Almanz. Whene'er you speak, Were my wounds mortal, they should still bleed on; And I would listen till my life were gone: My soul should even for your last accent stay, And then shout out, and with such speed obey, It should not bait at heaven to stop its way. [Exit ALMANZ.

Boab. 'Tis true, Almanzor did her honour save, But yet what private business can they have? Such freedom virtue will not sure allow; I cannot clear my heart, but must my brow. [Aside. [He approaches ALMAHIDE. Welcome again, my virtuous, loyal wife; Welcome to love, to honour, and to life! [Goes to salute her, she starts back. You seem As if you from a loathed embrace did go!

Almah. Then briefly will I speak, since you must know What to the world my future acts will show: But hear me first, and then my reasons weigh. 'Tis known, how duty led me to obey My father's choice; and how I since did live, You, sir, can best your testimony give. How to your aid I have Almanzor brought, When by rebellious crowds your life was sought; Then, how I bore your causeless jealousy, (For I must speak) and after set you free, When you were prisoner in the chance of war: These, sure, are proofs of love.

Boab. I grant they are.

Almah. And could you then, O cruelly unkind! So ill reward such tenderness of mind? Could you, denying what our laws afford The meanest subject, on a traitor's word, Unheard, condemn, and suffer me to go To death, and yet no common pity show!

Boab. Love filled my heart even to the brim before; And then, with too much jealousy, boiled o'er.

Almah. Be't love or jealousy, 'tis such a crime, That I'm forewarned to trust a second time. Know, then, my prayers to heaven shall never cease, To crown your arms in war, your wars with peace; But from this day I will not know your bed: Though Almahide still lives, your wife is dead; And with her dies a love so pure and true, It could be killed by nothing but by you. [Exit ALMAH.

Boab. Yes; you will spend your life in prayers for me, And yet this hour my hated rival see. She might a husband's jealousy forgive; But she will only for Almanzor live. It is resolved; I will myself provide That vengeance, which my useless laws denied; And, by Almanzor's death, at once remove The rival of my empire, and my love. [Exit BOAB.

Enter ALMAHIDE, led by ALMANZOR, and followed by ESPERANZA; she speaks, entering.

Almah. How much, Almanzor, to your aid I owe, Unable to repay, I blush to know; Yet, forced by need, ere I can clear that score, I, like ill debtors, come to borrow more.

Almanz. Your new commands I on my knees attend: I was created for no other end. Born to be yours, I do by nature serve, And, like the labouring beast, no thanks deserve.

Almah. Yet first your virtue to your succour call, For in this hard command you'll need it all.

Almanz. I stand prepared; and whatsoe'er it be, Nothing is hard to him, who loves like me.

Almah. Then know, I from your love must yet implore One proof:—that you would never see me more.

Almanz. I must confess, [Starting back. For this last stroke I did no guard provide; I could suspect no foe was near that side. From winds and thickening clouds we thunder fear, None dread it from that quarter which is clear; And I would fain believe, 'tis but your art To shew You knew where deepest you could wound my heart.

Almah. So much respect is to your passion due, That sure I could not practise arts on you. But that you may not doubt what I have said, This hour I have renounced my husband's bed: Judge, then, how much my fame would injured be, If, leaving him, I should a lover see.

Almanz. If his unkindness have deserved that curse, Must I, for loving well, be punished worse?

Almah. Neither your love nor merits I compare, But my unspotted name must be my care.

Almanz. I have this day established its renown.

Almah. Would you so soon, what you have raised, throw down?

Almanz. But, madam, is not yours a greater guilt, To ruin him, who has that fabric built?

Almah. No lover should his mistress' prayers withstand, Yet you contemn my absolute command.

Almanz. 'Tis not contempt, When your command is issued out too late; 'Tis past my power, and all beyond is fate. I scarce could leave you, when to exile sent, Much less when now recalled from banishment; For if that heat your glances cast were strong, Your eyes, like glasses, fire, when held so long.

Almah. Then, since you needs will all my weakness know, I love you; and so well, that you must go. I am so much obliged, and have withal A heart so boundless and so prodigal, I dare not trust myself, or you, to stay, But, like frank gamesters, must forswear the play.

Almanz. Fate, thou art kind to strike so hard a blow: I am quite stunned, and past all feeling now. Yet—can you tell me you have power and will To save my life, and at that instant kill?

Almah. This, had you staid, you never must have known; But, now you go, I may with honour own.

Almanz. But, madam, I am forced to disobey: In your defence my honour bids me stay. I promised to secure your life and throne, And, heaven be thanked, that work is yet undone.

Almah. I here make void that promise which you made, For now I have no farther need of aid. That vow, which to my plighted lord was given, I must not break, but may transfer to heaven: I will with vestals live: There needs no guard at a religious door; Few will disturb the praying and the poor.

Almanz. Let me but near that happy temple stay, And through the grates peep on you once a day; To famished hope I would no banquet give: I cannot starve, and wish but just to live. Thus, as a drowning man Sinks often, and does still more faintly rise, With his last hold catching whate'er he spies; So, fallen from those proud hopes I had before, Your aid I for a dying wretch implore.

Almah. I cannot your hard destiny withstand,

BOABDELIN, and Guards above.

But slip, like bending rushes, from your hand. Sink all at once, since you must sink at last.

Almanz. Can you that last relief of sight remove, And thrust me out the utmost line of love! Then, since my hopes of happiness are gone, Denied all favours, I will seize this one. [Catches her hand, and kisses it.

Boab. My just revenge no longer I'll forbear: I've seen too much; I need not stay to hear. [Descends.

Almanz. As a small shower To the parched earth does some refreshment give, So, in the strength of this, one day I'll live: A day,—a year,—an age,—for ever, now; [Betwixt each word he kisses her hand by force; she struggling. I feel from every touch a new soul flow. [She snatches her hand away. My hoped eternity of joy is past! 'Twas insupportable, and could not last. Were heaven not made of less, or duller joy, 'Twould break each minute, and itself destroy.

Enter King and Guards, below.

Boab. This, this, is he, for whom thou didst deny To share my bed:—Let them together die.

Almah. Hear me, my lord.

Boab. Your flattering arts are vain: Make haste, and execute what I ordain. [To the Guards.

Almanz. Cut piece-meal in this cause, From every wound I should new vigour take, And every limb should new Almanzors make. [He puts himself before the Queen; the Guards attack him, with the King.

Enter ABDELMELECH.

Abdelm. What angry god, to exercise his spite, [To the King. Has arm'd your left hand, to cut off your right? [The King turns, the fight ceases. The foes are entered at the Elvira gate: False Lyndaraxa has the town betrayed, And all the Zegrys give the Spaniards aid.

Boab. O mischief, not suspected nor foreseen!

Abdelm. Already they have gained the Zacatin, And thence the Vivarambla place possest, While our faint soldiers scarce defend the rest. The duke of Arcos does one squadron head, The next by Ferdinand himself is led.

Almah. Now, brave Almanzor, be a god again; Above our crimes and your own passions reign. My lord has been by jealousy misled, To think I was not faithful to his bed. I can forgive him, though my death he sought, For too much love can never be a fault. Protect him, then; and what to his defence You give not, give to clear my innocence.

Almanz. Listen, sweet heaven, and all ye blessed above, Take rules of virtue from a mortal love! You've raised my soul; and if it mount more high, 'Tis as the wren did on the eagle fly. Yes, I once more will my revenge neglect, And, whom you can forgive, I can protect.

Boab. How hard a fate is mine, still doomed to shame! I make occasions for my rival's fame! [Exeunt. An alarm within.

Enter FERDINAND, ISABELLA, Don ALONZO D'AGUILAR; Spaniards and Ladies.

K. Ferd. Already more than half the town is gained, But there is yet a doubtful fight maintained.

Alonz. The fierce young king the entered does attack, And the more fierce Almanzor drives them back.

K. Ferd. The valiant Moors like raging lions fight; Each youth encouraged by his lady's sight.

Q. Isabel. I will advance with such a shining train, That Moorish beauties shall oppose in vain. Into the press of clashing swords we'll go, And, where the darts fly thickest, seek the foe.

K. Ferd. May heaven, which has inspired this generous thought, Avert those dangers you have boldly sought! Call up more troops; the women, to our shame, Will ravish from the men their part of fame. [Exeunt ISABELLA and Ladies.

Enter ALABEZ, and kisses the King's hand.

Alabez. Fair Lyndaraxa, and the Zegry line, Have led their forces with your troops to join; The adverse part, which obstinately fought, Are broke, and Abdelmelech prisoner brought.

K. Ferd. Fair Lyndaraxa, and her friends, shall find The effects of an obliged and grateful mind.

Alabez. But, marching by the Vivarambla place, The combat carried a more doubtful face: In that vast square the Moors and Spaniards met, Where the fierce conflict is continued yet; But with advantage on the adverse side, Whom fierce Almanzor does to conquest guide.

K. Ferd. With my Castilian foot I'll meet his rage; [Is going out: Shouts within are heard,—Victoria! Victoria! But these loud clamours better news presage.

Enter the DUKE OF ARCOS, and Soldiers; their Swords drawn and bloody.

D. Arcos. Granada now is yours; and there remain No Moors, but such as own the power of Spain. That squadron, which their king in person led, We charged, but found Almanzor on their head: Three several times we did the Moors attack, And thrice with slaughter did he drive us back: Our troops then shrunk; and still we lost more ground, 'Till from our queen we needful succour found: Her guards to our assistance bravely flew, And with fresh vigour did the fight renew: At the same time Did Lyndaraxa with her troops appear, And, while we charged the front, engaged the rear: Then fell the king, slain by a Zegry's hand.

K. Ferd. How could he such united force withstand?

D. Arcos. Discouraged with his death, the Moorish powers Fell back, and, falling back, were pressed by ours; But as, when winds and rain together crowd, They swell till they have burst the bladdered cloud; And first the lightning, flashing deadly clear, Flies, falls, consumes, kills ere it does appear,— So from his shrinking troops, Almanzor flew, Each blow gave wounds, and with each wound he slew: His force at once I envied and admired, And rushing forward, where my men retired, Advanced alone.

K. Ferd. You hazarded too far Your person, and the fortune of the war.

D. Arcos. Already both our arms for fight did bare, Already held them threatening in the air, When heaven (it must be heaven) my sight did guide To view his arm, upon whose wrist I spied A ruby cross in diamond bracelets tied; And just above it, in the brawnier part, By nature was engraved a bloody heart: Struck with these tokens, which so well I knew, And staggering back some paces, I withdrew: He followed, and supposed it was my fear; When, from above, a shrill voice reached his ear:— "Strike not thy father!"—it was heard to cry; Amazed, and casting round his wondrous eye, He stopped; then, thinking that his fears were vain, He lifted up his thundering arm again: Again the voice withheld him from my death; "Spare, spare his life," it cried, "who gave thee breath!" Once more he stopped; then threw his sword away; "Blessed shade," he said, "I hear thee, I obey Thy sacred voice;" then, in the sight of all, He at my feet, I on his neck did fall.

K. Ferd. O blessed event!

D. Arcos. The Moors no longer fought; But all their safety by submission sought: Mean time my son grew faint with loss of blood, And on his bending sword supported stood; Yet, with a voice beyond his strength, he cried, "Lead me to live or die by Almahide."

K. Ferd. I am not for his wounds less grieved than you: For, if what now my soul divines prove true, This is that son, whom in his infancy You lost, when by my father forced to fly.

D. Arcos. His sister's beauty did my passion move, (The crime for which I suffered was my love.) Our marriage known, to sea we took our flight: There, in a storm, Almanzor first saw light. On his right arm a bloody heart was graved, (The mark by which, this day, my life was saved:) The bracelets and the cross his mother tied About his wrist, ere she in childbed died. How we were captives made, when she was dead, And how Almanzor was in Afric bred, Some other hour you may at leisure hear, For see, the queen in triumph does appear.

Enter QUEEN ISABELLA, LYNDARAXA, Ladies, Moors and Spaniards mixed as Guards, ABDELMELECH, ABENAMAR, SELIN, Prisoners.

K. Ferd. [embracing Q. Isabel.] All stories which Granada's conquest tell, Shall celebrate the name of Isabel. Your ladies too, who, in their country's cause, Led on the men, shall share in your applause; And, for your sakes, henceforward I ordain, No lady's dower shall questioned be in Spain, Fair Lyndaraxa, for the help she lent, Shall, under tribute, have this government.

Abdelm. O heaven, that I should live to see this day!

Lyndar. You murmur now, but you shall soon obey. I knew this empire to my fate was owed; Heaven held it back as long as e'er it could; For thee, base wretch, I want a torture yet— [To ABDELM. I'll cage thee; thou shalt be my Bajazet. I on no pavement but on thee will tread; And, when I mount, my foot shall know thy head.

Abdelm. (Stabbing her with a poniard.) This first shall know thy heart.

Lyndar. O! I am slain!

Abdelm. Now, boast thy country is betrayed to Spain.

K. Ferd. Look to the lady!—Seize the murderer!

Abdelm. (Stabbing himself.) I do myself that justice I did her. Thy blood I to thy ruined country give, [To LYNDAR. But love too well thy murder to out-live. Forgive a love, excused by its excess, Which, had it not been cruel, had been less. Condemn my passion, then, but pardon me, And think I murdered him who murdered thee. [Dies.

Lyndar. Die for us both; I have not leisure now; A crown is come, and will not fate allow: And yet I feel something like death is near, My guards, my guards,— Let not that ugly skeleton appear! Sure destiny mistakes; this death's not mine; She dotes, and meant to cut another line. Tell her I am a queen;—but 'tis too late; Dying, I charge rebellion on my fate. Bow down, ye slaves:— [To the Moors. Bow quickly down, and your submission show.— [They bow. I'm pleased to taste an empire ere I go. [Dies.

Selin. She's dead, and here her proud ambition ends.

Aben. Such fortune still such black designs attends.

K. Ferd. Remove those mournful objects from our eyes, And see performed their funeral obsequies. [The bodies are carried off.

Enter ALMANZOR and ALMAHIDE, OZMYN and BENZAYDA; ALMAHIDE brought in a chair; ALMANZOR led betwixt Soldiers. ISABELLA salutes ALMAHIDE in dumb show.

D. Arcos. (Presenting ALMANZOR to the King.) See here that son, whom I with pride call mine; And who dishonours not your royal line.

K. Ferd. I'm now secure, this sceptre, which I gain, Shall be continued in the power of Spain; Since he, who could alone my foes defend, By birth and honour is become my friend; Yet I can own no joy, nor conquest boast, [To ALMANZ. While in this blood I see how dear it cost.

Almanz. This honour to my veins new blood will bring; Streams cannot fail, fed by so high a spring. But all court-customs I so little know, That I may fail in those respects I owe. I bring a heart which homage never knew; Yet it finds something of itself in you: Something so kingly, that my haughty mind Is drawn to yours, because 'tis of a kind.

Q. Isabel. And yet that soul, which bears itself so high, If fame be true, admits a sovereignty. This queen, in her fair eyes, such fetters brings, As chain that heart, which scorns the power of kings.

Almah. Little of charm in these sad eyes appears; If they had any, now 'tis lost in tears. A crown, and husband, ravished in one day!— Excuse a grief, I cannot choose but pay.

Q. Isabel. Have courage, madam; heaven has joys in store, To recompence those losses you deplore.

Almah. I know your God can all my woes redress; To him I made my vows in my distress: And, what a misbeliever vowed this day, Though not a queen, a Christian yet shall pay.

Q. Isabel. (Embracing her.) That Christian name you shall receive from me, And Isabella of Granada be.

Benz. This blessed change we all with joy receive; And beg to learn that faith which you believe.

Q. Isabel. With reverence for those holy rites prepare; And all commit your fortunes to my care.

K. Ferd. to Almah. You, madam, by that crown you lose, may gain, If you accept, a coronet of Spain, Of which Almanzor's father stands possest.

Q. Isabel. to Almah. May you in him, and he in you, be blest!

Almah. I owe my life and honour to his sword; But owe my love to my departed lord.

Almanz. Thus, when I have no living force to dread, Fate finds me enemies amongst the dead. I'm now to conquer ghosts, and to destroy The strong impressions of a bridal joy.

Almah. You've yet a greater foe than these can be,— Virtue opposes you, and modesty.

Almanz. From a false fear that modesty does grow, And thinks true love, because 'tis fierce, its foe. 'Tis but the wax whose seals on virgins stay: Let it approach love's fire, 'twill melt away:— But I have lived too long; I never knew, When fate was conquered, I must combat you. I thought to climb the steep ascent of love; But did not think to find a foe above. 'Tis time to die, when you my bar must be, Whose aid alone could give me victory; Without, I'll pull up all the sluices of the flood, And love, within, shall boil out all my blood.

Q. Isabel. Fear not your love should find so sad success, While I have power to be your patroness. I am her parent now, and may command So much of duty as to give her hand. [Gives him ALMAHIDE'S hand.

Almah. Madam, I never can dispute your power, Or as a parent, or a conqueror; But, when my year of widowhood expires, Shall yield to your command, and his desires.

Almanz. Move swiftly, sun, and fly a lover's pace; Leave weeks and months behind thee in thy race!

K. Ferd. Mean time, you shall my victories pursue, The Moors in woods and mountains to subdue.

Almanz. The toils of war shall help to wear each day, And dreams of love shall drive my nights away.— Our banners to the Alhambra's turrets bear; Then, wave our conquering crosses in the air, And cry, with shouts of triumph,—Live and reign, Great Ferdinand and Isabel of Spain! [Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

They, who have best succeeded on the stage, Have still conformed their genius to their age. Thus Jonson did mechanic humour show, When men were dull, and conversation low. Then comedy was faultless, but 'twas coarse: Cobb's tankard was a jest, and Otter's horse[1]. And, as their comedy, their love was mean; Except, by chance, in some one laboured scene, Which must atone for an ill-written play. They rose, but at their height could seldom stay. Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped; And they have kept it since, by being dead. But, were they now to write, when critics weigh Each line, and every word, throughout a play, None of them, no not Jonson in his height, Could pass, without allowing grains for weight. Think it not envy, that these truths are told; Our poet's not malicious, though he's bold. 'Tis not to brand them, that their faults are shown, But, by their errors, to excuse his own. If love and honour now are higher raised, 'Tis not the poet, but the age is praised. Wit's now arrived to a more high degree; Our native language more refined and free. Our ladies and our men now speak more wit In conversation, than those poets writ. Then, one of these is, consequently, true; That what this poet writes comes short of you, And imitates you ill (which most he fears), Or else his writing is not worse than theirs. Yet, though you judge (as sure the critics will), That some before him writ with greater skill, In this one praise he has their fame surpast, To please an age more gallant than the last.

Footnote: 1. The characters alluded to are Cobb, the water bearer, in "Every Man in his Humour;" and Captain Otter, in "Epicene, or the Silent Woman," whose humour it was to christen his drinking cups by the names of Horse, Bull, and Bear.]



DEFENCE

OF

THE EPILOGUE;

OR,

AN ESSAY ON THE DRAMATIC POETRY OF THE LAST AGE.

The promises of authors, that they will write again, are, in effect, a threatening of their readers with some new impertinence; and they, who perform not what they promise, will have their pardon on easy terms. It is from this consideration, that I could be glad to spare you the trouble, which I am now giving you, of a postscript, if I were not obliged, by many reasons, to write somewhat concerning our present plays, and those of our predecessors on the English stage. The truth is, I have so far engaged myself in a bold epilogue to this play, wherein I have somewhat taxed the former writing, that it was necessary for me either not to print it, or to show that I could defend it. Yet I would so maintain my opinion of the present age, as not to be wanting in my veneration for the past: I would ascribe to dead authors their just praises in those things wherein they have excelled us; and in those wherein we contend with them for the pre-eminence, I would acknowledge our advantages to the age, and claim no victory from our wit. This being what I have proposed to myself, I hope I shall not be thought arrogant when I enquire into their errors: For we live in an age so sceptical, that as it determines little, so it takes nothing from antiquity on trust; and I profess to have no other ambition in this essay, than that poetry may not go backward, when all other arts and sciences are advancing. Whoever censures me for this inquiry, let him hear his character from Horace:

Ingeniis non ille favet, plauditque sepultis, Nostra sed impugnat; nos nostraque lividus odit.

He favours not dead wits, but hates the living.

It was upbraided to that excellent poet, that he was an enemy to the writings of his predecessor Lucilius, because he had said, Lucilium lutulentum fluere, that he ran muddy; and that he ought to have retrenched from his satires many unnecessary verses. But Horace makes Lucilius himself to justify him from the imputation of envy, by telling you that he would have done the same, had he lived in an age which was more refined:

Si foret hoc nostrum fato delapsus in aevum, Detereret sibi multa, recideret omne quod, ultra Perfectum traheretur, &c.

And, both in the whole course of that satire, and in his most admirable Epistle to Augustus, he makes it his business to prove, that antiquity alone is no plea for the excellency of a poem; but that, one age learning from another, the last (if we can suppose an equality of wit in the writers,) has the advantage of knowing more and better than the former And this, I think, is the state of the question in dispute. It is therefore my part to make it clear, that the language, wit, and conversation of our age, are improved and refined above the last; and then it will not be difficult to infer, that our plays have received some part of those advantages.

In the first place, therefore, it will be necessary to state, in general, what this refinement is, of which we treat; and that, I think, will not be defined amiss, "An improvement of our Wit, Language and Conversation; or, an alteration in them for the better."

To begin with Language. That an alteration is lately made in ours, or since the writers of the last age (in which I comprehend Shakespeare, Fletcher, and Jonson), is manifest. Any man who reads those excellent poets, and compares their language with what is now written, will see it almost in every line; but that this is an improvement of the language or an alteration for the better, will not so easily be granted. For many are of a contrary opinion that the English tongue was then in the height of its perfection; that from Jonson's time to ours it has been in a continual declination, like that of the Romans from the age of Virgil to Statius, and so downward to Claudian; of which, not only Petronius, but Quintilian himself so much complains, under the person of Secundus, in his famous dialogue De Causis corruptae Eloquentiae.

But, to shew that our language is improved, and that those people have not a just value for the age in which they live, let us consider in what the refinement of a language principally consists: that is, "either in rejecting such old words, or phrases, which are ill sounding, or improper; or in admitting new, which are more proper, more sounding, and more significant."

The reader will easily take notice, that when I speak of rejecting improper words and phrases, I mention not such as are antiquated by custom only and, as I may say, without any fault of theirs. For in this case the refinement can be but accidental; that is, when the words and phrases, which are rejected, happen to be improper. Neither would I be understood, when I speak of impropriety of language, either wholly to accuse the last age, or to excuse the present, and least of all myself; for all writers have their imperfections and failings: but I may safely conclude in the general, that our improprieties are less frequent, and less gross than theirs. One testimony of this is undeniable, that we are the first who have observed them; and, certainly, to observe errors is a great step to the correcting of them. But, malice and partiality set apart, let any man, who understands English, read diligently the works of Shakespeare and Fletcher, and I dare undertake, that he will find in every page either some solecism of speech, or some notorious flaw in sense[1]; and yet these men are reverenced, when we are not forgiven. That their wit is great, and many times their expressions noble, envy itself cannot deny.

—Neque ego illis detrahere ausim Haerentem capiti multa cum laude coronam.

But the times were ignorant in which they lived. Poetry was then, if not in its infancy among us, at least not arrived to its vigour and maturity: Witness the lameness of their plots; many of which, especially those which they writ first (for even that age refined itself in some measure), were made up of some ridiculous incoherent story, which in one play many times took up the business of an age. I suppose I need not name "Pericles, Prince of Tyre," nor the historical plays of Shakespeare: besides many of the rest, as the "Winter's Tale," "Love's Labour Lost," "Measure for Measure," which were either grounded on impossibilities, or at least so meanly written, that the comedy neither caused your mirth, nor the serious part your concernment[2]. If I would expatiate on this subject, I could easily demonstrate, that our admired Fletcher, who wrote after him, neither understood correct plotting, nor that which they call "the decorum of the stage." I would not search in his worst plays for examples: He who will consider his "Philaster," his "Humorous Lieutenant," his "Faithful Shepherdess," and many others which I could name, will find them much below the applause which is now given them. He will see Philaster wounding his mistress, and afterwards his boy, to save himself; not to mention the Clown, who enters immediately, and not only has the advantage of the combat against the hero, but diverts you from your serious concernment, with his ridiculous and absurd raillery. In his "Humorous Lieutenant," you find his Demetrius and Leontius staying in the midst of a routed army, to hear the cold mirth of the Lieutenant; and Demetrius afterwards appearing with a pistol in his hand, in the next age to Alexander the Great[3]. And for his Shepherd, he falls twice into the former indecency of wounding women. But these absurdities, which those poets committed, may more properly be called the age's fault than theirs. For, besides the want of education and learning, (which was their particular unhappiness) they wanted the benefit of converse: But of that I shall speak hereafter, in a place more proper for it. Their audiences knew no better; and therefore were satisfied with what they brought. Those, who call theirs the golden age of poetry, have only this reason for it, that they were then content with acorns before they knew the use of bread; or that [Greek: Alis druos] was become a proverb. They had many who admired them, and few who blamed them; and certainly a severe critic is the greatest help to a good wit: he does the office of a friend, while he designs that of an enemy; and his malice keeps a poet within those bounds, which the luxuriancy of his fancy would tempt him to overleap.

But it is not their plots which I meant principally to tax; I was speaking of their sense and language; and I dare almost challenge any man to shew me a page together which is correct in both. As for Ben Jonson, I am loth to name him, because he is a most judicious writer; yet he very often falls into these errors: and I once more beg the reader's pardon for accusing him of them. Only let him consider, that I live in an age where my least faults are severely censured; and that I have no way left to extenuate my failings, but by showing as great in those whom we admire:

Caedimus, inque vicem praebemus crura sagittis.

I cast my eyes but by chance on Catiline; and in the three or four last pages, found enough to conclude that Jonson writ not correctly.

—Let the long-hid seeds Of treason, in thee, now shoot forth in deeds Ranker than horror.

In reading some bombast speeches of Macbeth, which are not to be understood, he used to say that it was horror; and I am much afraid that this is so.

Thy parricide late on thy only son, After his mother, to make empty way For thy last wicked nuptials, worse than they That blaze that act of thy incestuous life, Which gained thee at once a daughter and a wife.

The sense is here extremely perplexed; and I doubt the word they is false grammar.

—And be free Not heaven itself from thy impiety.

A synchysis, or ill-placing of words, of which Tully so much complains in oratory.

The waves and dens of beasts could not receive The bodies that those souls were frighted from.

The preposition in the end of the sentence; a common fault with him, and which I have but lately observed in my own writings.

What all the several ills that visit earth, Plague, famine, fire, could not reach unto, The sword, nor surfeits, let thy fury do.

Here are both the former faults: for, besides that the preposition unto is placed last in the verse, and at the half period, and is redundant, there is the former synchysis in the words "the sword, nor surfeits" which in construction ought to have been placed before the other.

Catiline says of Cethegus, that for his sake he would

Go on upon the gods, kiss lightning, wrest The engine from the Cyclops, and give fire At face of a full cloud, and stand his ire.

To "go on upon," is only to go on twice[4]. To "give fire at face of a full cloud," was not understood in his own time; "and stand his ire," besides the antiquated word ire, there is the article his, which makes false construction: and giving fire at the face of a cloud, is a perfect image of shooting, however it came to be known in those days to Catiline.

—Others there are, Whom envy to the state draws and pulls on, For contumelies received; and such are sure ones.

Ones, in the plural number: but that is frequent with him; for he says, not long after,

Caesar and Crassus, if they be ill men, Are mighty ones. Such men, they do not succour more the cause, &c.

They redundant.

Though heaven should speak with all his wrath at once, We should stand upright and unfeared.

His is ill syntax with heaven; and by unfeared he means unafraid: Words of a quite contrary signification.

"The ports are open." He perpetually uses ports for gates; which is an affected error in him, to introduce Latin by the loss of the English idiom; as, in the translation of Tully's speeches, he usually does.

Well-placing of words, for the sweetness of pronunciation was not known till Mr Waller introduced it; and, therefore, it is not to be wondered if Ben Jonson has many such lines as these:

"But being bred up in his father's needy fortunes; brought up in's sister's prostitution," &c.

But meanness of expression one would think not to be his error in a tragedy, which ought to be more high and sounding than any other kind of poetry; and yet, amongst others in "Catiline," I find these four lines together:

So Asia, thou art cruelly even With us, for all the blows thee given; When we, whose virtues conquered thee, Thus by thy vices ruined be.

Be there is false English for are; though the rhyme hides it.

But I am willing to close the book, partly out of veneration to the author, partly out of weariness to pursue an argument which is so fruitful in so small a compass. And what correctness, after this, can be expected from Shakespeare or from Fletcher, who wanted that learning and care which Jonson had? I will, therefore, spare my own trouble of enquiring into their faults; who, had they lived now, had doubtless written more correctly. I suppose it will be enough for me to affirm, (as I think I safely may) that these, and the like errors, which I taxed in the most correct of the last age, are such into which we do not ordinarily fall. I think few of our present writers would have left behind them such a line as this:

Contain your spirit in more stricter bounds.

But that gross way of two comparatives was then ordinary; and, therefore, more pardonable in Jonson.

As for the other part of refining, which consists in receiving new words and phrases, I shall not insist much on it. It is obvious that we have admitted many, some of which we wanted, and therefore our language is the richer for them, as it would be by importation of bullion: Others are rather ornamental than necessary; yet, by their admission, the language is become more courtly, and our thoughts are better drest. These are to be found scattered in the writers of our age, and it is not my business to collect them. They, who have lately written with most care, have, I believe, taken the rule of Horace for their guide; that is, not to be too hasty in receiving of words, but rather stay till custom has made them familiar to us:

Quern penes arbitrium est, et jus, et norma loquendi.

For I cannot approve of their way of refining, who corrupt our English idiom by mixing it too much with French: That is a sophistication of language not an improvement of it; a turning English into French, rather than a refining of English by French. We meet daily with those fops, who value themselves on their travelling, and pretend they cannot express their meaning in English, because they would put off to us some French phrase of the last edition; without considering, that, for aught they know, we have a better of our own. But these are not the men who are to refine us; their talent is to prescribe fashions, not words: at best, they are only serviceable to a writer, so as Ennius was to Virgil. He may aurum ex stercore colligere: For it is hard if, amongst many insignificant phrases, there happen not something worth preserving; though they themselves, like Indians, know not the value of their own commodity.

There is yet another way of improving language, which poets especially have practised in all ages; that is, by applying received words to a new signification; and this, I believe, is meant by Horace, in that precept which is so variously construed by expositors:

Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum Reddiderit junctura novum.

And, in this way, he himself had a particular happiness; using all the tropes, and particular metaphors, with that grace which is observable in his Odes, where the beauty of expression is often greater than that of thought; as, in that one example, amongst an infinite number of others, "Et vultus nimium lubricus aspici."

And therefore, though he innovated a little, he may justly be called a great refiner of the Roman tongue. This choice of words, and heightening of their natural signification, was observed in him by the writers of the following ages; for Petronius says of him, "Et Horatii curiosa felicitas." By this graffing, as I may call it, on old words, has our tongue been beautified by the three before-mentioned poets, Shakespeare, Fletcher, and Jonson, whose excellencies I can never enough admire; and in this they have been followed, especially by Sir John Suckling and Mr Waller, who refined upon them. Neither have they, who succeeded them, been wanting in their endeavours to adorn our mother tongue: But it is not so lawful for me to praise my living contemporaries, as to admire my dead predecessors.

I should now speak of the refinement of Wit; but I have been so large on the former subject, that I am forced to contract myself in this. I will therefore only observe to you, that the wit of the last age was yet more incorrect than their language. Shakespeare, who many times has written better than any poet, in any language, is yet so far from writing wit always, or expressing that wit according to the dignity of the subject, that he writes, in many places, below the dullest writers of ours, or any precedent age. Never did any author precipitate himself from such height of thought to so low expressions, as he often does. He is the very Janus of poets; he wears almost every where two faces; and you have scarce begun to admire the one, ere you despise the other. Neither is the luxuriance of Fletcher, which his friends have taxed in him, a less fault than the carelessness of Shakespeare. He does not well always; and, when he does, he is a true Englishman,—he knows not when to give over. If he wakes in one scene, he commonly slumbers in another; and, if he pleases you in the first three acts, he is frequently so tired with his labour, that he goes heavily in the fourth, and sinks under his burden in the fifth.

For Ben Jonson, the most judicious of poets, he always writ properly, and as the character required; and I will not contest farther with my friends, who call that wit: it being very certain, that even folly itself, well represented, is wit in a larger signification; and that there is fancy, as well as judgment, in it, though not so much or noble: because all poetry being imitation, that of folly is a lower exercise of fancy, though perhaps as difficult as the other; for it is a kind of looking downward in the poet, and representing that part of mankind which is below him.

In these low characters of vice and folly, lay the excellency of that inimitable writer; who, when at any time he aimed at wit in the stricter sense, that is, sharpness of conceit, was forced either to borrow from the ancients, as to my knowledge he did very much from Plautus; or, when he trusted himself alone, often fell into meanness of expression. Nay, he was not free from the lowest and most groveling kind of wit, which we call clenches, of which "Every Man in his Humour" is infinitely full; and, which is worse, the wittiest persons in the drama speak them. His other comedies are not exempt from them. Will you give me leave to name some few? Asper, in which character he personates himself, (and he neither was nor thought himself a fool) exclaiming against the ignorant judges of the age, speaks thus:

How monstrous and detested is't, to see A fellow, that has neither art nor brain, Sit like an Aristarchus, or stark-ass, Taking men's lines, with a tobacco face, In snuff, &c.

And presently after: "I marvel whose wit 'twas to put a prologue in yond Sackbut's mouth. They might well think he would be out of tune, and yet you'd play upon him too."—Will you have another of the same stamp? "O, I cannot abide these limbs of sattin, or rather Satan."

But, it may be, you will object that this was Asper, Macilente, or Carlo Buffone; you shall, therefore, hear him speak in his own person, and that in the two last lines, or sting of an epigram. It is inscribed to Fine Grand, who, he says, was indebted to him for many things which he reckons there; and concludes thus:

Forty things more, dear Grand, which you know true, For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll pay you.

This was then the mode of wit, the vice of the age, and not Ben Jonson's; for you see, a little before him, that admirable wit, Sir Philip Sidney, perpetually playing with his words. In his time, I believe, it ascended first into the pulpit, where (if you will give me leave to clench too) it yet finds the benefit of its clergy; for they are commonly the first corrupters of eloquence, and the last reformed from vicious oratory; as a famous Italian has observed before me, in his Treatise of the Corruption of the Italian Tongue; which he principally ascribes to priests and preaching friars.

But, to conclude with what brevity I can, I will only add this, in defence of our present writers, that, if they reach not some excellencies of Ben Jonson, (which no age, I am confident, ever shall) yet, at least, they are above that meanness of thought which I have taxed, and which is frequent in him.

That the wit of this age is much more courtly, may easily be proved, by viewing the characters of gentlemen which were written in the last. First, for Jonson:—True-wit, in the "Silent Woman," was his master-piece; and Truewit was a scholar-like kind of man, a gentleman with an allay of pedantry, a man who seems mortified to the world, by much reading. The best of his discourse is drawn, not from the knowledge of the town, but books; and, in short, he would be a fine gentleman in an university. Shakespeare shewed the best of his skill in his Mercutio; and he said himself, that he was forced to kill him in the third act, to prevent being killed by him. But, for my part, I cannot find he was so dangerous a person: I see nothing in him but what was so exceeding harmless, that he might have lived to the end of the play, and died in his bed, without offence to any man.

Fletcher's Don John is our only bugbear; and yet I may affirm, without suspicion of flattery, that he now speaks better, and that his character is maintained with much more vigour in the fourth and fifth acts, than it was by Fletcher in the three former. I have always acknowledged the wit of our predecessors, with all the veneration which becomes me; but, I am sure, their wit was not that of gentlemen; there was ever somewhat that was ill-bred and clownish in it, and which confessed the conversation of the authors.

And this leads me to the last and greatest advantage of our writing, which proceeds from conversation. In the age wherein those poets lived, there was less of gallantry than in ours; neither did they keep the best company of theirs. Their fortune has been much like that of Epicurus, in the retirement of his gardens; to live almost unknown, and to be celebrated after their decease. I cannot find that any of them had been conversant in courts, except Ben Jonson; and his genius lay not so much that way, as to make an improvement by it. Greatness was not then so easy of access, nor conversation so free, as now it is. I cannot, therefore, conceive it any insolence to affirm, that, by the knowledge and pattern of their wit who writ before us, and by the advantage of our own conversation, the discourse and raillery of our comedies excel what has been written by them. And this will be denied by none, but some few old fellows who value themselves on their acquaintance with the Black Friars; who, because they saw their plays, would pretend a right to judge ours. The memory of these grave gentlemen is their only plea for being wits. They can tell a story of Ben Jonson, and, perhaps, have had fancy enough to give a supper in the Apollo, that they might be called his sons[5]: And, because they were drawn in to be laughed at in those times, they think themselves now sufficiently entitled to laugh at ours. Learning I never saw in any of them; and wit no more than they could remember. In short, they were unlucky to have been bred in an unpolished age, and more unlucky to live to a refined one. They have lasted beyond their own, and are cast behind ours; and, not contented to have known little at the age of twenty, they boast of their ignorance at threescore.

Now, if they ask me, whence it is that our conversation is so much refined? I must freely, and without flattery, ascribe it to the court; and, in it, particularly to the king, whose example gives a law to it. His own misfortunes, and the nation's, afforded him an opportunity, which is rarely allowed to sovereign princes, I mean of travelling, and being conversant in the most polished courts of Europe; and, thereby, of cultivating a spirit which was formed by nature to receive the impressions of a gallant and generous education. At his return, he found a nation lost as much in barbarism as in rebellion: And, as the excellency of his nature forgave the one, so the excellency of his manners reformed the other. The desire of imitating so great a pattern first awakened the dull and heavy spirits of the English from their natural reservedness; loosened them from their stiff forms of conversation, and made them easy and pliant to each other in discourse. Thus, insensibly, our way of living became more free; and the fire of the English wit, which was before stifled under a constrained, melancholy way of breeding, began first to display its force, by mixing the solidity of our nation with the air and gaiety of our neighbours[6]. This being granted to be true, it would be a wonder if the poets, whose work is imitation, should be the only persons in three kingdoms who should not receive advantage by it; or, if they should not more easily imitate the wit and conversation of the present age than of the past.

Let us therefore admire the beauties and the heights of Shakespeare, without falling after him into a carelessness, and, as I may call it, a lethargy of thought, for whole scenes together. Let us imitate, as we are able, the quickness and easiness of Fletcher, without proposing him as a pattern to us, either in the redundancy of his matter, or the incorrectness of his language. Let us admire his wit and sharpness of conceit; but let us at the same time acknowledge, that it was seldom so fixed, and made proper to his character, as that the same things might not be spoken by any person in the play. Let us applaud his scenes of love; but let us confess, that he understood not either greatness or perfect honour in the parts of any of his women. In fine, let us allow, that he had so much fancy, as when he pleased he could write wit; but that he wanted so much judgment, as seldom to have written humour, or described a pleasant folly. Let us ascribe to Jonson, the height and accuracy of judgment in the ordering of his plots, his choice of characters, and maintaining what he had chosen to the end: But let us not think him a perfect pattern of imitation, except it be in humour; for love, which is the foundation of all comedies in other languages, is scarcely mentioned in any of his plays: And for humour itself, the poets of this age will be more wary than to imitate the meanness of his persons. Gentlemen will now be entertained with the follies of each other; and, though they allow Cobb and Tib to speak properly, yet they are not much pleased with their tankard, or with their rags: And surely their conversation can be no jest to them on the theatre, when they would avoid it in the street.

To conclude all, let us render to our predecessors what is their due, without confining ourselves to a servile imitation of all they writ; and, without assuming to ourselves the title of better poets, let us ascribe to the gallantry and civility of our age the advantage which we have above them, and, to our knowledge of the customs and manners of it, the happiness we have to please beyond them.

* * * * *

The bold Epilogue, which is here defended with so much animation, and the censure which it threw on the fathers of the stage, seems to have given great offence. It is thus severely assailed by Rochester:

But does not Dryden find even Jonson dull? Beaumont and Fletcher incorrect, and full Of lewd lines, as he calls them? Shakespeare's style Stiff and affected? to his own, the while, Allowing all the justice that his pride So arrogantly had to these denied: And may I not have leave impartially To search and censure Dryden's works, and try If those gross faults, his choice pen doth commit, Proceed from want of judgment, or of wit? Or if his lumpish fancy doth refuse Spirit and grace to his loose slattern muse? Five hundred verses, every morning writ, Prove him no more a poet than a wit.

It is a bold, perhaps a presumptuous task, to attempt to separate the true from the false criticism in the foregoing essay; for who is qualified to be umpire betwixt Shakespeare and Dryden? Nevertheless, our knowledge of the manners of the respective ages which these extraordinary men adorned, and the remoteness of our own from both, may enable us, with impartiality at least, to sift the grounds of Dryden's censure. The nature of the stage in the days of Shakespeare has been ascertained, by the sedulous exertions of his commentators. A variety of small theatres, all of them accessible to the lowest of the people, poor and rude in all the arts of decoration, were dispersed through London when Shakespeare and Jonson wrote for the stage. It was a natural consequence, that the writings of these great men were biassed by the taste of those, for whom they wrote;

For those, who live to please, must please, to live.

Art was not demanded; and when used by Jonson, he complains it was not duly appreciated. Men of a middle rank were then probably worse educated than our mere vulgar. But the good old time bore rough and manly spirits, who came prepared with a tribute of tears and laughter, to bursts of pathos, or effusions of humour, although incapable of receiving the delights which a cultivated mind derives from the gradual developement of a story, the just dependence of its parts upon each other, the minute beauties of language, and the absence of every thing incongruous or indecorous. Dryden, on the other hand, wrote for a stage patronized by a monarch and his courtiers, who were professed judges of dramatic composition; while the rigour of religious prejudice, and perhaps a just abhorrence of the licentious turn of the drama, banished from the theatres a great proportion of the middle classes, always the most valuable part of an audience; because, with a certain degree of cultivation, they unite an unhacknied energy of feeling. Art, therefore, became, in the days of Dryden, not only a requisite qualification, but even the principal attribute of the dramatic poet. He was to address himself to the heads and judgments of his audience, on the acuteness of which they piqued themselves; not to their feelings, stupified, probably, by selfish dissipation. Even the acquisition and exercise of critical knowledge tends to blunt the sense of natural beauties, as a refined harmonist becomes indifferent to the strains of simple melody. Hence the sacrifices which Shakespeare made, without being aware, to the taste of his age, were amply compensated by his being called upon, and, as it were, compelled, by the nature of his audience, to rouse them with his thunder, and to melt them with his dew. I question much if the age of Charles II. would have borne the introduction of Othello or Falstaff. We may find something like Dryden's self-complacent opinion expressed by the editor of Corneille, where he civilly admits, "Corneille etoit inegal comme Shakespeare, et plein de genie comme lui: mais le genie de Corneille etoit a celui de Shakespeare ce qu' un seigneur est a l'egard d'un homme de peuple, ne avec le meme esprit que lui." In other words, the works of the one retain the rough, bold tints of nature and originality, while those of the other are qualified by the artificial restraints which fashion imposes upon the homme de condition. It is, therefore, unjustly, that Dryden dwells so long on Shakespeare's irregularities, amongst which I cannot help suspecting he includes some of his greatest beauties. While we do not defend his quibbles and carwitchets, as Bibber would have termed them, we may rejoice that he purchased, at so slight a sacrifice, the power and privilege of launching into every subject with a liberty as unbounded as his genius;

As there is music, uninformed by art, In those wild notes, which, with a merry heart, The birds in unfrequented shades express, Which better taught at home, yet please us less.

Footnotes: 1. In mitigation of the censure which must be passed on our author for this hasty and ill-considered judgment, let us remember the very inaccurate manner in which Shakespeare's plays were printed in the early editions.

2. Mr Malone has judiciously remarked, that Dryden seems to have been ignorant of the order in which Shakespeare wrote his plays; and there will be charity in believing, that he was not intimately acquainted with those he so summarily and unjustly censures.

3. In these criticisms, we see the effects of the refinement which our stage had now borrowed from the French. It is probable, that, in the age of heroic plays, any degree of dulness, or extravagance, would have been tolerated in the dialogue, rather than an offence against the decorum of the scene.

4. Jonson seems to have used it for to go on against.

5. The Apollo was Ben Jonson's favourite club-room in the Devil Tavern. The custom of adopting his admirers and imitators, by bestowing upon them the title of Son, is often alluded to in his works. In Dryden's time, the fashion had so far changed, that the poetical progeny of old Ben seem to have incurred more ridicule than honour by this ambitious distinction. Oldwit, in Shadwell's play, called Bury Fair, is described as "a paltry old-fashioned wit and punner of the last age, that pretends to have been one of Ben Jonson's sons, and to have seen plays at the Blackfriars."

6. This passage, though complimentary to Charles, contains much sober truth: Having considerable taste for the Belles Lettres, he cultivated them during his exile, and was naturally swayed by the French rules of composition, particularly as applicable to the Theatre. These he imported with him at his Restoration; and hence arose the Heroic Drama, so much cultivated by our author.

* * * * *

MARRIAGE A-LA-MODE:

A COMEDY.

—Quicquid sum ego, quamvis Infra Lucili censum ingeniumque, tamen me Cum magnis vixisse, invita fatebitur usque Invidia, et fragili quaerens illidere dentem, Offendet solido. HORAT. SERM.



MARRIAGE A-LA-MODE

Marriage a-la-mode was one of Dryden's most successful comedies. A venerable praiser of the past time, in a curious letter printed in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1745, gives us this account of its first representation. "This comedy, acted by his Majesty's servants at the Theatre-Royal, made its first appearance with extraordinary lustre. Divesting myself of the old man, I solemnly declare, that you have seen no such acting, no, not in any degree since. The players were then, 1673, on a court establishment, seventeen men, and eight women." Gent. Mag. Vol. xv. p. 99. From a copy of verses, to which this letter is annexed, we learn the excellence of the various performers by whom the piece was first presented. They are addressed to a young actress.

Henceforth, in livelier characters excel, Though 'tis great merit to act folly well; Take, take from Dryden's hand Melantha's part, The gaudy effort of luxuriant art, In all imagination's glitter drest; What from her lips fantastic Montfort caught, And almost moved the thing the poet thought. These scenes, the glory of a comic age, (It decency could blanch each sullied page) Peruse, admire, and give unto the stage; Or thou, or beauteous Woffington, display What Dryden's self, with pleasure, might survey. Even he, before whose visionary eyes, Melantha, robed in ever-varying dies, Gay fancy's work, appears, actor renowned. Like Roscius, with theatric laurels crowned, Cibber will smile applause, and think again Of Harte, and Mohun, and all the female train, Coxe, Marshal, Dryden's Reeve, Bet Slade, and Charles's reign.

Mrs Monfort, who, by her second marriage, became Mrs Verbruggen, was the first who appeared in the highly popular part of Melantha, and the action and character appear to have been held incomparable by that unquestionable judge of the humour of a coquette, or coxcomb, the illustrious Colley Cibber. "Melantha" says Cibber, "is as finished an impertinent as ever fluttered in a drawing-room; and seems to contain the most complete system of female foppery that could possibly be crowded into the tortured form of a fine lady. Her language, dress, motion, manners, soul, and body, are in a continual hurry to be something more than is necessary or commendable. And, though I doubt it will be a vain labour to offer you a just likeness of Mrs Monfort's action, yet the fantastic expression is still so strong in my memory, that I cannot help saying something, though fantastically, about it. The first ridiculous airs, that break from her, are upon a gallant never seen before, who delivers her a letter from her father, recommending him to her good graces as an honourable lover. Here, now, one would think she might naturally shew a little of the sex's decent reserve, though never so slightly covered. No, sir, not a tittle of it: Modesty is a poor-souled country gentlewoman; she is too much a court lady to be under so vulgar a confusion. She reads the letter, therefore, with a careless dropping lip, and an erected brow, humming it hastily over, as if she were impatient to outgo her father's commands, by making a complete conquest of him at once; and, that the letter might not embarrass the attack, crack! she crumbles it at once into her palm, and pours down upon him her whole artillery of airs, eyes, and motion; down goes her dainty diving body to the ground, as it she were sinking under the conscious load of her own attractions; then launches into a flood of fine language and compliment, still playing her chest forward in fifty falls and risings, like a swan upon waving water; and, to complete her impertinence, she is so rapidly fond of her own wit, that she will not give her lover leave to praise it. Silent assenting bows, and vain endeavours to speak, are all the share of the conversation he is admitted to, which, at last, he is removed from by her engagement to half a score of visits, which she swims from him to make, with a promise to return in a twinkling." Cibber's Apology, p. 99.

By this lively sketch, some judgment may be formed of the effect produced by the character of Melantha, when ably represented; but, to say the truth, we could hardly have drawn the same deduction from a simple perusal of the piece. Of the French phrases, which the affected lady throws into her conversation, some have been since naturalized, as good graces, minuet, chagrin, grimace, ridicule, and others. Little can be said of the tragic part of the drama. The sudden turn of fortune in the conclusion is ridiculed in "The Rehearsal."

The researches of Mr Malone have ascertained that "Marriage A-la-Mode" was first acted in 1673, in an old theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, occupied by the King's company, after that in Drury-Lane had been burned, and during its re-building. The play was printed in the same year.



TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE

EARL OF ROCHESTER[1].

MY LORD,

I humbly dedicate to your Lordship that poem, of which you were pleased to appear an early patron, before it was acted on the stage. I may yet go farther, with your permission, and say, that it received amendment from your noble hands ere it was fit to be presented. You may please likewise to remember, with how much favour to the author, and indulgence to the play, you commended it to the view of his Majesty, then at Windsor, and, by his approbation of it in writing, made way for its kind reception on the theatre. In this dedication, therefore, I may seem to imitate a custom of the ancients, who offered to their gods the firstlings of the flock, (which, I think, they called Ver sacrum) because they helped them to increase. I am sure, if there be any thing in this play, wherein I have raised myself beyond the ordinary lowness of my comedies, I ought wholly to acknowledge it to the favour of being admitted into your lordship's conversation. And not only I, who pretend not to this way, but the best comic writers of our age, will join with me to acknowledge, that they have copied the gallantries of courts, the delicacy of expression, and the decencies of behaviour, from your lordship, with more success, than if they had taken their models from the court of France. But this, my lord, will be no wonder to the world, which knows the excellency of your natural parts, and those you have acquired in a noble education. That which, with more reason, I admire, is that being so absolute a courtier, you have not forgot either the ties of friendship, or the practice of generosity. In my little experience of a court, (which, I confess, I desire not to improve) I have found in it much of interest, and more of detraction: Few men there have that assurance of a friend, as not to be made ridiculous by him when they are absent. There are a middling sort of courtiers, who become happy by their want of wit; but they supply that want by an excess of malice to those who have it. And there is no such persecution as that of fools: They can never be considerable enough to be talked of themselves; so that they are safe only in their obscurity, and grow mischievous to witty men, by the great diligence of their envy, and by being always present to represent and aggravate their faults. In the mean time, they are forced, when they endeavour to be pleasant, to live on the offals of their wit whom they decry; and either to quote it, (which they do unwillingly) or to pass it upon others for their own. These are the men who make it their business to chace wit from the knowledge of princes, lest it should disgrace their ignorance. And this kind of malice your lordship has not so much avoided, as surmounted. But if by the excellent temper of a royal master, always more ready to hear good than ill; if by his inclination to love you; if by your own merit and address; if by the charms of your conversation, the grace of your behaviour, your knowledge of greatness, and habitude in courts, you have been able to preserve yourself with honour in the midst of so dangerous a course; yet at least the remembrance of those hazards has inspired you with pity for other men, who, being of an inferior wit and quality to you, are yet persecuted, for being that in little, which your lordship is in great[2]. For the quarrel of those people extends itself to any thing of sense; and if I may be so vain to own it, amongst the rest of the poets, has sometimes reached to the very borders of it, even to me. So that, if our general good fortune had not raised up your lordship to defend us, I know not whether any thing had been more ridiculous in court than writers. It is to your lordship's favour we generally owe our protection and patronage; and to the nobleness of your nature, which will not suffer the least shadow of your wit to be contemned in other men. You have been often pleased, not only to excuse my imperfections, but to vindicate what was tolerable in my writings from their censures; and, what I never can forget, you have not only been careful of my reputation, but of my fortune. You have been solicitous to supply my neglect of myself; and to overcome the fatal modesty of poets, which submits them to perpetual wants, rather than to become importunate with those people who have the liberality of kings in their disposing, and who, dishonouring the bounty of their master, suffer such to be in necessity who endeavour at least to please him; and for whose entertainment he has generously provided, if the fruits of his royal favour were not often stopped in other hands. But your lordship has given me occasion, not to complain of courts whilst you are there. I have found the effects of your mediation in all my concernments; and they were so much the more noble in you, because they were wholly voluntary. I, became your lordship's, (if I may venture on the similitude) as the world was made, without knowing him who made it; and brought only a passive obedience to be your creature. This nobleness of yours I think myself the rather obliged to own, because otherwise it must have been lost to all remembrance: For you are endowed with that excellent quality of a frank nature, to forget the good which you have done.

But, my lord, I ought to have considered, that you are as great a judge, as you are a patron; and that in praising you ill, I should incur a higher note of ingratitude, than that I thought to have avoided. I stand in need of all your accustomed goodness for the dedication of this play; which, though perhaps it be the best of my comedies, is yet so faulty, that I should have feared you for my critic, if I had not, with some policy, given you the trouble of being my protector. Wit seems to have lodged itself more nobly in this age, than in any of the former; and people of my mean condition are only writers, because some of the nobility, and your lordship in the first place, are above the narrow praises which poesy could give you. But, let those who love to see themselves exceeded, encourage your lordship in so dangerous a quality; for my own part, I must confess, that I have so much of self-interest, as to be content with reading some papers of your verses, without desiring you should proceed to a scene, or play; with the common prudence of those who are worsted in a duel, and declare they are satisfied, when they are first wounded. Your lordship has but another step to make, and from the patron of wit, you may become its tyrant; and oppress our little reputations with more ease than you now protect them. But these, my lord, are designs, which I am sure you harbour not, any more than the French king is contriving the conquest of the Swissers. It is a barren triumph, which is not worth your pains; and would only rank him amongst your slaves, who is already,

MY LORD,

Your Lordship's most obedient, And most faithful servant, JOHN DRYDEN.

Footnotes: 1. The patron, whom Dryden here addresses, was the famous John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, the wittiest, perhaps, and most dissolute, among the witty and dissolute courtiers of Charles II. It is somewhat remarkable, and may be considered as a just judgment upon the poet, that he was, a few years afterwards, way-laid and severely beaten by bravoes, whom Lord Rochester employed to revenge the share which Dryden is supposed to have had in the Essay on Satire. The reader is referred to the life of the author for the particulars of this occurrence, which is here recalled to his recollection, as a striking illustration of the inutility, as well as meanness, of ill applied praise; since even the eulogy of Dryden, however liberally bestowed and beautifully expressed, failed to save him from the most unmanly treatment at the hands of the worthless and heartless object, on whom it was wasted. It is melancholy to see Dryden, as may be fairly inferred from his motto, piqueing himself on being admitted into the society of such men as Rochester, and enjoying their precarious favour. Mr Malone has remarked, that even in the course of the year 1673, when this dedication came forth, Rochester entertained the perverse ambition of directing the public favour, not according to merit, but to his own caprice. Accordingly, he countenanced Settle in his impudent rivalry of Dryden, and wrote a prologue to the "Empress of Morocco," when it was exhibited at Whitehall. Perhaps, joined to a certain envy of Dryden's talents, the poet's intimacy with Sheffield Earl of Mulgrave gave offence to Rochester. It is certain they were never afterwards reconciled; and even after Rochester's death, Dryden only mentions his once valued patron, as "a man of quality whose ashes he will not disturb."—Essay on the Origin and Progress of Satire, prefixed to Juvenal. It would seem, however, that this dedication was very favourably received by Rochester, since a letter of Dryden's to that nobleman is still extant, in which he acknowledges a flattering return of compliment from his Lordship in exchange for it.

2. When this play was acted for the first time in 1673. But about 1675, Rochester contrived to give such offence as even the excellent temper of his royal master was unable to digest. This was by writing a lampoon called "The Insipids," in which the person and character of Charles are treated with most merciless and irreverent severity. It begins thus:

Chaste, pious, prudent, Charles the Second, The miracle of thy Restoration May like to that of quails be reckoned, Rained on the Israelitish nation; The wished-for blessing, from heaven sent, Became their curse and punishment.

For this satiric effusion the author was banished from the court.



PROLOGUE.

Lord, how reformed and quiet are we grown, Since all our braves and all our wits are gone! Fop-corner now is free from civil war, White-wig and vizard make no longer jar. France, and the fleet, have swept the town so clear, That we can act in peace, and you can hear. 'Twas a sad sight, before they marched from home, To see our warriors in red waistcoats come, With hair tucked up, into our tireing-room. But 'twas more sad to hear their last adieu: The women sobbed, and swore they would be true; And so they were, as long as e'er they could, But powerful guinea cannot be withstood, And they were made of play-house flesh and blood. Fate did their friends for double use ordain; In wars abroad they grinning honour gain, And mistresses, for all that stay, maintain. Now they are gone, 'tis dead vacation here, For neither friends nor enemies appear. Poor pensive punk now peeps ere plays begin, Sees the bare bench, and dares not venture in; But manages her last half-crown with care, And trudges to the Mall, on foot, for air. Our city friends so far will hardly come, They can take up with pleasures nearer home; And see gay shows, and gaudy scenes elsewhere; For we presume they seldom come to hear. But they have now ta'en up a glorious trade, And cutting Morecraft[1] struts in masquerade. There's all our hope, for we shall shew to-day A masking ball, to recommend our play; Nay, to endear them more, and let them see We scorn to come behind in courtesy, We'll follow the new mode which they begin, And treat them with a room, and couch within: For that's one way, howe'er the play fall short, To oblige the town, the city, and the court.

Footnote: 1. In the conclusion of Beaumont and Fletcher's play of "The Scornful Lady," Morecraft, an usurer, turns a cutter, or, as we now say, a buck. Dryden seems to allude to Ravenscroft's play of "The Citizen turned Gentleman," a transmigration somewhat resembling that of cutting Morecraft. This play was now acting by the Duke's company in Dorset Gardens, which, from its situation, says Mr Malone, was much frequented by citizens, as here insinuated.



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

POLYDAMAS, Usurper of Sicily. LEONIDAS, the rightful Prince, unknown. ARGALEON, favourite to POLYDAMAS. HERMOGENES, foster-father to LEONIDAS. EUBULUS, his friend and companion. RHODOPHIL, captain of the guards. PALAMEDE, a courtier.

PALMYRA, daughter to the Usurper. AMALTHEA, sister to ARGALEON. DORALICE, wife to RHODOPHIL. MELANTHA, an affected lady. PHILOTIS, woman to MELANTHA. BELIZA, woman to DORALICE. ARTEMIS, a court lady.

SCENE,—Sicily.



MARRIAGE A-LA-MODE.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—Walks near the Court.

Enter DORALICE and BELIZA.

Dor. Beliza, bring the lute into this arbour; the walks are empty: I would try the song the princess Amalthea bade me learn. [They go in, and sing.

I.

Why should a foolish marriage vow, Which long ago was made, Oblige us to each other now, When passion is decayed? We loved, and we loved, as long as we could, 'Till our love was loved out in us both; But our marriage is dead, when the pleasure is fled: 'Twas pleasure first made it an oath.

II.

If I have pleasures for a friend, And further love in store, What wrong has he, whose joys did end, And who could give no more? 'Tis a madness that he Should be jealous of me, Or that I should bar him of another: For all we can gain, Is to give ourselves pain, When neither can hinder the other.

Enter PALAMEDE, in a riding-habit, and hears the Song. Re-enter DORALICE and BELIZA.

Bel. Madam, a stranger.

Dor. I did not think to have had witnesses of my bad singing.

Pala. If I have erred, madam, I hope you'll pardon the curiosity of a stranger; for I may well call myself so, after five years absence from the court: but you have freed me from one error.

Dor. What's that, I beseech you?

Pala. I thought good voices, and ill faces, had been inseparable; and that to be fair, and sing well, had been only the privilege of angels.

Dor. And how many more of these fine things can you say to me?

Pala. Very few, madam; for if I should continue to see you some hours longer, you look so killingly that I should be mute with wonder.

Dor. This will not give you the reputation of a wit with me. You travelling monsieurs live upon the stock you have got abroad, for the first day or two: to repeat with a good memory, and apply with a good grace, is all your wit; and, commonly, your gullets are sewed up, like cormorants. When you have regorged what you have taken in, you are the leanest things in nature.

Pala. Then, madam, I think you had best make that use of me; let me wait on you for two or three days together, and you shall hear all I have learnt of extraordinary in other countries; and one thing which I never saw 'till I came home, that is, a lady of a better voice, better face, and better wit, than any I have seen abroad. And, after this, if I should not declare myself most passionately in love with you, I should have less wit than yet you think I have.

Dor. A very plain, and pithy declaration. I see, sir, you have been travelling in Spain or Italy, or some of the hot countries, where men come to the point immediately. But are you sure these are not words of course? For I would not give my poor heart an occasion of complaint against me, that I engaged it too rashly, and then could not bring it off.

Pala. Your heart may trust itself with me safely; I shall use it very civilly while it stays, and never turn it away, without fair warning to provide for itself.

Dor. First, then, I do receive your passion with as little consideration, on my part, as ever you gave it me, on yours. And now, see what a miserable wretch you have made yourself!

Pala. Who, I miserable? Thank you for that. Give me love enough, and life enough, and I defy Fortune.

Dor. Know, then, thou man of vain imagination, know, to thy utter confusion, that I am virtuous.

Pala. Such another word, and I give up the ghost.

Dor. Then, to strike you quite dead, know that I am married too.

Pala. Art thou married? O thou damnable virtuous woman!

Dor. Yes, married to a gentleman; young, handsome rich, valiant, and with all the good qualities that will make you despair, and hang yourself.

Pala. Well, in spite of all that, I'll love you: Fortune has cut us out for one another; for I am to be married within these three days; married, past redemption to a young, fair, rich, and virtuous lady; and it shall go hard but I will love my wife as little, as, I perceive, you do your husband.

Dor. Remember, I invade no propriety: my servant you are, only 'till you are married.

Pala. In the meantime, you are to forget you have a husband.

Dor. And you, that you are to have a wife.

Bel. [aside, to her Lady.] O madam, my lord's just at the end of the walks! and, if you make not haste, will discover you.

Dor. Some other time, new servant, we'll talk further of the premises; in the mean while, break not my first commandment, that is, not to follow me.

Pala. But where, then, shall I find you again?

Dor. At court. Yours, for two days, sir.

Pala. And nights, I beseech you, madam. [Exeunt DORALICE and BELIZ.

Pala. Well, I'll say that for thee, thou art a very dexterous executioner; thou hast done my business at one stroke: yet I must marry another—and yet I must love this; and if it lead me into some little inconveniencies, as jealousies, and duels, and death, and so forth—yet, while sweet love is in the case, Fortune, do thy worst, and avaunt, mortality!

Enter RHODOPHIL, who seems speaking to one within.

Rho. Leave 'em with my lieutenant, while I fetch new orders from the king.—How? Palamede! [Sees PALAMEDE.

Pala. Rhodophil!

Rho. Who thought to have seen you in Sicily?

Pala. Who thought to have found the court so far from Syracuse?

Rho. The king best knows the reason of the progress. But, answer me, I beseech you, what brought you home from travel?

Pala. The commands of an old rich father.

Rho. And the hopes of burying him?

Pala. Both together, as you see, have prevailed on my good nature. In few words, my old man has already married me; for he has agreed with another old man, as rich and as covetous as himself; the articles are drawn, and I have given my consent, for fear of being disinherited; and yet know not what kind of woman I am to marry.

Rho. Sure your father intends you some very ugly wife, and has a mind to keep you in ignorance till you have shot the gulf.

Pala. I know not that; but obey I will, and must.

Rho. Then I cannot chuse but grieve for all the good girls and courtezans of France and Italy. They have lost the most kind-hearted, doting, prodigal humble servant, in Europe.

Pala. All I could do, in these three years I staid behind you, was to comfort the poor creatures for the loss of you. But what's the reason that, in all this time, a friend could never hear from you?

Rho. Alas, dear Palamede! I have had no joy to write, nor indeed to do any thing in the world to please me. The greatest misfortune imaginable is fallen upon me.

Pala. Pr'ythee, what's the matter?

Rho. In one word, I am married: wretchedly married; and have been above these two years. Yes, faith, the devil has had power over me, in spite of my vows and resolutions to the contrary.

Pala. I find you have sold yourself for filthy lucre; she's old, or ill conditioned.

Rho. No; none of these: I'm sure she's young; and, for her humour, she laughs, sings, and dances eternally; and, which is more, we never quarrel about it, for I do the same.

Pala. You're very unfortunate indeed: then the case is plain, she is not handsome.

Rho. A great beauty too, as people say.

Pala. As people say? why, you should know that best yourself.

Rho. Ask those, who have smelt to a strong perfume two years together, what's the scent.

Pala. But here are good qualities enough for one woman.

Rho. Ay, too many, Palamede. If I could put them into three or four women, I should be content.

Pala. O, now I have found it! you dislike her for no other reason but because she's your wife.

Rho. And is not that enough? All that I know of her perfections now, is only by memory. I remember indeed, that about two years ago I loved her passionately; but those golden days are gone, Palamede: Yet I loved her a whole half year, double the natural term of any mistress; and I think, in my conscience, I could have held out another quarter, but then the world began to laugh at me, and a certain shame, of being out of fashion, seized me. At last, we arrived at that point, that there was nothing left in us to make us new to one another. Yet still I set a good face upon the matter, and am infinite fond of her before company; but when we are alone, we walk like lions in a room; she one way, and I another. And we lie with our backs to each other, so far distant, as if the fashion of great beds was only invented to keep husband and wife sufficiently asunder.

Pala. The truth is, your disease is very desperate; but, though you cannot be cured you may be patched up a little: you must get you a mistress, Rhodophil. That, indeed, is living upon cordials; but, as fast as one fails, you must supply it with another. You're like a gamester who has lost his estate; yet, in doing that, you have learned the advantages of play, and can arrive to live upon't.

Rho. Truth is, I have been thinking on't, and have just resolved to take your counsel; and, faith, considering the damned disadvantages of a married man, I have provided well enough, for a poor humble sinner, that is not ambitious of great matters.

Pala. What is she, for a woman?

Rho. One of the stars of Syracuse, I assure you: Young enough, fair enough; and, but for one quality, just such a woman as I could wish.

Pala. O friend, this is not an age to be critical in beauty. When we had good store of handsome women, and but few chapmen, you might have been more curious in your choice; but now the price is enhanced upon us, and all mankind set up for mistresses, so that poor little creatures, without beauty, birth, or breeding, but only impudence, go off at unreasonable rates: And a man, in these hard times, snaps at them, as he does at broad gold; never examines the weight, but takes light or heavy, as he can get it.

Rho. But my mistress has one fault, that's almost unpardonable; for, being a town-lady, without any relation to the court, yet she thinks herself undone if she be not seen there three or four times a day with the princess Amalthea. And, for the king, she haunts and watches him so narrowly in a morning, that she prevents even the chemists, who beset his chamber, to turn their mercury into his gold.

Pala. Yet, hitherto, methinks, you are no very unhappy man.

Rho. With all this, she's the greatest gossip in nature; for, besides the court, she's the most eternal visitor of the town; and yet manages her time so well, that she seems ubiquitary. For my part, I can compare her to nothing but the sun; for, like him, she takes no rest, nor ever sets in one place, but to rise in another.

Pala. I confess, she had need be handsome, with these qualities.

Rho. No lady can be so curious of a new fashion, as she is of a new French word: she's the very mint of the nation; and as fast as any bullion comes out of France, coins it immediately into our language.

Pala. And her name is—

Rho. No naming; that's not like a cavalier: Find her, if you can, by my description; and I am not so ill a painter that I need write the name beneath the picture.

Pala. Well, then, how far have you proceeded in your love?

Rho. 'Tis yet in the bud, and what fruit it may bear I cannot tell; for this insufferable humour, of haunting the court, is so predominant, that she has hitherto broken all her assignations with me, for fear of missing her visits there.

Pala. That's the hardest part of your adventure. But, for aught I see, fortune has used us both alike: I have a strange kind of mistress too in court, besides her I am to marry.

Rho. You have made haste to be in love, then; for, if I am not mistaken, you are but this day arrived.

Pala. That's all one: I have seen the lady already, who has charmed me; seen her in these walks, courted her, and received, for the first time, an answer that does not put me into despair.

To them ARGALEON, AMALTHEA, and ARTEMIS.

I'll tell you more at leisure my adventures. The walks fill apace, I see. Stay, is not that the young lord Argaleon, the king's favourite?

Rho. Yes, and as proud as ever, as ambitious, and as revengeful.

Pala. How keeps he the king's favour with these qualities?

Rho. Argaleon's father helped him to the crown: besides, he gilds over all his vices to the king, and, standing in the dark to him, sees all his inclinations, interests, and humours, which he so times and soothes, that, in effect, he reigns.

Pala. His sister Amalthea, who, I guess, stands by him, seems not to be of his temper.

Rho. O, she's all goodness and generosity.

Arga. Rhodophil, the king expects you earnestly.

Rho. 'Tis done, my lord, what he commanded: I only waited his return from hunting. Shall I attend your lordship to him?

Arga. No; I go first another way. [Exit hastily.

Pala. He seems in haste, and discomposed.

Amal. [to RHOD. after a short whisper.] Your friend? then he must needs be of much merit.

Rho. When he has kissed the king's hand, I know he'll beg the honour to kiss yours. Come, Palamede. [Exeunt RHODO. and PALA. bowing to AMAL.

Arte. Madam, you tell me most surprising news.

Amal. The fear of it, you see, Has discomposed my brother; but to me, All, that can bring my country good, is welcome.

Arte. It seems incredible, that this old king, Whom all the world thought childless, Should come to search the farthest parts of Sicily, In hope to find an heir.

Amal. To lessen your astonishment, I will Unfold some private passages of state, Of which you are yet ignorant: Know, first, That this Polydamus, who reigns, unjustly Gained the crown.

Arte. Somewhat of this I have confusedly heard.

Amal. I'll tell you all in brief: Theagenes, Our last great king, Had, by his queen, one only son, an infant Of three years old, called, after him, Theagenes. The general, this Polydamus, then married; The public feasts for which were scarcely past, When a rebellion in the heart of Sicily Called out the king to arms.

Arte. Polydamus Had then a just excuse to stay behind.

Amal. His temper was too warlike to accept it. He left his bride, and the new joys of marriage, And followed to the field. In short, they fought, The rebels were o'ercome; but in the fight The too bold king received a mortal wound. When he perceived his end approaching near, He called the general, to whose care he left His widow queen, and orphan son; then died.

Arte. Then false Polydamus betrayed his trust?

Amal. He did; and, with my father's help,—for which Heaven pardon him!—so gained their soldiers' hearts, That, in a few days, he was saluted king: And when his crimes had impudence enough To bear the eye of day, He marched his army back to Syracuse. But see how heaven can punish wicked men, In granting their desires: The news was brought him, That day he was to enter it, that Eubulus, Whom his dead master had left governor, Was fled, and with him bore away the queen, And royal orphan; but, what more amazed him, His wife, now big with child, and much detesting Her husband's practices, had willingly Accompanied their flight.

Arte. How I admire her virtue!

Amal. What became Of her, and them, since that, was never known; Only, some few days since, a famous robber Was taken with some jewels of vast price, Which, when they were delivered to the king, He knew had been his wife's; with these, a letter, Much torn and sullied, but which yet he knew To be her writing.

Arte. Sure, from hence he learned He had a son?

Amal. It was not left so plain: The paper only said, she died in child-bed; But when it should have mentioned son or daughter, Just there it was torn off.

Arte. Madam, the king.

To them POLYDAMUS, ARGALEON, Guard and Attendants.

Arga. The robber, though thrice racked, confessed no more. But that he took those jewels near this place.

Poly. But yet the circumstances strongly argue, That those, for whom I search, are not far off.

Arga. I cannot easily believe it.

Arte. No, You would not have it so. [Aside.

Poly. Those, I employed, have in the neighbouring hamlet, Amongst the fishers' cabins, made discovery Of some young persons, whose uncommon beauty, And graceful carriage, make it seem suspicious They are not what they seem: I therefore sent The captain of my guards, this morning early, With orders to secure and bring them to me.

Enter RHODOPHIL and PALAMEDE.

O, here he is.—Have you performed my will?

Rho. Sir, those, whom you commanded me to bring, Are waiting in the walks.

Poly. Conduct them hither.

Rho. First, give me leave To beg your notice of this gentleman.

Poly. He seems to merit it. His name and quality?

Rho. Palamede, son to lord Cleodemus of Palermo, And new returned from travel. [PALAMEDE approaches, and kneels to kiss the Kings hand.

Poly. You are welcome. I knew your father well, he was both brave And honest; we two once were fellow soldiers In the last civil wars.

Pala. I bring the same unquestion'd honesty And zeal to serve your majesty; the courage You were pleased to praise in him, Your royal prudence, and your people's love, Will never give me leave to try, like him, In civil wars; I hope it may in foreign.

Poly. Attend the court, and it shall be my care To find out some employment, worthy you. Go, Rhodophil, and bring in those without. [Exeunt RHO. and PALA.

RHODOPHIL returns again immediately, and with him enter HERMOGENES, LEONIDAS, and PALMYRA.

Behold two miracles! [Looking earnestly on LEON. and PALMYRA. Of different sexes, but of equal form: So matchless both, that my divided soul Can scarcely ask the gods a son or daughter, For fear of losing one. If from your hands, You powers, I shall this day receive a daughter, Argaleon, she is yours; but, if a son, Then Amalthea's love shall make him happy.

Arga. Grant, heaven, this admirable nymph may prove That issue, which he seeks!

Amal. Venus Urania, if thou art a goddess, Grant that sweet youth may prove the prince of Sicily!

Poly. Tell me, old man, and tell me true, from whence [To HERM. Had you that youth and maid?

Her. From whence you had Your sceptre, sir: I had them from the gods.

Poly. The gods then have not such another gift. Say who their parents were.

Her. My wife, and I.

Arga. It is not likely, a virgin, of so excellent a beauty, Should come from such a stock.

Amal. Much less, that such a youth, so sweet, so graceful, Should be produced from peasants.

Her. Why, nature is the same in villages, And much more fit to form a noble issue, Where it is least corrupted.

Poly. He talks too like a man that knew the world, To have been long a peasant. But the rack Will teach him other language. Hence with him! [As the Guards are carrying him away, his peruke falls off. Sure I have seen that face before. Hermogenes! 'Tis he, 'tis he, who fled away with Eubulus, And with my dear Eudoxia.

Her. Yes, sir, I am Hermogenes; And if to have been loyal be a crime, I stand prepared to suffer.

Poly. If thou would'st live, speak quickly, What is become of my Eudoxia? Where is the queen and young Theagenes? Where Eubulus? and which of these is mine? [Pointing to LEON. and PALM.

Her. Eudoxia is dead, so is the queen, The infant king, her son, and Eubulus.

Poly. Traitor, 'tis false: Produce them, or—

Her. Once more I tell you, they are dead; but leave to threaten, For you shall know no further.

Poly. Then prove indulgent to my hopes, and be My friend for ever. Tell me, good Hermogenes, Whose son is that brave youth?

Her. Sir, he is yours.

Poly. Fool that I am! thou see'st that so I wish it, And so thou flatter'st me.

Her. By all that's holy!

Poly. Again. Thou canst not swear too deeply.— Yet hold, I will believe thee:—Yet I doubt.

Her. You need not, sir.

Arga. Believe him not; he sees you credulous, And would impose his own base issue on you, And fix it to your crown.

Amal. Behold his goodly shape and feature, sir; Methinks he much resembles you.

Arga. I say, if you have any issue here, It must be that fair creature; By all my hopes I think so.

Amal. Yes, brother, I believe you by your hopes, For they are all for her.

Poly. Call the youth nearer.

Her. Leonidas, the king would speak with you.

Poly. Come near, and be not dazzled with the splendour, And greatness of a court.

Leon. I need not this encouragement; I can fear nothing but the gods. And, for this glory, after I have seen The canopy of state spread wide above In the abyss of heaven, the court of stars, The blushing morning, and the rising sun, What greater can I see?