. till our return, we must despair to find judges so just, so knowing, and so kind. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : dr ralph bathurst, president of trinity college, oxford.] * * * * * xxxvii. prologue to the university of oxford. discord and plots, which have undone our age, with the same ruin have o'erwhelm'd the stage. our house has suffer'd in the common woe, we have been troubled with scotch rebels too. our brethren are from thames to tweed departed, and of our sisters, all the kinder-hearted, to edinburgh gone, or coach'd, or carted. with bonny bluecap there they act all night for scotch half-crown, in english three-pence hight. one nymph, to whom fat sir john falstaff's lean, there with her single person fills the scene. another, with long use and age decay'd, dived here old woman, and rose there a maid. our trusty doorkeepers of former time there strut and swagger in heroic rhyme. tack but a copper-lace to drugget suit, and there's a hero made without dispute: and that, which was a capon's tail before, becomes a plume for indian emperor. but all his subjects, to express the care of imitation, go, like indians, bare: laced linen there would be a dangerous thing; it might perhaps a new rebellion bring; the scot, who wore it, would be chosen king. but why should i these renegades describe, when you yourselves have seen a lewder tribe? teague has been here, and, to this learned pit, with irish action slander'd english wit: you have beheld such barbarous macs appear, as merited a second massacre: such as, like cain, were branded with disgrace, and had their country stamp'd upon their face. when strollers durst presume to pick your purse, we humbly thought our broken troop not worse. how ill soe'er our action may deserve, oxford's a place where wit can never starve. * * * * * xxxviii. prologue to the university of oxford. though actors cannot much of learning boast, of all who want it, we admire it most: we love the praises of a learned pit, as we remotely are allied to wit. we speak our poet's wit, and trade in ore, like those who touch upon the golden shore: betwixt our judges can destinction make, discern how much, and why, our poems take: mark if the fools, or men of sense, rejoice; whether the applause be only sound or voice. when our fop gallants, or our city folly, clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy: we doubt that scene which does their wonder raise, and, for their ignorance, contemn their praise. judge then, if we who act, and they who write, should not be proud of giving you delight. london likes grossly; but this nicer pit examines, fathoms all the depths of wit; the ready finger lays on every blot; knows what should justly please, and what should not. nature herself lies open to your view; you judge by her, what draught of her is true, where outlines false, and colours seem too faint, where bunglers daub, and where true poets paint. but by the sacred genius of this place, by every muse, by each domestic grace, be kind to wit, which but endeavours well, and, where you judge, presumes not to excel. our poets hither for adoption come, as nations sued to be made free of rome: not in the suffragating tribes to stand, but in your utmost, last, provincial band. if his ambition may those hopes pursue, who with religion loves your arts and you, oxford to him a dearer name shall be, than his own mother university. thebes did his green, unknowing youth engage; he chooses athens in his riper age. * * * * * xxxix. prologue to "albion and albanius." full twenty years and more, our labouring stage has lost on this incorrigible age: our poets, the john ketches of the nation, have seem'd to lash ye, even to excoriation: but still no sign remains; which plainly notes, you bore like heroes, or you bribed like oates. what can we do, when mimicking a fop, like beating nut-trees, makes a larger crop? faith, we'll e'en spare our pains! and, to content you, will fairly leave you what your maker meant you. satire was once your physic, wit your food: one nourish'd not, and t'other drew no blood: we now prescribe, like doctors in despair, the diet your weak appetites can bear. since hearty beef and mutton will not do, here's julep-dance, ptisan of song and show: give you strong sense, the liquor is too heady: you're come to farce,--that's asses' milk,--already. some hopeful youths there are, of callow wit, who one day may be men, if heaven think fit: sound may serve such, ere they to sense are grown, like leading-strings till they can walk alone. but yet, to keep our friends in countenance, know, the wise italians first invented show: thence into france the noble pageant pass'd: 'tis england's credit to be cozen'd last. freedom and zeal have choused you o'er and o'er: pray give us leave to bubble you once more; you never were so cheaply fool'd before: we bring you change, to humour your disease; change for the worse has ever used to please: then, 'tis the mode of france; without whose rules none must presume to set up here for fools. in france, the oldest man is always young, sees operas daily, learns the tunes so long, till foot, hand, head keep time with every song: each sings his part, echoing from pit and box, with his hoarse voice, half harmony, half pox: _le plus grand roi du monde_ is always ringing, they show themselves good subjects by their singing: on that condition, set up every throat: you whigs may sing, for you have changed your note. cits and citesses raise a joyful strain, 'tis a good omen to begin a reign: voices may help your charter to restoring, and get by singing what you lost by roaring. * * * * * xl. epilogue to "albion and albanius." after our Æsop's fable shown to-day, i come to give the moral of the play. feign'd zeal, you saw, set out the speedier pace: but the last heat, plain dealing won the race: plain dealing for a jewel has been known; but ne'er till now the jewel of a crown. when heaven made man, to show the work divine, truth was his image stamp'd upon the coin: and when a king is to a god refined, on all he says and does he stamps his mind: this proves a soul without alloy, and pure; kings, like their gold, should every touch endure. to dare in fields is valour; but how few dare be so thoroughly valiant,--to be true! the name of great let other kings affect: he's great indeed, the prince that is direct. his subjects know him now, and trust him more than all their kings, and all their laws before. what safety could their public acts afford? those he can break; but cannot break his word. so great a trust to him alone was due; well have they trusted whom so well they knew. the saint, who walk'd on waves, securely trod, while he believed the beckoning of his god: but when his faith no longer bore him out, began to sink, as he began to doubt. let us our native character maintain; 'tis of our growth to be sincerely plain. to excel in truth we loyally may strive, set privilege against prerogative: he plights his faith, and we believe him just; his honour is to promise, ours to trust. thus britain's basis on a word is laid, as by a word the world itself was made. * * * * * xli. prologue to "arvirgus and philicia revived." by lodowick carlell, esq., . spoken by mr hart. with sickly actors and an old house too, we're match'd with glorious theatres and new; and with our alehouse scenes, and clothes bare worn, can neither raise old plays, nor new adorn. if all these ills could not undo us quite, a brisk french troop is grown your dear delight; who with broad bloody bills call you each day to laugh and break your buttons at their play; or see some serious piece, which we presume is fallen from some incomparable plume; and therefore, messieurs, if you'll do us grace, send lackeys early to preserve your place. we dare not on your privilege intrench, or ask you why you like them? they are french. therefore some go, with courtesy exceeding, neither to hear nor see, but show their breeding: each lady striving to out-laugh the rest; to make it seem they understood the jest. their countrymen come in, and nothing pay, to teach us english where to clap the play: civil, egad! our hospitable land bears all the charge, for them to understand: mean time we languish and neglected lie, like wives, while you keep better company; and wish for your own sakes, without a satire, you'd less good breeding, or had more good nature. * * * * * xlii. prologue to "don sebastian." spoken by a woman. the judge removed, though he's no more my lord, may plead at bar, or at the council board: so may cast poets write; there's no pretension to argue loss of wit from loss of pension. your looks are cheerful; and in all this place i see not one that wears a damning face. the british nation is too brave to show ignoble vengeance on a vanquish'd foe. at last be civil to the wretch imploring; and lay your paws upon him without roaring. suppose our poet was your foe before, yet now, the business of the field is o'er; 'tis time to let your civil wars alone, when troops are into winter quarters gone. jove was alike to latian and to phrygian; and you well know, a play's of no religion. take good advice, and please yourselves this day; no matter from what hands you have the play. among good fellows every health will pass, that serves to carry round another glass: when with full bowls of burgundy you dine, though at the mighty monarch you repine, you grant him still most christian in his wine. thus far the poet; but his brains grow addle, and all the rest is purely from his noddle. you have seen young ladies at the senate door prefer petitions, and your grace implore; however grave the legislators were, their cause went ne'er the worse for being fair. reasons as weak as theirs, perhaps, i bring; but i could bribe you with as good a thing. i heard him make advances of good nature; that he, for once, would sheath his cutting satire. sign but his peace, he vows he'll ne'er again the sacred names of fops and beaux profane. strike up the bargain quickly; for i swear, as times go now, he offers very fair. be not too hard on him with statutes neither; be kind; and do not set your teeth together, to stretch the laws, as cobblers do their leather. horses by papists are not to be ridden, but sure the muses' horse was ne'er forbidden; for in no rate-book it was ever found that pegasus was valued at five pound; fine him to daily drudging and inditing: and let him pay his taxes out in writing. * * * * * xliii. prologue to "the prophetess."[ ] by beaumont and fletcher. spoken by mr betterton. . what nostradame, with all his art, can guess the fate of our approaching prophetess? a play which, like a pérspective set right, presents our vast expenses close to sight; but turn the tube, and there we sadly view our distant gains; and those uncertain too: a sweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise, and all, like you, in hopes of better days; when will our losses warn us to be wise? our wealth decreases, and our charges rise. money, the sweet allurer of our hopes, ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops; we raise new objects to provoke delight, but you grow sated ere the second sight. false men, e'en so you serve your mistresses: they rise three storeys in their towering dress; and, after all, you love not long enough to pay the rigging, ere you leave them off. never content with what you had before, but true to change, and englishmen all o'er. now honour calls you hence; and all your care is to provide the horrid pomp of war. in plume and scarf, jack-boots, and bilbo blade, your silver goes, that should support our trade. go, unkind heroes![ ] leave our stage to mourn, till rich from vanquished rebels you return; and the fat spoils of teague in triumph draw, his firkin-butter, and his usquebaugh. go, conquerors of your male and female foes! men without hearts, and women without hose: each bring his love a bogland captive home; such proper pages will long trains become; with copper collars, and with brawny backs, quite to put down the fashion of our blacks. then shall the pious muses pay their vows, and furnish all their laurels for your brows; their tuneful voice shall raise for your delights; we want not poets fit to sing your flights. but you, bright beauties! for whose only sake those doughty knights such dangers undertake, when they with happy gales are gone away, with your propitious presence grace our play; and with a sigh their empty seats survey: then think, on that bare bench my servant sat; i see him ogle still, and hear him chat; selling facetious bargains, and propounding that witty recreation, call'd dumfounding. their loss with patience we will try to bear; and would do more, to see you often here; that our dead stage, revived by your fair eyes, under a female regency may rise. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : this prologue was forbid by the earl of dorset, then lord chamberlain, after the first day of its being spoken.] [footnote : king william was at this time prosecuting the war in ireland.] * * * * * xliv. prologue to "the mistakes." by joseph harris, comedian, . (written by some other.) _enter mr bright._ gentlemen, we must beg your pardon; here's no prologue to be had to-day; our new play is like to come on, without a frontispiece; as bald as one of you young beaux, without your periwig. i left our young poet, snivelling and sobbing behind the scenes, and cursing somebody that has deceived him. _enter mr bowen._ hold your prating to the audience: here is honest mr williams, just come in, half mellow, from the rose tavern. he swears he is inspired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with a prologue of his own or something like one. oh, here he comes to his trial, at all adventures: for my part i wish him a good deliverance. [_exeunt mr bright and mr bowen._ _enter mr williams._ save ye, sirs, save ye! i am in a hopeful way. i should speak something in rhyme, now, for the play: but the deuce take me, if i know what to say. i'll stick to my friend the author, that i can tell ye, to the last drop of claret in my belly. so far i'm sure 'tis rhyme--that needs no granting: and, if my verses' feet stumble--you see my own are wanting. our young poet has brought a piece of work, in which, though much of art there does not lurk, it may hold out three days--and that's as long as cork. but for this play (which till i have done, we show not) what may be its fortune--by the lord! i know not. this i dare swear, no malice here is writ: 'tis innocent of all things--even of wit. he's no highflier--he makes no sky-rockets, his squibs are only levell'd at your pockets. and if his crackers light among your pelf, you are blown up; if not, then he's blown up himself. by this time, i'm something recover'd of my fluster'd madness: and now, a word or two in sober sadness. ours is a common play; and you pay down a common harlot's price--just half-a-crown. you'll say, i play the pimp, on my friend's score; but since 'tis for a friend your gibes give o'er: for many a mother has done that before. how's this? you cry; an actor write?--we know it; but shakspeare was an actor, and a poet. has not great jonson's learning often fail'd? but shakspeare's greater genius still prevail'd. have not some writing actors, in this age, deserved and found success upon the stage? to tell the truth, when our old wits are tired, not one of us but means to be inspired. let your kind presence grace our homely cheer; peace and the butt is all our business here: so much for that;--and the devil take small beer. * * * * * xlv. prologue to "king arthur." spoken by mr betterton. sure there's a dearth of wit in this dull town, when silly plays so savourily go down; as, when clipt money passes, 'tis a sign a nation is not over-stock'd with coin. happy is he who, in his own defence, can write just level to your humble sense; who higher than your pitch can never go; and, doubtless, he must creep, who writes below. so have i seen, in hall of knight, or lord, a weak arm throw on a long shovel-board; he barely lays his piece, bar rubs and knocks, secured by weakness not to reach the box. a feeble poet will his business do, who, straining all he can, comes up to you: for, if you like yourselves, you like him too. an ape his own dear image will embrace; an ugly beau adores a hatchet face: so, some of you, on pure instinct of nature, are led, by kind, to admire your fellow-creature. in fear of which, our house has sent this day, to insure our new-built vessel, call'd a play; no sooner named, than one cries out, these stagers come in good time, to make more work for wagers. the town divides, if it will take or no: the courtiers bet, the cits, the merchants too; a sign they have but little else to do. bets, at the first, were fool-traps; where the wise, like spiders, lay in ambush for the flies: but now they're grown a common trade for all, and actions by the new book rise and fall; wits, cheats, and fops, are free of wager-hall. one policy as far as lyons carries; another, nearer home, sets up for paris. our bets, at last, would e'en to rome extend, but that the pope has proved our trusty friend. indeed, it were a bargain worth our money, could we insure another ottoboni. among the rest there are a sharping set, that pray for us, and yet against us bet. sure heaven itself is at a loss to know if these would have their prayers be heard, or no: for, in great stakes, we piously suppose, men pray but very faintly they may lose. leave off these wagers; for, in conscience speaking, the city needs not your new tricks for breaking: and if you gallants lose, to all appearing, you'll want an equipage for volunteering; while thus, no spark of honour left within ye, when you should draw the sword, you draw the guinea. * * * * * xlvi. prologue to "albumazar."[ ] to say, this comedy pleased long ago, is not enough to make it pass you now. yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit; when few men censured, and when fewer writ. and jonson, of those few the best, chose this as the best model of his masterpiece. subtle was got by our albumazar, that alchymist by this astrologer; here he was fashion'd, and we may suppose he liked the fashion well, who wore the clothes. but ben made nobly his what he did mould; what was another's lead becomes his gold: like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns, yet rules that well which he unjustly gains. by this our age such authors does afford, as make whole plays, and yet scarce write one word: who, in his anarchy of wit, rob all, and what's their plunder, their possession call: who, like bold padders, scorn by night to prey, but rob by sunshine, in the face of day: nay, scarce the common ceremony use of, stand, sir, and deliver up your muse; but knock the poet down, and, with a grace, mount pegasus before the owner's face. faith, if you have such country toms abroad, 'tis time for all true men to leave that road. yet it were modest, could it but be said, they strip the living, but these rob the dead; dare with the mummies of the muses play, and make love to them the egyptian way; or, as a rhyming author would have said, join the dead living to the living dead. such men in poetry may claim some part: they have the licence, though they want the art; and might, where theft was praised, for laureates stand,-- poets, not of the head, but of the hand. they make the benefits of others' studying, much like the meals of politic jack-pudding, whose dish to challenge no man has the courage; 'tis all his own, when once he has spit in the porridge. but, gentlemen, you're all concern'd in this; you are in fault for what they do amiss: for they their thefts still undiscover'd think, and durst not steal unless you please to wink. perhaps you may award, by your decree, they should refund; but that can never be. for should your letters of reprisal seal, these men write that which no man else would steal. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : an old play written by one tomkins, four years, however, after jonson's "alchymist," and resuscitated in .] * * * * * xlvii. an epilogue. you saw our wife was chaste, yet thoroughly tried, and, without doubt, ye are hugely edified; for, like our hero, whom we show'd to-day, you think no woman true, but in a play. love once did make a pretty kind of show: esteem and kindness in one breast would grow: but 'twas heaven knows how many years ago. now some small chat, and guinea expectation, gets all the pretty creatures in the nation: in comedy your little selves you meet; 'tis covent garden drawn in bridges street. smile on our author then, if he has shown a jolly nut-brown bastard of your own. ah! happy you, with ease and with delight, who act those follies, poets toil to write! the sweating muse does almost leave the chase; she puffs, and hardly keeps your protean vices pace. pinch you but in one vice, away you fly to some new frisk of contrariety. you roll like snow-balls, gathering as you run, and get seven devils, when dispossess'd of one. your venus once was a platonic queen; nothing of love beside the face was seen; but every inch of her you now uncase, and clap a vizard-mask upon the face. for sins like these, the zealous of the land, with little hair, and little or no band, declare how circulating pestilences watch, every twenty years, to snap offences. saturn, even now, takes doctoral degrees; he'll do your work this summer without fees. let all the boxes, phoebus, find thy grace, and, ah! preserve the eighteen-penny place! but for the pit confounders, let 'em go, and find as little mercy as they show: the actors thus, and thus thy poets pray; for every critic saved, thou damn'st a play. * * * * * xlviii. epilogue to "the husband his own cuckold." by mr john dryden, jun., .[ ] like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit, so trembles a young poet at a full pit. unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear, and wonders how the devil he durst come there; wanting three talents needful for the place-- some beard, some learning, and some little grace. nor is the puny poet void of care; for authors, such as our new authors are, have not much learning, nor much wit to spare: and as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one but has as little as the very parson: both say, they preach and write for your instruction: but 'tis for a third day, and for induction. the difference is, that though you like the play, the poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day. but with the parson 'tis another case, he, without holiness, may rise to grace. the poet has one disadvantage more, that if his play be dull, he's damn'd all o'er, not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor. but dulness well becomes the sable garment; i warrant that ne'er spoil'd a priest's perferment: wit's not his business, and as wit now goes, sirs, 'tis not so much yours as you suppose, for you like nothing now but nauseous beaux. you laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears, at what his beauship says, but what he wears; so 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears. the tailor and the furrier find the stuff, the wit lies in the dress, and monstrous muff. the truth on 't is, the payment of the pit is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit. you cannot from our absent author hope he should equip the stage with such a fop: fools change in england, and new fools arise, for though the immortal species never dies, yet every year new maggots make new flies; but where he lives abroad, he scarce can find one fool for millions that he left behind. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'john dryden, jun.': second son of the poet, who was at rome when this play was brought out.] * * * * * xlix. prologue to "the pilgrim." by beaumont and fletcher. revived for our author's benefit, anno . how wretched is the fate of those who write! brought muzzled to the stage, for fear they bite. where, like tom dove, they stand the common foe; lugg'd by the critic, baited by the beau. yet worse, their brother poets damn the play, and roar the loudest, though they never pay. the fops are proud of scandal, for they cry, at every lewd, low character,--that's i. he who writes letters to himself would swear, the world forgot him, if he was not there. what should a poet do? 'tis hard for one to pleasure all the fools that would be shown: and yet not two in ten will pass the town. most coxcombs are not of the laughing kind; more goes to make a fop, than fops can find. quack maurus,[ ] though he never took degrees in either of our universities, yet to be shown by some kind wit he looks, because he play'd the fool, and writ three books. but, if he would be worth a poet's pen, he must be more a fool, and write again: for all the former fustian stuff he wrote was dead-born doggerel, or is quite forgot: his man of uz, stript of his hebrew robe, is just the proverb, and as poor as job. one would have thought he could no longer jog; but arthur was a level, job's a bog. there, though he crept, yet still he kept in sight; but here, he founders in, and sinks down right, had he prepared us, and been dull by rule, tobit had first been turn'd to ridicule: but our bold briton, without fear or awe, o'erleaps at once the whole apocrypha; invades the psalms with rhymes, and leaves no room for any vandal hopkins yet to come. but when if, after all, this godly gear is not so senseless as it would appear; our mountebank has laid a deeper train, his cant, like merry-andrew's noble vein, cat-calls the sects to draw them in again. at leisure hours, in epic song he deals, writes to the rumbling of his coach's wheels, prescribes in haste, and seldom kills by rule, but rides triumphant between stool and stool. well, let him go; 'tis yet too early day, to get himself a place in farce or play. we know not by what name we should arraign him, for no one category can contain him; a pedant, canting preacher, and a quack, are load enough to break one ass's back: at last, grown wanton, he presumed to write, traduced two kings, their kindness to requite; one made the doctor, and one dubb'd the knight. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'quack maurus:' sir richard blackmore.] * * * * * l. epilogue to "the pilgrim." perhaps the parson[ ] stretch'd a point too far, when with our theatres he waged a war. he tells you, that this very moral age received the first infection from the stage. but sure, a banish'd court, with lewdness fraught, the seeds of open vice, returning, brought. thus lodged (as vice by great example thrives) it first debauch'd the daughters and the wives. london, a fruitful soil, yet never bore so plentiful a crop of horns before. the poets, who must live by courts, or starve, were proud so good a government to serve: and, mixing with buffoons and pimps profane, tainted the stage, for some small snip of gain. for they, like harlots under bawds profess'd, took all the ungodly pains, and got the least. thus did the thriving malady prevail: the court, its head, the poets but the tail. the sin was of our native growth, 'tis true; the scandal of the sin was wholly new. misses they were, but modestly conceal'd; whitehall the naked venus first reveal'd, who, standing as at cyprus, in her shrine, the strumpet was adored with rites divine. ere this, if saints had any secret motion, 'twas chamber-practice all, and close devotion. i pass the peccadilloes of their time; nothing but open lewdness was a crime. a monarch's blood was venial to the nation, compared with one foul act of fornication. now, they would silence us, and shut the door, that let in all the barefaced vice before. as for reforming us, which some pretend, that work in england is without an end: well may we change, but we shall never mend. yet, if you can but bear the present stage, we hope much better of the coming age. what would you say, if we should first begin to stop the trade of love behind the scene, where actresses make bold with married men? for while abroad so prodigal the dolt is, poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is. in short, we'll grow as moral as we can, save here and there a woman or a man: but neither you, nor we, with all our pains, can make clean work; there will be some remains, while you have still your oates, and we our haines. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'parson:' jeremy collier.] * * * * * tales from chaucer. to his grace the duke of ormond. _anno_ . my lord,--some estates are held in england by paying a fine at the change of every lord: i have enjoyed the patronage of your family, from the time of your excellent grandfather to this present day. i have dedicated the translation of the "lives of plutarch" to the first duke; and have celebrated the memory of your heroic father. though i am very short of the age of nestor, yet i have lived to a third generation of your house; and by your grace's favour am admitted still to hold from you by the same tenure. i am not vain enough to boast that i have deserved the value of so illustrious a line; but my fortune is the greater, that for three descents they have been pleased to distinguish my poems from those of other men; and have accordingly made me their peculiar care. may it be permitted me to say, that, as your grandfather and father were cherished and adorned with honours by two successive monarchs, so i have been esteemed and patronised by the grandfather, the father, and the son, descended from one of the most ancient, most conspicuous, and most deserving families in europe? it is true, that by delaying the payment of my last fine, when it was due by your grace's accession to the titles and patrimonies of your house, i may seem, in rigour of law, to have made a forfeiture of my claim; yet my heart has always been devoted to your service; and since you have been graciously pleased, by your permission of this address, to accept the tender of my duty, it is not yet too late to lay these poems at your feet. the world is sensible that you worthily succeed, not only to the honours of your ancestors, but also to their virtues. the long chain of magnanimity, courage, easiness of access, and desire of doing good even to the prejudice of your fortune, is so far from being broken in your grace, that the precious metal yet runs pure to the newest link of it; which i will not call the last, because i hope and pray it may descend to late posterity: and your flourishing youth, and that of your excellent duchess, are happy omens of my wish. it is observed by livy and by others, that some of the noblest roman families retained a resemblance of their ancestry, not only in their shapes and features, but also in their manners, their qualities, and the distinguishing characters of their minds. some lines were noted for a stern, rigid virtue, savage, haughty, parsimonious, and unpopular: others were more sweet and affable, made of a more pliant paste, humble, courteous, and obliging, studious of doing charitable offices, and diffusive of the goods which they enjoyed. the last of these is the proper and indelible character of your grace's family. god almighty has endued you with a softness, a beneficence, an attractive behaviour winning on the hearts of others; and so sensible of their misery, that the wounds of fortune seem not inflicted on them, but on yourself. you are so ready to redress, that you almost prevent their wishes, and always exceed their expectations; as if what was yours, was not your own, and not given you to possess, but to bestow on wanting merit. but this is a topic which i must cast in shades, lest i offend your modesty, which is so far from being ostentatious of the good you do, that it blushes even to have it known; and therefore i must leave you to the satisfaction and testimony of your own conscience, which, though it be a silent panegyric, is yet the best. you are so easy of access, that poplicola was not more, whose doors were opened on the outside to save the people even the common civility of asking entrance; where all were equally admitted--where nothing that was reasonable was denied--where misfortune was a powerful recommendation, and where (i can scarce forbear saying) that want itself was a powerful mediator, and was next to merit. the history of peru assures us, that their incas, above all their titles esteemed that the highest which called them lovers of the poor--a name more glorious than the felix, pius, and augustus of the roman emperors, which were epithets of flattery, deserved by few of them, and not running in a blood like the perpetual gentleness and inherent goodness of the ormond family. gold, as it is the purest, so it is the softest and most ductile of all metals. iron, which is the hardest, gathers rust, corrodes itself, and is therefore subject to corruption; it was never intended for coins and medals, or to bear the faces and inscriptions of the great. indeed, it is fit for armour, to bear off insults, and preserve the wearer in the day of battle; but the danger once repelled, it is laid aside by the brave, as a garment too rough for civil conversation; a necessary guard in war, but too harsh and cumbersome in peace, and which keeps off the embraces of a more humane life. for this reason, my lord, though you have courage in an heroical degree, yet i ascribe it to you but as your second attribute: mercy, beneficence, and compassion claim precedence, as they are first in the divine nature. an intrepid courage, which is inherent in your grace, is at best but a holiday kind of virtue, to be seldom exercised, and never but in cases of necessity: affability, mildness, tenderness, and a word which i would fain bring back to its original signification of virtue, i mean good-nature, are of daily use: they are the bread of mankind, and staff of life; neither sighs, nor tears, nor groans, nor curses of the vanquished, follow acts of compassion and of charity, but a sincere pleasure and serenity of mind, in him who performs an action of mercy, which cannot suffer the misfortunes of another without redress, lest they should bring a kind of contagion along with them, and pollute the happiness which he enjoys. yet since the perverse tempers of mankind, since oppression on one side, and ambition on the other, are sometimes the unavoidable occasions of war; that courage, that magnanimity, and resolution, which is born with you, cannot be too much commended. and here it grieves me that i am scanted in the pleasure of dwelling on many of your actions; but [greek: aideomai troas] is an expression which tully often uses, when he would do what he dares not, and fears the censure of the romans. i have sometimes been forced to amplify on others; but here, where the subject is so fruitful that the harvest overcomes the reaper, i am shortened by my chain, and can only see what is forbidden me to reach, since it is not permitted me to commend you, according to the extent of my wishes, and much less is it in my power to make my commendations equal to your merits. yet in this frugality of your praises there are some things which i cannot omit without detracting from your character. you have so formed your own education, as enables you to pay the debt you owe your country; or, more properly speaking, both your countries, because you were born, i may almost say, in purple, at the castle of dublin, when your grandfather was lord-lieutenant, and have since been bred in the court of england. if this address had been in verse, i might have called you, as claudian calls mercury, _numen commune, gemino faciens commercia mundo_. the better to satisfy this double obligation, you have early cultivated the genius you have to arms, that when the service of britain or ireland shall require your courage and your conduct, you may exert them both to the benefit of either country. you began in the cabinet what you afterwards practised in the camp; and thus both lucullas and cæsar (to omit a crowd of shining romans) formed themselves to war by the study of history, and by the examples of the greatest captains, both of greece and italy, before their time. i name those two commanders in particular, because they were better read in chronicle than any of the roman leaders; and that lucullus, in particular, having only the theory of war from books, was thought fit, without practice, to be sent into the field against the most formidable enemy of rome. tully, indeed, was called the learned consul in derision; but then he was not born a soldier--his head was turned another way; when he read the tactics, he was thinking on the bar, which was his field of battle. the knowledge of warfare is thrown away on a general who dares not make use of what he knows. i commend it only in a man of courage and resolution: in him it will direct his martial spirit, and teach him the way to the best victories,--which are those which are least bloody, and which, though achieved by the hand, are managed by the head. science distinguishes a man of honour from one of those athletic brutes whom undeservedly we call heroes. cursed be the poet who first honoured with that name a mere ajax, a man-killing idiot! the ulysses of ovid upbraids his ignorance, that he understood not the shield for which he pleaded: there was engraven on it plans of cities and maps of countries which ajax could not comprehend, but looked on them as stupidly as his fellow-beast, the lion. but on the other side, your grace has given yourself the education of his rival; you have studied every spot of ground in flanders, which for these ten years past has been the scene of battles and of sieges. no wonder if you performed your part with such applause on a theatre which you understood so well. if i designed this for a poetical encomium, it were easy to enlarge on so copious a subject; but, confining myself to the severity of truth, and to what is becoming me to say, i must not only pass over many instances of your military skill, but also those of your assiduous diligence in the war, and of your personal bravery, attended with an ardent thirst of honour--a long train of generosity--profuseness of doing good--a soul unsatisfied with all it has done and an unextinguished desire of doing more. but all this is matter for your own historians; i am, as virgil says, _spatiis exclusus iniquis_. yet not to be wholly silent of all your charities, i must stay a little on one action, which preferred the relief of others to the consideration of yourself. when, in the battle of landen, your heat of courage (a fault only pardonable to your youth) had transported you so far before your friends, that they were unable to follow, much less to succour you; when you were not only dangerously, but in all appearance mortally wounded; when in that desperate condition you were made prisoner and carried to namur, at that time in possession of the french: then it was, my lord, that you took a considerable part of what was remitted to you of your own revenues, and, as a memorable instance of your heroic charity, put it into the bands of count guiscard, who was governor of the place, to be distributed among your fellow-prisoners. the french commander, charmed with the greatness of your soul, accordingly consigned it to the use for which it was intended by the donor; by which means the lives of so many miserable men were saved, and a comfortable provision made for their subsistence, who had otherwise perished, had not you been the companion of their misfortune; or rather sent by providence, like another joseph, to keep out famine from invading those whom in humility you called your brethren. how happy was it for those poor creatures that your grace was made their fellow-sufferer! and how glorious for you that you chose to want rather than not relieve the wants of others! the heathen poet, in commending the charity of dido to the trojans, spoke like a christian: _non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco_. all men, even those of a different interest, and contrary principles, must praise this action as the most eminent for piety, not only in this degenerate age, but almost in any of the former; when men were made _de meliore luto_; when examples of charity were frequent, and when there were in being, _teucri pulcherrima proles, magnanimi heroes nati melioribus annis_. no envy can detract from this: it will shine in history, and, like swans, grow whiter the longer it endures, and the name of ormond will be more celebrated in his captivity than in his greatest triumphs. but all actions of your grace are of a piece, as waters keep the tenor of their fountains: your compassion is general, and has the same effect as well on enemies as friends. it is so much in your nature to do good, that your life is but one continued act of placing benefits on many, as the sun is always carrying his light to some part or other of the world; and were it not that your reason guides you where to give, i might almost say that you could not help bestowing more than is consisting with the fortune of a private man or with the will of any but an alexander. what wonder is it, then, that being born for a blessing to mankind, your supposed death in that engagement was so generally lamented through the nation! the concernment for it was as universal as the loss; and though the gratitude might be counterfeit in some, yet the tears of all were real: where every man deplored his private part in that calamity, and even those who had not tasted of your favours, yet built so much on the fame of your beneficence, that they bemoaned the loss of their expectations. this brought the untimely death of your great father into fresh remembrance: as if the same decree had passed on two short successive generations of the virtuous; and i repeated to myself the same verses which i had formerly applied to him: _ostendunt terris hunc tantùm fata, nec ultrà esse sinunt_. but to the joy, not only of all good men, but of mankind in general, the unhappy omen took not place. you are still living to enjoy the blessings and applause of all the good you have performed, the prayers of multitudes whom you have obliged, for your long prosperity; and that your power of doing generous and charitable actions may be as extended as your will; which is by none more zealously desired than by your grace's most humble, most obliged, and most obedient servant, john dryden. * * * * * preface. it is with a poet as with a man who designs to build, and is very exact, as he supposes, in casting up the cost beforehand; but, generally speaking, he is mistaken in his account, and reckons short in the expense he first intended. he alters his mind as the work proceeds, and will have this or that convenience more, of which he had not thought when he began. so has it happened to me: i have built a house, where i intended but a lodge; yet with better success than a certain nobleman, who, beginning with a dog-kennel, never lived to finish the palace he had contrived. from translating the first of homer's iliads (which i intended as an essay to the whole work) i proceeded to the translation of the twelfth book of ovid's metamorphoses, because it contains, among other things, the causes, the beginning, and ending of the trojan war. here i ought in reason to have stopped; but the speeches of ajax and ulysses lying next in my way, i could not baulk them. when i had compassed them, i was so taken with the former part of the fifteenth book, which is the masterpiece of the whole metamorphoses, that i enjoined myself the pleasing task of rendering it into english. and now i found, by the number of my verses, that they began to swell into a little volume; which gave me an occasion of looking backward on some beauties of my author, in his former books. there occurred to me the hunting of the boar, cinyras and myrrha, the good-natured story of baucis and philemon, with the rest, which i hope i have translated closely enough, and given them the same turn of verse which they had in the original; and this, i may say without vanity, is not the talent of every poet. he who has arrived the nearest to it, is the ingenious and learned sandys, the best versifier of the former age; if i may properly call it by that name, which was the former part of this concluding century. for spenser and fairfax both flourished in the reign of queen elizabeth; great masters in our language; and who saw much farther into the beauties of our numbers, than those who immediately followed them. milton was the poetical son of spenser, and mr waller of fairfax; for we have our lineal descents and clans, as well as other families. spenser more than once insinuates, that the soul of chaucer was transfused into his body; and that he was begotten by him two hundred years after his decease. milton has acknowledged to me, that spenser was his original; and many besides myself have heard our famous waller own, that he derived the harmony of his numbers from the godfrey of bulloigne, which was turned into english by mr fairfax. but to return. having done with ovid for this time, it came into my mind, that our old english poet chaucer in many things resembled him, and that with no disadvantage on the side of the modern author, as i shall endeavour to prove when i compare them. and as i am, and always have been, studious to promote the honour of my native country, so i soon resolved to put their merits to the trial, by turning some of the canterbury tales into our language, as it is now refined; for by this means, both the poets being set in the same light, and dressed in the same english habit, story to be compared with story, a certain judgment may be made betwixt them, by the reader, without obtruding my opinion on him. or if i seem partial to my countryman, and predecessor in the laurel, the friends of antiquity are not few; and besides many of the learned, ovid has almost all the beaux, and the whole fair sex, his declared patrons. perhaps i have assumed somewhat more to myself than they allow me, because i have adventured to sum up the evidence; but the readers are the jury, and their privilege remains entire to decide according to the merits of the cause, or, if they please, to bring it to another hearing, before some other court. in the meantime, to follow the thread of my discourse (as thoughts, according to mr hobbs, have always some connexion), so from chaucer i was led to think on boccace, who was not only his contemporary, but also pursued the same studies; wrote novels in prose, and many works in verse: particularly is said to have invented the octave rhyme, or stanza of eight lines, which ever since has been maintained by the practice of all italian writers, who are, or at least assume the title of, heroic poets. he and chaucer, among other things, had this in common, that they refined their mother tongues; but with this difference, that dante had begun to file their language, at least in verse, before the time of boccace, who likewise received no little help from his master petrarch. but the reformation of their prose was wholly owing to boccace himself, who is yet the standard of purity in the italian tongue; though many of his phrases are become obsolete, as in process of time it must needs happen. chaucer, as you have formerly been told by our learned mr rymer, first adorned and amplified our barren tongue from the provençal, which was then the most polished of all the modern languages; but this subject has been copiously treated by that great critic, who deserves no little commendation from us his countrymen. for these reasons of time, and resemblance of genius in chaucer and boccace, i resolved to join them in my present work; to which i have added some original papers of my own; which, whether they are equal or inferior to my other poems, an author is the most improper judge; and therefore, i leave them wholly to the mercy of the reader. i will hope the best, that they will not be condemned; but if they should, i have the excuse of an old gentleman, who, mounting on horseback before some ladies, when i was present, got up somewhat heavily, but desired of the fair spectators that they would count fourscore and eight before they judged him. by the mercy of god, i am already come within twenty years of his number, a cripple in my limbs; but what decays are in my mind, the reader must determine. i think myself as vigorous as ever in the faculties of my soul, excepting only my memory, which is not impaired to any great degree; and if i lose not more of it, i have no great reason to complain. what judgment i had, increases rather than diminishes; and thoughts, such as they are, come crowding in so fast upon me, that my only difficulty is to choose or to reject; to run them into verse, or to give them the other harmony of prose. i have so long studied and practised both, that they are grown into a habit, and become familiar to me; in short, though i may lawfully plead some part of the old gentleman's excuse, yet i will reserve it till i think i have greater need, and ask no grains of allowance for the faults of this my present work, but those which are given of course to human frailty. i will not trouble my reader with the shortness of time in which i writ it, or the several intervals of sickness. they who think too well of their own performances, are apt to boast in their prefaces how little time their works have cost them, and what other business of more importance interfered; but the reader will be as apt to ask the question, why they allowed not a longer time to make their works more perfect? and why they had so despicable an opinion of their judges, as to thrust their indigested stuff upon them, as if they deserved no better? with this account of my present undertaking, i conclude the first part of this discourse; in the second part, as at a second sitting, though i alter not the draught, i must touch the same features over again, and change the dead colouring of the whole. in general i will only say, that i have written nothing which savours of immorality or profaneness; at least, i am not conscious to myself of any such intention. if there happen to be found an irreverent expression, or a thought too wanton, they are crept into my verses through my inadvertency; if the searchers find any in the cargo, let them be staved or forfeited, like contraband goods; at least, let their authors be answerable for them, as being but imported merchandise, and not of my own manufacture. on the other side, i have endeavoured to choose such fables, both ancient and modern, as contain in each of them some instructive moral, which i could prove by induction; but the way is tedious, and they leap foremost into sight, without the reader's trouble of looking after them. i wish i could affirm with a safe conscience, that i had taken the same care in all my former writings; for it must be owned, that supposing verses are never so beautiful or pleasing, yet if they contain anything which shocks religion, or good manners, they are at best, what horace says of good numbers without good sense, _versus inopes rerum, nugaeque canorae_. thus far, i hope, i am right in court, without renouncing my other right of self-defence, where i have been wrongfully accused, and my sense withdrawn into blasphemy or bawdry, as it has often been by a religious lawyer, in a late pleading against the stage, in which he mixes truth with falsehood, and has not forgotten the old rule of calumniating strongly, that something may remain. i resume the thread of my discourse with the first of my translation, which was the first iliad of homer. if it shall please god to give me longer life, and moderate health, my intentions are to translate the whole ilias; provided still that i meet with those encouragements from the public which may enable me to proceed in my undertaking with some cheerfulness. and this i dare assure the world beforehand, that i have found, by trial, homer a more pleasing task than virgil (though i say not the translation will be less laborious); for the grecian is more according to my genius, than the latin poet. in the works of the two authors, we may read their manners and natural inclinations, which are wholly different. virgil was of a quiet, sedate temper; homer was violent, impetuous, and full of fire. the chief talent of virgil was propriety of thoughts, and ornament of words; homer was rapid in his thoughts, and took all the liberties, both of numbers and of expressions, which his language, and the age in which he lived, allowed him: homer's invention was more copious, virgil's more confined; so that if homer had not led the way, it was not in virgil to have begun heroic poetry; for nothing can be more evident, than that the roman poem is but the second part of the ilias; a continuation of the same story, and the persons already formed: the manners of Æneas are those of hector superadded to those which homer gave him. the adventures of ulysses in the odysseis are imitated in the first six books of virgil's Æneas, and though the accidents are not the same (which would have argued him of a servile copying, and total barrenness of invention), yet the seas were the same in which both the heroes wandered, and dido cannot be denied to be the poetical daughter of calypso. the six latter books of virgil's poem are the four and twenty iliads contracted; a quarrel occasioned by a lady, a single combat, battles fought, and a town besieged. i say not this in derogation to virgil, neither do i contradict anything which i have formerly said in his just praise, for his episodes are almost wholly of his own invention; and the form which he has given to the telling makes the tale his own, even though the original story had been the same. but this proves, however, that homer taught virgil to design; and if invention be the first virtue of an epic poet, then the latin poem can only be allowed the second place. mr hobbs, in the preface to his own bald translation of the ilias (studying poetry as he did mathematics, when it was too late), mr hobbs, i say, begins the praise of homer where he should have ended it. he tells us, that the first beauty of an epic poem consists in diction, that is, in the choice of words, and harmony of numbers. now, the words are the colouring of the work, which in the order of nature is last to be considered: the design, the disposition, the manners, and the thoughts, are all before it; where any of those are wanting or imperfect, so much wants or is imperfect in the imitation of human life, which is in the very definition of a poem. words indeed, like glaring colours, are the first beauties that arise, and strike the sight; but if the draught be false or lame, the figures ill-disposed, the manners obscure or inconsistent, or the thoughts unnatural, then the finest colours are but daubing, and the piece is a beautiful monster at the best. neither virgil nor homer were deficient in any of the former beauties; but in this last, which is expression, the roman poet is at least equal to the grecian, as i have said elsewhere, supplying the poverty of his language by his musical ear, and by his diligence. but to return: our two great poets, being so different in their tempers, one choleric and sanguine, the other phlegmatic and melancholic; that which makes them excel in their several ways is, that each of them has followed his own natural inclination, as well in forming the design, as in the execution of it. the very heroes show their authors; achilles is hot, impatient, revengeful--_impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer,_ &c.: Æneas patient, considerate, careful of his people, and merciful to his enemies; ever submissive to the will of heaven--_quò fata trahunt, retrahuntque, sequamur_. i could please myself with enlarging on this subject, but am forced to defer it to a fitter time. from all i have said, i will only draw this inference, that the action of homer being more full of vigour than that of virgil, according to the temper of the writer, is of consequence more pleasing to the reader. one warms you by degrees; the other sets you on fire all at once, and never intermits his heat. 'tis the same difference which longinus makes betwixt the effects of eloquence in demosthenes and tully--one persuades; the other commands. you never cool while you read homer, even not in the second book (a graceful flattery to his countrymen), but he hastens from the ships, and concludes not that book till he has made you an amends by the violent playing of a new machine. from thence he hurries on his action with variety of events, and ends it in less compass than two months. this vehemence of his, i confess, is more suitable to my temper; and therefore i have translated his first book with greater pleasure than any part of virgil. but it was not a pleasure without pains; the continual agitations of the spirits must needs be a weakening of any constitution, especially in age, and many pauses are required for refreshment betwixt the heats, the iliad of itself being a third part longer than all virgil's works together. this is what i thought needful in this place to say of homer. i proceed to ovid and chaucer; considering the former only in relation to the latter. with ovid ended the golden age of the roman tongue: from chaucer the purity of the english tongue began. the manners of the poets were not unlike: both of them were well-bred, well-natured, amorous, and libertine, at least in their writings--it may be also in their lives. their studies were the same--philosophy and philology. both of them were known in astronomy, of which ovid's books of the roman feasts, and chaucer's treatise of the astrolabe, are sufficient witnesses. but chaucer was likewise an astrologer, as were virgil, horace, persius, and manilius. both writ with wonderful facility and clearness: neither were great inventors; for ovid only copied the grecian fables, and most of chaucer's stories were taken from his italian contemporaries, or their predecessors. boccace's decameron was first published; and from thence our englishman has borrowed many of his canterbury tales; yet that of palamon and arcite was written in all probability by some italian wit, in a former age; as i shall prove hereafter. the tale of grizzild was the invention of petrarch; by him sent to boccace; from whom it came to chaucer. troilus and cressida was also written by a lombard author; but much amplified by our english translator, as well as beautified; the genius of our countrymen in general being rather to improve an invention, than to invent themselves; as is evident not only in our poetry, but in many of our manufactures. i find i have anticipated already, and taken up from boccace before i come to him; but there is so much less behind; and i am of the temper of most kings, who love to be in debt, are all for present money, no matter how they pay it afterwards: besides, the nature of a preface is rambling; never wholly out of the way, nor in it. this i have learned from the practice of honest montaign, and return at my pleasure to ovid and chaucer, of whom i have little more to say. both of them built on the inventions of other men; yet since chancer had something of his own, as the wife of bath's tale the cock and the fox, which i have translated, and some others, i may justly give our countryman the precedence in that part; since i can remember nothing of ovid which was wholly his. both of them understood the manners, under which name i comprehend the passions, and, in a larger sense the descriptions of persons, and their very habits: for an example, i see baucis and philemon as perfectly before me, as if some ancient painter had drawn them; and all the pilgrims in the canterbury tales, their humours, their features, and the very dress, as distinctly as if i had supped with them at the tabard in southwark: yet even there too the figures in chaucer are much more lively, and set in a better light; which though i have not time to prove, yet i appeal to the reader, and am sure he will clear me from partiality. the thoughts and words remain to be considered in the comparison of the two poets; and i have saved myself one half of that labour, by owning that ovid lived when the roman tongue was in its meridian; chaucer, in the dawning of our language: therefore that part of the comparison stands not on an equal foot, any more than the diction of ennius and ovid; or of chaucer and our present english. the words are given up as a post not to be defended in our poet, because he wanted the modern art of fortifying. the thoughts remain to be considered; and they are to be measured only by their propriety; that is, as they flow more or less naturally from the persons described, on such and such occasions. the vulgar judges, which are nine parts in ten of all nations, who call conceits and jingles wit, who see ovid full of them, and chaucer altogether without them, will think me little less than mad for preferring the englishman to the roman; yet, with their leave, i must presume to say, that the things they admire are only glittering trifles, and so far from being witty, that in a serious poem they are nauseous, because they are unnatural. would any man, who is ready to die for love, describe his passion like narcissus? would he think of _inopem me copia fecit_, and a dozen more of such expressions, poured on the neck of one another, and signifying all the same thing? if this were wit, was this a time to be witty, when the poor wretch was in the agony of death? this is just john littlewit in bartholomew fair, who had a conceit (as he tells you) left him in his misery; a miserable conceit. on these occasions the poet should endeavour to raise pity; but instead of this, ovid is tickling you to laugh. virgil never made use of such machines, when he was moving you to commiserate the death of dido: he would not destroy what he was building. chaucer makes arcite violent in his love, and unjust in the pursuit of it; yet when he came to die, he made him think more reasonably: he repents not of his love, for that had altered his character; but acknowledges the injustice of his proceedings, and resigns emilia to palamon. what would ovid have done on this occasion? he would certainly have made arcite witty on his deathbed. he had complained he was farther off from possession by being so near, and a thousand such boyisms, which chaucer rejected as below the dignity of the subject. they who think otherwise would, by the same reason, prefer lucan and ovid to homer and virgil, and martial to all four of them. as for the turn of words, in which ovid particularly excels all poets, they are sometimes a fault, and sometimes a beauty, as they are used properly or improperly; but in strong passions always to be shunned, because passions are serious, and will admit no playing. the french have a high value for them; and i confess, they are often what they call delicate, when they are introduced with judgment; but chaucer writ with more simplicity, and followed nature more closely, than to use them. i have thus far, to the best of my knowledge, been an upright judge betwixt the parties in competition, not meddling with the design nor the disposition of it; because the design was not their own, and in the disposing of it they were eqaal. it remains that i say somewhat of chaucer in particular. in the first place, as he is the father of english poetry, so i hold him in the same degree of veneration as the grecians held homer, or the romans virgil. he is a perpetual fountain of good sense; learned in all sciences, and therefore speaks properly on all subjects; as he knew what to say, so he knows also when to leave off--a continence which is practised by few writers, and scarcely by any of the ancients, excepting virgil and horace. one of our late great poets is sunk in his reputation, because he could never forgive any conceit which came in his way; but swept like a drag-net, great and small. there was plenty enough, but the dishes were ill-sorted; whole pyramids of sweetmeats, for boys and women; but little of solid meat, for men. all this proceeded not from any want of knowledge, but of judgment; neither did he want that in discerning the beauties and faults of other poets; but only indulged himself in the luxury of writing; and perhaps knew it was a fault, but hoped the reader would not find it. for this reason, though he must always be thought a great poet, he is no longer esteemed a good writer; and for ten impressions, which his works have had in so many successive years, yet at present a hundred books are scarcely purchased once a twelvemonth: for, as my last lord rochester said, though somewhat profanely, not being of god, he could not stand. chaucer followed nature everywhere; but was never so bold to go beyond her: and there is a great difference of being _poeta_ and _nimis poeta_, if we believe catullus, as much as betwixt a modest behaviour and affectation. the verse of chaucer, i confess, is not harmonious to us; but it is like the eloquence of one whom tacitus commends, it was _auribus istius temporis accommodata_. they who lived with him, and some time after him, thought it musical; and it continues so even in our judgment, if compared with the numbers of lidgate and gower, his contemporaries: there is the rude sweetness of a scotch tune in it, which is natural and pleasing, though not perfect. it is true, i cannot go so far as he who published the last edition of him; for he would make us believe the fault is in our ears, and that there were really ten syllables in a verse where we find but nine. but this opinion is not worth confuting; it is so gross and obvious an error, that common sense (which is a rule in every thing but matters of faith and revelation) must convince the reader, that equality of numbers in every verse which we call heroic, was either not known, or not always practised in chaucer's age. it were an easy matter to produce some thousands of his verses, which are lame for want of half a foot, and sometimes a whole one, and which no pronunciation can make otherwise. we can only say, that he lived in the infancy of our poetry, and that nothing is brought to perfection at the first. we must be children before we grow men. there was an ennius, and in process of time a lucilius, and a lucretius, before virgil and horace; even after chaucer there was a spenser, a harrington, a fairfax, before waller and denham were in being; and our numbers were in their nonage till these last appeared. i need say little of his parentage, life and fortunes: they are to be found at large in all the editions of his works. he was employed abroad and favoured by edward the third, richard the second, and henry the fourth, and was poet, as i suppose, to all three of them. in richard's time, i doubt, he was a little dipt in the rebellion of the commons; and being brother-in-law to john of gaunt, it was no wonder if he followed the fortunes of that family; and was well with henry the fourth when he had deposed his predecessor. neither is it to be admired, that henry, who was a wise as well as a valiant prince, who claimed by succession, and was sensible that his title was not sound, but was rightfully in mortimer, who had married the heir of york; it was not to be admired, i say, if that great politician should be pleased to have the greatest wit of those times in his interests, and to be the trumpet of his praises. augustus had given him the example, by the advice of maecenas, who recommended virgil and horace to him; whose praises helped to make him popular while he was alive, and after his death have made him precious to posterity. as for the religion of our poet, he seems to have some little bias towards the opinions of wickliff, after john of gaunt his patron; somewhat of which appears in the tale of piers plowman: yet i cannot blame him for inveighing so sharply against the vices of the clergy in his age: their pride, their ambition, their pomp, their avarice, their worldly interest, deserved the lashes which he gave them, both in that, and in most of his canterbury tales: neither has his contemporary boccace spared them. yet both those poets lived in much esteem with good and holy men in orders; for the scandal which is given by particular priests, reflects not on the sacred function. chaucer's monk, his chanon, and his fryer, took not from the character of his good parson. a satirical poet is the check of the laymen on bad priests. we are only to take care, that we involve not the innocent with the guilty in the same condemnation. the good cannot be too much honoured, nor the bad too coarsely used; for the corruption of the best becomes the worst. when a clergyman is whipped, his gown is first taken off, by which the dignity of his order is secured: if he be wrongfully accused, he has his action of slander; and it is at the poet's peril, if he transgress the law. but they will tell us, that all kind of satire, though never so well deserved by particular priests, yet brings the whole order into contempt. is then the peerage of england anything dishonoured, when a peer suffers for his treason? if he be libelled, or any way defamed, he has his _scandalum magnatum_ to punish the offender. they who use this kind of argument, seem to be conscious to themselves of somewhat which has deserved the poet's lash; and are less concerned for their public capacity, than for their private; at least there is pride at the bottom of their reasoning. if the faults of men in orders are only to be judged among themselves, they are all in some sort parties; for, since they say the honour of their order is concerned in every member of it, how can we be sure that they will be impartial judges? how far i may be allowed to speak my opinion in this case, i know not; but i am sure a dispute of this nature caused mischief in abundance betwixt a king of england and an archbishop of canterbury; one standing up for the laws of his land, and the other for the honour (as he called it) of god's church; which ended in the murder of the prelate, and in the whipping of his majesty from post to pillar for his penance. the learned and ingenious dr drake has saved me the labour of inquiring into the esteem and reverence which the priests have, had of old; and i would rather extend than diminish any part of it; yet i must needs say, that when a priest provokes me without any occasion given him, i have no reason, unless it be the charity of a christian, to forgive him. _prior laesit_ is justification sufficient in the civil law. if i answer him in his own language, self-defence, i am sure, must be allowed me; and if i carry it farther, even to a sharp recrimination, somewhat may be indulged to human frailty. yet my resentment has not wrought as far, but that i have followed chaucer in his character of a holy man, and have enlarged on that subject with some pleasure, reserving to myself the right, if i shall think fit hereafter, to describe another sort of priests, such as are more easily to be found than the good parson; such as have given the last blow to christianity in this age, by a practice so contrary to their doctrine. but this will keep cold till another time. in the mean while, i take up chaucer where i left him. he must have been a man of a most wonderful comprehensive nature, because, as it has been truly observed of him, he has taken into the compass of his canterbury tales the various manners and humours (as we now call them) of the whole english nation, in his age. not a single character has escaped him. all his pilgrims are severally distinguished from each other; and not only in their inclinations, but in their very physiognomies and persons. baptista porta could not have described their natures better, than by the marks which the poet gives them. the matter and manner of their tales, and of their telling, are so suited to their different edncations, humours, and callings, that each of them would be improper in any other mouth. even the grave and serious characters are distinguished by their several sorts of gravity: their discourses are such as belong to their age, their calling, and their breeding; such as are becoming of them, and of them only. some of his persons are vicious, and some virtuous; some are unlearned, or (as chaucer calls them) lewd, and some are learned. even the ribaldry of the low characters is different. the reeve, the miller, and the cook, are several men, and distinguished from each other, as much as the mincing lady prioress, and the broad-speaking gap-toothed wife of bath. but enough of this: there is such a variety of game springing up before me, that i am distracted in my choice, and know not which to follow. 'tis sufficient to say, according to the proverb, that here is god's plenty. we have our forefathers and great-granddames all before us, as they were in chaucer's days: their general characters are still remaining in mankind, and even in england, though they are called by other names than those of monks and friars, and chanons, and lady abbesses, and nuns: for mankind is ever the same, and nothing lost out of nature, though every thing is altered. may i have leave to do myself the justice, (since my enemies will do me none, and are so far from granting me to be a good poet, that they will not allow me so much as to be a christian, or a moral man); may i have leave, i say, to inform my reader, that i have confined my choice to such tales of chaucer as savour nothing of immodesty. if i had desired more to please than to instruct, the reeve, the miller, the shipman, the merchants, the sumner, and above all the wife of bath, in the prologue to her tale, would have procured me as many friends and readers as there are beaux and ladies of pleasure in the town. but i will no more offend against good manners. i am sensible, as i ought to be, of the scandal i have given by my loose writings; and make what reparation i am able by this public acknowledgment. if any thing of this nature, or of profaneness, be crept into these poems, i am so far from defending it, that i disown it. _totum hoc indicium volo._ chaucer makes another manner of apology for his broad-speaking, and boccace makes the like; but i will follow neither of them. our countryman, in the end of his characters, before the canterbury tales, thus excuses the ribaldry, which is very gross in many of his novels. "but first, i pray you of your courtesy, that ye ne arrettee it nought my villainy, though that i plainly speak in this mattere, to tellen you her words, and eke her chere: ne though i speak her words properly, for this ye knowen as well as i, who shall tellen a tale after a man, he mote rehearse as nye as ever he can: everich word of it been in his charge, all speke he, never so rudely, ne large. or else he mote tellen his tale untrue, or feine things, or find words new: he may not spare, although he were his brother, he mote as well say o word as another, christ spake himself full broad in holy writ, and well i wote no villainy is it; eke plato saith, who so can him rede, the words mote been cousin to the dede." yet, if a man should have inquired of boccace or of chaucer what need they had of introducing such characters, where obscene words were proper in their mouths, but very indecent to be heard,--i know not what answer they could have made; for that reason, such tale shall be left untold by me. you have here a specimen of chaucer's language, which is so obsolete, that his sense is scarce to be understood; and you have likewise more than one example of his unequal numbers, which were mentioned before. yet many of his verses consist of ten syllables, and the words not much behind our present english; as, for example, these two lines in the description of the carpenter's young wife: "wincing she was, as is a jolly colt, long as a mast, and upright as a bolt." i have almost done with chaucer when i have answered some objections relating to my present work. i find some people are offended that i have turned these tales into modern english, because they think them unworthy of my pains, and look on chaucer as a dry, old-fashioned wit not worth reviving. i have often heard the late earl of leicester say that mr cowley himself was of that opinion, who, having read him over at my lord's request declared he had no taste of him. i dare not advance my opinion against the judgment of so great an author, but i think it fair, however, to leave the decision to the public. mr cowley was too modest to set up for a dictator, and being shocked, perhaps, with his old style, never examined into the depth of his good sense. chaucer, i confess, is a rough diamond, and must first be polished ere he shines. i deny not, likewise, that, living in our early days of poetry, he writes not always of a piece, but sometimes mingles trivial things with those of greater moment. sometimes also, though not often, he runs riot, like ovid, and knows not when he has said enough. but there are more great wits besides chaucer, whose fault is their excess of conceits, and those ill sorted. an author is not to write all he can, but only all he ought. having observed this redundancy in chaucer (as it is an easy matter for a man of ordinary parts to find a fault in one of greater), i have not tied myself to a literal translation, but have often omitted what i judged unnecessary, or not of dignity enough to appear in the company of better thoughts. i have presumed farther, in some places, and added somewhat of my own where i thought my author was deficient, and had not given his thoughts their true lustre, for want of words in the beginning of our language. and to this i was the more emboldened, because (if i may be permitted to say it of myself) i found i had a soul congenial to his, and that i had been conversant in the same studies. another poet, in another age, may take the same liberty with my writings, if, at least, they live long enough to deserve correction. it was also necessary sometimes to restore the sense of chaucer, which was lost or mangled in the errors of the press. let this example suffice at present. in the story of palamon and arcite, where the temple of diana is described, you find these verses in all the editions of our author:-- "there saw i danè turned into a tree, i mean not the goddess diane, but venus' daughter, which that hight danè:" which, after a little consideration, i knew was to be reformed into this sense, that daphne, the daughter of peneus, was turned into a tree. i durst not make thus bold with ovid, lest some future milbourn should arise, and say i varied from my author because i understood him not. but there are other judges who think i ought not to have translated chaucer into english, out of a quite contrary notion. they suppose there is a certain veneration due to his old language, and that it is little less than profanation and sacrilege to alter it. they are farther of opinion, that somewhat of his good sense will suffer in this transfusion, and much of the beauty of his thoughts will infallibly be lost, which appear with more grace in their old habit. of this opinion was that excellent person whom i mentioned, the late earl of leicester, who valued chaucer as much as mr cowley despised him. my lord dissuaded me from this attempt (for i was thinking of it some years before his death), and his authority prevailed so far with me, as to defer my undertaking while he lived, in deference to him; yet my reason was not convinced with what he urged against it. if the first end of a writer be to be understood, then, as his language grows obsolete, his thoughts must grow obscure: _multa renascentur quæ nunc cecidere, cadentque, quæ nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus, quem penes arbitrium est et jus et norma loquendi._ when an ancient word for its sound and significancy deserves to be revived, i have that reasonable veneration for antiquity to restore it. all beyond this is superstition. words are not like landmarks, so sacred as never to be removed; customs are changed, and even statutes are silently repealed, when the reason ceases for which they were enacted. as for the other part of the argument, that his thoughts will lose their original beauty by the innovation of words; in the first place, not only their beauty, but their being is lost, where they are no longer understood, which is the present case. i grant that something must be lost in all transfusion, that is, in all translations; but the sense will remain, which would otherwise be lost, or at least be maimed, when it is scarce intelligible, and that but to a few. how few are there who can read chaucer, so as to understand him perfectly! and if imperfectly, then with less profit and no pleasure. 'tis not for the use of some old saxon friends that i have taken these pains with him: let them neglect my version, because they have no need of it. i made it for their sakes who understand sense and poetry as well as they, when that poetry and sense is put into words which they understand. i will go further, and dare to add, that what beauties i lose in some places, i give to others which had them not originally; but in this i may be partial to myself; let the reader judge, and i submit to his decision. yet i think i have just occasion to complain of them, who, because they understand chaucer, would deprive the greater part of their countrymen of the same advantage, and hoard him up, as misers do their grandam, gold, only to look on it themselves, and hinder others from making use of it. in sum, i seriously protest that no man ever had, or can have, a greater veneration for chaucer than myself. i have translated some part of his works, only that i might perpetuate his memory, or at least refresh it, amongst my countrymen. if i have altered him anywhere for the better, i must at the same time acknowledge that i could have done nothing without him: _facile est inventis addere_ is no great commendation, and i am not so vain to think i have deserved a greater. i will conclude what i have to say of him singly, with this one remark: a lady of my acquaintance, who keeps a kind of correspondence with some authors of the fair sex in france, has been informed by them that mademoiselle de scudery, who is as old as sibyl, and inspired like her by the same god of poetry, is at this time translating chaucer into modern french; from which i gather that he has been formerly translated into the old provençal, (for how she should come to understand old english i know not). but the matter of fact being true, it makes me think that there is something in it like fatality; that, after certain periods of time, the fame and memory of great wits should be renewed, as chaucer is both in france and england. if this be wholly chance, 'tis extraordinary, and i dare not call it more for fear of being taxed with superstition. boccace comes last to be considered, who, living in the same age with chaucer, had the same genius, and followed the same studies. both writ novels, and each of them cultivated his mother tongue. but the greatest resemblance of our two modern authors being in their familiar style, and pleasing way of relating comical adventures, i may pass it over, because i have translated nothing from boccace of that nature. in the serious part of poetry, the advantage is wholly on chaucer's side; for though the englishman has borrowed many tales from the italian, yet it appears that those of boccace were not generally of his own making, but taken from authors of former ages, and by him only modelled; so that what there was of invention in either of them may be judged equal. but chaucer has refined on boccace, and has mended the stories which he has borrowed, in his way of telling; though prose allows more liberty of thought, and the expression is more easy when unconfined by numbers. our countryman carries weight, and yet wins the race at disadvantage. i desire not the reader should take my word, and, therefore, i will set two of their discourses on the same subject, in the same light, for every man to judge betwixt them. i translated chaucer first, and, amongst the rest, pitched on the wife of bath's tale, not daring, as i have said, to adventure on her prologue, because it is too licentious. there chaucer introduces an old woman of mean parentage, whom a youthful knight of noble blood was forced to marry, and consequently loathed her. the crone being in bed with him on the wedding night, and finding his aversion, endeavours to win his affection by reason, and speaks a good word for herself, (as who could blame her?) in hope to mollify the sullen bridegroom. she takes her topics from the benefits of poverty, the advantages of old age and ugliness, the vanity of youth, and the silly pride of ancestry and titles without inherent virtue, which is the true nobility. when i had closed chaucer i returned to ovid and translated some more of his fables, and by this time had so far forgotten the wife of bath's tale, that, when i took up boccace, unawares i fell on the same argument of preferring virtue to nobility of blood and titles, in the story of sigismunda, which i had certainly avoided for the resemblance of the two discourses, if my memory had not failed me. let the reader weigh them both, and if he thinks me partial to chaucer, it is in him to right boccace. i prefer in our countryman, far above all his other stories, the noble poem of palamon and arcite, which is of the epic kind, and perhaps not much inferior to the ilias, or the Æneis. the story is more pleasing than either of them, the manners as perfect, the diction as poetical, the learning as deep and various, and the disposition full as artful,--only it includes a greater length of time, as taking up seven years at least; but aristotle has left undecided the duration of the action, which, yet, is easily reduced into the compass of a year by a narration of what preceded the return of palamon to athens. i had thought, for the honour of our nation, and more particularly for his, whose laurel, though unworthy, i have worn after him, that this story was of english growth, and chaucer's own; but i was undeceived by boccace, for, casually looking on the end of his seventh giornata, i found dioneo (under which name he shadows himself) and fiametta (who represents his mistress, the natural daughter of robert king of naples) of whom these words are spoken: _dioneo e la fiametta granpezza contarono insieme d'arcita e di palamone_: by which it appears that this story was written before the time of boccace, but the name of its author being wholly lost, chaucer is now become an original, and i question not but the poem has received many beauties by passing through his noble hands. besides this tale, there is another of his own invention, after the manner of the provençals, called "the flower and the leaf," with which i was so particularly pleased, both for the invention and the moral, that i cannot hinder myself from recommending it to the reader. as a corollary to this preface, in which i have done justice to others, i owe somewhat to myself: not that i think it worth my time to enter the lists with one milbourn, and one blackmore, but barely to take notice, that such men there are, who have written scurrilously against me without any provocation. milbourn, who is in orders, pretends, amongst the rest, this quarrel to me, that i have fallen foul on priesthood. if i have, i am only to ask pardon of good priests, and am afraid his part of the reparation will come to little. let him be satisfied that he shall not be able to force himself upon me for an adversary. i contemn him too much to enter into competition with him. his own translations of virgil have answered his criticisms on mine. if (as they say he has declared in print) he prefers the version of ogilby to mine, the world has made him the same compliment: for it is agreed on all hands that he writes even below ogilby: that, you will say, is not easily to be done; but what cannot milbourn bring about? i am satisfied, however, that while he and i live together, i shall not be thought the worst poet of the age. it looks as if i had desired him underhand to write so ill against me; but upon my honest word i have not bribed him to do me this service, and am wholly guiltless of his pamphlet. 'tis true, i should be glad, if i could persuade him to continue his good offices, and write such another critique on any thing of mine; for i find by experience he has a great stroke with the reader, when he condemns any of my poems, to make the world have a better opinion of them. he has taken some pains with my poetry; but nobody will be persuaded to take the same with his. if i had taken to the church (as he affirms, but which was never in my thoughts), i should have had more sense, if not more grace, than to have turned myself out of my benefice by writing libels on my parishioners. but his account of my manners and my principles are of a piece with his cavils and his poetry; and so i have done with him for ever. as for the city bard, or knight physician, i hear his quarrel to me is, that i was the author of absalom and achitophel, which he thinks is a little hard on his fanatic patrons in london. but i will deal the more civilly with his two poems, because nothing ill is to be spoken of the dead; and therefore peace be to the manes of his arthurs! i will only say, that it was not for this noble knight that i drew the plan of an epic poem on king arthur, in my preface to the translation of juvenal. the guardian angels of kingdoms were machines too ponderous for him to manage; and therefore he rejected them, as dares did the whirlbats of eryx, when they were thrown before him by entellus. yet from that preface he plainly took his hint; for he began immediately upon the story, though he had the baseness not to acknowledge his benefactor, but instead of it, to traduce me in a libel. i shall say the less of mr collier, because in many things he has taxed me justly; and i have pleaded guilty to all thoughts and expressions of mine, which can be truly argued of obscenity, profaneness, or immorality; and retract them. if he be my enemy, let him triumph; if he be my friend, as i have given him no personal occasion to be otherwise, he will be glad of my repentance. it becomes me not to draw my pen in the defence of a bad cause, when i have so often drawn it for a good one. yet it were not difficult to prove, that in many places he has perverted my meaning by his glosses; and interpreted my words into blasphemy and bawdry, of which they were not guilty; besides that he is too much given to horse-play in his raillery; and comes to battle like a dictator from the plough. i will not say, the zeal of god's house has eaten him up; but i am sure it has devoured some part of his good-manners and civility. it might also be doubted whether it were altogether zeal which prompted him to this rough manner of proceeding: perhaps it became not one of his function to rake into the rubbish of ancient and modern plays: a divine might have employed his pains to better purpose than in the nastiness of plautus and aristophanes; whose examples, as they excuse not me, so it might be possibly supposed that he read them not without some pleasure. they who have written commentaries on those poets, or on horace, juvenal, and martial, have explained some vices, which without their interpretation had been unknown to modern times. neither has he judged impartially betwixt the former age and us. there is more bawdry in one play of fletcher's, called "the custom of the country," than in all ours together. yet this has been often acted on the stage in my remembrance. are the times so much more reformed now, than they were five-and-twenty years ago? if they are, i congratulate the amendment of our morals. but i am not to prejudice the cause of my fellow-poets, though i abandon my own defence. they have some of them answered for themselves, and neither they nor i can think mr collier so formidable an enemy that we should shun him. he has lost ground at the latter end of the day, by pursuing his point too far, like the prince of conde at the battle of senneffe: from immoral plays, to no plays; _ab abusu ad usum non valet consequentia_. but being a party, i am not to erect myself into a judge. as for the rest of those who have written against me, they are such scoundrels, that they deserve not the least notice to be taken of them. blackmore and milbourn are only distinguished from the crowd, by being remembered to their infamy. --demetri, teque tigelli discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras. * * * * * to her grace the duchess of ormond,[ ] with the following poem of palamon and arcite. madam, the bard who first adorn'd our native tongue, tuned to his british lyre this ancient song: which homer might without a blush rehearse, and leaves a doubtful palm in virgil's verse: he match'd their beauties, where they most excel; of love sung better, and of arms as well. vouchsafe, illustrious ormond! to behold what power the charms of beauty had of old; nor wonder if such deeds of arms were done, inspired by two fair eyes that sparkled like your own. if chaucer by the best idea wrought, and poets can divine each other's thought, the fairest nymph before his eyes he set; and then the fairest was plantagenet; who three contending princes made her prize, and ruled the rival nations with her eyes: who left immortal trophies of her fame, and to the noblest order gave the name. like her, of equal kindred to the throne, you keep her conquests, and extend your own: as when the stars in their ethereal race, at length have roll'd around the liquid space, at certain periods they resume their place; from the same point of heaven their course advance, and move in measures of their former dance; thus, after length of ages, she returns, restored in you, and the same place adorns; or you perform her office in the sphere, born of her blood, and make a new platonic year. o true plantagenet! o race divine! (for beauty still is fatal to the line) had chaucer lived that angel-face to view, sure he had drawn his emily from you; or had you lived to judge the doubtful right, your noble palamon had been the knight; and conquering theseus from his side had sent your generous lord, to guide the theban government. time shall accomplish that; and i shall see a palamon in him, in you an emily. already have the fates your path prepared, and sure presage your future sway declared: when westward, like the sun, you took your way, and from benighted britain bore the day, blue triton gave the signal from the shore, the ready nereids heard, and swam before, to smooth the seas; a soft etesian gale but just inspired, and gently swell'd the sail; portunus took his turn, whose ample hand heaved up his lighten'd keel, and sunk the sand, and steer'd the sacred vessel safe to land. the land, if not restrain'd, had met your way, projected out a neck, and jutted to the sea. hibernia, prostrate at your feet, adored in you the pledge of her expected lord; due to her isle; a venerable name; his father and his grandsire known to fame; awed by that house, accustom'd to command, the sturdy kerns in due subjection stand; nor bear the reins in any foreign hand. at your approach, they crowded to the port; and scarcely landed, you create a court: as ormond's harbinger, to you they run; for venus is the promise of the sun. the waste of civil wars, their towns destroy'd, pales unhonour'd, ceres unemploy'd, were all forgot; and one triumphant day wiped all the tears of three campaigns away. blood, rapines, massacres, were cheaply bought, so mighty recompence your beauty brought. as when the dove returning bore the mark of earth restored to the long labouring ark, the relics of mankind, secure of rest, oped every window to receive the guest, and the fair bearer of the message bless'd; so, when you came, with loud repeated cries, the nation took an omen from your eyes, and god advanced his rainbow in the skies, to sign inviolable peace restored; the saints, with solemn shouts, proclaim'd the new accord. when at your second coming you appear, (for i foretell that millenary year) the sharpen'd share shall vex the soil no more, but earth unbidden shall produce her store; the land shall laugh, the circling ocean smile, and heaven's indulgence bless the holy isle. heaven from all ages has reserved for you that happy clime, which venom never knew; or if it had been there, your eyes alone have power to chase all poison, but their own. now in this interval, which fate has cast betwixt your future glories, and your past, this pause of power, 'tis ireland's hour to mourn; while england celebrates your safe return, by which you seem the seasons to command, and bring our summers back to their forsaken land. the vanquish'd isle our leisure must attend, till the fair blessing we vouchsafe to send; nor can we spare you long, though often we may lend. the dove was twice employ'd abroad, before the world was dried, and she return'd no more. nor dare we trust so soft a messenger, new from her sickness, to that northern air: rest here a while, your lustre to restore, that they may see you as you shone before; for yet the eclipse not wholly past, you wade through some remains, and dimness of a shade. a subject in his prince may claim a right, nor suffer him with strength impair'd to fight; till force returns, his ardour we restrain, and curb his warlike wish to cross the main. now past the danger, let the learn'd begin the inquiry where disease could enter in; how those malignant atoms forced their way; what in the faultless frame they found to make their prey, where every element was weigh'd so well, that heaven alone, who mix'd the mass, could tell which of the four ingredients could rebel; and where, imprison'd in so sweet a cage, a soul might well be pleased to pass an age. and yet the fine materials made it weak: porcelain, by being pure, is apt to break: even to your breast the sickness durst aspire; and, forced from that fair temple to retire, profanely set the holy place on fire. in vain your lord, like young vespasian, mourn'd when the fierce flames the sanctuary burn'd: and i prepared to pay in verses rude a most detested act of gratitude: even this had been your elegy, which now is offer'd for your health, the table of my vow. your angel sure our morley's mind inspired, to find the remedy your ill required; as once the macedon, by jove's decree, was taught to dream an herb for ptolemy: or heaven, which had such over-cost bestow'd, as scarce it could afford to flesh and blood, so liked the frame, he would not work anew, to save the charges of another you. or by his middle science did he steer, and saw some great contingent good appear, well worth a miracle to keep you here: and for that end preserved the precious mould, which all the future ormonds was to hold; and meditated in his better mind an heir from you, which may redeem the failing kind. blest be the power which has at once restored the hopes of lost succession to your lord! joy to the first and last of each degree-- virtue to courts, and, what i long'd to see, to you the graces, and the muse to me! o daughter of the rose! whose cheeks unite the differing titles of the red and white; who heaven's alternate beauty well display, the blush of morning, and the milky way; whose face is paradise, but fenced from sin: for god in either eye has placed a cherubin. all is your lord's alone; even absent, he employs the care of chaste penelope. for him you waste in tears your widow'd hours, for him your curious needle paints the flowers; such works of old imperial dames were taught; such, for ascanius, fair eliza wrought. the soft recesses of your hours improve the three fair pledges of your happy love: all other parts of pious duty done, you owe your ormond nothing but a son; to fill in future times his father's place, and wear the garter of his mother's race. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'duchess of ormond:' daughter of duke of bedford, afterwards lieutenant of ireland, and who had recently visited it.] * * * * * palamon and arcite: or, the knight's tale. book i. in days of old, there lived, of mighty fame, a valiant prince, and theseus was his name: a chief, who more in feats of arms excell'd, the rising nor the setting sun beheld. of athens he was lord; much land he won, and added foreign countries to his crown. in scythia with the warrior queen he strove, whom first by force he conquer'd, then by love; he brought in triumph back the beauteous dame, with whom her sister, fair emilia, came. with honour to his home let theseus ride, with love to friend, and fortune for his guide, and his victorious army at his side. i pass their warlike pomp, their proud array, their shouts, their songs, their welcome on the way. but, were it not too long, i would recite the feats of amazons, the fatal fight betwixt the hardy queen and hero knight; the town besieged, and how much blood it cost the female army, and the athenian host; the spousals of hippolita the queen; what tilts and tourneys at the feast were seen; the storm at their return, the ladies' fear: but these, and other things, i must forbear. the field is spacious i design to sow, with oxen far unfit to draw the plough: the remnant of my tale is of a length to tire your patience, and to waste my strength; and trivial accidents shall be forborne, that others may have time to take their turn; as was at first enjoin'd us by mine host: that he whose tale is best, and pleases most, should win his supper at our common cost. and therefore where i left, i will pursue this ancient story, whether false or true, in hope it may be mended with a new. the prince i mention'd, full of high renown, in this array drew near the athenian town; when in his pomp and utmost of his pride, marching he chanced to cast his eye aside, and saw a choir of mourning dames, who lay by two and two across the common way: at his approach they raised a rueful cry, and beat their breasts, and held their hands on high, creeping and crying, till they seized at last his courser's bridle, and his feet embraced. tell me, said theseus, what and whence you are, and why this funeral pageant you prepare? is this the welcome of my worthy deeds, to meet my triumph in ill-omen'd weeds? or envy you my praise, and would destroy with grief my pleasures, and pollute my joy? or are you injured, and demand relief? name your request, and i will ease your grief. the most in years of all the mourning train began; but swooned first away for pain, then scarce recover'd spoke: nor envy we thy great renown, nor grudge thy victory; 'tis thine, o king, the afflicted to redress, and fame has fill'd the world with thy success: we wretched women sue for that alone, which of thy goodness is refused to none; let fall some drops of pity on our grief, if what we beg be just, and we deserve relief: for none of us, who now thy grace implore, but held the rank of sovereign queen before; till, thanks to giddy chance, which never bears, that mortal bliss should last for length of years, she cast us headlong from our high estate, and here in hope of thy return we wait: and long have waited in the temple nigh, built to the gracious goddess clemency. but reverence thou the power whose name it bears, relieve the oppress'd, and wipe the widow's tears. i, wretched i, have other fortune seen, the wife of capaneus, and once a queen: at thebes he fell; cursed be the fatal day! and all the rest thou seest in this array, to make their moan, their lords in battle lost before that town besieged by our confederate host: but creon, old and impious, who commands the theban city, and usurps the lands, denies the rites of funeral fires to those whose breathless bodies yet he calls his foes. unburn'd, unburied, on a heap they lie; such is their fate, and such his tyranny; no friend has leave to bear away the dead, but with their lifeless limbs his hounds are fed. at this she shriek'd aloud; the mournful train echoed her grief, and grovelling on the plain, with groans, and hands upheld, to move his mind, besought his pity to their helpless kind! the prince was touch'd, his tears began to flow, and, as his tender heart would break in two, he sigh'd, and could not but their fate deplore, so wretched now, so fortunate before. then lightly from his lofty steed he flew, and, raising one by one the suppliant crew, to comfort each full solemnly he swore, that by the faith which knights to knighthood bore, and whate'er else to chivalry belongs, he would not cease, till he revenged their wrongs: that greece should see perform'd what he declared; and cruel creon find his just reward. he said no more, but, shunning all delay, rode on; nor enter'd athens on his way: but left his sister and his queen behind, and waved his royal banner in the wind: where in an argent field the god of war was drawn triumphant on his iron car; red was his sword, and shield, and whole attire, and all the godhead seem'd to glow with fire; even the ground glitter'd where the standard flew, and the green grass was dyed to sanguine hue. high on his pointed lance his pennon bore his cretan fight, the conquer'd minotaur: the soldiers shout around with generous rage, and in that victory their own presage. he praised their ardour: inly pleased to see his host the flower of grecian chivalry, all day he march'd, and all the ensuing night, and saw the city with returning light. the process of the war i need not tell, how theseus conquer'd, and how creon fell: or after, how by storm the walls were won, or how the victor sack'd and burn'd the town: how to the ladies he restored again the bodies of their lords in battle slain: and with what ancient rites they were interr'd; all these to fitter times shall be deferr'd. i spare the widows' tears, their woeful cries, and howling at their husbands' obsequies; how theseus at these funerals did assist, and with what gifts the mourning dames dismiss'd. thus when the victor chief had creon slain, and conquer'd thebes, he pitch'd upon the plain his mighty camp, and, when the day return'd, the country wasted, and the hamlets burn'd, and left the pillagers, to rapine bred, without control to strip and spoil the dead. there, in a heap of slain, among the rest two youthful knights they found beneath a load oppress'd of slaughter'd foes, whom first to death they sent-- the trophies of their strength, a bloody monument. both fair, and both of royal blood they seem'd, whom kinsmen to the crown the heralds deem'd; that day in equal arms they fought for fame; their swords, their shields, their surcoats were the same. close by each other laid, they press'd the ground, their manly bosoms pierced with many a grisly wound; nor well alive, nor wholly dead they were, but some faint signs of feeble life appear: the wandering breath was on the wing to part, weak was the pulse, and hardly heaved the heart. these two were sisters' sons; and arcite one much famed in fields, with valiant palamon. from these their costly arms the spoilers rent, and softly both convey'd to theseus' tent: whom, known of creon's line, and cured with care, he to his city sent as prisoners of the war, hopeless of ransom, and condemn'd to lie in durance, doom'd a lingering death to die. this done, he march'd away with warlike sound, and to his athens turn'd, with laurels crown'd, where happy long he lived, much loved, and more renown'd. but in a tower, and never to be loosed, the woful captive kinsmen are enclosed. thus year by year they pass, and day by day, till once, 'twas on the morn of cheerful may, the young emilia, fairer to be seen than the fair lily on the flowery green, more fresh than may herself in blossoms new, for with the rosy colour strove her hue, waked, as her custom was, before the day, to do the observance due to sprightly may: for sprightly may commands our youth to keep the vigils of her night, and breaks their sluggard sleep; each gentle breast with kindly warmth she moves; inspires new flames, revives extinguish'd loves. in this remembrance, emily, ere day, arose, and dress'd herself in rich array; fresh as the month, and as the morning fair: adown her shoulders fell her length of hair: a riband did the braided tresses bind, the rest was loose and wanton'd in the wind. aurora had but newly chased the night, and purpled o'er the sky with blushing light, when to the garden walk she took her way, to sport and trip along in cool of day, and offer maiden vows in honour of the may. at every turn, she made a little stand, and thrust among the thorns her lily hand to draw the rose, and every rose she drew she shook the stalk, and brush'd away the dew: then party-colour'd flowers of white and red she wove, to make a garland for her head: this done, she sung and caroll'd out so clear, that men and angels might rejoice to hear: even wondering philomel forgot to sing; and learn'd from her to welcome in the spring. the tower, of which before was mention made, within whose keep the captive knights were laid, built of a large extent, and strong withal, was one partition of the palace wall; the garden was enclosed within the square where young emilia took the morning air. it happen'd palamon, the prisoner knight, restless for woe, arose before the light, and with his jailer's leave desired to breathe an air more wholesome than the damps beneath. this granted, to the tower he took his way, cheer'd with the promise of a glorious day: then cast a languishing regard around, and saw, with hateful eyes, the temples crown'd with golden spires, and all the hostile ground. he sigh'd, and turn'd his eyes, because he knew 'twas but a larger jail he had in view: then look'd below, and from the castle's height beheld a nearer and more pleasing sight: the garden, which before he had not seen, in spring's new livery clad of white and green, fresh flowers in wide parterres, and shady walks between. this view'd, but not enjoy'd, with arms across he stood, reflecting on his country's loss; himself an object of the public scorn, and often wish'd he never had been born. at last, for so his destiny required, with walking giddy, and with thinking tired, he through a little window cast his sight, though thick of bars, that gave a scanty light: but even that glimmering served him to descry the inevitable charms of emily. scarce had he seen, but seized with sudden smart, stung to the quick, he felt it at his heart; struck blind with overpowering light he stood, then started back amazed, and cried aloud. young arcite heard; and up he ran with haste, to help his friend, and in his arms embraced; and ask'd him why he look'd so deadly wan, and whence and how his change of cheer began? or who had done the offence? but if, said he, your grief alone is hard captivity; for love of heaven, with patience undergo a cureless ill, since fate will have it so: so stood our horoscope in chains to lie, and saturn in the dungeon of the sky, or other baleful aspect, ruled our birth, when all the friendly stars were under earth: whate'er betides, by destiny 'tis done; and better bear like men, than vainly seek to shun. nor of my bonds, said palamon again, nor of unhappy planets i complain; but when my mortal anguish caused my cry, that moment i was hurt through either eye; pierced with a random shaft, i faint away, and perish with insensible decay; a glance of some new goddess gave the wound, whom, like actaeon, unaware i found. look how she walks along yon shady space! not juno moves with more majestic grace; and all the cyprian queen is in her face. if thou art venus (for thy charms confess that face was form'd in heaven, nor art thou less disguised in habit, undisguised in shape), oh, help us captives from our chains to 'scape! but if our doom be past in bonds to lie for life, and in a loathsome dungeon die, then be thy wrath appeased with our disgrace, and show compassion to the theban race, oppress'd by tyrant power! while yet he spoke, arcite on emily had fix'd his look; the fatal dart a ready passage found, and deep within his heart infix'd the wound: so that if palamon were wounded sore, arcite was hurt as much as he, or more: then from his inmost soul he sigh'd, and said, the beauty i behold has struck me dead: unknowingly she strikes; and kills by chance; poison is in her eyes, and death in every glance. oh, i must ask; nor ask alone, but move her mind to mercy, or must die for love! thus arcite: and thus palamon replies, (eager his tone and ardent were his eyes): speak'st thou in earnest, or in jesting vein? jesting, said arcite, suits but ill with pain. it suits far worse (said palamon again, and bent his brows) with men who honour weigh, their faith to break, their friendship to betray; but worst with thee, of noble lineage born, my kinsman, and in arms my brother sworn. have we not plighted each our holy oath, that one should be the common good of both; one soul should both inspire, and neither prove his fellow's hindrance in pursuit of love? to this before the gods we gave our hands, and nothing but our death can break the bands. this binds thee, then, to further my design, as i am bound by vow to further thine: nor canst, nor dar'st thou, traitor, on the plain appeach my honour, or thine own maintain, since thou art of my council, and the friend whose faith i trust, and on whose care depend: and would'st thou court my lady's love, which i much rather than release would choose to die? but thou, false arcite, never shall obtain thy bad pretence; i told thee first my pain; for first my love began ere thine was born: thou as my council, and my brother sworn, art bound to assist my eldership of right, or justly to be deem'd a perjured knight. thus palamon: but arcite with disdain in haughty language thus replied again: forsworn thyself: the traitor's odious name i first return, and then disprove thy claim. if love be passion, and that passion nursed with strong desires, i loved the lady first. canst thou pretend desire, whom zeal inflamed to worship, and a power celestial named? thine was devotion to the blest above, i saw the woman and desired her love; first own'd my passion, and to thee commend the important secret, as my chosen friend. suppose (which yet i grant not) thy desire a moment elder than my rival fire; can chance of seeing first thy title prove? and know'st thou not, no law is made for love? law is to things which to free choice relate; love is not in our choice, but in our fate; laws are but positive; love's power, we see, is nature's sanction, and her first decree. each day we break the bond of human laws for love, and vindicate the common cause. laws for defence of civil rights are placed, love throws the fences down, and makes a general waste; maids, widows, wives, without distinction fall; the sweeping deluge, love, comes on, and covers all. if, then, the laws of friendship i transgress, i keep the greater, while i break the less; and both are mad alike, since neither can possess. both hopeless to be ransom'd, never more to see the sun, but as he passes o'er. like Æsop's hounds contending for the bone, each pleaded right, and would be lord alone: the fruitless fight continued all the day; a cur came by, and snatch'd the prize away. as courtiers, therefore, jostle for a grant, and when they break their friendship, plead their want; so thou, if fortune will thy suit advance, love on, nor envy me my equal chance; for i must love, and am resolved to try my fate, or, failing in the adventure, die. great was their strife, which hourly was renew'd, till each with mortal hate his rival view'd; now friends no more, nor walking hand in hand; but when they met, they made a surly stand; and glared like angry lions as they pass'd, and wish'd that every look might be their last. it chanced at length, pirithous came to attend this worthy theseus, his familiar friend: their love in early infancy began, and rose as childhood ripen'd into man. companions of the war; and loved so well, that when one died, as ancient stories tell, his fellow to redeem him went to hell. but to pursue my tale; to welcome home his warlike brother is pirithous come: arcite of thebes was known in arms long since, and honour'd by this young thessalian prince. theseus, to gratify his friend and guest, who made our arcite's freedom his request, restored to liberty the captive knight, but on these hard conditions i recite: that if hereafter arcite should be found within the compass of athenian ground, by day or night, or on whate'er pretence, his head should pay the forfeit of the offence. to this pirithous for his friend agreed, and on his promise was the prisoner freed. unpleased and pensive hence he takes his way, at his own peril; for his life must pay. who now but arcite mourns his bitter fate, finds his dear purchase, and repents too late? what have i gain'd, he said, in prison pent, if i but change my bonds for banishment? and banish'd from her sight, i suffer more in freedom than i felt in bonds before; forced from her presence, and condemn'd to live: unwelcome freedom, and unthank'd reprieve! heaven is not, but where emily abides, and where she's absent, all is hell besides. next to my day of birth, was that accursed, which bound my friendship to pirithous first: had i not known that prince, i still had been in bondage, and had still emilia seen: for though i never can her grace deserve, 'tis recompence enough to see and serve. o palamon, my kinsman and my friend, how much more happy fates thy love attend! thine is the adventure; thine the victory: well has thy fortune turn'd the dice for thee: thou on that angel's face may'st feed thine eyes, in prison, no; but blissful paradise! thou daily seest that sun of beauty shine, and lovest at least in love's extremest line. i mourn in absence, love's eternal night; and who can tell but since thou hast her sight, and art a comely, young, and valiant knight, fortune (a various power) may cease to frown, and by some ways unknown thy wishes crown? but i, the most forlorn of human kind, nor help can hope, nor remedy can find; but doom'd to drag my loathsome life in care, for my reward, must end it in despair. fire, water, air, and earth, and force of fates, that governs all, and heaven that all creates, nor art, nor nature's hand can ease my grief; nothing but death, the wretch's last relief: then farewell youth, and all the joys that dwell, with youth and life, and life itself farewell! but why, alas! do mortal men in vain of fortune, fate, or providence complain? god gives us what he knows our wants require, and better things than those which we desire: some pray for riches; riches they obtain; but, watch'd by robbers, for their wealth are slain: some pray from prison to be freed; and come, when guilty of their vows, to fall at home; murder'd by those they trusted with their life, a favour'd servant, or a bosom wife. such dear-bought blessings happen every day, because we know not for what things to pray. like drunken sots about the street we roam; well knows the sot he has a certain home; yet knows not how to find the uncertain place, and blunders on, and staggers every pace. thus all seek happiness; but few can find. for far the greater part of men are blind. this is my case, who thought our utmost good was in one word of freedom understood: the fatal blessing came: from prison free, i starve abroad, and lose the sight of emily. thus arcite; but if arcite thus deplore his sufferings, palamon yet suffers more. for when he knew his rival freed and gone, he swells with wrath; he makes outrageous moan: he frets, he fumes, he stares, he stamps the ground; the hollow tower with clamours rings around: with briny tears he bathed his fetter'd feet, and dropp'd all o'er with agony of sweat. alas! he cried, i wretch in prison pine, too happy rival, while the fruit is thine: thou livest at large, thou draw'st thy native air, pleased with thy freedom, proud of my despair: thou may'st, since thou hast youth and courage join'd, a sweet behaviour and a solid mind, assemble ours, and all the theban race, to vindicate on athens thy disgrace; and after, by some treaty made, possess fair emily, the pledge of lasting peace. so thine shall be the beauteous prize, while i must languish in despair, in prison die. thus all the advantage of the strife is thine, thy portion double joys, and double sorrows mine. the rage of jealousy then fired his soul, and his face kindled like a burning coal: now cold despair, succeeding in her stead, to livid paleness turns the glowing red. his blood, scarce liquid, creeps within his veins, like water which the freezing wind constrains. then thus he said: eternal deities, who rule the world with absolute decrees, and write whatever time shall bring to pass, with pens of adamant on plates of brass; what! is the race of human kind your care, beyond what all his fellow-creatures are? he with the rest is liable to pain, and like the sheep, his brother-beast, is slain; cold, hunger, prisons, ills without a cure, all these he must, and guiltless, oft endure. or does your justice, power, or prescience fail, when the good suffer, and the bad prevail? what worse to wretched virtue could befall, if fate or giddy fortune govern'd all? nay, worse than other beasts is our estate; them, to pursue their pleasures, you create; we, bound by harder laws, must curb our will, and your commands, not our desires, fulfil; then when the creature is unjustly slain, yet after death, at least, he feels no pain; but man, in life surcharged with woe before, not freed when dead, is doom'd to suffer more. a serpent shoots his sting at unaware; an ambush'd thief forelays a traveller: the man lies murder'd, while the thief and snake, one gains the thickets, and one threads the brake. this let divines decide; but well i know, just, or unjust, i have my share of woe, through saturn seated in a luckless place, and juno's wrath, that persecutes my race; or mars and venus, in a quartile, move my pangs of jealousy for arcite's love. let palamon oppress'd in bondage mourn, while to his exiled rival we return. by this, the sun, declining from his height, the day had shorten'd to prolong the night; the lengthen'd night gave length of misery both to the captive lover and the free. for palamon in endless prison mourns, and arcite forfeits life if he returns: the banish'd never hopes his love to see, nor hopes the captive lord his liberty. 'tis hard to say who suffers greater pains: one sees his love, but cannot break his chains: one free, and all his motions uncontroll'd, beholds whate'er he would, but what he would behold. judge as you please, for i will haste to tell what fortune to the banish'd knight befell. when arcite was to thebes return'd again, the loss of her he loved renew'd his pain; what could be worse, than never more to see his life, his soul, his charming emily? he raved with all the madness of despair, he roar'd, he beat his breast, he tore his hair. dry sorrow in his stupid eyes appears, for, wanting nourishment, he wanted tears: his eye-balls in their hollow sockets sink, bereft of sleep, he loathes his meat and drink. he withers at his heart, and looks as wan as the pale spectre of a murder'd man: that pale turns yellow, and his face receives the faded hue of sapless boxen leaves: in solitary groves he makes his moan, walks early out, and ever is alone: nor, mix'd in mirth, in youthful pleasures shares, but sighs when songs and instruments he hears. his spirits are so low, his voice is drown'd, he hears as from afar, or in a swound, like the deaf murmurs of a distant sound: uncomb'd his locks and squalid his attire, unlike the trim of love and gay desire; but full of museful mopings, which presage the loss of reason, and conclude in rage. this when he had endured a year and more, now wholly changed from what he was before, it happen'd once, that, slumbering as he lay, he dream'd (his dream began at break of day) that hermes o'er his head in air appear'd, and with soft words his drooping spirits cheer'd: his hat, adorn'd with wings, disclosed the god, and in his hand he bore the sleep-compelling rod: such as he seem'd, when, at his sire's command, on argus' head he laid the snaky wand. arise, he said, to conquering athens go, there fate appoints an end to all thy woe. the fright awaken'd arcite with a start, against his bosom bounced his heaving heart; but soon he said, with scarce-recover'd breath, and thither will i go, to meet my death. sure to be slain; but death is my desire, since in emilia's sight i shall expire. by chance he spied a mirror while he spoke, and gazing there, beheld his alter'd look; wondering, he saw his features and his hue so much were changed, that scarce himself he knew. a sudden thought then starting in his mind, since i in arcite cannot arcite find, the world may search in vain with all their eyes, but never penetrate through this disguise. thanks to the change which grief and sickness give, in low estate i may securely live, and see unknown my mistress day by day. he said; and clothed himself in coarse array: a labouring hind in show; then forth he went, and to the athenian towers his journey bent: one squire attended in the same disguise, made conscious of his master's enterprise. arrived at athens, soon he came to court, unknown, unquestion'd in that thick resort: proffering for hire his service at the gate, to drudge, draw water, and to run or wait. so fair befell him, that for little gain he served at first emilia's chamberlain; and, watchful all advantages to spy, was still at hand, and in his master's eye; and as his bones were big, and sinews strong, refused no toil that could to slaves belong; but from deep wells with engines water drew, and used his noble hands the wood to hew. he pass'd a year at least attending thus on emily, and call'd philostratus. but never was there man of his degree so much esteem'd, so well beloved as he. so gentle of condition was he known, that through the court his courtesy was blown: all think him worthy of a greater place, and recommend him to the royal grace; that, exercised within a higher sphere, his virtues more conspicuous might appear. thus by the general voice was arcite praised, and by great theseus to high favour raised; among his menial servants first enroll'd, and largely entertain'd with sums of gold: besides what secretly from thebes was sent, of his own income, and his annual rent: this well employ'd, he purchased friends and fame, but cautiously conceal'd from whence it came. thus for three years he lived with large increase, in arms of honour, and esteem in peace; to theseus' person he was ever near; and theseus for his virtues held him dear. book ii. while arcite lives in bliss, the story turns where hopeless palamon in prison mourns. for six long years immured, the captive knight had dragg'd his chains, and scarcely seen the light: lost liberty and love at once he bore: his prison pain'd him much, his passion more: nor dares he hope his fetters to remove, nor ever wishes to be free from love. but when the sixth revolving year was run, and may within the twins received the sun, were it by chance, or forceful destiny, which forms in causes first whate'er shall be, assisted by a friend, one moonless night, this palamon from prison took his flight: a pleasant beverage he prepared before of wine and honey, mix'd with added store of opium; to his keeper this he brought, who swallow'd unaware the sleepy draught, and snored secure till morn, his senses bound in slumber, and in long oblivion drown'd. short was the night, and careful palamon sought the next covert e'er the rising sun. a thick-spread forest near the city lay, to this with lengthen'd strides he took his way, (for far he could not fly, and fear'd the day). safe from pursuit, he meant to shun the light, till the brown shadows of the friendly night to thebes might favour his intended flight. when to his country come, his next design was all the theban race in arms to join, and war on theseus, till he lost his life, or won the beauteous emily to wife. thus while his thoughts the lingering day beguile, to gentle arcite let us turn our style; who little dreamt how nigh he was to care, till treacherous fortune caught him in the snare. the morning lark, the messenger of day, saluted in her song the morning gray; and soon the sun arose with beams so bright, that all the horizon laugh'd to see the joyous sight: he with his tepid rays the rose renews, and licks the drooping leaves, and dries the dews; when arcite left his bed, resolved to pay observance to the month of merry may: forth on his fiery steed betimes he rode, that scarcely prints the turf on which he trode: at ease he seem'd, and, prancing o'er the plains, turn'd only to the grove his horse's reins, the grove i named before; and, lighted there, a woodbine garland sought to crown his hair; then turn'd his face against the rising day, and raised his voice to welcome in the may. for thee, sweet month! the groves green liveries wear, if not the first, the fairest of the year: for thee the graces lead the dancing hours, and nature's ready pencil paints the flowers: when thy short reign is past, the feverish sun the sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on. so may thy tender blossoms fear no blight, nor goats with venom'd teeth thy tendrils bite, as thou shalt guide my wandering feet to find the fragrant greens i seek, my brows to bind. his vows address'd, within the grove he stray'd, till fate, or fortune, near the place convey'd his steps where, secret, palamon was laid. full little thought of him the gentle knight, who, flying death, had there conceal'd his flight, in brakes and brambles hid, and shunning mortal sight: and less he knew him for his hated foe, but fear'd him as a man he did not know. but as it has been said of ancient years, that fields are full of eyes, and woods have ears; for this the wise are ever on their guard, for, unforeseen, they say, is unprepared. uncautious arcite thought himself alone, and less than all suspected palamon, who, listening, heard him, while he search'd the grove, and loudly sung his roundelay of love: but on the sudden stopp'd, and silent stood, as lovers often muse, and change their mood; now high as heaven, and then as low as hell; now up, now down, as buckets in a well: for venus, like her day, will change her cheer, and seldom shall we see a friday clear. thus arcite having sung, with alter'd hue sunk on the ground, and from his bosom drew a desperate sigh, accusing heaven and fate, and angry juno's unrelenting hate. cursed be the day when first i did appear; let it be blotted from the calendar, lest it pollute the month, and poison all the year! still will the jealous queen pursue our race? cadmus is dead, the theban city was: yet ceases not her hate: for all who come from cadmus are involved in cadmus' doom. i suffer for my blood: unjust decree! that punishes another's crime on me. in mean estate i serve my mortal foe, the man who caused my country's overthrow. this is not all; for juno, to my shame, has forced me to forsake my former name; arcite i was, philostratus i am. that side of heaven is all my enemy: mars ruin'd thebes: his mother ruin'd me. of all the royal race remains but one besides myself, the unhappy palamon, whom theseus holds in bonds, and will not free; without a crime, except his kin to me. yet these, and all the rest, i could endure; but love's a malady without a cure: fierce love has pierced me with his fiery dart; he fires within, and hisses at my heart. your eyes, fair emily, my fate pursue; i suffer for the rest, i die for you! of such a goddess no time leaves record, who burn'd the temple where she was adored: and let it burn, i never will complain, pleased with my sufferings, if you knew my pain. at this a sickly qualm his heart assail'd, his ears ring inward, and his senses fail'd. no word miss'd palamon of all he spoke, but soon to deadly pale he changed his look: he trembled every limb, and felt a smart, as if cold steel had glided through his heart; no longer staid, but starting from his place, discover'd stood, and show'd his hostile face: false traitor, arcite! traitor to thy blood! bound by thy sacred oath to seek my good, now art thou found forsworn, for emily; and darest attempt her love, for whom i die. so hast thou cheated theseus with a wile, against thy vow, returning to beguile under a borrow'd name: as false to me, so false thou art to him who set thee free. but rest assured, that either thou shalt die, or else renounce thy claim in emily: for though unarm'd i am, and (freed by chance) am here without my sword, or pointed lance, hope not, base man, unquestioned hence to go, for i am palamon, thy mortal foe. arcite, who heard his tale, and knew the man, his sword unsheath'd, and fiercely thus began: now by the gods who govern heaven above, wert thou not weak with hunger, mad with love, that word had been thy last, or in this grove this hand should force thee to renounce thy love. the surety which i gave thee, i defy: fool, not to know that love endures no tie, and jove but laughs at lovers' perjury. know i will serve the fair in thy despite; but since thou art my kinsman, and a knight, here, have my faith, to-morrow in this grove our arms shall plead the titles of our love: and heaven so help my right, as i alone will come, and keep the cause and quarrel both unknown; with arms of proof both for myself and thee; choose thou the best, and leave the worst to me. and, that at better ease thou may'st abide, bedding and clothes i will this night provide, and needful sustenance, that thou may'st be a conquest better won, and worthy me. his promise palamon accepts; but pray'd to keep it better than the first he made. thus fair they parted till the morrow's dawn, for each had laid his plighted faith to pawn. oh, love! thou sternly dost thy power maintain, and wilt not bear a rival in thy reign; tyrants and thou all fellowship disdain! this was in arcite proved, and palamon, both in despair, yet each would love alone. arcite return'd, and, as in honour tied, his foe with bedding, and with food supplied; then, ere the day, two suits of armour sought, which, borne before him on his steed, he brought: both were of shining steel, and wrought so pure, as might the strokes of two such arms endure. now, at the time, and in the appointed place, the challenger and challenged, face to face, approach; each other from afar they knew, and from afar their hatred changed their hue. so stands the thracian herdsman with his spear, pull in the gap, and hopes the hunted bear, and hears him rustling in the wood, and sees his course at distance by the bending trees; and thinks, here comes my mortal enemy, and either he must fall in fight, or i: this while he thinks, he lifts aloft his dart; a generous chilness seizes every part: the veins pour back the blood, and fortify the heart. thus pale they meet; their eyes with fury burn; none greets; for none the greeting will return: but in dumb surliness, each arm'd with care his foe profess'd, as brother of the war: then both, no moment lost, at once advance against each other, arm'd with sword and lance: they lash, they foin, they pass, they strive to bore their corslets and the thinnest parts explore. thus two long hours in equal arms they stood, and wounded, wound, till both were bathed in blood; and not a foot of ground had either got, as if the world depended on the spot. fell arcite like an angry tiger fared, and like a lion palamon appear'd: or, as two boars, whom love to battle draws, with rising bristles, and with frothy jaws, their adverse breasts with tusks oblique they wound; with grunts and groans the forest rings around. so fought the knights, and fighting must abide, till fate an umpire sends their difference to decide. the power that ministers to god's decrees, and executes on earth what heaven foresees, call'd providence, or chance, or fatal sway, comes with resistless force, and finds or makes her way. nor kings, nor nations, nor united power, one moment can retard the appointed hour; and some one day, some wondrous chance appears, which happen'd not in centuries of years: for sure, whate'er we mortals hate, or love, or hope, or fear, depends on powers above; they move our appetites to good or ill, and by foresight necessitate the will. in theseus this appears; whose youthful joy was beasts of chase in forests to destroy: this gentle knight, inspired by jolly may, forsook his easy couch at early day, and to the wood and wilds pursued his way. beside him rode hippolita the queen, and emily attired in lively green, with horns, and hounds, and all the tuneful cry, to hunt a royal hart within the covert nigh: and as he follow'd mars before, so now he serves the goddess of the silver bow. the way that theseus took was to the wood where the two knights in cruel battle stood: the lawn on which they fought, the appointed place in which the uncoupled hounds began the chase. thither forth-right he rode to rouse the prey, that, shaded by the fern, in harbour lay; and thence dislodged, was wont to leave the wood for open fields, and cross the crystal flood. approach'd, and looking underneath the sun, he saw proud arcite, and fierce palamon, in mortal battle doubling blow on blow, like lightning flamed their falchions to and fro, and shot a dreadful gleam; so strong they strook, there seem'd less force required to fell an oak: he gazed with wonder on their equal might, look'd eager on, but knew not either knight: resolved to learn, he spurr'd his fiery steed with goring rowels to provoke his speed. the minute ended that began the race, so soon he was betwixt them on the place; and, with his sword unsheath'd, on pain of life commands both combatants to cease their strife: then with imperious tone pursues his threat: what are you? why in arms together met? how dares your pride presume against my laws, as in a listed field to fight your cause? unask'd the royal grant; no marshal by, as knightly rites require; nor judge to try? then palamon, with scarce recover'd breath, thus hasty spoke: we both deserve the death, and both would die; for look the world around, a pair so wretched is not to be found; our life's a load; encumber'd with the charge, we long to set the imprison'd soul at large. now, as thou art a sovereign judge, decree the rightful doom of death to him and me; let neither find thy grace, for grace is cruelty. me first, oh, kill me first, and cure my woe; then sheath the sword of justice on my foe: or kill him first; for when his name is heard, he foremost will receive his due reward. arcite of thebes is he; thy mortal foe: on whom thy grace did liberty bestow, but first contracted, that if ever found by day or night upon the athenian ground, his head should pay the forfeit; see return'd the perjured knight, his oath and honour scorn'd. for this is he, who, with a borrow'd name and proffer'd service, to thy palace came, now call'd philostratus: retain'd by thee, a traitor trusted, and in high degree, aspiring to the bed of beauteous emily. my part remains; from thebes my birth i own, and call myself the unhappy palamon. think me not like that man; since no disgrace can force me to renounce the honour of my race. know me for what i am: i broke my chain, nor promised i thy prisoner to remain: the love of liberty with life is given, and life itself the inferior gift of heaven. thus without crime i fled; but further know, i, with this arcite, am thy mortal foe: then give me death, since i thy life pursue; for safeguard of thyself, death is my due. more would'st thou know? i love bright emily, and, for her sake, and in her sight will die: but kill my rival too; for he no less deserves; and i thy righteous doom will bless, assured that what i lose, he never shall possess. to this replied the stern athenian prince, and sourly smiled: in owning your offence you judge yourself; and i but keep record in place of law, while you pronounce the word. take your desert, the death you have decreed; i seal your doom, and ratify the deed: by mars, the patron of my arms, you die! he said; dumb sorrow seized the standers-by. the queen above the rest, by nature good, (the pattern form'd of perfect womanhood) for tender pity wept: when she began, through the bright quire the infectious virtue ran. all dropt their tears, even the contended maid; and thus among themselves they softly said: what eyes can suffer this unworthy sight! two youths of royal blood, renown'd in fight, the mastership of heaven in face and mind, and lovers, far beyond their faithless kind: see their wide streaming wounds; they neither came for pride of empire, nor desire of fame: kings fight for kingdoms, madmen for applause; but love for love alone; that crowns the lover's cause. this thought, which ever bribes the beauteous kind, such pity wrought in every lady's mind, they left their steeds, and, prostrate on the place, from the fierce king implored the offenders' grace. he paused a while, stood silent in his mood (for yet his rage was boiling in his blood); but soon his tender mind the impression felt, (as softest metals are not slow to melt, and pity soonest runs in softest minds): then reasons with himself; and first he finds his passion cast a mist before his sense, and either made, or magnified the offence. offence! of what? to whom? who judged the cause? the prisoner freed himself by nature's laws: born free, he sought his right: the man he freed was perjured, but his love excused the deed. thus pondering, he look'd under with his eyes, and saw the women's tears, and heard their cries; which moved compassion more; he shook his head, and, softly sighing, to himself he said: curse on the unpardoning prince, whom tears can draw to no remorse; who rules by lions' law; and deaf to prayers, by no submission bow'd, rends all alike; the penitent, and proud! at this, with look serene, he raised his head; reason resumed her place, and passion fled: then thus aloud he spoke: the power of love, in earth, and seas, and air, and heaven above, rules, unresisted, with an awful nod; by daily miracles declared a god: he blinds the wise, gives eyesight to the blind; and moulds and stamps anew the lover's mind. behold that arcite, and this palamon, freed from my fetters, and in safety gone, what hinder'd either in their native soil at ease to reap the harvest of their toil? but love, their lord, did otherwise ordain, and brought them in their own despite again, to suffer death deserved; for well they know, 'tis in my power, and i their deadly foe. the proverb holds, that to be wise and love, is hardly granted to the gods above. see how the madmen bleed! behold the gains with which their master, love, rewards their pains! for seven long years, on duty every day, lo, their obedience, and their monarch's pay: yet, as in duty bound, they serve him on; and, ask the fools, they think it wisely done; nor ease, nor wealth, nor life itself regard, for 'tis their maxim, love is love's reward. this is not all; the fair, for whom they strove, nor knew before, nor could suspect their love; nor thought, when she beheld the sight from far, her beauty was the occasion of the war. but sure a general doom on man is past, and all are fools and lovers, first or last: this both by others and myself i know, for i have served their sovereign long ago; oft have been caught within the winding train of female snares, and felt the lover's pain, and learn'd how far the god can human hearts constrain. to this remembrance, and the prayers of those who for the offending warriors interpose, i give their forfeit lives; on this accord, to do me homage as their sovereign lord; and, as my vassals, to their utmost might, assist my person, and assert my right. this freely sworn, the knights their grace obtain'd; then thus the king his secret thoughts explain'd: if wealth, or honour, or a royal race, or each, or all, may win a lady's grace, then either of you knights may well deserve a princess born; and such is she you serve: for emily is sister to the crown, and but too well to both her beauty known: but should you combat till you both were dead, two lovers cannot share a single bed: as, therefore, both are equal in degree, the lot of both be left to destiny. now hear the award, and happy may it prove to her, and him who best deserves her love. depart from hence in peace, and, free as air, search the wide world, and where you please repair; but on the day when this returning sun to the same point through every sign has run, then each of you his hundred knights shall bring, in royal lists, to fight before the king; and then the knight, whom fate or happy chance shall with his friends to victory advance, and grace his arms so far in equal fight, from out the bars to force his opposite, or kill, or make him recreant on the plain, the prize of valour and of love shall gain; the vanquish'd party shall their claim release, and the long jars conclude in lasting peace. the charge be mine to adorn the chosen ground, the theatre of war, for champions so renown'd; and take the patron's place of either knight, with eyes impartial to behold the fight; and heaven of me so judge as i shall judge aright. if both are satisfied with this accord, swear by the laws of knighthood on my sword. who now but palamon exults with joy? and ravish'd arcite seems to touch the sky: the whole assembled troop was pleased as well, extol the award, and on their knees they fell to bless the gracious king. the knights, with leave, departing from the place, his last commands receive; on emily with equal ardour look, and from her eyes their inspiration took. from thence to thebes' old walls pursue their way, each to provide his champions for the day. it might be deem'd, on our historian's part, or too much negligence, or want of art, if he forgot the vast magnificence of royal theseus, and his large expense, he first enclosed for lists a level ground, the whole circumference a mile around; the form was circular; and all without a trench was sunk, to moat the place about. within an amphitheatre appear'd, raised in degrees; to sixty paces rear'd: that when a man was placed in one degree, height was allow'd for him above to see. eastward was built a gate of marble white; the like adorn'd the western opposite. a nobler object than this fabric was, rome never saw; nor of so vast a space. for rich with spoils of many a conquer'd land, all arts and artists theseus could command; who sold for hire, or wrought for better fame; the master-painters, and the carvers came. so rose within the compass of the year an age's work, a glorious theatre. then o'er its eastern gate was raised above a temple, sacred to the queen of love; an altar stood below: on either hand a priest with roses crown'd, who held a myrtle wand. the dome of mars was on the gate opposed, and on the north a turret was enclosed, within the wall, of alabaster white, and crimson coral, for the queen of night, who takes in sylvan sports her chaste delight. within these oratories might you see rich carvings, portraitures, and imagery: where every figure to the life express'd the godhead's power to whom it was address'd. in venus' temple on the sides were seen the broken slumbers of enamour'd men; prayers that even spoke, and pity seem'd to call, and issuing sighs that smoked along the wall; complaints, and hot desires, the lover's hell, and scalding tears that wore a channel where they fell: and all around were nuptial bonds, the ties, of love's assurance, and a train of lies, that, made in lust, conclude in perjuries. beauty, and youth, and wealth, and luxury, and spritely hope, and short-enduring joy; and sorceries to raise the infernal powers, and sigils framed in planetary hours: expense, and after-thought, and idle care, and doubts of motley hue, and dark despair; suspicious, and fantastical surmise, and jealousy suffused, with jaundice in her eyes, discolouring all she view'd, in tawny dress'd, down-look'd, and with a cuckoo on her fist. opposed to her, on the other side advance the costly feast, the carol, and the dance, minstrels and music, poetry and play, and balls by night, and tournaments by day. all these were painted on the wall, and more; with acts and monuments of times before: and others added by prophetic doom, and lovers yet unborn, and loves to come: for there the idalian mount, and citheron, the court of venus, was in colours drawn: before the palace-gate, in careless dress, and loose array, sat portress idleness: there, by the fount, narcissus pined alone; there samson was; with wiser solomon, and all the mighty names by love undone. medea's charms were there, circean feasts, with bowls that turn'd enamour'd youths to beasts: here might be seen, that beauty, wealth, and wit, and prowess, to the power of love submit: the spreading snare for all mankind is laid; and lovers all betray, and are betray'd. the goddess self some noble hand had wrought; smiling she seem'd, and full of pleasing thought: from ocean as she first began to rise, and smooth'd the ruffled seas and clear'd the skies; she trode the brine, all bare below the breast, and the green waves but ill conceal'd the rest; a lute she held; and on her head was seen a wreath of roses red, and myrtles green; her turtles fann'd the buxom air above; and, by his mother, stood an infant love, with wings unfledged; his eyes were banded o'er; his hands a bow, his back a quiver bore, supplied with arrows bright and keen, a deadly store. but in the dome of mighty mars the red with different figures all the sides were spread; this temple, less in form, with equal grace, was imitative of the first in thrace: for that cold region was the loved abode and sovereign mansion of the warrior god. the landscape was a forest wide and bare; where neither beast, nor human kind repair; the fowl, that scent afar, the borders fly, and shun the bitter blast, and wheel about the sky. a cake of scurf lies baking on the ground, and prickly stubs, instead of trees, are found; or woods, with knots and knares, deform'd and old; headless the most, and hideous to behold: a rattling tempest through the branches went, that stripp'd them bare, and one sole way they bent. heaven froze above, severe, the clouds congeal, and through the crystal vault appear'd the standing hail. such was the face without; a mountain stood threatening from high, and overlook'd the wood: beneath the lowering brow, and on a bent, the temple stood of mars armipotent: the frame of burnish'd steel, that cast a glare from far, and seem'd to thaw the freezing air. a strait long entry to the temple led, blind with high walls; and horror over head: thence issued such a blast, and hollow roar, as threaten'd from the hinge to heave the door: in through that door, a northern light there shone; 'twas all it had, for windows there were none. the gate was adamant; eternal frame! which, hew'd by mars himself, from indian quarries came, the labour of a god; and all along tough iron plates were clench'd to make it strong. a tun about was every pillar there; a polish'd mirror shone not half so clear. there saw i how the secret felon wrought, and treason labouring in the traitor's thought; and midwife time the ripen'd plot to murder brought. there the red anger dared the pallid fear; next stood hypocrisy, with holy leer, soft smiling, and demurely looking down, but hid the dagger underneath the gown: the assassinating wife, the household fiend; and far the blackest there, the traitor-friend. on the other side, there stood destruction bare; unpunish'd rapine, and a waste of war. contest, with sharpen'd knives, in cloisters drawn, and all with blood bespread the holy lawn. loud menaces were heard, and foul disgrace, and bawling infamy, in language base; till sense was lost in sound, and silence fled the place. the slayer of himself yet saw i there, the gore congeal'd was clotted in his hair; with eyes half closed, and gaping mouth he lay, and grim, as when he breathed his sullen soul away. in midst of all the dome, misfortune sate, and gloomy discontent, and fell debate, and madness laughing in his ireful mood; and arm'd complaint on theft; and cries of blood. there was the murder'd corpse in covert laid, and violent death in thousand shapes display'd: the city to the soldiers rage resigned: successless wars, and poverty behind: ships burnt in fight, or forced on rocky shores, and the rash hunter strangled by the boars: the new-born babe by nurses overlaid; and the cook caught within the raging fire he made. all ills of mars his nature, flame and steel; the gasping charioteer, beneath the wheel of his own car; the ruin'd house that falls and intercepts her lord betwixt the walls: the whole division that to mars pertains, all trades of death that deal in steel for gains, were there: the butcher, armourer, and smith, whose forges sharpen'd falchions, or the scythe. the scarlet conquest on a tower was placed, with shouts, and soldiers' acclamations graced: a pointed sword hung threatening o'er his head, sustain'd but by a slender twine of thread. there saw i mars his ides, the capitol, the seer in vain foretelling cæsar's fall; the last triumvirs, and the wars they move, and antony, who lost the world for love. these, and a thousand more, the fane adorn; their fates were painted ere the men were born, all copied from the heavens, and ruling force of the red star, in his revolving course. the form of mars high on a chariot stood, all sheath'd in arms, and gruffly look'd the god: two geomantic figures were display'd above his head, a warrior and a maid, one when direct, and one when retrograde. tired with deformities of death, i haste to the third temple of diana chaste. a sylvan scene with various greens was drawn, shades on the sides, and in the midst a lawn: the silver cynthia, with her nymphs around, pursued the flying deer, the woods with horns resound: calisto there stood manifest of shame, and, turn'd a bear, the northern star became: her son was next, and, by peculiar grace, in the cold circle held the second place: the stag acteon in the stream had spied the naked huntress, and, for seeing, died: his hounds, unknowing of his change pursue the chase, and their mistaken master slew. peneian daphne too was there to see, apollo's love before, and now his tree: the adjoining fane the assembled greeks express'd, and hunting of the caledonian beast. oenides' valour, and his envied prize; the fatal power of atalanta's eyes; diana's vengeance on the victor shown, the murderess mother; and consuming son; the volscian queen extended on the plain; the treason punish'd, and the traitor slain. the rest were various huntings, well design'd, and savage beasts destroy'd, of every kind. the graceful goddess was array'd in green; about her feet were little beagles seen, that watch'd with upward eyes the motions of their queen. her legs were buskin'd, and the left before, in act to shoot; a silver bow she bore, and at her back a painted quiver wore. she trod a waxing moon, that soon would wane, and, drinking borrow'd light, be fill'd again: with downcast eyes, as seeming to survey the dark dominions, her alternate sway. before her stood a women in her throes, and call'd lucina's aid, her burden to disclose. all these the painter drew with such command, that nature snatch'd the pencil from his hand, ashamed and angry that his art could feign and mend the tortures of a mother's pain. theseus beheld the fanes of every god, and thought his mighty cost was well bestow'd. so princes now their poets should regard; but few can write, and fewer can reward. the theatre thus raised, the lists enclosed, and all with vast magnificence disposed, we leave the monarch pleased, and haste to bring the knights to combat, and their arms to sing. book iii. the day approach'd when fortune should decide the important enterprise, and give the bride; for now, the rivals round the world had sought, and each his number, well appointed, brought. the nations, far and near, contend in choice, and send the flower of war by public voice; that after, or before, were never known such chiefs, as each an army seem'd alone: beside the champions, all of high degree, who knighthood loved, and deeds of chivalry, throng'd to the lists, and envied to behold the names of others, not their own, enroll'd. nor seems it strange; for every noble knight who loves the fair, and is endued with might, in such a quarrel would be proud to fight. there breathes not scarce a man on british ground (an isle for love and arms of old renown'd) but would have sold his life to purchase fame, to palamon or arcite sent his name: and had the land selected of the best, half had come hence, and let the world provide the rest. a hundred knights with palamon there came, approved in fight, and men of mighty name; their arms were several, as their nations were, but furnish'd all alike with sword and spear. some wore coat-armour, imitating scale; and next their skins were stubborn shirts of mail. some wore a breastplate and a light jupon, their horses clothed with rich caparison: some for defence would leathern bucklers use, of folded hides; and others shields of pruce. one hung a pole-axe at his saddle-bow, and one a heavy mace to stun the foe; one for his legs and knees provided well, with jambeaux arm'd, and double plates of steel: this on his helmet wore a lady's glove, and that a sleeve embroider'd by his love. with palamon above the rest in place, lycurgus came, the surly king of thrace; black was his beard, and manly was his face; the balls of his broad eyes roll'd in his head, and glared betwixt a yellow and a red: he look'd a lion with a gloomy stare, and o'er his eyebrows hung his matted hair: big-boned, and large of limbs, with sinews strong, broad-shoulder'd, and his arms were round and long. four milk-white bulls (the thracian use of old) were yoked to draw his car of burnish'd gold. upright he stood, and bore aloft his shield, conspicuous from afar, and overlook'd the field. his surcoat was a bear-skin on his back; his hair hung long behind, and glossy raven black. his ample forehead bore a coronet, with sparkling diamonds and with rubies set: ten brace, and more, of greyhounds, snowy fair, and tall as stags, ran loose, and coursed around his chair, a match for pards in flight, in grappling for the bear: with golden muzzles all their mouths were bound, and collars of the same their necks surround. thus through the fields lycurgus took his way; his hundred knights attend in pomp and proud array. to match this monarch, with strong arcite came emetrius, king of ind, a mighty name; on a bay courser, goodly to behold, the trappings of his horse adorn'd with barbarous gold. not mars bestrod a steed with greater grace; his surcoat o'er his arms was cloth of thrace, adorn'd with pearls, all orient, round, and great; his saddle was of gold, with emeralds set, his shoulders large a mantle did attire, with rubies thick, and sparkling as the fire: his amber-colour'd locks in ringlets run, with graceful negligence, and shone against the sun. his nose was aquiline, his eyes were blue; ruddy his lips, and fresh and fair his hue: some sprinkled freckles on his face were seen, whose dusk set off the whiteness of the skill: his awful presence did the crowd surprise, nor durst the rash spectator meet his eyes; eyes that confess'd him born for kingly sway, so fierce, they flash'd intolerable day. his age in nature's youthful prime appear'd, and just began to bloom his yellow beard. whene'er he spoke, his voice was heard around, loud as a trumpet, with a silver sound; a laurel wreathed his temples, fresh and green; and myrtle sprigs, the marks of love, were mix'd between. upon his fist he bore, for his delight, an eagle well reclaim'd, and lily white. his hundred knights attend him to the war, all arm'd for battle; save their heads were bare. words and devices blazed on every shield, and pleasing was the terror of the field. for kings, and dukes, and barons, you might see, like sparkling stars, though different in degree, all for the increase of arms, and love of chivalry. before the king tame leopards led the way, and troops of lions innocently play. so bacchus through the conquer'd indies rode, and beasts in gambols frisk'd before their honest god. in this array, the war of either side through athens pass'd with military pride. at prime, they enter'd on the sunday morn; rich tapestry spread the streets, and flowers the posts adorn. the town was all a jubilee of feasts; so theseus will'd, in honour of his guests; himself with open arms the kings embraced, then all the rest in their degrees were graced. no harbinger was needful for the night, for every house was proud to lodge a knight. i pass the royal treat, nor must relate the gifts bestow'd, nor how the champions sate: who first, who last, or how the knights address'd their vows, or who was fairest at the feast; whose voice, whose graceful dance did most surprise; soft amorous sighs, and silent love of eyes. the rivals call my muse another way, to sing their vigils for the ensuing day. 'twas ebbing darkness, past the noon of night: and phosphor, on the confines of the light, promised the sun; ere day began to spring, the tuneful lark already stretch'd her wing, and flickering on her nest, made short essays to sing. when wakeful palamon, preventing day, took to the royal lists his early way, to venus at her fane, in her own house, to pray. there, falling on his knees before her shrine, he thus implored with prayers her power divine: creator venus, genial power of love, the bliss of men below, and gods above! beneath the sliding sun thou runn'st thy race, dost fairest shine, and best become thy place. for thee the winds their eastern blasts forbear, thy month reveals the spring, and opens all the year. thee, goddess! thee the storms of winter fly, earth smiles with flowers renewing, laughs the sky, and birds to lays of love their tuneful notes apply. for thee the lion loathes the taste of blood, and, roaring, hunts his female through the wood: for thee the bulls rebellow through the groves, and tempt the stream, and snuff their absent loves. 'tis thine, whate'er is pleasant, good, or fair: all nature is thy province, life thy care: thou madest the world, and dost the world repair. thou gladder of the mount of cytheron, increase of jove, companion of the sun! if e'er adonis touch'd thy tender heart, have pity, goddess, for thou know'st the smart! alas! i have not words to tell my grief; to vent my sorrow would be some relief; light sufferings give us leisure to complain; we groan, but cannot speak, in greater pain. o goddess! tell thyself what i would say, thou know'st it, and i feel too much to pray. so grant my suit, as i enforce my might, in love to be thy champion, and thy knight; a servant to thy sex, a slave to thee, a foe profess'd to barren chastity. nor ask i fame or honour of the field, nor choose i more to vanquish than to yield: in my divine emilia make me blest; let fate, or partial chance, dispose the rest: find thou the manner, and the means prepare; possession, more than conquest, is my care. mars is the warrior's god; in him it lies, on whom he favours to confer the prize; with smiling aspect you serenely move in your fifth orb, and rule the realm of love. the fates but only spin the coarser clue, the finest of the wool is left for you; spare me but one small portion of the twine, and let the sisters cut below your line: the rest among the rubbish may they sweep, or add it to the yarn of some old miser's heap. but, if you this ambitious prayer deny, (a wish, i grant, beyond mortality,) then let me sink beneath proud arcite's arms, and i once dead, let him possess her charms. thus ended he; then with observance due the sacred incense on her altar threw: the curling smoke mounts heavy from the fires; at length it catches flame, and in a blaze expires; at once the gracious goddess gave the sign, her statue shook, and trembled all the shrine: pleased palamon the tardy omen took: for, since the flames pursued the trailing smoke, he knew his boon was granted; but the day to distance driven, and joy adjourn'd with long delay. now morn with rosy light had streak'd the sky, up rose the sun, and up rose emily; address'd her early steps to cynthia's fane, in state attended by her maiden train, who bore the vests that holy rites require, incense, and odorous gums, and cover'd fire. the plenteous horns with pleasant mead they crown, nor wanted aught besides in honour of the moon. now while the temple smoked with hallow'd steam, they wash the virgin in a living stream; the secret ceremonies i conceal, uncouth, perhaps unlawful, to reveal: but such they were as pagan use required, perform'd by women when the men retired, whose eyes profane their chaste mysterious rites might turn to scandal, or obscene delights. well-meaners think no harm; but for the rest, things sacred they pervert, and silence is the best. her shining hair, uncomb'd, was loosely spread, a crown of mastless oak adorn'd her head: when to the shrine approach'd, the spotless maid had kindling fires on either altar laid: (the rites were such as were observed of old, by statius in his theban story told.) then kneeling with her hands across her breast, thus lowly she preferr'd her chaste request: oh, goddess, haunter of the woodland green, to whom both heaven and earth and seas are seen; queen of the nether skies, where half the year thy silver beams descend, and light the gloomy sphere! goddess of maids, and conscious of our hearts, so keep me from the vengeance of thy darts, which niobe's devoted issue felt, when hissing through the skies the feather'd deaths were dealt; as i desire to live a virgin life, nor know the name of mother or of wife. thy votress from my tender years i am, and love, like thee, the woods and sylvan game. like death, thou know'st, i loathe the nuptial state, and man, the tyrant of our sex, i hate, a lowly servant, but a lofty mate: where love is duty on the female side; on theirs, mere sensual gust, and sought with surly pride. now by thy triple shape, as thou art seen in heaven, earth, hell, and everywhere a queen, grant this my first desire; let discord cease, and make betwixt the rivals lasting peace: quench their hot fire, or far from me remove the flame, and turn it on some other love; or, if my frowning stars have so decreed, that one must be rejected, one succeed, make him my lord, within whose faithful breast is fix'd my image, and who loves me best. but, oh! even that avert! i choose it not, but take it as the least unhappy lot. a maid i am, and of thy virgin train; oh, let me still that spotless name retain! frequent the forests, thy chaste will obey, and only make the beasts of chase my prey! the flames ascend on either altar clear, while thus the blameless maid address'd her prayer. when, lo! the burning fire that shone so bright, flew off all sudden, with extinguish'd light, and left one altar dark, a little space; which turn'd self-kindled, and renew'd the blaze: the other victor-flame a moment stood, then fell, and lifeless left the extinguish'd wood; for ever lost, the irrevocable light forsook the blackening coals, and sunk to night: at either end it whistled as it flew, and as the brands were green, so dropp'd the dew; infected as it fell with sweat of sanguine hue. the maid from that ill omen turn'd her eyes, and with loud shrieks and clamours rent the skies, nor knew what signified the boding sign, but found the powers displeased, and fear'd the wrath divine. then shook the sacred shrine, and sudden light sprung through the vaulted roof, and made the temple bright. the power, behold! the power in glory shone, by her bent bow, and her keen arrows known; the rest, a huntress issuing from the wood, reclining on her cornel spear she stood. then gracious thus began: dismiss thy fear, and heaven's unchanged decrees attentive hear: more powerful gods have torn thee from my side, unwilling to resign, and doom'd a bride: the two contending knights are weigh'd above; one mars protects, and one the queen of love: but which the man, is in the thunderer's breast; this he pronounced, 'tis he who loves thee best. the fire that, once extinct, revived again, foreshows the love allotted to remain: farewell! she said, and vanish'd from the place; the sheaf of arrows shook, and rattled in the case. aghast at this, the royal virgin stood, disclaim'd, and now no more a sister of the wood: but to the parting goddess thus she pray'd: propitious still be present to my aid, nor quite abandon your once favour'd maid. then sighing she return'd; but smiled betwixt, with hopes and fears, and joys with sorrows mix'd. the next returning planetary hour of mars, who shared the heptarchy of power, his steps bold arcite to the temple bent, to adore with pagan rites the power armipotent: then prostrate, low before his altar lay, and raised his manly voice, and thus began to pray: strong god of arms, whose iron sceptre sways the freezing north, and hyperborean seas, and scythian colds, and thracia's wintry coast, where stand thy steeds, and thou art honour'd most! there most; but everywhere thy power is known, the fortune of the fight is all thy own: terror is thine, and wild amazement, flung from out thy chariot, withers even the strong: and disarray and shameful rout ensue, and force is added to the fainting crew. acknowledged as thou art, accept my prayer, if aught i have achieved deserve thy care: if to my utmost power, with sword and shield, i dared the death, unknowing how to yield, and falling in my rank, still kept the field: then let my arms prevail, by thee sustain'd, that emily by conquest may be gain'd. have pity on my pains; nor those unknown to mars, which, when a lover, were his own. venus, the public care of all above, thy stubborn heart has soften'd into love: now, by her blandishments and powerful charms, when yielded she lay curling in thy arms, even by thy shame, if shame it may be call'd, when vulcan had thee in his net enthrall'd; (oh, envied ignominy, sweet disgrace, when every god that saw thee wish'd thy place!) by those dear pleasures, aid my arms in fight, and make me conquer in my patron's right: for i am young, a novice in the trade, the fool of love, unpractised to persuade: and want the soothing arts that catch the fair, but, caught myself, lie struggling in the snare: and she i love, or laughs at all my pain, or knows her worth too well; and pays me with disdain. for sure i am, unless i win in arms, to stand excluded from emilia's charms: nor can my strength avail, unless by thee endued with force, i gain the victory! then for the fire which warm'd thy generous heart, pity thy subject's pains, and equal smart. so be the morrow's sweat and labour mine, the palm and honour of the conquest thine: then shall the war, and stern debate, and strife immortal, be the business of my life; and in thy fane, the dusty spoils among, high on the burnish'd roof, my banner shall be hung: rank'd with my champions' bucklers, and below, with arms reversed, the achievements of my foe: and while these limbs the vital spirit feeds, while day to night, and night to day succeeds, thy smoking altar shall be fat with food of incense, and the grateful steam of blood; burnt-offerings morn and evening shall be thine; and fires eternal in thy temple shine. the bush of yellow beard, this length of hair, which from my birth inviolate i bear, guiltless of steel, and from the razor free, shall fall a plenteous crop, reserved for thee. so may my arms with victory be blest, i ask no more; let fate dispose the rest. the champion ceased; there follow'd in the close a hollow groan: a murmuring wind arose; the rings of iron, that on the doors were hung, sent out a jarring sound, and harshly rung: the bolted gates flew open at the blast, the storm rush'd in, and arcite stood aghast: the flames were blown aside, yet shone they bright, fann'd by the wind, and gave a ruffled light. then from the ground a scent began to rise, sweet smelling, as accepted sacrifice: this omen pleased, and as the flames aspire with odorous incense arcite heaps the fire: nor wanted hymns to mars, or heathen charms: at length the nodding statue clash'd his arms, and with a sullen sound and feeble cry, half sunk, and half pronounced the word of victory. for this, with soul devout, he thank'd the god, and, of success secure, return'd to his abode. these vows thus granted, raised a strife above, betwixt the god of war and queen of love. she, granting first, had right of time to plead; but he had granted too, nor would recede. jove was for venus; but he fear'd his wife, and seem'd unwilling to decide the strife; till saturn from his leaden throne arose, and found a way the difference to compose: though sparing of his grace, to mischief bent, he seldom does a good with good intent. wayward, but wise; by long experience taught, to please both parties, for ill ends, he sought: for this advantage age from youth has won, as not to be outridden, though outrun. by fortune he was now to venus trined, and with stern mars in capricorn was join'd: of him disposing in his own abode, he soothed the goddess, while he gull'd the god: cease, daughter, to complain, and stint the strife; thy palamon shall have his promised wife: and mars, the lord of conquest, in the fight with palm and laurel shall adorn his knight. wide is my course, nor turn i to my place, till length of time, and move with tardy pace. man feels me, when i press the ethereal plains, my hand is heavy, and the wound remains. mine is the shipwreck, in a watery sign; and in an earthy, the dark dungeon mine. cold shivering agues, melancholy care, and bitter blasting winds, and poison'd air, are mine, and wilful death, resulting from despair. the throttling quinsey 'tis my star appoints, and rheumatisms ascend to rack the joints: when churls rebel against their native prince, i arm their hands, and furnish the pretence; and housing in the lion's hateful sign, bought senates, and deserting troops are mine. mine is the privy poisoning; i command unkindly seasons, and ungrateful land. by me kings' palaces are push'd to ground. and miners crush'd beneath their mines are found. 'twas i slew samson, when the pillar'd hall fell down, and crush'd the many with the fall. my looking is the sire of pestilence, that sweeps at once the people and the prince. now weep no more, but trust thy grandsire's art, mars shall be pleased, and thou perform thy part. 'tis ill, though different your complexions are, the family of heaven for men should war. the expedient pleased, where neither lost his right; mars had the day, and venus had the night. the management they left to chronos' care; now turn we to the effect, and sing the war. in athens all was pleasure, mirth, and play, all proper to the spring, and spritely may: which every soul inspired with such delight, 'twas jesting all the day, and love at night. heaven smiled, and gladded was the heart of man; and venus had the world as when it first began. at length in sleep their bodies they compose, and dreamt the future fight, and early rose. now scarce the dawning day began to spring, as at a signal given, the streets with clamours ring: at once the crowd arose; confused and high, even from the heaven, was heard a shouting cry; for mars was early up, and roused the sky. the gods came downward to behold the wars, sharpening their sights, and leaning from their stars. the neighing of the generous horse was heard, for battle by the busy groom prepared: rustling of harness, rattling of the shield, clattering of armour, furbish'd for the field. crowds to the castle mounted up the street, battering the pavement with their coursers' feet: the greedy sight might there devour the gold of glittering arms, too dazzling to behold: and polish'd steel, that cast the view aside, and crested morions, with their plumy pride. knights, with a long retinue of their squires, in gaudy liveries march, and quaint attires. one laced the helm, another held the lance: a third the shining buckler did advance. the courser paw'd the ground with restless feet, and snorting foam'd, and champ'd the golden bit. the smiths and armourers on palfreys ride, files in their hands, and hammers at their side, and nails for loosen'd spears, and thongs for shields provide. the yeomen guard the streets, in seemly bands; and clowns come crowding on, with cudgels in their hands. the trumpets, next the gate, in order placed, attend the sign to sound the martial blast; the palace-yard is fill'd with floating tides, and the last comers bear the former to the sides. the throng is in the midst: the common crew shut out, the hall admits the better few; in knots they stand, or in a rank they walk, serious in aspect, earnest in their talk; factious, and favouring this or the other side, as their strong fancy or weak reason guide: their wagers back their wishes; numbers hold with the fair freckled king, and beard of gold: so vigorous are his eyes, such rays they cast, so prominent his eagle's beak is placed. but most their looks on the black monarch bend, his rising muscles, and his brawn commend; his double-biting axe, and beamy spear, each asking a gigantic force to rear. all spoke as partial favour moved the mind; and, safe themselves, at others' cost divined. waked by the cries, the athenian chief arose, the knightly forms of combat to dispose; and passing through the obsequious guards, he sate conspicuous on a throne, sublime in state; there, for the two contending knights he sent; arm'd cap-a-pie, with reverence low they bent; he smiled on both, and with superior look alike their offer'd adoration took. the people press on every side to see their awful prince, and hear his high decree. then signing to their heralds with his hand, they gave his orders from their lofty stand. silence is thrice enjoin'd; then thus aloud the king-at-arms bespeaks the knights and listening crowd: our sovereign lord has ponder'd in his mind the means to spare the blood of gentle kind; and of his grace, and inborn clemency, he modifies his first severe decree! the keener edge of battle to rebate, the troops for honour fighting, not for hate: he wills, not death should terminate their strife, and wounds, if wounds ensue, be short of life: but issues, ere the fight, his dread command, that slings afar, and poniards hand to hand, be banish'd from the field; that none shall dare with shorten'd sword to stab in closer war; but in fair combat fight with manly strength, nor push with biting point, but strike at length; the tourney is allow'd but one career, of the tough ash, with the sharp-grinded spear; but knights unhorsed may rise from off the plain, and fight on foot their honour to regain; nor, if at mischief taken, on the ground be slain, but prisoners to the pillar bound, at either barrier placed; nor (captives made), be freed, or arm'd anew the fight invade. the chief of either side, bereft of life, or yielded to his foe, concludes the strife. thus dooms the lord: now, valiant knights and young, fight each his fill with swords and maces long. the herald ends: the vaulted firmament with loud acclaims and vast applause is rent: heaven guard a prince so gracious and so good, so just, and yet so provident of blood! this was the general cry. the trumpets sound, and warlike symphony is heard around. the marching troops through athens take their way, the great earl-marshal orders their array. the fair from high the passing pomp behold; a rain of flowers is from the windows roll'd. the casements are with golden tissue spread, and horses' hoofs, for earth, on silken tapestry tread. the king goes midmost, and the rivals ride in equal rank, and close his either side. next after these, there rode the royal wife, with emily, the cause, and the reward of strife. the following cavalcade, by three and three, proceed by titles marshall'd in degree. thus through the southern gate they take their way, and at the list arrived ere prime of day. there, parting from the king, the chiefs divide, and wheeling east and west, before their many ride. the athenian monarch mounts his throne on high, and after him the queen and emily: next these, the kindred of the crown are graced with nearer seats, and lords by ladies placed. scarce were they seated, when with clamours loud in rush'd at once a rude promiscuous crowd; the guards, and then each other overbear, and in a moment throng the spacious theatre. now changed the jarring noise to whispers low, as winds forsaking seas more softly blow; when at the western gate, on which the car is placed aloft, that bears the god of war, proud arcite entering arm'd before his train, stops at the barrier, and divides the plain. red was his banner, and display'd abroad the bloody colours of his patron god. at that self moment enters palamon the gate of venus, and the rising sun; waved by the wanton winds, his banner flies, all maiden white, and shares the people's eyes. from east to west, look all the world around, two troops so match'd were never to be found; such bodies built for strength, of equal age, in stature sized; so proud in equipage: the nicest eye could no distinction make, where lay the advantage, or what side to take. thus ranged, the herald for the last proclaims a silence, while they answer'd to their names: for so the king decreed, to shun the care, the fraud of musters false, the common bane of war. the tale was just, and then the gates were closed; and chief to chief, and troop to troop opposed. the heralds last retired, and loudly cried-- the fortune of the field be fairly tried! at this, the challenger with fierce defy his trumpet sounds; the challenged makes reply; with clangour rings the field, resounds the vaulted sky. their vizors closed, their lances in the rest, or at the helmet pointed, or the crest, they vanish from the barrier, speed the race, and spurring see decrease the middle space. a cloud of smoke envelops either host, and all at once the combatants are lost: darkling they join adverse, and shock unseen, coursers with coursers jostling, men with men: as labouring in eclipse, a while they stay, till the next blast of wind restores the day. they look anew: the beauteous form of fight is changed, and war appears a grisly sight. two troops in fair array one moment show'd, the next, a field with fallen bodies strow'd: not half the number in their seats are found; but men and steeds lie grovelling on the ground. the points of spears are stuck within the shield, the steeds without their riders scour the field. the knights, unhorsed, on foot renew the fight; the glittering falchions cast a gleaming light: hauberks and helms are hew'd with many a wound, out spins the streaming blood and dyes the ground. the mighty maces with such haste descend, they break the bones, and make the solid armour bend. this thrusts amid the throng with furious force; down goes, at once, the horseman and the horse: that courser stumbles on the fallen steed, and floundering throws the rider o'er his head. one rolls along, a foot-ball to his foes; one with a broken truncheon deals his blows. this halting, this disabled with his wound, in triumph led, is to the pillar bound, where by the king's award he must abide: there goes a captive led on the other side. by fits they cease; and leaning on the lance, take breath a while, and to new fight advance. full oft the rivals met, and neither spared his utmost force, and each forgot to ward. the head of this was to the saddle bent, the other backward to the crupper sent: both were by turns unhorsed; the jealous blows fall thick and heavy, when on foot they close. so deep their falchions bite, that every stroke pierced to the quick; and equal wounds they gave and took. borne far asunder by the tides of men, like adamant and steel they meet again. so when a tiger sucks the bullock's blood, a famish'd lion issuing from the wood roars lordly fierce, and challenges the food: each claims possession, neither will obey, but both their paws are fasten'd on the prey; they bite, they tear; and while in vain they strive, the swains come arm'd between, and both to distance drive. at length, as fate foredoom'd, and all things tend by course of time to their appointed end; so when the sun to west was far declined, and both afresh in mortal battle join'd, the strong emetrius came in arcite's aid, and palamon with odds was overlaid: for turning short, he struck with all his might full on the helmet of the unwary knight. deep was the wound; he stagger'd with the blow, and turn'd him to his unexpected foe; whom with such force he struck, he fell'd him down, and cleft the circle of his golden crown. but arcite's men, who now prevail'd in fight, twice ten at once surround the single knight: o'erpower'd, at length, they force him to the ground, unyielded as he was, and to the pillar bound; and king lycurgus, while he fought in vain his friend to free, was tumbled on the plain. who now laments but palamon, compell'd no more to try the fortune of the field! and, worse than death, to view with hateful eyes his rival's conquest, and renounce the prize! the royal judge, on his tribunal placed, who had beheld the fight from first to last, bade cease the war; pronouncing from on high, arcite of thebes had won the beauteous emily. the sound of trumpets to the voice replied, and round the royal lists the heralds cried, arcite of thebes has won the beauteous bride! the people rend the skies with vast applause; all own the chief, when fortune owns the cause. arcite is own'd even by the gods above, and conquering mars insults the queen of love. so laugh'd he, when the rightful titan fail'd, and jove's usurping arms in heaven prevail'd. laugh'd all the powers who favour tyranny; and all the standing army of the sky. but venus with dejected eyes appears, and, weeping on the lists, distill'd her tears; her will refused, which grieves a woman most, and, in her champion foil'd, the cause of love is lost. till saturn said, fair daughter, now be still, the blustering fool has satisfied his will; his boon is given; his knight has gain'd the day, but lost the prize; the arrears are yet to pay; thy hour is come, and mine the care shall be to please thy knight, and set thy promise free. now while the heralds run the lists around, and arcite! arcite! heaven and earth resound; a miracle (nor less it could be call'd) their joy with unexpected sorrow pall'd. the victor knight had laid his helm aside, part for his ease, the greater part for pride; bare-headed, popularly low he bow'd, and paid the salutations of the crowd. then spurring at full speed, ran endlong on where theseus sate on his imperial throne; furious he drove, and upward cast his eye, where, next the queen, was placed his emily; then passing, to the saddle-bow he bent: a sweet regard the gracious virgin lent; (for women, to the brave an easy prey, still follow fortune where she leads the way): just then, from earth sprung out a flashing fire, by pluto sent, at saturn's bad desire: the startling steed was seized with sudden fright, and, bounding, o'er the pommel cast the knight: forward he flew, and pitching on his head, he quiver'd with his feet, and lay for dead. black was his countenance in a little space, for all the blood was gather'd in his face. help was at hand: they rear'd him from the ground, and from his cumbrous arms his limbs unbound; then lanced a vein, and watch'd returning breath; it came, but clogg'd with symptoms of his death. the saddle-bow the noble parts had press'd, all bruised and mortified his manly breast. him still entranced, and in a litter laid, they bore from field, and to his bed convey'd. at length he waked, and with a feeble cry, the word he first pronounced was "emily." mean time the king, though inwardly he mourn'd, in pomp triumphant to the town return'd, attended by the chiefs, who fought the field; (now friendly mix'd, and in one troop compell'd.) composed his looks to counterfeited cheer, and bade them not for arcite's life to fear. but that which gladded all the warrior train, though most were sorely wounded, none were slain. the surgeons soon despoil'd them of their arms, and some with salves they cure, and some with charms; foment the bruises, and the pains assuage, and heal their inward hurts with sovereign draughts of sage. the king in person visits all around, comforts the sick, congratulates the sound; honours the princely chiefs, rewards the rest, and holds for thrice three days a royal feast. none was disgraced; for falling is no shame; and cowardice alone is loss of fame. the venturous knight is from the saddle thrown; but 'tis the fault of fortune, not his own, if crowds and palms the conquering side adorn, the victor under better stars was born: the brave man seeks not popular applause, nor, overpower'd with arms, deserts his cause; unshamed, though foil'd, he does the best he can; force is of brutes, but honour is of man. thus theseus smiled on all with equal grace, and each was set according to his place; with ease were reconciled the differing parts, for envy never dwells in noble hearts. at length they took their leave, the time expired, well pleased, and to their several homes retired. mean while the health of arcite still impairs; from bad proceeds to worse, and mocks the leech's cares swoln is his breast; his inward pains increase, all means are used, and all without success. the clotted blood lies heavy on his heart, corrupts, and there remains, in spite of art: nor breathing veins, nor cupping will prevail; all outward remedies and inward fail: the mould of nature's fabric is destroy'd, her vessels discomposed, her virtue void; the bellows of his lungs begin to swell: all out of frame is every secret cell, nor can the good receive, nor bad expel. those breathing organs thus within oppress'd, with venom soon distend the sinews of his breast. nought profits him to save abandon'd life, nor vomit's upward aid, nor downward laxative. the midmost region batter'd and destroy'd, when nature cannot work, the effect of art is void. for physic can but mend our crazy state, patch an old building, not a new create. arcite is doom'd to die in all his pride, must leave his youth, and yield his beauteous bride, gain'd hardly, against right, and unenjoy'd. when 'twas declared all hope of life was past, conscience (that of all physic works the last) caused him to send for emily in haste. with her, at his desire, came palamon; then on his pillow raised, he thus begun: no language can express the smallest part of what i feel, and suffer in my heart for you, whom best i love and value most; but to your service i bequeath my ghost; which from this mortal body when untied, unseen, unheard, shall hover at your side; nor fright you waking, nor your sleep offend, but wait officious, and your steps attend: how i have loved, excuse my faltering tongue, my spirit's feeble, and my pains are strong: this i may say, i only grieve to die, because i lose my charming emily: to die, when heaven had put you in my power, fate could not choose a more malicious hour! what greater curse could envious fortune give, than just to die, when i began to live? vain men! how vanishing a bliss we crave, now warm in love, now withering in the grave! never, oh never more to see the sun! still dark, in a damp vault, and still alone! this fate is common; but i lose my breath; near bliss, and yet not bless'd before my death. farewell; but take me dying in your arms, 'tis all i can enjoy of all your charms: this hand i cannot but in death resign; ah! could i live! but while i live 'tis mine. i feel my end approach, and thus embraced, am pleased to die; but hear me speak my last: ah! my sweet foe, for you, and you alone, i broke my faith with injured palamon. but love the sense of right and wrong confounds, strong love and proud ambition have no bounds. and much i doubt, should heaven my life prolong, i should return to justify my wrong: for while my former flames remain within, repentance is but want of power to sin. with mortal hatred i pursued his life, nor he, nor you, were guilty of the strife; nor i, but as i loved; yet all combined, your beauty, and my impotence of mind; and his concurrent flame that blew my fire; for still our kindred souls had one desire. he had a moment's right in point of time; had i seen first, then his had been the crime. fate made it mine, and justified his right; nor holds this earth a more deserving knight, for virtue, valour, and for noble blood, truth, honour, all that is comprised in good; so help me heaven, in all the world is none so worthy to be loved as palamon. he loves you too, with such an holy fire, as will not, cannot, but with life expire: our vow'd affections both have often tried, nor any love but yours could ours divide. then, by my love's inviolable band, by my long suffering, and my short command, if e'er you plight your vows when i am gone, have pity on the faithful palamon. this was his last; for death came on amain, and exercised below his iron reign; then upward to the seat of life he goes: sense fled before him, what he touch'd he froze: yet could he not his closing eyes withdraw, though less and less of emily he saw; so, speechless, for a little space he lay; then grasp'd the hand he held, and sigh'd his soul away. but whither went his soul, let such relate who search the secrets of the future state: divines can say but what themselves believe; strong proofs they have, but not demonstrative: for, were all plain, then all sides must agree, and faith itself be lost in certainty. to live uprightly, then, is sure the best, to save ourselves, and not to damn the rest. the soul of arcite went where heathens go, who better live than we, though less they know. in palamon a manly grief appears; silent, he wept, ashamed to show his tears: emilia shriek'd but once, and then, oppress'd with sorrow, sunk upon her lover's breast: till theseus in his arms convey'd with care, far from so sad a sight, the swooning fair. 'twere loss of time her sorrow to relate; ill bears the sex a youthful lover's fate, when just approaching to the nuptial state. but like a low-hung cloud, it rains so fast, that all at once it falls, and cannot last. the face of things is changed, and athens now, that laugh'd so late, becomes the scene of woe: matrons and maids, both sexes, every state, with tears lament the knight's untimely fate. nor greater grief in falling troy was seen for hector's death; but hector was not then, old men with dust deform'd their hoary hair, the women beat their breasts, their cheeks they tear. why wouldst thou go, with one consent they cry, when thou hadst gold enough, and emily? theseus himself, who should have cheer'd the grief of others, wanted now the same relief; old egeus only could revive his son, who various changes of the world had known, and strange vicissitudes of human fate, still altering, never in a steady state; good after ill, and, after pain, delight, alternate like the scenes of day and night: since every man who lives, is born to die, and none can boast sincere felicity, with equal mind, what happens, let us bear, nor joy, nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. like pilgrims to the appointed place we tend; the world's an inn, and death the journey's end. even kings but play; and when their part is done, some other, worse or better, mount the throne. with words like these the crowd was satisfied, and so they would have been, had theseus died. but he, their king, was labouring in his mind, a fitting place for funeral pomps to find, which were in honour of the dead design'd. and after long debate, at last he found (as love itself had mark'd the spot of ground) that grove for ever green, that conscious laund, where he with palamon fought hand to hand: that where he fed his amorous desires with soft complaints, and felt his hottest fires; there other flames might waste his earthly part, and burn his limbs, where love had burn'd his heart. this once resolved, the peasants were enjoin'd sere-wood, and firs, and dodder'd oaks to find. with sounding axes to the grove they go, fell, split, and lay the fuel on a row, vulcanian food: a bier is next prepared, on which the lifeless body should be rear'd, cover'd with cloth of gold, on which was laid the corpse of arcite, in like robes array'd. white gloves were on his hands, and on his head a wreath of laurel, mix'd with myrtle spread. a sword keen-edged within his right he held, the warlike emblem of the conquer'd field: bare was his manly visage on the bier: menaced his countenance; even in death severe. then to the palace-hall they bore the knight, to lie in solemn state, a public sight. groans, cries, and howlings fill the crowded place, and unaffected sorrow sate on every face. sad palamon above the rest appears, in sable garments, dew'd with gushing tears: his auburn locks on either shoulder flow'd, which to the funeral of his friend he vow'd: but emily, as chief, was next his side, a virgin-widow, and a mourning bride. and that the princely obsequies might be perform'd according to his high degree, the steed, that bore him living to the fight, was trapp'd with polish'd steel, all shining bright, and cover'd with the achievements of the knight. the riders rode abreast, and one his shield, his lance of cornel-wood another held; the third his bow, and, glorious to behold, the costly quiver, all of burnish'd gold. the noblest of the grecians next appear, and, weeping, on their shoulders bore the bier; with sober pace they march'd, and often stay'd, and through the master-street the corpse convey'd. the houses to their tops with black were spread, and even the pavements were with mourning hid. the right side of the pall old egeus kept, and on the left the royal theseus wept; each bore a golden bowl, of work divine, with honey fill'd, and milk, and mix'd with ruddy wine. then palamon, the kinsman of the slain, and after him appear'd the illustrious train. to grace the pomp, came emily the bright, with cover'd fire, the funeral pile to light. with high devotion was the service made, and all the rites of pagan honour paid: so lofty was the pile, a parthian bow, with vigour drawn, must send the shaft below. the bottom was full twenty fathom broad, with crackling straw beneath in due proportion strew'd. the fabric seem'd a wood of rising green, with sulphur and bitumen cast between, to feed the flames: the trees were unctuous fir, and mountain-ash, the mother of the spear; the mourner-yew, and builder oak were there; the beech, the swimming alder, and the plane, hard box, and linden of a softer grain, and laurels, which the gods for conquering chiefs ordain. how they were rank'd, shall rest untold by me, with nameless nymphs that lived in every tree; nor how the dryads, or the woodland train, disherited, ran howling o'er the plain: nor how the birds to foreign seats repair'd, or beasts, that bolted out, and saw the forest bared: nor how the ground, now clear'd, with ghastly fright beheld the sudden sun, a stranger to the light. the straw, as first i said, was laid below; of chips and sere-wood was the second row; the third of greens, and timber newly fell'd; the fourth high stage the fragrant odours held, and pearls, and precious stones, and rich array; in midst of which, embalm'd, the body lay. the service sung, the maid with mourning eyes the stubble fired; the smouldering flames arise: this office done, she sunk upon the ground; but what she spoke, recover'd from her swound, i want the wit in moving words to dress; but by themselves the tender sex may guess. while the devouring fire was burning fast, rich jewels in the flame the wealthy cast; and some their shields, and some their lances threw, and gave their warrior's ghost a warrior's due. full bowls of wine, of honey, milk, and blood were pour'd upon the pile of burning wood, and hissing flames receive, and hungry lick the food. then thrice the mounted squadrons ride around the fire, and arcite's name they thrice resound: hail, and farewell! they shouted thrice amain, thrice facing to the left, and thrice they turn'd again: still as they turn'd, they beat their clattering shields; the women mix their cries; and clamour fills the fields. the warlike wakes continued all the night, and funeral games were play'd at new returning light; who naked wrestled best, besmear'd with oil, or who with gauntlets gave or took the foil, i will not tell you, nor would you attend; but briefly haste to my long story's end. i pass the rest; the year was fully mourn'd, and palamon long since to thebes returned: when, by the grecians' general consent, at athens theseus held his parliament: among the laws that pass'd, it was decreed, that conquer'd thebes from bondage should be freed; reserving homage to the athenian throne, to which the sovereign summon'd palamon. unknowing of the cause, he took his way, mournful in mind, and still in black array. the monarch mounts the throne, and, placed on high, commands into the court the beauteous emily: so call'd, she came; the senate rose, and paid becoming reverence to the royal maid. and first, soft whispers through the assembly went; with silent wonder then they watch'd the event: all hush'd, the king arose with awful grace, deep thought was in his breast, and counsel in his face. at length he sigh'd; and having first prepared the attentive audience, thus his will declared: the cause and spring of motion, from above, hung down on earth the golden chain of love: great was the effect, and high was his intent, when peace among the jarring seeds he sent. fire, flood, and earth, and air by this were bound, and love, the common link, the new creation crown'd. the chain still holds; for though the forms decay, eternal matter never wears away: the same first mover certain bounds has placed, how long those perishable forms shall last: nor can they last beyond the time assign'd by that all-seeing, and all-making mind: shorten their hours they may; for will is free; but never pass the appointed destiny. so men oppress'd, when weary of their breath, throw off the burden, and suborn their death. then since those forms begin, and have their end, on some unalter'd cause they sure depend: parts of the whole are we; but god the whole; who gives us life, and animating soul. for nature cannot from a part derive that being, which the whole can only give: he perfect, stable; but imperfect we, subject to change, and different in degree; plants, beasts, and man; and as our organs are, we more or less of his perfection share. but by a long descent, the ethereal fire corrupts; and forms, the mortal part, expire: as he withdraws his virtue, so they pass, and the same matter makes another mass: this law the omniscient power was pleased to give, that every kind should by succession live: that individuals die, his will ordains; the propagated species still remains. the monarch oak, the patriarch of the trees, shoots rising up, and spreads by slow degrees; three centuries he grows, and three he stays, supreme in state, and in three more decays: so wears the paving pebble in the street, and towns and towers their fatal periods meet: so rivers, rapid once, now naked lie, forsaken of their springs; and leave their channels dry. so man, at first a drop, dilates with heat, then, form'd, the little heart begins to beat; secret he feeds, unknowing in the cell; at length, for hatching ripe, he breaks the shell, and struggles into breath, and cries for aid; then, helpless, in his mother's lap is laid: he creeps, he walks, and issuing into man, grudges their life, from whence his own began: reckless of laws, affects to rule alone, anxious to reign, and restless on the throne: first vegetive, then feels, and reasons last; rich of three souls, and lives all three to waste. some thus; but thousands more in flower of age: for few arrive to run the latter stage. sunk in the first, in battle some are slain, and others whelm'd beneath the stormy main. what makes all this, but jupiter the king, at whose command we perish, and we spring? then 'tis our best, since thus ordain'd to die, to make a virtue of necessity. take what he gives, since to rebel is vain; the bad grows better, which we well sustain; and could we choose the time, and choose aright, 'tis best to die, our honour at the height. when we have done our ancestors no shame, but served our friends, and well secured our fame; then should we wish our happy life to close, and leave no more for fortune to dispose: so should we make our death a glad relief from future shame, from sickness, and from grief: enjoying while we live the present hour, and dying in our excellence and flower. then round our death-bed every friend should run, and joyous of our conquest early won: while the malicious world with envious tears should grudge our happy end, and wish it theirs. since then our arcite is with honour dead, why should we mourn, that he so soon is freed, or call untimely, what the gods decreed? with grief as just, a friend may be deplored from a foul prison to free air restored. ought he to thank his kinsman or his wife, could tears recall him into wretched life? their sorrow hurts themselves; on him is lost; and worse than both, offends his happy ghost. what then remains, but, after past annoy, to take the good vicissitude of joy? to thank the gracious gods for what they give, possess our souls, and while we live, to live? ordain we then two sorrows to combine, and in one point the extremes of grief to join; that thence resulting joy may be renew'd, as jarring notes in harmony conclude. then i propose that palamon shall be in marriage join'd with beauteous emily; for which already i have gain'd the assent of my free people in full parliament. long love to her has borne the faithful knight, and well deserved, had fortune done him right: 'tis time to mend her fault; since emily by arcite's death from former vows is free: if you, fair sister, ratify the accord, and take him for your husband, and your lord, 'tis no dishonour to confer your grace on one descended from a royal race: and were he less, yet years of service past, from grateful souls exact reward at last: pity is heaven's and yours; nor can she find a throne so soft as in a woman's mind. he said; she blush'd; and as o'er-awed by might, seem'd to give theseus what she gave the knight. then turning to the theban thus he said: small arguments are needful to persuade your temper to comply with my command; and speaking thus, he gave emilia's hand. smiled venus, to behold her own true knight obtain the conquest, though he lost the fight; and bless'd with nuptial bliss the sweet laborious night. eros, and anteros, on either side, one fired the bridegroom, and one warm'd the bride; and long-attending hymen from above, shower'd on the bed the whole idalian grove. all of a tenor was their after-life, no day discolour'd with domestic strife; no jealousy, but mutual truth believed, secure repose, and kindness undeceived. thus heaven, beyond the compass of his thought, sent him the blessing he so dearly bought. so may the queen of love long duty bless, and all true lovers find the same success! * * * * * the cock and the fox: or, the tale of the nun's priest. there lived, as authors tell, in days of yore, a widow somewhat old, and very poor: deep in a cell her cottage lonely stood, well thatch'd, and under covert of a wood. this dowager, on whom my tale i found, since last she laid her husband in the ground, a simple sober life, in patience, led, and had but just enough to buy her bread: but huswifing the little heaven had lent, she duly paid a groat for quarter rent; and pinch'd her belly, with her daughters two, to bring the year about with much ado. the cattle in her homestead were three sows, a ewe call'd mally, and three brinded cows. her parlour-window stuck with herbs around, of savoury smell; and rushes strew'd the ground. a mapple-dresser in her hall she had, on which full many a slender meal she made; for no delicious morsel pass'd her throat; according to her cloth she cut her coat: no poignant sauce she knew, nor costly treat, her hunger gave a relish to her meat: a sparing diet did her health assure; or sick, a pepper posset was her cure. before the day was done, her work she sped, and never went by candlelight to bed: with exercise she sweat ill humours out, her dancing was not hindered by the gout. her poverty was glad; her heart content; nor knew she what the spleen or vapours meant. of wine she never tasted through the year, but white and black was all her homely cheer: brown bread, and milk (but first she skimm'd her bowls), and rashers of singed bacon on the coals; on holy days, an egg or two at most; but her ambition never reach'd to roast. a yard she had with pales enclosed about, some high, some low, and a dry ditch without. within this homestead lived, without a peer for crowing loud, the noble chanticleer; so hight her cock, whose singing did surpass the merry notes of organs at the mass. more certain was the crowing of the cock to number hours, than is an abbey-clock; and sooner than the matin-bell was rung, he clapp'd his wings upon his roost, and sung: for when degrees fifteen ascended right, by sure instinct he knew 'twas one at night. high was his comb, and coral-red withal, in dents embattled like a castle wall; his bill was raven-black, and shone like jet; blue were his legs, and orient were his feet; white were his nails, like silver to behold, his body glittering like the burnish'd gold. this gentle cock, for solace of his life, six misses had, besides his lawful wife. scandal that spares no king, though ne'er so good, says, they were all of his own flesh and blood, his sisters both by sire and mother's side; and sure their likeness show'd them near allied. but make the worst, the monarch did no more, than all the ptolemys had done before: when incest is for interest of a nation, 'tis made no sin by holy dispensation. some lines have been maintain'd by this alone, which by their common ugliness are known. but passing this, as from our tale apart, dame partlet was the sovereign of his heart: ardent in love, outrageous in his play, he feather'd her a hundred times a day: and she, that was not only passing fair, but was with all discreet, and debonair, resolved the passive doctrine to fulfil, though loth; and let him work his wicked will: at board and bed was affable and kind, according as their marriage vow did bind, and as the church's precept had enjoin'd. even since she was a se'ennight old, they say, was chaste and humble to her dying day, nor chick nor hen was known to disobey. by this her husband's heart she did obtain; what cannot beauty, join'd with virtue, gain! she was his only joy, and he her pride, she, when he walk'd, went pecking by his side; if spurning up the ground, he sprung a corn, the tribute in his bill to her was borne. but oh! what joy it was to hear him sing in summer, when the day began to spring, stretching his neck, and warbling in his throat; _solus cum sola_ then was all his note. for in the days of yore, the birds of parts were bred to speak, and sing, and learn the liberal arts. it happ'd that, perching on the parlour-beam amidst his wives, he had a deadly dream, just at the dawn; and sigh'd, and groan'd so fast, as every breath he drew would be his last. dame partlet, ever nearest to his side, heard all his piteous moan, and how he cried for help from gods and men: and sore aghast she peck'd and pull'd, and waken'd him at last. dear heart, said she, for love of heaven declare your pain, and make me partner in your care! you groan, sir, ever since the morning-light, as something had disturb'd your noble sprite. and, madam, well i might, said chanticleer; never was shrovetide cock in such a fear. even still i run all over in a sweat, my princely senses not recover'd yet. for such a dream i had, of dire portent, that much i fear my body will be shent: it bodes i shall have wars and woful strife, or in a loathsome dungeon end my life. know, dame, i dreamt within my troubled breast, that in our yard i saw a murderous beast, that on my body would have made arrest. with waking eyes i ne'er beheld his fellow; his colour was betwixt a red and yellow: tipp'd was his tail, and both his pricking ears were black; and much unlike his other hairs: the rest, in shape a beagle's whelp throughout, with broader forehead, and a sharper snout: deep in his front were sunk his glowing eyes, that yet, methinks, i see him with surprise. reach out your hand, i drop with clammy sweat, and lay it to my heart, and feel it beat. now fie, for shame, quoth she; by heaven above, thou hast for ever lost thy lady's love! no woman can endure a recreant knight, he must be bold by day, and free by night: our sex desires a husband or a friend, who can our honour and his own defend. wise, hardy, secret, liberal of his purse: a fool is nauseous, but a coward worse: no bragging coxcomb, yet no baffled knight. how darest thou talk of love, and darest not fight? how darest thou tell thy dame thou art affear'd? hast thou no manly heart, and hast a beard? if aught from fearful dreams may be divined, they signify a cock of dunghill kind. all dreams, as in old galen i have read, are from repletion and complexion bred; from rising fumes of indigested food, and noxious humours that infect the blood: and sure, my lord, if i can read aright, these foolish fancies you have had to-night are certain symptoms (in the canting style) of boiling choler, and abounding bile; this yellow gall, that in your stomach floats, engenders all these visionary thoughts. when choler overflows, then dreams are bred of flames, and all the family of red; red dragons, and red beasts, in sleep we view, for humours are distinguish'd by their hue. from hence we dream of wars and warlike things, and wasps and hornets with their double wings. choler adust congeals our blood with fear, then black bulls toss us, and black devils tear. in sanguine airy dreams, aloft we bound; with rheums oppress'd, we sink in rivers drown'd. more i could say, but thus conclude my theme, the dominating humour makes the dream. cato was in his time accounted wise, and he condemns them all for empty lies. take my advice, and when we fly to ground, with laxatives preserve your body sound, and purge the peccant humours that abound. i should be loath to lay you on a bier; and though there lives no pothecary near, i dare for once prescribe for your disease, and save long bills, and a damn'd doctor's fees. two sovereign herbs, which i by practice know, and both at hand (for in our yard they grow), on peril of my soul shall rid you wholly of yellow choler, and of melancholy: you must both purge, and vomit; but obey, and for the love of heaven make no delay. since hot and dry in your complexion join, beware the sun when in a vernal sign; for when he mounts exalted in the ram, if then he finds your body in a flame, replete with choler, i dare lay a groat, a tertian ague is at least your lot. perhaps a fever (which the gods forefend!) may bring your youth to some untimely end: and therefore, sir, as you desire to live, a day or two before your laxative, take just three worms, nor under nor above, because the gods unequal numbers love, these digestives prepare you for your purge; of fumetory, centaury, and spurge, and of ground ivy add a leaf or two,-- all which within our yard or garden grow. eat these, and be, my lord, of better cheer; your father's son was never born to fear. madam, quoth he, gramercy for your care, but cato, whom you quoted, you may spare: 'tis true, a wise and worthy man he seems, and (as you say) gave no belief to dreams: but other men of more authority, and, by the immortal powers! as wise as he, maintain, with sounder sense, that dreams forebode; for homer plainly says they come from god. nor cato said it: but some modern fool imposed in cato's name on boys at school. believe me, madam, morning dreams foreshow the events of things, and future weal or woe: some truths are not by reason to be tried, but we have sure experience for our guide. an ancient author, equal with the best, relates this tale of dreams among the rest. two friends or brothers, with devout intent, on some far pilgrimage together went. it happen'd so that, when the sun was down, they just arrived by twilight at a town; that day had been the baiting of a bull, 'twas at a feast, and every inn so full, that no void room in chamber, or on ground, and but one sorry bed was to be found: and that so little it would hold but one, though till this hour they never lay alone. so were they forced to part; one staid behind, his fellow sought what lodging he could find: at last he found a stall where oxen stood, and that he rather chose than lie abroad. 'twas in a farther yard without a door; but, for his ease, well litter'd was the floor. his fellow, who the narrow bed had kept, was weary, and without a rocker slept: supine he snored; but in the dead of night he dream'd his friend appear'd before his sight, who, with a ghastly look and doleful cry, said, help me, brother, or this night i die: arise, and help, before all help be vain, or in an ox's stall i shall be slain. roused from his rest, he waken'd in a start, shivering with horror, and with aching heart; at length to cure himself by reason tries; 'tis but a dream, and what are dreams but lies? so thinking, changed his side, and closed his eyes. his dream returns; his friend appears again: the murderers come, now help, or i am slain: 'twas but a vision still, and visions are but vain. he dream'd the third: but now his friend appear'd pale, naked, pierced with wounds, with blood besmear'd: thrice warn'd, awake, said he; relief is late, the deed is done; but thou revenge my fate: tardy of aid, unseal thy heavy eyes; awake, and with the dawning day arise: take to the western gate thy ready way, for by that passage they my corpse convey: my corpse is in a tumbril laid, among the filth and ordure, and enclosed with dung; that cart arrest, and raise a common cry; for sacred hunger of my gold, i die: then show'd his grisly wound; and last he drew a piteous sigh, and took a long adieu. the frighted friend arose by break of day, and found the stall where late his fellow lay. then of his impious host inquiring more, was answer'd that his guest was gone before: muttering he went, said he, by morning light, and much complain'd of his ill rest by night. this raised suspicion in the pilgrim's mind; because all hosts are of an evil kind, and oft to share the spoils with robbers join'd. his dream confirm'd his thought: with troubled look straight to the western gate his way he took: there, as his dream foretold, a cart he found, that carried compost forth to dung the ground. this when the pilgrim saw, he stretch'd his throat, and cried out murder with a yelling note. my murder'd fellow in this cart lies dead, vengeance and justice on the villain's head; you, magistrates, who sacred laws dispense, on you i call to punish this offence. the word thus given, within a little space the mob came roaring out, and throng'd the place. all in a trice they cast the cart to ground, and in the dung the murder'd body found; though breathless, warm, and reeking from the wound. good heaven, whose darling attribute we find is boundless grace and mercy to mankind, abhors the cruel; and the deeds of night by wondrous ways reveals in open light: murder may pass unpunish'd for a time, but tardy justice will o'ertake the crime. and oft a speedier pain the guilty feels; the hue and cry of heaven pursues him at the heels, fresh from the fact; as in the present case, the criminals are seized upon the place: carter and host confronted face to face. stiff in denial, as the law appoints, on engines they distend their tortured joints: so was confession forced, the offence was known, and public justice on the offenders done. here may you see that visions are to dread; and in the page that follows this, i read of two young merchants, whom the hope of gain induced in partnership to cross the main: waiting till willing winds their sails supplied, within a trading town they long abide, full fairly situate on a haven's side. one evening it befell, that, looking out, the wind they long had wish'd was come about: well pleased, they went to rest; and if the gale till morn continued, both resolved to sail. but as together in a bed they lay, the younger had a dream at break of day. a man he thought stood frowning at his side: who warn'd him for his safety to provide, nor put to sea, but safe on shore abide. i come, thy genius, to command thy stay; trust not the winds, for fatal is the day, and death unhoped attends the watery way. the vision said; and vanish'd from his sight: the dreamer waken'd in a mortal fright: then pull'd his drowsy neighbour, and declared what in his slumber he had seen and heard. his friend smiled scornful, and with proud contempt rejects as idle what his fellow dreamt. stay, who will stay: for me no fears restrain, who follow mercury, the god of gain; let each man do as to his fancy seems, i wait, not i, till you have better dreams. dreams are but interludes which fancy makes; when monarch reason sleeps, this mimic wakes: compounds a medley of disjointed things, a mob of cobblers, and a court of kings: light fumes are merry, grosser fumes are sad: both are the reasonable soul run mad: and many monstrous forms in sleep we see, that neither were, nor are, nor e'er can be. sometimes forgotten things, long cast behind, rush forward in the brain, and come to mind. the nurse's legends are for truths received, and the man dreams but what the boy believed. sometimes we but rehearse a former play, the night restores our actions done by day; as hounds in sleep will open for their prey. in short, the farce of dreams is of a piece: chimeras all; and more absurd, or less: you, who believe in tales, abide alone; whate'er i get this voyage is my own. thus while he spoke, he heard the shouting crew that call'd aboard, and took his last adieu. the vessel went before a merry gale, and for quick passage put on every sail: but when least fear'd, and even in open day, the mischief overtook her in the way: whether she sprung a leak, i cannot find, or whether she was overset with wind, or that some rock below her bottom rent; but down at once with all her crew she went: her fellow ships from far her loss descried; but only she was sunk, and all were safe beside. by this example you are taught again, that dreams and visions are not always vain: but if, dear partlet, you are still in doubt, another tale shall make the former out. kenelm, the son of kenulph, mercia's king, whose holy life the legends loudly sing, warn'd in a dream, his murder did foretell from point to point as after it befell: all circumstances to his nurse he told, (a wonder from a child of seven years old): the dream with horror heard, the good old wife from treason counsell'd him to guard his life; but close to keep the secret in his mind, for a boy's vision small belief would find. the pious child, by promise bound, obey'd, nor was the fatal murder long delay'd: by quenda slain, he fell before his time, made a young martyr by his sister's crime. the tale is told by venerable bede, which, at your better leisure, you may read. macrobius, too, relates the vision sent to the great scipio, with the famed event: objections makes, but after makes replies, and adds, that dreams are often prophecies. of daniel you may read in holy writ, who, when the king his vision did forget, could word for word the wondrous dream repeat. nor less of patriarch joseph understand, who by a dream enslaved the egyptian land, the years of plenty and of dearth foretold, when, for their bread, their liberty they sold. nor must the exalted butler be forgot, nor he whose dream presaged his hanging lot. and did not croesus the same death foresee, raised in his vision on a lofty tree? the wife of hector, in his utmost pride, dream'd of his death the night before he died; well was he warn'd from battle to refrain, but men to death decreed are warn'd in vain: he dared the dream, and by his fatal foe was slain. much more i know, which i forbear to speak, for, see, the ruddy day begins to break; let this suffice, that plainly i foresee my dream was bad, and bodes adversity: but neither pills nor laxatives i like, they only serve to make the well-man sick: of these his gain the sharp physician makes, and often gives a purge, but seldom takes: they not correct, but poison all the blood, and ne'er did any but the doctors good. their tribe, trade, trinkets, i defy them all; with every work of pothecary's hall. these melancholy matters i forbear: but let me tell thee, partlet mine, and swear, that when i view the beauties of thy face, i fear not death, nor dangers, nor disgrace: so may my soul have bliss, as when i spy the scarlet red about thy partridge eye, while thou art constant to thy own true knight, while thou art mine, and i am thy delight, all sorrows at thy presence take their flight. for true it is, as _in principio, mulier est hominis confusio_. madam, the meaning of this latin is, that woman is to man his sovereign bliss. for when by night i feel your tender side, though for the narrow perch i cannot ride, yet i have such a solace in my mind, that all my boding cares are cast behind; and even already i forget my dream. he said, and downward flew from off the beam; for daylight now began apace to spring, the thrush to whistle, and the lark to sing; then, crowing, clapp'd his wings, the appointed call, to chuck his wives together in the hall. by this the widow had unbarr'd the door, and chanticleer went strutting out before. with royal courage, and with heart so light, as show'd he scorned the visions of the night. now roaming in the yard, he spurn'd the ground, and gave to partlet the first grain he found; then often feather'd her with wanton play, and trod her twenty times ere prime of day; and took by turns, and gave, so much delight, her sisters pined with envy at the sight. he chuck'd again, when other corns he found, and scarcely deign'd to set a foot to ground; but swagger'd like a lord about his hall, and his seven wives came running at his call. 'twas now the month in which the world began, (if march beheld the first created man): and since the vernal equinox, the sun, in aries twelve degrees, or more, had run; when, casting up his eyes against the light, both month, and day, and hour he measured right; and told more truly than the ephemeris: for art may err, but nature cannot miss. thus numbering times and seasons in his breast, his second crowing the third hour confess'd. then turning, said to partlet, see, my dear, how lavish nature has adorn'd the year; how the pale primrose and blue violet spring, and birds essay their throats disused to sing: all these are ours; and i with pleasure see man strutting on two legs, and aping me: an unfledged creature, of a lumpish frame, endow'd with fewer particles of flame; our dame sits cowering o'er a kitchen fire, i draw fresh air, and nature's works admire: and even this day in more delight abound, than, since i was an egg, i ever found. the time shall come when chanticleer shall wish his words unsaid, and hate his boasted bliss: the crested bird shall by experience know, jove made not him his masterpiece below; and learn the latter end of joy is woe. the vessel of his bliss to dregs is run, and heaven will have him taste his other tun. ye wise, draw near, and hearken to my tale, which proves that oft the proud by flattery fall: the legend is as true, i undertake, as tristran is, and launcelot of the lake: which all our ladies in such reverence hold, as if in book of martyrs it were told. a fox, full-fraught with seeming sanctity, that fear'd an oath, but, like the devil, would lie; who look'd like lent, and had the holy leer, and durst not sin before he said his prayer; this pious cheat, that never suck'd the blood, nor chew'd the flesh of lambs, but when he could, had pass'd three summers in the neighbouring wood: and musing long, whom next to circumvent, on chanticleer his wicked fancy bent; and in his high imagination cast, by stratagem, to gratify his taste. the plot contrived, before the break of day saint reynard through the hedge had made his way; the pale was next, but proudly with a bound he leapt the fence of the forbidden ground: yet fearing to be seen, within a bed of coleworts he conceal'd his wily head; then skulk'd till afternoon, and watch'd his time (as murderers use) to perpetrate his crime. oh, hypocrite, ingenious to destroy! oh, traitor, worse than sinon was to troy! oh, vile subverter of the gallic reign, more false than gano was to charlemagne! oh, chanticleer, in an unhappy hour didst thou forsake the safety of thy bower! better for thee thou hadst believed thy dream, and not that day descended from the beam. but here the doctors eagerly dispute: some hold predestination absolute; some clerks maintain, that heaven at first foresees, and in the virtue of foresight decrees. if this be so, then prescience binds the will, and mortals are not free to good or ill; for what he first foresaw, he must ordain, or its eternal prescience may be vain: as bad for us as prescience had not been: for first, or last, he's author of the sin. and who says that, let the blaspheming man say worse even of the devil, if he can. for how can that eternal power be just to punish man, who sins because he must? or, how can he reward a virtuous deed, which is not done by us; but first decreed? i cannot bolt this matter to the bran, as bradwardin and holy austin can; if prescience can determine actions so that we must do, because he did foreknow, or that, foreknowing, yet our choice is free, not forced to sin by strict necessity; this strict necessity they simple call, another sort there is conditional. the first so binds the will, that things foreknown by spontaneity, not choice, are done. thus galley-slaves tug willing at their oar, content to work, in prospect of the shore; but would not work at all if not constrain'd before. that other does not liberty constrain, but man may either act, or may refrain. heaven made us agents free to good or ill, and forced it not, though he foresaw the will. freedom was first bestow'd on human race, and prescience only held the second place. if he could make such agents wholly free, i not dispute, the point's too high for me; for heaven's unfathom'd power what man can sound, or put to his omnipotence a bound? he made us to his image, all agree; that image is the soul, and that must be, or not, the maker's image, or be free. but whether it were better man had been by nature bound to good, not free to sin, i waive, for fear of splitting on a rock, the tale i tell is only of a cock; who had not run the hazard of his life, had he believed his dream, and not his wife: for women, with a mischief to their kind, pervert with bad advice our better mind. a woman's counsel brought us first to woe, and made her man his paradise forego, where at heart's ease he lived; and might have been as free from sorrow as he was from sin. for what the devil had their sex to do, that, born to folly, they presumed to know, and could not see the serpent in the grass? but i myself presume, and let it pass. silence in times of suffering is the best, 'tis dangerous to disturb an hornet's nest. in other authors you may find enough, but all they say of dames is idle stuff: legends of lying wits together bound, the wife of bath would throw them to the ground; these are the words of chanticleer, not mine; i honour dames, and think their sex divine. now to continue what my tale begun: lay madam partlet basking in the sun, breast-high in sand: her sisters in a row enjoy'd the beams above, the warmth below; the cock, that of his flesh was ever free, sung merrier than the mermaid in the sea: and so befell, that as he cast his eye among the coleworts on a butterfly, he saw false reynard where he lay full low: i need not swear he had no list to crow: but cried _cock, cock_, and gave a sudden start, as sore dismay'd, and frighted at his heart: for birds and beasts, inform'd by nature, know kinds opposite to theirs, and fly their foe; so chanticleer, who never saw a fox, yet shunn'd him as a sailor shuns the rocks. but the false loon, who could not work his will but open force, employ'd his flattering skill; i hope, my lord, said he, i not offend; are you afraid of me, that am your friend? i were a beast indeed to do you wrong, i, who have loved and honour'd you so long: stay, gentle sir, nor take a false alarm, for, on my soul, i never meant you harm. i come no spy, nor as a traitor press, to learn the secrets of your soft recess: far be from reynard so profane a thought, but by the sweetness of your voice was brought: for, as i bid my beads, by chance i heard the song as of an angel in the yard; a song that would have charm'd the infernal gods, and banish'd horror from the dark abodes: had orpheus sung it in the nether sphere, so much the hymn had pleased the tyrant's ear, the wife had been detain'd, to keep the husband there. my lord, your sire familiarly i knew, a peer deserving such a son as you: he, with your lady-mother (whom heaven rest!) has often graced my house, and been my guest; to view his living features does me good, for i am your poor neighbour in the wood; and in my cottage should be proud to see the worthy heir of my friend's family. but since i speak of singing, let me say, as with an upright heart i safely may, that, save yourself, there breathes not on the ground one like your father for a silver sound. so sweetly would he wake the winter day, that matrons to the church mistook their way, and thought they heard the merry organ play. and he, to raise his voice, with artful care, (what will not beaux attempt to please the fair?) on tiptoe stood to sing with greater strength, and stretch'd his comely neck at all the length: and while he strain'd his voice to pierce the skies, as saints in raptures use, would shut his eyes, that the sound striving through the narrow throat, his winking might avail to mend the note, by this, in song, he never had his peer, from sweet cecilia down to chanticleer; nor maro's muse, who sung the mighty man, nor pindar's heavenly lyre, nor horace when a swan. your ancestors proceed from race divine: from brennus and belinus is your line; who gave to sovereign rome such loud alarms, that even the priests were not excused from arms. besides, a famous monk of modern times has left of cocks recorded in his rhymes, that of a parish priest the son and heir (when sons of priests were from the proverb clear), affronted once a cock of noble kind, and either lamed his legs, or struck him blind; for which the clerk his father was disgraced, and in his benefice another placed. now sing, my lord, if not for love of me, yet for the sake of sweet saint charity; make hills and dales, and earth and heaven rejoice, and emulate your father's angel-voice. the cock was pleased to hear him speak so fair, and proud beside, as solar people are; nor could the treason from the truth descry, so was he ravish'd with this flattery; so much the more, as from a little elf he had a high opinion of himself; though sickly, slender, and not large of limb, concluding all the world was made for him. ye princes, raised by poets to the gods, and alexander'd[ ] up in lying odes! believe not every flattering knave's report, there's many a reynard lurking in the court; and he shall be received with more regard, and listen'd to, than modest truth is heard. this chanticleer, of whom the story sings, stood high upon his toes, and clapp'd his wings; then stretch'd his neck, and wink d with both his eyes, ambitious as he sought the olympic prize. but while he pain'd himself to raise his note, false renyard rush'd and caught him by the throat. then on his back he laid the precious load, and sought his wonted shelter of the wood; swiftly he made his way the mischief done, of all unheeded, and pursued by none. alas, what stay is there in human state! or who can shun inevitable fate? the doom was written, the decree was pass'd, ere the foundations of the world were cast! in aries though the sun exalted stood, his patron-planet, to procure his good; yet saturn was his mortal foe, and he, in libra raised, opposed the same degree: the rays both good and bad, of equal power, each thwarting other, made a mingled hour. on friday morn he dreamt this direful dream, cross to the worthy native, in his scheme! ah, blissful venus, goddess of delight! how couldst thou suffer thy devoted knight on thy own day to fall by foe oppress'd, the wight of all the world who served thee best? who, true to love, was all for recreation, and minded not the work of propagation. ganfride,[ ] who couldst so well in rhyme complain the death of richard with an arrow slain, why had not i thy muse, or thou my heart, to sing this heavy dirge with equal art? that i, like thee, on friday might complain; for on that day was coeur de lion slain. not louder cries, when ilium was in flames, were sent to heaven by woful trojan dames, when pyrrhus toss'd on high his burnish'd blade, and offer'd priam to his father's shade, than for the cock the widow'd poultry made. fair partlet first, when he was borne from sight, with sovereign shrieks bewail'd her captive knight: far louder than the carthaginian wife, when asdrubal, her husband, lost his life; when she beheld the smouldering flames ascend, and all the punic glories at an end: willing into the fires she plunged her head, with greater ease than others seek their bed. not more aghast the matrons of renown, when tyrant nero burn'd the imperial town, shriek'd for the downfall in a doleful cry, for which their guiltless lords were doom'd to die. now to my story i return again: the trembling widow, and her daughters twain, this woful cackling cry with horror heard, of those distracted damsels in the yard; and starting up beheld the heavy sight, how reynard to the forest took his flight, and 'cross his back, as in triumphant scorn, the hope and pillar of the house was borne. the fox! the wicked fox! was all the cry; out from his house ran every neighbour nigh: the vicar first, and after him the crew, with forks and staves the felon to pursue. ran coll our dog, and talbot with the band, and malkin, with her distaff in her hand: ran cow and calf, and family of hogs, in panic horror of pursuing dogs; with many a deadly grunt and doleful squeak, poor swine, as if their pretty hearts would break. the shouts of men, the women in dismay, with shrieks augment the terror of the day. the ducks that heard the proclamation cried, and fear'd a persecution might betide, full twenty miles from town their voyage take, obscure in rushes of the liquid lake. the geese fly o'er the barn; the bees in arms drive headlong from their waxen cells in swarms. jack straw at london-stone, with all his rout, struck not the city with so loud a shout; not when, with english hate, they did pursue a frenchman, or an unbelieving jew: not when the welkin rung with 'one and all;' and echoes bounded back from fox's hall: earth seem'd to sink beneath, and heaven above to fall. with might and main they chased the murderous fox, with brazen trumpets, and inflated box, to kindle mars with military sounds, nor wanted horns to inspire sagacious hounds. but see how fortune can confound the wise, and when they least expect it, turn the dice! the captive-cock, who scarce could draw his breath, and lay within the very jaws of death; yet in this agony his fancy wrought, and fear supplied him with this happy thought: yours is the prize, victorious prince! said he, the vicar my defeat, and all the village see. enjoy your friendly fortune while you may, and bid the churls that envy you the prey call back their mongrel curs, and cease their cry, see, fools, the shelter of the wood is nigh, and chanticleer in your despite shall die, he shall be pluck'd and eaten to the bone. 'tis well advised, in faith it shall be done; this reynard said: but as the word he spoke, the prisoner with a spring from prison broke; then stretch'd his feather'd fans with all his might, and to the neighbouring maple wing'd his flight; whom, when the traitor safe on tree beheld, he cursed the gods, with shame and sorrow fill'd: shame for his folly, sorrow out of time, for plotting an unprofitable crime; yet mastering both, the artificer of lies renews the assault, and his last battery tries. though i, said he, did ne'er in thought offend, how justly may my lord suspect his friend? the appearance is against me, i confess, who seemingly have put you in distress: you, if your goodness does not plead my cause, may think i broke all hospitable laws, to bear you from your palace-yard by might, and put your noble person in a fright: this, since you take it ill, i must repent, though, heaven can witness, with no bad intent: i practised it, to make you taste your cheer with double pleasure, first prepared by fear. so loyal subjects often seize their prince, forced (for his good) to seeming violence, yet mean his sacred person not the least offence. descend; so help me jove, as you shall find, that reynard comes of no dissembling kind. nay, quoth the cock, but i beshrew us both, if i believe a saint upon his oath: an honest man may take a knave's advice, but idiots only may be cozen'd twice: once warn'd is well bewared; no nattering lies shall soothe me more to sing with winking eyes, and open mouth, for fear of catching flies. who blindfold walks upon a river's brim, when he should see, has he deserved to swim? better, sir cock, let all contention cease, come down, said reynard, let us treat of peace. a peace with all my soul, said chanticleer; but, with your favour, i will treat it here: and, lest the truce with treason should be mix'd, 'tis my concern to have the tree betwixt. the moral. in this plain fable you the effect may see of negligence, and fond credulity: and learn besides of flatterers to beware, then most pernicious when they speak too fair. the cock and fox, the fool and knave imply; the truth is moral, though the tale a lie. who spoke in parables, i dare not say; but sure he knew it was a pleasing way, sound sense, by plain example, to convey. and in a heathen author we may find, that pleasure with instruction should be join'd; so take the corn, and leave the chaff behind. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'alexander'd': an allusion to his famous ode.] [footnote : 'ganfride': a mediæval ballad-monger.] * * * * * the flower and the leaf: or, the lady in the arbour.[ ] a vision. now turning from the wintry signs, the sun, his course exalted, through the ram had run, and whirling up the skies, his chariot drove through taurus, and the lightsome realms of love; where venus from her orb descends in showers, to glad the ground, and paint the fields with flowers: when first the tender blades of grass appear, and buds, that yet the blast of eurus fear, stand at the door of life, and doubt to clothe the year: till gentle heat, and soft repeated rains, make the green blood to dance within their veins: then, at their call, embolden'd out they come, and swell the gems, and burst the narrow room; broader and broader yet, their blooms display, salute the welcome sun, and entertain the day. then from their breathing souls the sweets repair to scent the skies, and purge the unwholesome air: joy spreads the heart, and, with a general song, spring issues out, and leads the jolly months along. in that sweet season, as in bed i lay, and sought in sleep to pass the night away, i turn'd my weary side, but still in vain, though full of youthful health, and void of pain: cares i had none, to keep me from my rest, for love had never enter'd in my breast; i wanted nothing fortune could supply, nor did she slumber till that hour deny. i wonder'd then, but after found it true, much joy had dried away the balmy dew: seas would be pools, without the brushing air to curl the waves; and sure some little care should weary nature so, to make her want repair. when chanticleer the second watch had sung, scorning the scorner sleep, from bed i sprung; and dressing, by the moon, in loose array, pass'd out in open air, preventing day, and sought a goodly grove, as fancy led my way. straight as a line in beauteous order stood of oaks unshorn a venerable wood; fresh was the grass beneath, and every tree, at distance planted in a due degree, their branching arms in air with equal space stretch'd to their neighbours with a long embrace: and the new leaves on every bough were seen, some ruddy colour'd, some of lighter green. the painted birds, companions of the spring, hopping from spray to spray, were heard to sing. both eyes and ears received a like delight, enchanting music, and a charming sight. on philomel i fix'd my whole desire, and listen'd for the queen of all the quire; fain would i hear her heavenly voice to sing; and wanted yet an omen to the spring. attending long in vain, i took the way which through a path but scarcely printed lay; in narrow mazes oft it seem'd to meet, and look'd as lightly press'd by fairy feet. wandering i walk'd alone, for still methought to some strange end so strange a path was wrought: at last it led me where an arbour stood, the sacred receptacle of the wood: this place unmark'd, though oft i walk'd the green, in all my progress i had never seen: and seized at once with wonder and delight, gazed all around me, new to the transporting sight. 'twas bench'd with turf, and goodly to be seen, the thick young grass arose in fresher green: the mound was newly made, no sight could pass betwixt the nice partitions of the grass, the well-united sods so closely lay; and all around the shades defended it from day; for sycamores with eglantine were spread, a hedge about the sides, a covering overhead. and so the fragrant brier was wove between, the sycamore and flowers were mixed with green, that nature seem'd to vary the delight, and satisfied at once the smell and sight. the master workman of the bower was known through fairy-lands, and built for oberon; who twining leaves with such proportion drew, they rose by measure, and by rule they grew; no mortal tongue can half the beauty tell; for none but hands divine could work so well. both roof and sides were like a parlour made, a soft recess, and a cool summer shade; the hedge was set so thick, no foreign eye the persons placed within it could espy; but all that pass'd without with ease was seen, as if nor fence nor tree was placed between. 'twas border'd with a field; and some was plain with grass, and some was sow'd with rising grain. that (now the dew with spangles deck'd the ground) a sweeter spot of earth was never found. i look'd, and look'd, and still with new delight; such joy my soul, such pleasures fill'd my sight; and the fresh eglantine exhaled a breath, whose odours were of power to raise from death. nor sullen discontent, nor anxious care, even though brought thither, could inhabit there: but thence they fled as from their mortal foe; for this sweet place could only pleasure know. thus as i mused, i cast aside my eye, and saw a medlar-tree was planted nigh. the spreading branches made a goodly show, and full of opening blooms was every bough: a goldfinch there i saw, with gaudy pride of painted plumes, that hopp'd from side to side, still pecking as she pass'd; and still she drew the sweets from every flower, and suck'd the dew: sufficed at length, she warbled in her throat, and tuned her voice to many a merry note, but indistinct, and neither sweet nor clear, yet such as soothed my soul, and pleased my ear. her short performance was no sooner tried, when she i sought, the nightingale, replied: so sweet, so shrill, so variously she sung, that the grove echoed, and the valleys rung; and i so ravish'd with her heavenly note, i stood entranced, and had no room for thought, but all o'er-power'd with ecstasy of bliss, was in a pleasing dream of paradise. at length i waked, and looking round the bower, search'd every tree, and pry'd on every flower, if any where by chance i might espy the rural poet of the melody; for still methought she sung not far away: at last i found her on a laurel spray. close by my side she sat, and fair in sight, full in a line, against her opposite; where stood with eglantine the laurel twined; and both their native sweets were well conjoin'd. on the green bank i sat, and listen'd long; (sitting was more convenient for the song): nor till her lay was ended could i move, but wish'd to dwell for ever in the grove. only methought the time too swiftly pass'd, and every note i fear'd would be the last. my sight and smell, and hearing were employ'd, and all three senses in full gust enjoy'd. and what alone did all the rest surpass, the sweet possession of the fairy place; single, and conscious to myself alone of pleasures to the excluded world unknown: pleasures which nowhere else were to be found, and all elysium in a spot of ground. thus while i sat intent to see and hear, and drew perfumes of more than vital air, all suddenly i heard the approaching sound of vocal music on the enchanted ground: a host of saints it seem'd, so full the quire; as if the bless'd above did all conspire to join their voices, and neglect the lyre. at length there issued from the grove behind a fair assembly of the female kind: a train less fair, as ancient fathers tell, seduced the sons of heaven to rebel. i pass their form, and every charming grace, less than an angel would their worth debase: but their attire, like liveries of a kind, all rich and rare, is fresh within my mind. in velvet white as snow the troop was gown'd, the seams with sparkling emeralds set around; their hoods and sleeves the same; and purfled o'er with diamonds, pearls, and all the shining store of eastern pomp: their long descending train, with rubies edged, and sapphires, swept the plain: high on their heads, with jewels richly set, each lady wore a radiant coronet. beneath the circles, all the quire was graced with chaplets green on their fair foreheads placed: of laurel some, of woodbine many more; and wreaths of agnus castus[ ] others bore; these last, who with those virgin crowns were dress'd, appear'd in higher honour than the rest. they danced around: but in the midst was seen a lady of a more majestic mien; by stature, and by beauty mark'd their sovereign queen she in the midst began with sober grace; her servants' eyes were fix'd upon her face; and as she moved or turn'd, her motions view'd, her measures kept, and step by step pursued. methought she trod the ground with greater grace, with more of godhead shining in her face; and as in beauty she surpass'd the quire, so, nobler than the rest, was her attire. a crown of ruddy gold enclosed her brow, plain without pomp, and rich without a show: a branch of agnus castus in her hand she bore aloft (her sceptre of command); admired, adored by all the circling crowd, for wheresoe'er she turn'd her face, they bow'd: and as she danced, a roundelay she sung, in honour of the laurel, ever young: she raised her voice on high, and sung so clear, the fawns came scudding from the groves to hear: and all the bending forest lent an ear. at every close she made, the attending throng replied, and bore the burden of the song: so just, so small, yet in so sweet a note, it seem'd the music melted in the throat. thus dancing on, and singing as they danced, they to the middle of the mead advanced, till round my arbour a new ring they made, and footed it about the sacred shade. o'erjoy'd to see the jolly troops so near, but somewhat awed, i shook with holy fear; yet not so much, but what i noted well who did the most in song or dance excel. not long i had observed, when from afar i heard a sudden symphony of war; the neighing coursers, and the soldiers cry, and sounding trumps, that seem'd to tear the sky: i saw soon after this, behind the grove from whence the ladies did in order move, come issuing out in arms a warrior train, that like a deluge pour'd upon the plain; on barbed steeds they rode in proud array, thick as the college of the bees in may, when swarming o'er the dusky fields they fly, new to the flowers, and intercept the sky, so fierce they drove, their coursers were so fleet, that the turf trembled underneath their feet. to tell their costly furniture were long, the summer's day would end before the song: to purchase but the tenth of all their store, would make the mighty persian monarch poor. yet what i can, i will; before the rest the trumpets issued, in white mantles dress'd, a numerous troop, and all their heads around with chaplets green of cerrial-oak[ ] were crown'd, and at each trumpet was a banner bound; which, waving in the wind, displayed at large their master's coat of arms, and knightly charge. broad were the banners, and of snowy hue, a purer web the silk-worm never drew. the chief about their necks the scutcheons wore, with orient pearls and jewels powder'd o'er: broad were their collars too, and every one was set about with many a costly stone. next these, of kings-at-arms a goodly train in proud array came prancing o'er the plain: their cloaks were cloth of silver mix'd with gold, and garlands green around their temples roll'd: rich crowns were on their royal scutcheons placed, with sapphires, diamonds, and with rubies graced: and as the trumpets their appearance made, so these in habits were alike array'd; but with a pace more sober, and more slow; and twenty, rank in rank, they rode a-row. the pursuivants came next, in number more; and, like the heralds, each his scutcheon bore: clad in white velvet all their troop they led, with each an oaken chaplet on his head. nine royal knights in equal rank succeed, each warrior mounted on a fiery steed; in golden armour glorious to behold; the rivets of their arms were nail'd with gold. their surcoats of white ermine fur were made; with cloth of gold between, that cast a glittering shade. the trappings of their steeds were of the same; the golden fringe even set the ground on flame, and drew a precious trail: a crown divine of laurel did about their temples twine. three henchmen were for every knight assign'd, all in rich livery clad, and of a kind; white velvet, but unshorn, for cloaks they wore, and each within his hand a truncheon bore: the foremost held a helm of rare device; a prince's ransom would not pay the price. the second bore the buckler of his knight, the third of cornel-wood a spear upright, headed with piercing steel, and polish'd bright. like to their lords their equipage was seen, and all their foreheads crown'd with garlands green. and after these came, arm'd with spear and shield, a host so great as cover'd all the field: and all their foreheads, like the knights before, with laurels ever-green were shaded o'er, or oak, or other leaves of lasting kind, tenacious of the stem, and firm against the wind. some in their hands, beside the lance and shield, the boughs of woodbine, or of hawthorn held, or branches for their mystic emblems took, of palm, of laurel, and of cerrial-oak. thus marching to the trumpet's lofty sound, drawn in two lines adverse they wheel'd around, and in the middle meadow took their ground. among themselves the tourney they divide, in equal squadrons ranged on either side. then turn'd their horses' heads, and man to man, and steed to steed opposed, the jousts began. they lightly set their lances in the rest, and, at the sign, against each other press'd: they met. i sitting at my ease beheld the mix'd events, and fortunes of the field. some broke their spears, some tumbled horse and man, and round the field the lighten'd coursers ran. an hour and more, like tides, in equal sway they rush'd, and won by turns, and lost the day: at length the nine (who still together held) their fainting foes to shameful flight compell'd, and with resistless force o'er-ran the field. thus, to their fame, when finish'd was the fight, the victors from their lofty steeds alight: like them dismounted all the warlike train, and two by two proceeded o'er the plain, till to the fair assembly they advanced, who near the secret arbour sung and danced. the ladies left their measures at the sight, to meet the chiefs returning from the fight, and each with open arms embraced her chosen knight. amid the plain a spreading laurel stood, the grace and ornament of all the wood: that pleasing shade they sought, a soft retreat from sudden april showers, a shelter from the heat: her leafy arms with such extent were spread. so near the clouds was her aspiring head, that hosts of birds, that wing the liquid air, perch'd in the boughs, had nightly lodging there: and flocks of sheep beneath the shade from far might hear the rattling hail, and wintry war; from heaven's inclemency here found retreat, enjoy'd the cool, and shunn'd the scorching heat: a hundred knights might there at ease abide; and every knight a lady by his side: the trunk itself such odours did bequeath, that a moluccan[ ] breeze to these was common breath. the lords and ladies here, approaching, paid their homage, with a low obeisance made; and seem'd to venerate the sacred shade. these rites perform'd, their pleasures they pursue, with song of love, and mix with measures new; around the holy tree their dance they frame, and every champion leads his chosen dame. i cast my sight upon the farther field, and a fresh object of delight beheld: for from the region of the west i heard new music sound, and a new troop appear'd; of knights and ladies mix'd, a jolly band, but all on foot they march'd, and hand in hand. the ladies dress'd in rich symars were seen of florence satin, flower'd with white and green, and for a shade betwixt the bloomy gridelin. the borders of their petticoats below were guarded thick with rubies on a row; and every damsel wore upon her head of flowers a garland blended white and red. attired in mantles all the knights were seen, that gratified the view with cheerful green: their chaplets of their ladies' colours were, composed of white and red, to shade their shining hair. before the merry troop the minstrels play'd; all in their masters' liveries were array'd, and clad in green, and on their temples wore the chaplets white and red their ladies bore. their instruments were various in their kind, some for the bow, and some for breathing wind; the sawtry, pipe, and hautboy's noisy band, and the soft lute trembling beneath the touching hand. a tuft of daisies on a flowery lea they saw, and thitherward they bent their way; to this both knights and dames their homage made, and due obeisance to the daisy paid. and then the band of flutes began to play, to which a lady sung a virelay:[ ] and still at every close she would repeat the burden of the song, _the daisy is so sweet, the daisy is so sweet_: when she begun, the troop of knights and dames continued on. the concert and the voice so charm'd my ear, and soothed my soul, that it was heaven to hear. but soon their pleasure pass'd: at noon of day the sun with sultry beams began to play: not sirius shoots a fiercer flame from high, when with his poisonous breath he blasts the sky: then droop'd the fading flowers (their beauty fled) and closed their sickly eyes, and hung the head; and rivell'd up with heat, lay dying in their bed. the ladies gasp'd, and scarcely could respire; the breath they drew, no longer air but fire; the fainty knights were scorch'd, and knew not where to run for shelter, for no shade was near; and after this the gathering clouds amain pour'd down a storm of rattling hail and rain; and lightning flash'd betwixt: the field, and flowers, burnt up before, were buried in the showers. the ladies and the knights, no shelter nigh, bare to the weather and the wintry sky, were drooping wet, disconsolate, and wan, and through their thin array received the rain; while those in white, protected by the tree, saw pass in vain the assault, and stood from danger free; but as compassion moved their gentle minds, when ceased the storm, and silent were the winds, displeased at what, not suffering they had seen, they went to cheer the faction of the green. the queen in white array, before her band, saluting, took her rival by the hand; so did the knights and dames, with courtly grace, and with behaviour sweet their foes embrace; then thus the queen with laurel on her brow-- fair sister, i have suffer'd in your woe; nor shall be wanting aught within my power for your relief in my refreshing bower. that other answer'd with a lowly look, and soon the gracious invitation took: for ill at ease both she and all her train the scorching sun had borne, and beating rain. like courtesy was used by all in white, each dame a dame received, and every knight a knight. the laurel champions with their swords invade the neighbouring forests, where the jousts were made, and serewood from the rotten hedges took, and seeds of latent fire, from flints provoke: a cheerful blaze arose, and by the fire they warm'd their frozen feet, and dried their wet attire. refresh'd with heat, the ladies sought around for virtuous herbs, which, gather'd from the ground, they squeezed the juice, and cooling ointment made, which on their sun-burnt cheeks, and their chapt skins they laid: then sought green salads, which they bade them eat, a sovereign remedy for inward heat. the lady of the leaf ordain'd a feast, and made the lady of the flower her guest: when, lo! a bower ascended on the plain, with sudden seats ordain'd, and large for either train. this bower was near my pleasant arbour placed, that i could hear and see whatever pass'd: the ladies sat with each a knight between, distinguish'd by their colours, white and green; the vanquish'd party with the victors join'd, nor wanted sweet discourse, the banquet of the mind. meantime the minstrels play'd on either side, vain of their art, and for the mastery vied: the sweet contention lasted for an hour, and reach'd my secret arbour from the bower. the sun was set; and vesper, to supply his absent beams, had lighted up the sky. when philomel, officious all the day to sing the service of the ensuing may, fled from her laurel shade, and wing'd her flight directly to the queen array'd in white: and, hopping, sat familiar on her hand, a new musician, and increased the band. the goldfinch, who, to shun the scalding heat, had changed the medlar for a safer seat, and hid in bushes 'scaped the bitter shower, now perch'd upon the lady of the flower; and either songster holding out their throats, and folding up their wings, renew'd their notes: as if all day, precluding to the fight, they only had rehearsed, to sing by night. the banquet ended, and the battle done, they danced by star-light and the friendly moon: and when they were to part, the laureate queen supplied with steeds the lady of the green, her and her train conducting on the way, the moon to follow, and avoid the day. this when i saw, inquisitive to know the secret moral of the mystic show, i started from my shade, in hopes to find some nymph to satisfy my longing mind: and as my fair adventure fell, i found a lady all in white, with laurel crown'd, who closed the rear, and softly paced along, repeating to herself the former song. with due respect my body i inclined, as to some being of superior kind, and made my court according to the day, wishing her queen and her a happy may. great thanks, my daughter, with a gracious bow, she said; and i, who much desired to know of whence she was, yet fearful how to break my mind, adventured humbly thus to speak: madam, might i presume and not offend, so may the stars and shining moon attend your nightly sports, as you vouchsafe to tell, what nymphs they were who mortal forms excel, and what the knights who fought in listed fields so well. to this the dame replied: fair daughter, know, that what you saw was all a fairy show; and all those airy shapes you now behold, were human bodies once, and clothed with earthly mould; our souls, not yet prepared for upper light, till doomsday wander in the shades of night; this only holiday of all the year, we privileged in sunshine may appear: with songs and dance we celebrate the day, and with due honours usher in the may. at other times we reign by night alone, and posting through the skies pursue the moon; but when the morn arises, none are found; for cruel demogorgon walks the round, and if he finds a fairy lag in light, he drives the wretch before, and lashes into night. all courteous are by kind; and ever proud with friendly offices to help the good. in every land we have a larger space than what is known to you of mortal race; where we with green adorn our fairy bowers, and even this grove, unseen before, is ours. know farther; every lady clothed in white, and, crown'd with oak and laurel every knight, are servants to the leaf, by liveries known of innocence; and i myself am one. saw you not her, so graceful to behold, in white attire, and crown'd with radiant gold? the sovereign lady of our land is she, diana call'd, the queen of chastity: and, for the spotless name of maid she bears, that agnus castus in her hand appears; and all her train, with leafy chaplets crown'd, were for unblamed virginity renown'd; but those the chief and highest in command who bear those holy branches in their hand: the knights adorn'd with laurel crowns are they, whom death nor danger ever could dismay, victorious names, who made the world obey; who, while they lived, in deeds of arms excell'd, and after death for deities were held. but those who wear the woodbine on their brow, were knights of love, who never broke their vow; firm to their plighted faith, and ever free from fears and fickle chance, and jealousy. the lords and ladies, who the woodbine bear, as true as tristram and isotta were. but what are those, said i, the unconquer'd nine, who, crown'd with laurel-wreaths, in golden armour shine? and who the knights in green, and what the train of ladies dress'd with daisies on the plain? why both the bands in worship disagree, and some adore the flower, and some the tree? just is your suit, fair daughter, said the dame: those laurell'd chiefs were men of mighty fame; nine worthies were they call'd of different rites, three jews, three pagans, and three christian knights. these, as you see, ride foremost in the field, as they the foremost rank of honour held, and all in deeds of chivalry excell'd: their temples wreathed with leaves, that still renew; for deathless laurel is the victor's due: who bear the bows were knights in arthur's reign, twelve they, and twelve the peers of charlemagne: for bows the strength of brawny arms imply, emblems of valour, and of victory. behold an order yet of newer date, doubling their number, equal in their state; our england's ornament, the crown's defence, in battle brave, protectors of their prince; unchanged by fortune, to their sovereign true, for which their manly legs are bound with blue. these, of the garter call'd, of faith unstain'd, in fighting fields the laurel have obtain'd, and well repaid the honours which they gain'd. the laurel wreaths were first by cesar worn, and still they cesar's successors adorn: one leaf of this is immortality, and more of worth than all the world can buy. one doubt remains, said i, the dames in green, what were their qualities, and who their queen? flora commands, said she, those nymphs and knights, who lived in slothful ease and loose delights; who never acts of honour durst pursue, the men inglorious knights, the ladies all untrue: who, nursed in idleness, and train'd in courts, pass'd all their precious hours in plays, and sports, till death behind came stalking on, unseen, and wither'd (like the storm) the freshness of their green. these, and their mates, enjoy their present hour, and therefore pay their homage to the flower: but knights in knightly deeds should persevere, and still continue what at first they were; continue, and proceed in honour's fair career. no room for cowardice, or dull delay; from good to better they should urge their way. for this with golden spurs the chiefs are graced, with pointed rowels arm'd to mend their haste; for this with lasting leaves their brows are bound; for laurel is the sign of labour crown'd, which bears the bitter blast, nor shaken falls to ground: from winter winds it suffers no decay, for ever fresh and fair, and every month is may. even when the vital sap retreats below, even when the hoary head is hid in snow, the life is in the leaf, and still between the fits of falling snow appears the streaky green. not so the flower, which lasts for little space, a short-lived good, and an uncertain grace; this way, and that, the feeble stem is driven, weak to sustain the storms and injuries of heaven. propp'd by the spring, it lifts aloft the head, but of a sickly beauty, soon to shed; in summer living, and in winter dead. for things of tender kind, for pleasure made, shoot up with swift increase, and sudden are decay'd. with humble words, the wisest i could frame, and proffer'd service, i repaid the dame; that, of her grace, she gave her maid to know the secret meaning of this moral show. and she, to prove what profit i had made of mystic truth, in fables first convey'd, demanded, till the next returning may, whether the leaf or flower i would obey? i chose the leaf; she smiled with sober cheer, and wish'd me fair adventure for the year, and gave me charms and sigils, for defence against ill tongues that scandal innocence: but i, said she, my fellows must pursue, already past the plain, and out of view. we parted thus; i homeward sped my way, bewilder'd in the wood till dawn of day; and met the merry crew who danced about the may. then late refresh'd with sleep, i rose to write the visionary vigils of the night. blush, as thou may'st, my little book, with shame, nor hope with homely verse to purchase fame; for such thy maker chose; and so design'd thy simple style to suit thy lowly kind. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : this poem is intended to describe, in those who honour the "flower," the votaries of perishable beauty; and in those who honour the "leaf," the votaries of virtue.] [footnote : 'agnus castus:' a flower representing chastity.] [footnote : 'cerrial-oak:' cerrus, bitter oak.] [footnote : 'molucca:' one of the spice islands.] [footnote : 'virelay:' a poem with recurring rhymes.] * * * * * the wife of bath, her tale. in days of old, when arthur fill'd the throne, whose acts and fame to foreign lands were blown; the king of elves and little fairy queen gamboll'd on heaths, and danced on every green; and where the jolly troop had led the round, the grass unbidden rose, and mark'd the ground: nor darkling did they dance, the silver light of phoebe served to guide their steps aright, and with their tripping pleased, prolong the night. her beams they follow'd, where at full she play'd, nor longer than she shed her horns they stay'd; from thence with airy flight to foreign lands convey'd above the rest our britain held they dear, more solemnly they kept their sabbaths here, and made more spacious rings, and revell'd half the year. i speak of ancient times, for now the swain returning late may pass the woods in vain, and never hope to see the nightly train: in vain the dairy now with mints is dress'd, the dairymaid expects no fairy guest, to skim the bowls, and after pay the feast. she sighs and shakes her empty shoes in vain, no silver penny to reward her pain: for priests, with prayers, and other godly gear, have made the merry goblins disappear; and where they play'd their merry pranks before, have sprinkled holy water on the floor: and friars, that through the wealthy regions run, thick as the motes that twinkle in the sun, resort to farmers rich, and bless their halls, and exorcise the beds, and cross the walls: this makes the fairy quires forsake the place, when once 'tis hallow'd with the rites of grace: but in the walks where wicked elves have been, the learning of the parish now is seen, the midnight parson, posting o'er the green, with gown tuck'd up, to wakes, for sunday next, with humming ale encouraging his text; nor wants the holy leer to country girl betwixt. from fiends and imps he sets the village free, there haunts not any incubus but he. the maids and women need no danger fear to walk by night, and sanctity so near: for by some haycock, or some shady thorn, he bids his beads both even-song and morn. it so befell, in this king arthur's reign, a lusty knight was pricking o'er the plain; a bachelor he was, and of the courtly train. it happen'd, as he rode, a damsel gay, in russet robes, to market took her way. soon on the girl he cast an amorous eye, so straight she walk'd, and on her pasterns high: if, seeing her behind, he liked her pace, now turning short, he better likes her face. he lights in haste, and, full of youthful fire, by force accomplish'd his obscene desire: this done, away he rode, not unespied, for swarming at his back the country cried: and once in view they never lost the sight, but seized, and pinion'd brought to court the knight, then courts of kings were held in high renown, ere made the common brothels of the town: there, virgins honourable vows received, but chaste as maids in monasteries lived: the king himself, to nuptial ties a slave, no bad example to his poets gave: and they, not bad, but in a vicious age, had not, to please the prince, debauch'd the stage. now, what should arthur do? he loved the knight, but sovereign monarchs are the source of right: moved by the damsel's tears and common cry, he doom'd the brutal ravisher to die. but fair geneura rose in his defence, and pray'd so hard for mercy from the prince, that to his queen the king the offender gave, and left it in her power to kill or save: this gracious act the ladies all approve, who thought it much a man should die for love; and with their mistress join'd in close debate, (covering their kindness with dissembled hate) if not to free him, to prolong his fate. at last agreed, they call him by consent before the queen and female parliament; and the fair speaker, rising from the chair, did thus the judgment of the house declare: sir knight, though i have ask'd thy life, yet still thy destiny depends upon my will: nor hast thou other surety than the grace not due to thee from our offended race. but as our kind is of a softer mould, and cannot blood without a sigh behold, i grant thee life; reserving still the power to take the forfeit when i see my hour: unless thy answer to my next demand shall set thee free from our avenging hand. the question, whose solution i require, is, what the sex of women most desire? in this dispute thy judges are at strife; beware; for on thy wit depends thy life. yet (lest surprised, unknowing what to say, thou damn thyself) we give thee farther day: a year is thine to wander at thy will, and learn from others, if thou want'st the skill. but, not to hold our proffer turn'd to scorn, good sureties will we have for thy return; that at the time prefix'd thou shalt obey, and at thy pledge's peril keep thy day. woe was the knight at this severe command; but well he knew 'twas bootless to withstand: the terms accepted, as the fair ordain, he put in bail for his return again, and promised answer at the day assign'd, the best, with heaven's assistance, he could find. his leave thus taken, on his way he went with heavy heart, and full of discontent, misdoubting much, and fearful of the event. 'twas hard the truth of such a point to find, as was not yet agreed among the kind. thus on he went; still anxious more and more, ask'd all he met, and knock'd at every door; inquired of men; but made his chief request, to learn from women what they loved the best. they answer'd each according to her mind, to please herself, not all the female kind. one was for wealth, another was for place; crones, old and ugly, wish'd a better face: the widow's wish was oftentimes to wed; the wanton maids were all for sport a-bed. some said the sex were pleased with handsome lies, and some gross flattery loved without disguise: truth is, says one, he seldom fails to win who flatters well; for that's our darling sin: but long attendance, and a duteous mind, will work even with the wisest of the kind. one thought the sex's prime felicity was from the bonds of wedlock to be free; their pleasures, hours, and actions all their own, and uncontroll'd to give account to none. some wish a husband-fool; but such are cursed, for fools perverse of husbands are the worst: all women would be counted chaste and wise, nor should our spouses see, but with our eyes; for fools will prate; and though they want the wit to find close faults, yet open blots will hit; though better for their ease to hold their tongue, for womankind was never in the wrong. so noise ensues, and quarrels last for life; the wife abhors the fool, the fool the wife. and some men say that great delight have we, to be for truth extoll'd, and secrecy; and constant in one purpose still to dwell; and not our husbands' counsels to reveal. but that's a fable; for our sex is frail, inventing rather than not tell a tale. like leaky sieves, no secrets we can hold: witness the famous tale that ovid told. midas the king, as in his book appears, by phoebus was endow'd with ass's ears, which under his long locks he well conceal'd, (as monarchs' vices must not be reveal'd) for fear the people have them in the wind, who long ago were neither dumb nor blind: nor apt to think from heaven their title springs, since jove and mars left off begetting kings. this midas knew; and durst communicate to none but to his wife his ears of state: one must be trusted, and he thought her fit, as passing prudent, and a parlous wit. to this sagacious confessor he went, and told her what a gift the gods had sent: but told it under matrimonial seal, with strict injunction never to reveal. the secret heard, she plighted him her troth, (and sacred sure is every woman's oath) the royal malady should rest unknown, both for her husband's honour and her own; but ne'ertheless she pined with discontent; the counsel rumbled till it found a vent. the thing she knew she was obliged to hide; by interest and by oath the wife was tied; but if she told it not, the woman died. loath to betray a husband and a prince, but she must burst, or blab; and no pretence of honour tied her tongue from self-defence. a marshy ground commodiously was near, thither she ran, and held her breath for fear; lest if a word she spoke of any thing, that word might be the secret of the king. thus full of counsel to the fen she went, griped all the way, and longing for a vent; arrived, by pure necessity compell'd, on her majestic marrow-bones she kneel'd: then to the water's brink she laid her head, and as a bittour[ ] bumps within a reed, to thee alone, o lake, she said, i tell, (and, as thy queen, command thee to conceal!) beneath his locks the king, my husband wears a goodly royal pair of ass's ears: now i have eased my bosom of the pain, till the next longing fit return again. thus through a woman was the secret known; tell us, and in effect you tell the town. but to my tale; the knight with heavy cheer, wandering in vain, had now consumed the year: one day was only left to solve the doubt, yet knew no more than when he first set out. but home he must, and as the award had been, yield up his body captive to the queen. in this despairing state he happ'd to ride, as fortune led him, by a forest side: lonely the vale, and full of horror stood, brown with the shade of a religious wood! when full before him, at the noon of night, (the moon was up, and shot a gleamy light) he saw a quire of ladies in a round that featly footing seem'd to skim the ground: thus dancing hand in hand, so light they were, he knew not where they trod, on earth or air. at speed he drove, and came a sudden guest, in hope where many women were, at least some one by chance might answer his request. but faster than his horse the ladies flew, and in a trice were vanish'd out of view. one only hag remain'd; but fouler far than grandame apes in indian forests are: against a wither'd oak she lean'd her weight, propp'd on her trusty staff, not half upright, and dropp'd an awkward courtesy to the knight; then said, what makes you, sir, so late abroad without a guide, and this no beaten road? or want you aught that here you hope to find, or travel for some trouble in your mind? the last i guess; and if i read aright, those of our sex are bound to serve a knight; perhaps good counsel may your grief assuage, then tell your pain; for wisdom is in age. to this the knight: good mother, would you know the secret cause and spring of all my woe? my life must with to-morrow's light expire, unless i tell what women most desire. now could you help me at this hard essay, or for your inborn goodness, or for pay; yours is my life, redeem'd by your advice, ask what you please, and i will pay the price; the proudest kerchief of the court shall rest well satisfied of what they love the best. plight me thy faith, quoth she, that what i ask, thy danger over, and perform'd thy task, that thou shalt give for hire of thy demand; here take thy oath, and seal it on my hand; i warrant thee, on peril of my life, thy words shall please both widow, maid, and wife. more words there needed not to move the knight to take her offer, and his truth to plight. with that she spread a mantle on the ground, and, first inquiring whither he was bound, bade him not fear, though long and rough the way, at court he should arrive ere break of day; his horse should find the way without a guide. she said: with fury they began to ride, he on the midst, the beldam at his side. the horse what devil drove i cannot tell, but only this, they sped their journey well: and all the way the crone inform'd the knight, how he should answer the demand aright. to court they came; the news was quickly spread of his returning to redeem his head. the female senate was assembled soon, with all the mob of women in the town: the queen sat lord chief-justice of the hall, and bade the crier cite the criminal. the knight appear'd; and silence they proclaim; then first the culprit answer'd to his name: and, after forms of law, was last required to name the thing that women most desired. the offender, taught his lesson by the way, and by his counsel order'd what to say, thus bold began: my lady liege, said he, what all your sex desire is sovereignty. the wife affects her husband to command; all must be hers, both money, house, and land. the maids are mistresses even in their name; and of their servants full dominion claim. this, at the peril of my head, i say, a blunt plain truth, the sex aspires to sway, you to rule all, while we, like slaves, obey. there was not one, or widow, maid, or wife, but said the knight had well deserved his life. even fair geneura, with a blush, confess'd the man had found what women love the best. upstarts the beldam, who was there unseen, and, reverence made, accosted thus the queen: my liege, said she, before the court arise, may i, poor wretch, find favour in your eyes, to grant my just request? 'twas i who taught the knight this answer, and inspired his thought; none but a woman could a man direct to tell us women what we most affect. but first i swore him on his knightly troth, (and here demand performance of his oath) to grant the boon that next i should desire; he gave his faith, and i expect my hire: my promise is fulfill'd; i saved his life, and claim his debt, to take me for his wife. the knight was ask'd, nor could his oath deny, but hoped they would not force him to comply. the women, who would rather wrest the laws, than let a sister-plaintiff lose the cause, (as judges on the bench more gracious are, and more attent to brothers of the bar) cried one and all, the suppliant should have right, and to the grandame hag adjudged the knight. in vain he sigh'd, and oft with tears desired some reasonable suit might be required. but still the crone was constant to her note; the more he spoke, the more she stretch'd her throat. in vain he proffer'd all his goods, to save his body destined to that living grave. the liquorish hag rejects the pelf with scorn; and nothing but the man would serve her turn. not all the wealth of eastern kings, said she, have power to part my plighted love, and me; and, old and ugly as i am, and poor, yet never will i break the faith i swore; for mine thou art by promise, during life, and i thy loving and obedient wife. my love! nay, rather, my damnation thou, said he: nor am i bound to keep my vow: the fiend thy sire hath sent thee from below, else how couldst thou my secret sorrows know? avaunt, old witch! for i renounce thy bed: the queen may take the forfeit of my head, ere any of my race so foul a crone shall wed. both heard, the judge pronounced against the knight; so was he married in his own despite; and all day after hid him as an owl, not able to sustain a sight so foul. perhaps the reader thinks i do him wrong, to pass the marriage feast, and nuptial song: mirth there was none, the man was _a-la-mort_, and little courage had to make his court. to bed they went, the bridegroom and the bride: was never such an ill-pair'd couple tied, restless, he toss'd and tumbled to and fro, and roll'd, and wriggled further off, for woe. the good old wife lay smiling by his side, and caught him in her quivering arms, and cried, when you my ravish'd predecessor saw, you were not then become this man of straw; had you been such, you might have 'scaped the law. is this the custom of king arthur's court? are all round-table knights of such a sort? remember, i am she who saved your life, your loving, lawful, and complying wife: not thus you swore in your unhappy hour, nor i for this return employ'd my power. in time of need i was your faithful friend; nor did i since, nor ever will offend. believe me, my loved lord, 'tis much unkind; what fury has possess'd your alter'd mind? thus on my wedding night--without pretence-- come turn this way, or tell me my offence. if not your wife, let reason's rule persuade; name but my fault, amends shall soon be made. amends! nay, that's impossible, said he, what change of age or ugliness can be? or could medea's magic mend thy face, thou art descended from so mean a race, that never knight was match'd with such disgrace. what wonder, madam, if i move my side, when, if i turn, i turn to such a bride? and is this all that troubles you so sore? and what the devil couldst thou wish me more? ah, benedicite, replied the crone; then cause of just complaining have you none. the remedy to this were soon applied, would you be like the bridegroom to the bride: but, for you say a long descended race, and wealth and dignity, and power and place, make gentlemen, and that your high degree is much disparaged to be match'd with me; know this, my lord, nobility of blood is but a glittering and fallacious good: the nobleman is he, whose noble mind is fill'd with inborn worth, unborrow'd from his kind. the king of heaven was in a manger laid, and took his earth but from an humble maid; then what can birth, or mortal men, bestow? since floods no higher than their fountains flow. we, who for name and empty honour strive, our true nobility from him derive. your ancestors, who puff your mind with pride, and vast estates to mighty titles tied, did not your honour, but their own, advance; for virtue comes not by inheritance. if you tralineate from your father's mind, what are you else but of a bastard kind? do, as your great progenitors have done, and, by their virtues, prove yourself their son. no father can infuse or wit or grace; a mother comes across, and mars the race. a grandsire or a grandame taints the blood; and seldom three descents continue good. were virtue by descent, a noble name could never villanise his father's fame; but, as the first, the last of all the line, would, like the sun, even in descending shine; take fire, and bear it to the darkest house, betwixt king arthur's court and caucasus: if you depart, the flame shall still remain, and the bright blaze enlighten all the plain: nor, till the fuel perish, can decay, by nature form'd on things combustible to prey. such is not man, who, mixing better seed with worse, begets a base degenerate breed: the bad corrupts the good, and leaves behind no trace of all the great begetter's mind. the father sinks within his son, we see, and often rises in the third degree; if better luck a better mother give, chance gave us being, and by chance we live. such as our atoms were, even such are we, or call it chance, or strong necessity: thus loaded with dead weight, the will is free. and thus it needs must be; for seed conjoin'd lets into nature's work the imperfect kind; but fire, the enlivener of the general frame, is one, its operation still the same. its principle is in itself: while ours works, as confederates war, with mingled powers; or man or woman, which soever fails: and oft the vigour of the worse prevails. aether with sulphur blended alters hue, and casts a dusky gleam of sodom blue. thus, in a brute, their ancient honour ends, and the fair mermaid in a fish descends: the line is gone; no longer duke or earl; but, by himself degraded, turns a churl. nobility of blood is but renown of thy great fathers by their virtue known, and a long trail of light, to thee descending down. if in thy smoke it ends, their glories shine; but infamy and villanage are thine. then what i said before is plainly show'd, the true nobility proceeds from god; nor left us by inheritance, but given by bounty of our stars, and grace of heaven. thus from a captive servius tullius rose, whom for his virtues the first romans chose: fabricius from their walls repell'd the foe, whose noble hands had exercised the plough. from hence, my lord, and love, i thus conclude, that though my homely ancestors were rude, mean as i am, yet i may have the grace to make you father of a generous race: and noble then am i, when i begin, in virtue clothed, to cast the rags of sin. if poverty be my upbraided crime, and you believe in heaven, there was a time when he, the great controller of our fate, deign'd to be man, and lived in low estate; which he who had the world at his dispose, if poverty were vice, would never choose. philosophers have said, and poets sing, that a glad poverty's an honest thing. content is wealth, the riches of the mind; and happy he who can that treasure find. but the base miser starves amidst his store, broods on his gold, and, griping still at more, sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor. the ragged beggar, though he want relief, has not to lose, and sings before the thief. want is a bitter and a hateful good, because its virtues are not understood; yet many things, impossible to thought, have been by need to full perfection brought: the daring of the soul proceeds from thence, sharpness of wit, and active diligence: prudence at once, and fortitude, it gives, and, if in patience taken, mends our lives; for even that indigence, that brings me low, makes me myself, and him above, to know. a good which none would challenge, few would choose, a fair possession, which mankind refuse. if we from wealth to poverty descend, want gives to know the flatterer from the friend. if i am old and ugly, well for you, no lewd adulterer will my love pursue; nor jealousy, the bane of married life, shall haunt you for a wither'd homely wife; for age and ugliness, as all agree, are the best guards of female chastity. yet since i see your mind is worldly bent, i'll do my best to further your content. and therefore of two gifts in my dispose, think ere you speak, i grant you leave to choose: would you i should be still deform'd and old, nauseous to touch, and loathsome to behold; on this condition to remain for life, a careful, tender, and obedient wife, in all i can contribute to your ease, and not in deed, or word, or thought displease: or would you rather have me young and fair, and take the chance that happens to your share? temptations are in beauty, and in youth, and how can you depend upon my truth? now weigh the danger with the doubtful bliss, and thank yourself, if aught should fall amiss. sore sigh'd the knight, who this long sermon heard; at length, considering all, his heart he cheer'd, and thus replied: my lady, and my wife, to your wise conduct i resign my life: choose you for me, for well you understand the future good and ill, on either hand: but if an humble husband may request, provide, and order all things for the best; yours be the care to profit, and to please; and let your subject servant take his ease. then thus in peace, quoth she, concludes the strife, since i am turn'd the husband, you the wife: the matrimonial victory is mine, which, having fairly gain'd, i will resign: forgive if i have said or done amiss, and seal the bargain with a friendly kiss. i promised you but one content to share, but now i will become both good and fair: no nuptial quarrel shall disturb your ease; the business of my life shall be to please: and for my beauty, that, as time shall try-- but draw the curtain first, and cast your eye. he look'd, and saw a creature heavenly fair, in bloom of youth, and of a charming air. with joy he turn'd, and seized her ivory arm; and like pygmalion found the statue warm. small arguments there needed to prevail; a storm of kisses pour'd as thick as hail. thus long in mutual bliss they lay embraced, and their first love continued to the last: one sunshine was their life, no cloud between; nor ever was a kinder couple seen. and so may all our lives like theirs be led; heaven send the maids young husbands fresh in bed! may widows wed as often as they can, and ever for the better change their man! and some devouring plague pursue their lives, who will not well be govern'd by their wives! * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : 'bittour:' bittern.] * * * * * the character of a good parson.[ ] a parish priest was of the pilgrim train; an awful, reverend, and religious man. his eyes diffused a venerable grace, and charity itself was in his face. rich was his soul, though his attire was poor; (as god had clothed his own ambassador;) for such, on earth, his bless'd redeemer bore. of sixty years he seem'd; and well might last to sixty more, but that he lived too fast; refined himself to soul, to curb the sense; and made almost a sin of abstinence, yet, had his aspect nothing of severe, but such a face as promised him sincere. nothing reserved or sullen was to see; but sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity: mild was his accent, and his action free. with eloquence innate his tongue was arm'd; though harsh the precept, yet the preacher charm'd. for letting down the golden chain from high, he drew his audience upward to the sky; and oft, with holy hymns, he charm'd their ears: (a music more melodious than the spheres.) for david left him, when he went to rest, his lyre; and after him he sung the best. he bore his great commission in his look: but sweetly temper'd awe; and soften'd all he spoke. he preach'd the joys of heaven, and pains of hell; and warn'd the sinner with becoming zeal; but on eternal mercy loved to dwell. he taught the gospel rather than the law, and forced himself to drive: but loved to draw. for fear but freezes minds; but love, like heat, exhales the soul sublime, to seek her native seat. to threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard, wrapp'd in his crimes, against the storm prepared; but, when the milder beams of mercy play, he melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak away, lightning and thunder (heaven's artillery) as harbingers before the almighty fly: those but proclaim his style, and disappear; the stiller sound succeeds, and god is there. the tithes, his parish freely paid, he took; but never sued, or cursed with bell and book. with patience bearing wrong; but offering none: since every man is free to lose his own. the country churls, according to their kind, (who grudge their dues, and love to be behind), the less he sought his offerings, pinch'd the more, and praised a priest contented to be poor. yet of his little he had some to spare, to feed the famish'd, and to clothe the bare; for mortified he was to that degree, a poorer than himself he would not see. true priests, he said, and preachers of the word, were only stewards of their sovereign lord: nothing was theirs; but all the public store; intrusted riches, to relieve the poor: who, should they steal for want of his relief, he judged himself accomplice with the thief. wide was his parish; not contracted close in streets, but here and there a straggling house; yet still he was at hand, without request, to serve the sick; to succour the distress'd: tempting, on foot, alone, without affright, the dangers of a dark tempestuous night. all this the good old man perform'd alone, nor spared his pains; for curate he had none: nor durst he trust another with his care; nor rode himself to paul's, the public fair, to chaffer for preferment with his gold, where bishoprics and sinecures are sold: but duly watch'd his flock, by night and day, and from the prowling wolf redeem'd the prey; and hungry sent the wily fox away. the proud he tamed, the penitent he cheer'd; nor to rebuke the rich offender fear'd. his preaching much, but more his practice wrought; (a living sermon of the truths he taught); for this by rules severe his life he squared, that all might see the doctrine which they heard. for priests, he said, are patterns for the rest: (the gold of heaven, who bear the god impress'd): but when the precious coin is kept unclean, the sovereign's image is no longer seen. if they be foul on whom the people trust, well may the baser brass contract a rust. the prelate for his holy life he prized; the worldly pomp of prelacy despised: his saviour came not with a gaudy show; nor was his kingdom of the world below. patience in want, and poverty of mind, these marks of church and churchmen he design'd, and living taught, and dying left behind. the crown he wore was of the pointed thorn: in purple he was crucified, not born. they who contend for place and high degree, are not his sons, but those of zebedee. not but he knew the signs of earthly power might well become saint peter's successor; the holy father holds a double reign, the prince may keep his pomp, the fisher must be plain. such was the saint, who shone with every grace, reflecting, moses'-like, his maker's face. god saw his image lively was express'd; and his own work, as in creation, bless'd. the tempter saw him too, with envious eye; and, as on job, demanded leave to try. he took the time when richard was deposed, and high and low with happy harry closed. this prince, though great in arms, the priest withstood: near though he was, yet not the next of blood. had richard, unconstrain'd, resign'd the throne, a king can give no more than is his own: the title stood entail'd, had richard had a son. conquest, an odious name, was laid aside, where all submitted, none the battle tried. the senseless plea of right by providence was, by a flattering priest, invented since; and lasts no longer than the present sway; but justifies the next who comes in play. the people's right remains; let those who dare dispute their power, when they the judges are. he join'd not in their choice, because he knew worse might, and often did, from change ensue. much to himself he thought; but little spoke; and, undeprived, his benefice forsook. now, through the land, his cure of souls he stretch'd; and like a primitive apostle preach'd: still cheerful; ever constant to his call; by many follow'd; loved by most, admired by all. with what he begg'd, his brethren he relieved: and gave the charities himself received. gave, while he taught; and edified the more, because he showed, by proof, 'twas easy to be poor. he went not with the crowd to see a shrine; but fed us, by the way, with food divine. in deference to his virtues, i forbear to show you what the rest in orders were: this brilliant is so spotless and so bright, he needs no foil, but shines by his own proper light. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : this poem is intended as a palinode for some of dryden's former misdeeds, and partly as a covert panegyric on the nonjuring clergy.] * * * * * the end.