Pyr. This cannot fail: I see you on the throne: And OEdipus cast out.

Cre. Then strait came on Alcander, with a wild and bellowing crowd, Whom he had wrought; I whispered him to join. And head the forces while the heat was in them. So to the palace I returned, to meet The king, and greet him with another story.— But see, he enters.

Enter OEDIPUS and JOCASTA, attended.

OEdip. Said you that Phorbas is returned, and yet Intreats he may return, without being asked Of aught concerning what we have discovered?

Joc. He started when I told him your intent, Replying, what he knew of that affair Would give no satisfaction to the king; Then, falling on his knees, begged, as for life, To be dismissed from court: He trembled too, As if convulsive death had seized upon him, And stammered in his abrupt prayer so wildly, That had he been the murderer of Laius, Guilt and distraction could not have shook him more.

OEdip. By your description, sure as plagues and death Lay waste our Thebes, some deed that shuns the light Begot those fears; if thou respect'st my peace, Secure him, dear Jocasta; for my genius Shrinks at his name.

Joc. Rather let him go: So my poor boding heart would have it be, Without a reason.

OEdip. Hark, the Thebans come! Therefore retire: And, once more, if thou lovest me, Let Phorbas be retained.

Joc. You shall, while I Have life, be still obeyed. In vain you sooth me with your soft endearments, And set the fairest countenance to view; Your gloomy eyes, my lord, betray a deadness And inward languishing: That oracle Eats like a subtle worm its venomed way, Preys on your heart, and rots the noble core, Howe'er the beauteous out-side shews so lovely.

OEdip. O, thou wilt kill me with thy love's excess! All, all is well; retire, the Thebans come. [Exit JOC.

Ghost. OEdipus!

OEdip. Ha! again that scream of woe! Thrice have I heard, thrice, since the morning dawned, It hollowed loud, as if my guardian spirit Called from some vaulted mansion, OEdipus! Or is it but the work of melancholy? When the sun sets, shadows, that shewed at noon But small, appear most long and terrible; So, when we think fate hovers o'er our heads, Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds; Owls, ravens, crickets seem the watch of death; Nature's worst vermin scare her godlike sons; Echoes, the very leavings of a voice, Grow babbling ghosts, and call us to our graves; Each mole-hill thought swells to a huge Olympus; While we fantastic dreamers heave and puff, And sweat with an imagination's weight; As if, like Atlas, with these mortal shoulders We could sustain the burden of the world. [CREON comes forward.

Cre. O, sacred sir, my royal lord—

OEdip. What now? Thou seem'st affrighted at some dreadful action; Thy breath comes short, thy darted eyes are fixt On me for aid, as if thou wert pursued: I sent thee to the Thebans; speak thy wonder: Fear not; this palace is a sanctuary, The king himself's thy guard.

Cre. For me, alas, My life's not worth a thought, when weighed with yours! But fly, my lord; fly as your life is sacred. Your fate is precious to your faithful Creon, Who therefore, on his knees, thus prostrate begs You would remove from Thebes, that vows your ruin. When I but offered at your innocence, They gathered stones, and menaced me with death, And drove me through the streets, with imprecations Against your sacred person, and those traitors Who justified your guilt, which cursed Tiresias Told, as from heaven, was cause of their destruction.

OEdip. Rise, worthy Creon; haste and take our guard, Rank them in equal part upon the square, Then open every gate of this our palace, And let the torrent in. Hark, it comes. [Shout. I hear them roar: Begone, and break down all The dams, that would oppose their furious passage. [Exit CREON with Guards.

Enter ADRASTUS, his sword drawn.

Adr. Your city Is all in arms, all bent to your destruction: I heard but now, where I was close confined, A thundering shout, which made my jailors vanish, Cry,—fire the palace! where is the cruel king? Yet, by the infernal Gods, those awful powers That have accused you, which these ears have heard, And these eyes seen, I must believe you guiltless; For, since I knew the royal OEdipus, I have observed in all his acts such truth, And god-like clearness, that, to the last gush Of blood and spirits, I'll defend his life, And here have sworn to perish by his side.

OEdip. Be witness, Gods, how near this touches me. [Embracing him. O what, what recompence can glory make?

Adr. Defend your innocence, speak like yourself, And awe the rebels with your dauntless virtue. But hark! the storm comes nearer.

OEdip. Let it come. The force of majesty is never known But in a general wreck: Then, then is seen The difference 'twixt a threshold and a throne.

Enter CREON, PYRACMON, ALCANDER, TIRESIAS, Thebans.

Alc. Where, where's this cruel king?—Thebans, behold, There stands your plague, the ruin, desolation Of this unhappy—speak; shall I kill him? Or shall he be cast out to banishment?

All Theb. To banishment, away with him!

OEdip. Hence, you barbarians, to your slavish distance! Fix to the earth your sordid looks; for he, Who stirs, dares more than madmen, fiends, or furies. Who dares to face me, by the Gods, as well May brave the majesty of thundering Jove. Did I for this relieve you, when besieged By this fierce prince, when cooped within your walls, And to the very brink of fate reduced; When lean-jawed famine made more havock of you, Than does the plague? But I rejoice I know you, Know the base stuff that tempered your vile souls: The Gods be praised, I needed not your empire, Born to a greater, nobler, of my own; Nor shall the sceptre of the earth now win me To rule such brutes, so barbarous a people.

Adr. Methinks, my lord, I see a sad repentance, A general consternation spread among them.

OEdip. My reign is at an end; yet, ere I finish, I'll do a justice that becomes a monarch; A monarch, who, in the midst of swords and javelins, Dares act as on his throne, encompast round With nations for his guard. Alcander, you Are nobly born, therefore shall lose your head: [Seizes him. Here, Haemon, take him: but for this, and this, Let cords dispatch them. Hence, away with them!

Tir. O sacred prince, pardon distracted Thebes, Pardon her, if she acts by heaven's award; If that the infernal spirits have declared The depth of fate; and if our oracles May speak, O do not too severely deal! But let thy wretched Thebes at least complain. If thou art guilty, heaven will make it known; If innocent, then let Tiresias die.

OEdip. I take thee at thy word.—Run, haste, and save Alcander: I swear, the prophet, or the king shall die. Be witness, all you Thebans, of my oath; And Phorbas be the umpire.

Tir. I submit. [Trumpet sounds.

OEdip. What mean those trumpets?

Enter HAEMON with ALCANDER, &c.

Haem. From your native country, Great sir, the famed AEgeon is arrived, That renowned favourite of the king your father: He comes as an ambassador from Corinth, And sues for audience.

OEdip. Haste, Haemon, fly, and tell him that I burn To embrace him.

Haem. The queen, my lord, at present holds him In private conference; but behold her here.

Enter JOCASTA, EURYDICE, &c.

Joc. Hail, happy OEdipus, happiest of kings! Henceforth be blest, blest as thou canst desire; Sleep without fears the blackest nights away; Let furies haunt thy palace, thou shalt sleep Secure, thy slumbers shall be soft and gentle As infants' dreams.

OEdip. What does the soul of all my joys intend? And whither would this rapture?

Joc. O, I could rave, Pull down those lying fanes, and burn that vault, From whence resounded those false oracles, That robbed my love of rest: If we must pray, Rear in the streets bright altars to the Gods, Let virgins' hands adorn the sacrifice; And not a grey-beard forging priest come near, To pry into the bowels of the victim, And with his dotage mad the gaping world. But see, the oracle that I will trust, True as the Gods, and affable as men.

Enter AEGEON. Kneels.

OEdip. O, to my arms, welcome, my dear AEgeon; Ten thousand welcomes! O, my foster-father, Welcome as mercy to a man condemned! Welcome to me, as, to a sinking mariner, The lucky plank that bears him to the shore! But speak, O tell me what so mighty joy Is this thou bring'st, which so transports Jocasta?

Joc. Peace, peace, AEgeon, let Jocasta tell him!— O that I could for ever charm, as now, My dearest OEdipus! Thy royal father, Polybus, king of Corinth, is no more.

OEdip. Ha! can it be? AEgeon, answer me; And speak in short, what my Jocasta's transport May over-do.

AEge. Since in few words, my royal lord, you ask To know the truth,—king Polybus is dead.

OEdip. O all you powers, is't possible? what, dead! But that the tempest of my joy may rise By just degrees, and hit at last the stars, Say, how, how died he? ha! by sword, by fire, Or water? by assassinates, or poison? speak: Or did he languish under some disease?

AEge. Of no distemper, of no blast he died, But fell like autumn-fruit that mellowed long; Even wondered at, because he dropt no sooner. Fate seemed to wind him up for fourscore years; Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more: Till, like a clock worn out with eating time, The wheels of weary life at last stood still.

OEdip. O, let me press thee in my youthful arms, And smother thy old age in my embraces. Yes, Thebans, yes, Jocasta, yes, Adrastus, Old Polybus, the king my father's dead! Fires shall be kindled in the midst of Thebes; In the midst of tumult, wars, and pestilence, I will rejoice for Polybus's death. Know, be it known to the limits of the world; Yet farther, let it pass yon dazzling roof, The mansion of the Gods, and strike them deaf With everlasting peals of thundering joy.

Tir. Fate! Nature! Fortune! what is all this world?

OEdip. Now, dotard; now, thou blind old wizard prophet, Where are your boding ghosts, your altars now; Your birds of knowledge, that in dusky air Chatter futurity? And where are now Your oracles, that called me parricide? Is he not dead? deep laid in his monument? And was not I in Thebes when fate attacked him? Avaunt, begone, you vizors of the Gods! Were I as other sons, now I should weep; But, as I am, I have reason to rejoice: And will, though his cold shade should rise and blast me. O, for this death, let waters break their bounds; Rocks, valleys, hills, with splitting Io's ring: Io, Jocasta, Io paean sing!

Tir. Who would not now conclude a happy end! But all fate's turns are swift and unexpected.

AEge. Your royal mother Merope, as if She had no soul since you forsook the land, Waves all the neighbouring princes that adore her.

OEdip. Waves all the princes! poor heart! for what? O speak.

AEge. She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold, even in the summer of her age, And, for your sake, has sworn to die unmarried.

OEdip. How! for my sake, die and not marry! O My fit returns.

AEge. This diamond, with a thousand kisses blest, With thousand sighs and wishes for your safety, She charged me give you, with the general homage Of our Corinthian lords.

OEdip. There's magic in it, take it from my sight; There's not a beam it darts, but carries hell, Hot flashing lust, and necromantic incest: Take it from these sick eyes, oh hide it from me!— No, my Jocasta, though Thebes cast me out, While Merope's alive, I'll ne'er return. O, rather let me walk round the wide world A beggar, than accept a diadem On such abhorred conditions.

Joc. You make, my lord, your own unhappiness, By these extravagant and needless fears.

OEdip. Needless! O, all you Gods! By heaven, I would rather Embrue my arms, up to my very shoulders, In the dear entrails of the best of fathers, Than offer at the execrable act Of damned incest: therefore no more of her.

AEge. And why, O sacred sir, if subjects may Presume to look into their monarch's breast, Why should the chaste and spotless Merope Infuse such thoughts, as I must blush to name?

OEdip. Because the god of Delphos did forewarn me, With thundering oracles.

AEge. May I entreat to know them?

OEdip. Yes, my AEgeon; but the sad remembrance Quite blasts my soul: See then the swelling priest! Methinks, I have his image now in view!— He mounts the tripos in a minute's space, His clouded head knocks at the temple-roof; While from his mouth, These dismal words are heard: "Fly, wretch, whom fate has doomed thy father's blood to spill, And with preposterous births thy mother's womb to fill!"

AEge. Is this the cause, Why you refuse the diadem of Corinth?

OEdip. The cause! why, is it not a monstrous one!

AEge. Great sir, you may return; and though you should Enjoy the queen, (which all the Gods forbid!) The act would prove no incest.

OEdip. How, AEgeon? Though I enjoy my mother, not incestuous! Thou ravest, and so do I; and these all catch My madness; look, they're dead with deep distraction: Not incest! what, not incest with my mother?

AEge. My lord, queen Merope is not your mother.

OEdip. Ha! did I hear thee right? not Merope My mother!

AEge. Nor was Polybus your father.

OEdip. Then all my days and nights must now be spent In curious search, to find out those dark parents Who gave me to the world; speak then, AEgeon. By all the Gods celestial and infernal, By all the ties of nature, blood and friendship, Conceal not from this racked despairing king, A point or smallest grain of what thou knowest: Speak then, O answer to my doubts directly, If royal Polybus was not my father, Why was I called his son? AEge. He from my arms Received you, as the fairest gift of nature. Not but you were adorned with all the riches That empire could bestow, in costly mantles, Upon its infant heir.

OEdip. But was I made the heir of Corinth's crown, Because AEgeon's hands presented me?

AEge. By my advice, Being past all hope of children, He took, embraced, and owned you for his son.

OEdip. Perhaps I then am yours; instruct me, sir; If it be so, I'll kneel and weep before you. With all the obedience of a penitent child, Imploring pardon. Kill me, if you please; I will not writhe my body at the wound, But sink upon your feet with a last sigh, And ask forgiveness with my dying hands.

AEge. O rise, and call not to this aged cheek The little blood which should keep warm my heart; You are not mine, nor ought I to be blest With such a god-like offspring. Sir, I found you Upon the mount Cithaeron.

OEdip. O speak, go on, the air grows sensible Of the great things you utter, and is calm: The hurried orbs, with storms so racked of late, Seem to stand still, as if that Jove were talking. Cithaeron! speak, the valley of Cithaeron!

AEge. Oft-times before, I thither did resort, Charmed with the conversation of a man, Who led a rural life, and had command O'er all the shepherds, who about those vales Tended their numerous flocks: in this man's arms, I saw you smiling at a fatal dagger, Whose point he often offered at your throat; But then you smiled, and then he drew it back, Then lifted it again,—you smiled again: 'Till he at last in fury threw it from him, And cried aloud,—The Gods forbid thy death. Then I rushed in, and, after some discourse, To me he did bequeath your innocent life; And I, the welcome care to Polybus.

OEdip. To whom belongs the master of the shepherds?

AEge. His name I knew not, or I have forgot: That he was of the family of Laius, I well remember.

OEdip. And is your friend alive? for if he be, I'll buy his presence, though it cost my crown.

AEge. Your menial attendants best can tell Whether he lives, or not; and who has now His place.

Joc. Winds, bear me to some barren island, Where print of human feet was never seen; O'er-grown with weeds of such a monstrous height, Their baleful tops are washed with bellying clouds; Beneath whose venomous shade I may have vent For horrors, that would blast the barbarous world!

OEdip. If there be any here that knows the person Whom he described, I charge him on his life To speak; concealment shall be sudden death: But he, who brings him forth, shall have reward Beyond ambition's lust.

Tir. His name is Phorbas: Jocasta knows him well; but, if I may Advise, rest where you are, and seek no farther.

OEdip. Then all goes well, since Phorbas is secured By my Jocasta.—Haste, and bring him forth: My love, my queen, give orders, Ha! what mean These tears, and groans, and strugglings? speak, my fair, What are thy troubles?

Joc. Yours; and yours are mine: Let me conjure you, take the prophet's counsel, And let this Phorbas go.

OEdip. Not for the world. By all the Gods, I'll know my birth, though death Attends the search. I have already past The middle of the stream; and to return, Seems greater labour than to venture over: Therefore produce him.

Joc. Once more, by the Gods, I beg, my OEdipus, my lord, my life, My love, my all, my only, utmost hope! I beg you, banish Phorbas: O, the Gods, I kneel, that you may grant this first request. Deny me all things else; but for my sake, And as you prize your own eternal quiet, Never let Phorbas come into your presence.

OEdip. You must be raised, and Phorbas shall appear, Though his dread eyes were basilisks. Guards, haste, Search the queen's lodgings; find, and force him hither. [Exeunt Guards.

Joc. O, OEdipus, yet send, And stop their entrance, ere it be too late; Unless you wish to see Jocasta rent With furies,—slain out-right with mere distraction! Keep from your eyes and mine the dreadful Phorbas. Forbear this search, I'll think you more than mortal; Will you yet hear me?

OEdip. Tempests will be heard, And waves will dash, though rocks their basis keep. But see, they enter. If thou truly lovest me, Either forbear this subject, or retire.

Enter HAEMON, Guards, with PHORBAS.

Joc. Prepare then, wretched prince, prepare to hear A story, that shall turn thee into stone. Could there be hewn a monstrous gap in nature, A flaw made through the centre, by some God, Through which the groans of ghosts may strike thy ears, They would not wound thee, as this story will. Hark, hark! a hollow voice calls out aloud, Jocasta! Yes, I'll to the royal bed, Where first the mysteries of our loves were acted, And double-dye it with imperial crimson; Tear off this curling hair, Be gorged with fire, stab every vital part, And, when at last I'm slain, to crown the horror, My poor tormented ghost shall cleave the ground, To try if hell can yet more deeply wound. [Exit.

OEdip. She's gone; and, as she went, methought her eyes Grew larger, while a thousand frantic spirits, Seething like rising bubbles on the brim, Peeped from the watry brink, and glowed upon me. I'll seek no more; but hush my genius up, That throws me on my fate.—Impossible! O wretched man, whose too too busy thoughts Hide swifter than the gallopping heaven's round, With an eternal hurry of the soul. Nay, there's a time when even the rolling year Seems to stand still, dead calms are in the ocean, When not a breath disturbs the drowzy waves: But man, the very monster of the world, Is ne'er at rest; the soul for ever wakes. Come then, since destiny thus drives us on, Let us know the bottom.—Haemon, you I sent; Where is that Phorbas?

Haem. Here, my royal lord.

OEdip. Speak first, AEgeon, say, is this the man?

AEge. My lord, it is; Though time has ploughed that face With many furrows since I saw it first, Yet I'm too well acquainted with the ground, Quite to forget it.

OEdip. Peace; stand back a while.— Come hither, friend; I hear thy name is Phorbas. Why dost thou turn thy face? I charge thee answer To what I shall enquire: Wert thou not once The servant to king Laius here in Thebes?

Phor. I was, great sir, his true and faithful servant; Born and bred up in court, no foreign slave.

OEdip. What office hadst thou? what was thy employment?

Phor. He made me lord of all his rural pleasures; For much he loved them: oft I entertained him With sporting swains, o'er whom I had command.

OEdip. Where was thy residence? to what part of the country Didst thou most frequently resort?

Phor. To mount Cithaeron, and the pleasant vallies Which all about lie shadowing its large feet.

OEdip. Come forth, AEgeon.—Ha! why start'st thou, Phorbas? Forward, I say, and face to face confront him: Look wistly on him,—through him, if thou canst! And tell me on thy life, say, dost thou know him? Didst thou e'er see him? e'er converse with him Near mount Cithaeron?

Phor. Who, my lord, this man?

OEdip. This man, this old, this venerable man: Speak, did'st thou ever meet him there?

Phor. Where, sacred sir?

OEdip. Near mount Cithaeron; answer to the purpose, 'Tis a king speaks; and royal minutes are Of much more worth than thousand vulgar years: Did'st thou e'er see this man near mount Cithaeron?

Phor. Most sure, my lord, I have seen lines like those His visage bears; but know not where, nor when.

AEge. Is't possible you should forget your ancient friend? There are, perhaps, Particulars, which may excite your dead remembrance. Have you forgot I took an infant from you, Doomed to be murdered in that gloomy vale? The swaddling-bands were purple, wrought with gold. Have you forgot, too, how you wept, and begged That I should breed him up, and ask no more?

Phor. Whate'er I begged, thou, like a dotard, speak'st More than is requisite; and what of this? Why is it mentioned now? And why, O why Dost thou betray the secrets of thy friend?

AEge. Be not too rash. That infant grew at last A king; and here the happy monarch stands.

Phor. Ha! whither would'st thou? O what hast thou uttered! For what thou hast said, death strike thee dumb for ever!

OEdip. Forbear to curse the innocent; and be Accurst thyself, thou shifting traitor, villain, Damned hypocrite, equivocating slave!

Phor. O heavens! wherein, my lord, have I offended?

OEdip. Why speak you not according to my charge? Bring forth the rack: since mildness cannot win you, Torments shall force.

Phor. Hold, hold, O dreadful sir! You will not rack an innocent old man?

OEdip. Speak then.

Phor. Alas! What would you have me say?

OEdip. Did this old man take from your arms an infant?

Phor. He did: And, Oh! I wish to all the gods, Phorbas had perished in that very moment.

OEdip. Moment! Thou shalt be hours, days, years, a dying.— Here, bind his hands; he dallies with my fury: But I shall find a way—

Phor. My lord, I said I gave the infant to him.

OEdip. Was he thy own, or given thee by another?

Phor. He was not mine, but given me by another.

OEdip. Whence? and from whom? what city? of what house?

Phor. O, royal sir, I bow me to the ground; Would I could sink beneath it! by the gods, I do conjure you to inquire no more.

OEdip. Furies and hell! Haemon, bring forth the rack, Fetch hither cords, and knives, and sulphurous flames: He shall be bound and gashed, his skin flead off, And burnt alive.

Phor. O spare my age.

OEdip. Rise then, and speak.

Phor. Dread sir, I will.

OEdip. Who gave that infant to thee?

Phor. One of king Laius' family.

OEdip. O, you immortal gods!—But say, who was't? Which of the family of Laius gave it? A servant, or one of the royal blood?

Phor. O wretched state! I die, unless I speak; And if I speak, most certain death attends me!

OEdip. Thou shalt not die. Speak, then, who was it? speak, While I have sense to understand the horror; For I grow cold.

Phor. The queen Jocasta told me, It was her son by Laius.

OEdip. O you gods!—But did she give it thee?

Phor. My lord, she did.

OEdip. Wherefore? for what?—O break not yet, my heart; Though my eyes burst, no matter:—wilt thou tell me, Or must I ask for ever? for what end, Why gave she thee her child?

Phor. To murder it.

OEdip. O more than savage! murder her own bowels, Without a cause!

Phor. There was a dreadful one, Which had foretold, that most unhappy son Should kill his father, and enjoy his mother.

OEdip. But one thing more. Jocasta told me, thou wert by the chariot When the old king was slain: Speak, I conjure thee, For I shall never ask thee aught again,— What was the number of the assassinates?

Phor. The dreadful deed was acted but by one; And sure that one had much of your resemblance.

OEdip. 'Tis well! I thank you, gods! 'tis wondrous well! Daggers, and poison! O there is no need For my dispatch: And you, you merciless powers, Hoard up your thunder-stones; keep, keep your bolts, For crimes of little note. [Falls.

Adr. Help, Haemon, help, and bow him gently forward; Chafe, chafe his temples: How the mighty spirits, Half-strangled with the damp his sorrows raised, Struggle for vent! But see, he breathes again, And vigorous nature breaks through opposition.— How fares my royal friend?

OEdip. The worse for you. O barbarous men, and oh the hated light, Why did you force me back, to curse the day; To curse my friends; to blast with this dark breath The yet untainted earth and circling air? To raise new plagues, and call new vengeance down, Why did you tempt the gods, and dare to touch me? Methinks there's not a hand that grasps this hell, But should run up like flax all blazing fire. Stand from this spot, I wish you as my friends, And come not near me, lest the gaping earth Swallow you too.—Lo, I am gone already. [Draws, and claps his Sword to his Breast, which ADRASTUS strikes away with his Foot.

Adr. You shall no more be trusted with your life:— Creon, Alcander, Haemon, help to hold him.

OEdip. Cruel Adrastus! wilt thou, Haemon, too? Are these the obligations of my friends? O worse than worst of my most barbarous foes! Dear, dear Adrastus, look with half an eye On my unheard of woes, and judge thyself, If it be fit that such a wretch should live! O, by these melting eyes, unused to weep, With all the low submissions of a slave, I do conjure thee, give my horrors way! Talk not of life, for that will make me rave: As well thou may'st advise a tortured wretch, All mangled o'er from head to foot with wounds, And his bones broke, to wait a better day.

Adr. My lord, you ask me things impossible; And I with justice should be thought your foe, To leave you in this tempest of your soul.

Tir. Though banished Thebes, in Corinth you may reign; The infernal powers themselves exact no more: Calm then your rage, and once more seek the gods.

OEdip. I'll have no more to do with gods, nor men; Hence, from my arms, avaunt. Enjoy thy mother! What, violate, with bestial appetite, The sacred veils that wrapt thee yet unborn! This is not to be borne! Hence; off, I say! For they, who let my vengeance, make themselves Accomplices in my most horrid guilt.

Adr. Let it be so; we'll fence heav'n's fury from you, And suffer all together. This, perhaps, When ruin comes, may help to break your fall.

OEdip. O that, as oft I have at Athens seen The stage arise, and the big clouds descend; So now, in very deed I might behold The pond'rous earth, and all yon marble roof Meet, like the hand of Jove, and crush mankind! For all the elements, and all the powers Celestial, nay, terrestrial, and infernal, Conspire the wreck of out-cast OEdipus! Fall darkness then, and everlasting night Shadow the globe; may the sun never dawn; The silver moon be blotted from her orb; And for an universal rout of nature Through all the inmost chambers of the sky, May there not be a glimpse, one starry spark, But gods meet gods, and jostle in the dark; That jars may rise, and wrath divine be hurled, Which may to atoms shake the solid world! [Exeunt.

ACT V.—SCENE I.

Enter CREON, ALCANDER, and PYRACMON.

Creon. Thebes is at length my own; and all my wishes, Which sure were great as royalty e'er formed, Fortune and my auspicious stars have crowned. O diadem, thou centre of ambition, Where all its different lines are reconciled, As if thou wert the burning glass of glory!

Pyr. Might I be counsellor, I would intreat you To cool a little, sir; find out Eurydice; And, with the resolution of a man Marked out for greatness, give the fatal choice Of death or marriage.

Alc. Survey cursed OEdipus, As one who, though unfortunate, beloved, Thought innocent, and therefore much lamented By all the Thebans: you must mark him dead, Since nothing but his death, not banishment, Can give assurance to your doubtful reign.

Cre. Well have you done, to snatch me from the storm Of racking transport, where the little streams Of love, revenge, and all the under passions, As waters are by sucking whirlpools drawn, Were quite devoured in the vast gulph of empire. Therefore, Pyracmon, as you boldly urged, Eurydice shall die, or be my bride. Alcander, summon to their master's aid My menial servants, and all those whom change Of state, and hope of the new monarch's favour, Can win to take our part: Away.—What now? [Exit ALCANDER.

Enter HAEMON.

When Haemon weeps, without the help of ghosts I may foretel there is a fatal cause.

Haem. Is't possible you should be ignorant Of what has happened to the desperate king?

Cre. I know no more but that he was conducted Into his closet, where I saw him fling His trembling body on the royal bed; All left him there, at his desire, alone; But sure no ill, unless he died with grief, Could happen, for you bore his sword away.

Haem. I did; and, having locked the door, I stood; And through a chink I found, not only heard, But saw him, when he thought no eye beheld him. At first, deep sighs heaved from his woful heart Murmurs, and groans that shook the outward rooms. And art thou still alive, O wretch! he cried; Then groaned again, as if his sorrowful soul Had cracked the strings of life, and burst away.

Cre. I weep to hear; how then should I have grieved, Had I beheld this wondrous heap of sorrow! But, to the fatal period.

Haem. Thrice he struck, With all his force, his hollow groaning breast, And thus, with outcries, to himself complained:— But thou canst weep then, and thou think'st 'tis well, These bubbles of the shallowest emptiest sorrow, Which children vent for toys, and women rain For any trifle their fond hearts are set on; Yet these thou think'st are ample satisfaction For bloodiest murder, and for burning lust: No, parricide! if thou must weep, weep blood; Weep eyes, instead of tears:—O, by the gods! 'Tis greatly thought, he cried, and fits my woes. Which said, he smiled revengefully, and leapt Upon the floor; thence gazing at the skies, His eye-balls fiery red, and glowing vengeance,— Gods I accuse you not, though I no more Will view your heaven, till, with more durable glasses, The mighty soul's immortal perspectives, I find your dazzling beings: Take, he cried, Take, eyes, your last, your fatal farewel-view. Then with a groan, that seemed the call of death, With horrid force lifting his impious hands, He snatched, he tore, from forth their bloody orbs, The balls of sight, and dashed them on the ground.

Cre. A master-piece of horror; new and dreadful!

Haem. I ran to succour him; but, oh! too late; For he had plucked the remnant strings away. What then remains, but that I find Tiresias, Who, with his wisdom, may allay those furies, That haunt his gloomy soul? [Exit.

Cre. Heaven will reward Thy care, most honest, faithful,—foolish Haemon! But see, Alcander enters, well attended.

Enter ALCANDER, attended.

I see thou hast been diligent.

Alc. Nothing these, For number, to the crowds that soon will follow; Be resolute, And call your utmost fury to revenge.

Cre. Ha! thou hast given The alarm to cruelty; and never may These eyes be closed, till they behold Adrastus Stretched at the feet of false Eurydice. But see, they are here! retire a while, and mark.

Enter ADRASTUS, and EURYDICE, attended.

Adr. Alas, Eurydice, what fond rash man, What inconsiderate and ambitious fool, That shall hereafter read the fate of OEdipus, Will dare, with his frail hand, to grasp a sceptre?

Eur. 'Tis true, a crown seems dreadful, and I wish That you and I, more lowly placed, might pass Our softer hours in humble cells away: Not but I love you to that infinite height, I could (O wondrous proof of fiercest love!) Be greatly wretched in a court with you.

Adr. Take then this most loved innocence away; Fly from tumultuous Thebes, from blood and murder, Fly from the author of all villainies, Rapes, death, and treason, from that fury Creon: Vouchsafe that I, o'er-joyed, may bear you hence, And at your feet present the crown of Argos. [CREON and attendants come up to him.

Cre. I have o'er-heard thy black design, Adrastus, And therefore, as a traitor to this state, Death ought to be thy lot: Let it suffice That Thebes surveys thee as a prince; abuse not Her proffered mercy, but retire betimes, Lest she repent, and hasten on thy doom.

Adr. Think not, most abject, most abhorred of men, Adrastus will vouchsafe to answer thee;— Thebans to you I justify my love: I have addrest my prayer to this fair princess; But, if I ever meant a violence, Or thought to ravish, as that traitor did, What humblest adorations could not win, Brand me, you gods, blot me with foul dishonour, And let men curse me by the name of Creon!

Eur. Hear me, O Thebans, if you dread the wrath Of her whom fate ordained to be your queen; Hear me, and dare not, as you prize your lives, To take the part of that rebellious traitor. By the decree of royal OEdipus, By queen Jocasta's order, by what's more, My own dear vows of everlasting love, I here resign, to prince Adrastus' arms, All that the world can make me mistress of.

Cre. O perjured woman! Draw all; and when I give the word, fall on.— Traitor, resign the princess, or this moment Expect, with all those most unfortunate wretches, Upon this spot straight to be hewn in pieces.

Adr. No, villain, no; With twice those odds of men, I doubt not in this cause to vanquish thee.— Captain remember to your care I give My love; ten thousand, thousand times more clear, Than life or liberty.

Cre. Fall on, Alcander.— Pyracmon you and I must wheel about For nobler game, the princess.

Adr. Ah, traitor, dost thou shun me? Follow, follow, My brave companions! see, the cowards fly! [Exeunt fighting: CREON'S Party beaten off by ADRASTUS.

Enter OEDIPUS.

OEdip. O, 'tis too little this; thy loss of sight, What has it done? I shall be gazed at now The more; be pointed at, There goes the monster! Nor have I hid my horrors from myself; For, though corporeal light be lost for ever, The bright reflecting soul, through glaring optics, Presents in larger size her black ideas, Doubling the bloody prospect of my crimes; Holds fancy down, and makes her act again, With wife and mother:—Tortures, hell and furies! Ha! now the baleful offspring's brought to light! In horrid form, they rank themselves before me;— What shall I call this medley of creation? Here one, with all the obedience of a son, Borrowing Jocasta's look, kneels at my feet, And calls me father; there, a sturdy boy, Resembling Laius just as when I killed him, Bears up, and with his cold hand grasping mine, Cries out, how fares my brother OEdipus? What, sons and brothers! Sisters and daughters too! Fly all, begone, fly from my whirling brain! Hence, incest, murder! hence, you ghastly figures! O Gods! Gods, answer; is there any mean? Let me go mad, or die.

Enter JOCASTA.

Joc. Where, where is this most wretched of mankind, This stately image of imperial sorrow, Whose story told, whose very name but mentioned, Would cool the rage of fevers, and unlock The hand of lust from the pale virgin's hair, And throw the ravisher before her feet?

OEdip. By all my fears, I think Jocasta's voice!— Hence fly; begone! O thou far worse than worst Of damning charmers! O abhorred, loathed creature! Fly, by the gods, or by the fiends, I charge thee, Far as the East, West, North, or South of heaven, But think not thou shalt ever enter there; The golden gates are barred with adamant, 'Gainst thee, and me; and the celestial guards, Still as we rise, will dash our spirits down.

Joc. O wretched pair! O greatly wretched we! Two worlds of woe!

OEdip. Art thou not gone then? ha! How darest thou stand the fury of the gods? Or comest thou in the grave to reap new pleasures?

Joc. Talk on, till thou mak'st mad my rolling brain; Groan still more death; and may those dismal sources Still bubble on, and pour forth blood and tears. Methinks, at such a meeting, heaven stands still; The sea, nor ebbs, nor flows; this mole-hill earth Is heaved no more; the busy emmets cease: Yet hear me on—

OEdip. Speak, then, and blast my soul.

Joc. O, my loved lord, though I resolve a ruin, To match my crimes; by all my miseries, 'Tis horror, worse than thousand thousand deaths, To send me hence without a kind farewell.

OEdip. Gods, how she shakes me!—stay thee, O Jocasta! Speak something ere thou goest for ever from me!

Joc. 'Tis woman's weakness, that I would be pitied; Pardon me then, O greatest, though most wretched. Of all thy kind! My soul is on the brink, And sees the boiling furnace just beneath: Do not thou push me off, and I will go, With such a willingness, as if that heaven With all its glory glowed for my reception.

OEdip. O, in my heart I feel the pangs of nature; It works with kindness o'er: give, give me way! I feel a melting here, a tenderness, Too mighty for the anger of the gods! Direct me to thy knees: yet, oh forbear, Lest the dead embers should revive. Stand off, and at just distance Let me groan my horrors!—here On the earth, here blow my utmost gale; Here sob my sorrows, till I burst with sighing; Here gasp and languish out my wounded soul.

Joc. In spite of all those crimes the cruel gods Can charge me with, I know my innocence; Know yours. 'Tis fate alone that makes us wretched, For you are still my husband.

OEdip. Swear I am, And I'll believe thee; steal into thy arms, Renew endearments, think them no pollutions, But chaste as spirits' joys. Gently I'll come, Thus weeping blind, like dewy night, upon thee, And fold thee softly in my arms to slumber. [The Ghost of LAIUS ascends by degrees, pointing at JOCASTA.

Joc. Begone, my lord! Alas, what are we doing? Fly from my arms! Whirlwinds, seas, continents, And worlds, divide us! O, thrice happy thou, Who hast no use of eyes; for here's a sight Would turn the melting face of mercy's self To a wild fury.

OEdip. Ha! what seest thou there?

Joc. The spirit of my husband! O, the gods! How wan he looks!

OEdip. Thou ravest; thy husband's here.

Joc. There, there he mounts In circling fire among the blushing clouds! And see, he waves Jocasta from the world!

Ghost. Jocasta, OEdipus. [Vanish with thunder.

OEdip. What wouldst thou have? Thou knowest I cannot come to thee, detained In darkness here, and kept from means of death. I've heard a spirit's force is wonderful; At whose approach, when starting from his dungeon, The earth does shake, and the old ocean groans, Rocks are removed, and towers are thundered down; And walls of brass, and gates of adamant Are passable as air, and fleet like winds.

Joc. Was that a raven's croak, or my son's voice? No matter which; I'll to the grave and hide me. Earth open, or I'll tear thy bowels up. Hark! he goes on, and blabs the deed of incest.

OEdip. Strike then, imperial ghost; dash all at once This house of clay into a thousand pieces; That my poor lingering soul may take her flight To your immortal dwellings.

Joc. Haste thee, then, Or I shall be before thee. See,—thou canst not see! Then I will tell thee that my wings are on. I'll mount, I'll fly, and with a port divine Glide all along the gaudy milky soil, To find my Laius out; ask every god In his bright palace, if he knows my Laius, My murdered Laius!

OEdip. Ha! how's this, Jocasta? Nay, if thy brain be sick, then thou art happy. Joc. Ha! will you not? shall I not find him out? Will you not show him? are my tears despised? Why, then I'll thunder, yes, I will be mad, And fright you with my cries. Yes, cruel gods, Though vultures, eagles, dragons tear my heart, I'll snatch celestial flames, fire all your dwellings, Melt down your golden roofs, and make your doors Of crystal fly from off their diamond hinges; Drive you all out from your ambrosial hives, To swarm like bees about the field of heaven. This will I do, unless you show me Laius, My dear, my murdered lord. O Laius! Laius! Laius! [Exit JOCASTA.

OEdip. Excellent grief! why, this is as it should be! No mourning can be suitable to crimes Like ours, but what death makes, or madness forms. I could have wished, methought, for sight again, To mark the gallantry of her distraction; Her blazing eyes darting the wandering stars, To have seen her mouth the heavens, and mate the gods, While with her thundering voice she menaced high, And every accent twanged with smarting sorrow; But what's all this to thee? thou, coward, yet Art living, canst not, wilt not find the road To the great palace of magnificent Death; Though thousand ways lead to his thousand doors, Which, day and night, are still unbarred for all. [Clashing of Swords. Drums and Trumpets without. Hark! 'tis the noise of clashing swords! the sound Comes near;—O, that a battle would come o'er me! If I but grasp a sword, or wrest a dagger, I'll make a ruin with the first that falls.

Enter HAEMON, with Guards.

Haem. Seize him, and bear him to the western tower.— Pardon me, sacred sir; I am informed That Creon has designs upon your life: Forgive me, then, if, to preserve you from him, I order your confinement.

OEdip. Slaves, unhand me!— I think thou hast a sword;—'twas the wrong side. Yet, cruel Haemon, think not I will live; He, that could tear his eyes out, sure can find Some desperate way to stifle this cursed breath: Or if I starve!—but that's a lingering fate; Or if I leave my brains upon the wall!— The airy soul can easily o'er-shoot Those bounds, with which thou striv'st to pale her in. Yes, I will perish in despite of thee; And, by the rage that stirs me, if I meet thee In the other world, I'll curse thee for this usage. [Exit.

Haem. Tiresias, after him, and with your counsel, Advise him humbly: charm, if possible, These feuds within; while I without extinguish, Or perish in the attempt, the furious Creon; That brand which sets our city in a flame.

Tir. Heaven prosper your intent, and give a period To all our plagues. What old Tiresias can, Shall straight be done.—Lead, Manto, to the tower. [Exeunt TIRESIAS and MANTO.

Haem. Follow me all, and help to part this fray, [Trumpets again. Or fall together in the bloody broil. [Exeunt.

Enter CREON with EURYDICE; PYRACMON, and his party, giving Ground to ADRASTUS.

Cre. Hold, hold your arms, Adrastus, prince of Argos! Hear, and behold; Eurydice is my prisoner.

Adr. What would'st thou, hell-hound?

Cre. See this brandished dagger; Forego the advantage which thy arms have won. Or, by the blood which trembles through the heart Of her, whom more than life I know thou lovest, I'll bury to the haft, in her fair breast, This instrument of my revenge.

Adr. Stay thee, damned wretch; hold, stop thy bloody hand!

Cre. Give order, then, that on this instant, now, This moment, all thy soldiers straight disband.

Adr. Away, my friends, since fate has so allotted; Begone, and leave me to the villain's mercy.

Eur. Ah, my Adrastus! call them, call them back! Stand there; come back! O, cruel barbarous men! Could you then leave your lord, your prince, your king, After so bravely having fought his cause, To perish by the hand of this base villain? Why rather rush you not at once together All to his ruin? drag him through the streets, Hang his contagious quarters on the gates; Nor let my death affright you.

Cre. Die first thyself, then.

Adr. O, I charge thee hold!— Hence from my presence, all; he's not my friend That disobeys.—See, art thou now appeased? [Exeunt Attendants. Or is there aught else yet remains to do, That can atone thee? slake thy thirst of blood With mine; but save, O save that innocent wretch!

Cre. Forego thy sword, and yield thyself my prisoner.

Eur. Yet, while there's any dawn of hope to save Thy precious life, my dear Adrastus, Whate'er thou dost, deliver not thy sword; With that thou may'st get off, tho' odds oppose thee. For me, O fear not; no, he dares not touch me; His horrid love will spare me. Keep thy sword; Lest I be ravished after thou art slain.

Adr. Instruct me, gods, what shall Adrastus do?

Cre. Do what thou wilt, when she is dead; my soldiers With numbers will o'erpower thee. Is't thy wish Eurydice should fall before thee?

Adr. Traitor, no; Better that thou, and I, and all mankind, Should be no more.

Cre. Then cast thy sword away, And yield thee to my mercy, or I strike.

Adr. Hold thy raised arm; give me a moment's pause. My father, when he blest me, gave me this: My son, said he, let this be thy last refuge; If thou forego'st it, misery attends thee.— Yet love now charms it from me; which in all The hazards of my life I never lost. 'Tis thine, my faithful sword; my only trust; Though my heart tells me that the gift is fatal. [Gives it.

Cre. Fatal! yes, foolish love-sick prince, it shall: Thy arrogance, thy scorn, my wound's remembrance. Turn all at once the fatal point upon thee.— Pyracmon to the palace; dispatch The king; hang Haemon up, for he is loyal, And will oppose me.—Come, sir, are you ready?

Adr. Yes, villain, for whatever thou canst dare.

Eur. Hold, Creon, or through me, through me you wound.

Adr. Off, madam, or we perish both; behold I'm not unarmed, my poniard's in my hand; Therefore, away.

Eur. I'll guard your life with mine.

Cre. Die both, then; there is now no time for dallying. [Kills EURYDICE.

Eur. Ah, prince, farewell! farewell, my dear Adrastus! [Dies.

Adr. Unheard-of monster! eldest-born of hell! Down, to thy primitive flame. [Stabs CREON.

Cre. Help, soldiers, help; Revenge me.

Adr. More; yet more; a thousand wounds! I'll stamp thee still, thus, to the gaping furies. [ADRASTUS falls, killed by the soldiers.

Enter HAEMON, Guards, with ALCANDER and PYRACMON bound; the Assassins are driven off.

O Haemon, I am slain; nor need I name The inhuman author of all villainies; There he lies gasping.

Cre. If I must plunge in flames, Burn first my arm; base instrument, unfit To act the dictates of my daring mind; Burn, burn for ever, O weak substitute Of that, the god, ambition. [Dies.

Adr. She's gone;—O deadly marksman, in the heart! Yet in the pangs of death she grasps my hand; Her lips too tremble, as if she would speak Her last farewell.—O, OEdipus, thy fall Is great; and nobly now thou goest attended! They talk of heroes, and celestial beauties, And wondrous pleasures in the other world; Let me but find her there, I ask no more. [Dies.

Enter a Captain to HAEMON; with TERESIAS and MANTO.

Cap. O, sir, the queen Jocasta, swift and wild, As a robbed tygress bounding o'er the woods, Has acted murders that amaze mankind; In twisted gold I saw her daughters hang On the bed-royal, and her little sons Stabbed through the breasts upon the bloody pillows.

Haem. Relentless heavens! is then the fate of Laius Never to be atoned? How sacred ought Kings' lives be held, when but the death of one Demands an empire's blood for expiation! But see! the furious mad Jocasta's here.

Scene draws, and discovers JOCASTA held by her women and stabbed in many places of her Bosom, her Hair dishevelled, her Children slain upon the Bed.

Was ever yet a sight of so much horror And pity brought to view!

Joc. Ah, cruel women! Will you not let me take my last farewell Of those dear babes? O let me run, and seal My melting soul upon their bubbling wounds! I'll print upon their coral mouths such kisses, As shall recal their wandering spirits home. Let me go, let me go, or I will tear you piece-meal. Help, Haemon, help; Help, OEdipus; help, Gods; Jocasta dies.

Enter OEDIPUS above.

OEdip. I've found a window, and I thank the gods 'Tis quite unbarred; sure, by the distant noise, The height will fit my fatal purpose well.

Joc. What hoa, my OEdipus! see where he stands! His groping ghost is lodged upon a tower, Nor can it find the road. Mount, mount, my soul; I'll wrap thy shivering spirit in lambent flames; and so we'll sail.— But see! we're landed on the happy coast; And all the golden strands are covered o'er With glorious gods, that come to try our cause. Jove, Jove, whose majesty now sinks me down, He, who himself burns in unlawful fires, Shall judge, and shall acquit us. O, 'tis done; 'Tis fixt by fate, upon record divine; And OEdipus shall now be ever mine. [Dies.

OEdip. Speak, Haemon; what has fate been doing there? What dreadful deed has mad Jocasta done?

Haem. The queen herself, and all your wretched offspring, Are by her fury slain.

OEdip. By all my woes, She has outdone me in revenge and murder, And I should envy her the sad applause: But oh, my children! oh, what have they done? This was not like the mercy of the heavens, To set her madness on such cruelty: This stirs me more than all my sufferings, And with my last breath I must call you tyrants.

Haem. What mean you, sir?

OEdip. Jocasta! lo, I come. O Laius, Labdacus, and all you spirits Of the Cadmean race, prepare to meet me, All weeping ranged along the gloomy shore; Extend your arms to embrace me, for I come. May all the gods, too, from their battlements, Behold and wonder at a mortal's daring; And, when I knock the goal of dreadful death, Shout and applaud me with a clap of thunder. Once more, thus winged by horrid fate, I come, Swift as a falling meteor; lo, I fly, And thus go downwards to the darker sky. [Thunder. He flings himself from the Window: The Thebans gather about his Body.

Haem. O prophet, OEdipus is now no more! O cursed effect of the most deep despair!

Tir. Cease your complaints, and bear his body hence; The dreadful sight will daunt the drooping Thebans, Whom heaven decrees to raise with peace and glory. Yet, by these terrible examples warned, The sacred Fury thus alarms the world:— Let none, though ne'er so virtuous, great, and high, Be judged entirely blest before they die. [Exeunt.

Footnotes: 1. Imitated from the commencement of the plague in the first book of the Iliad.

2. The story of the Sphinx is generally known: She was a monster, who delighted in putting a riddle to the Thebans, and slaying each poor dull Boeotian, who could not interpret it. OEdipus guessed the enigma, on which the monster destroyed herself for shame. Thus he attained the throne of Thebes, and the bed of Jocasta.

3. To dare a lark, is to fly a hawk, or present some other object of fear, to engage the bird's attention, and prevent it from taking wing, while the fowler draws his net:

Farewell, nobility; let his grace go forward, And dare us with his cap, like larks. Henry VIII. Act III. Scene II.

4. The carelessness of OEdipus about the fate of his predecessor is very unnatural; but to such expedients dramatists are often reduced, to communicate to their audience what must have been known to the persons of the drama.

5. Start is here, and in p. 136, used for started, being borrowed from sterte, the old perfect of the verb.

6. It is a common idea, that falling stars, as they are called, are converted into a sort of jelly. "Among the rest, I had often the opportunity to see the seeming shooting of the stars from place to place, and sometimes they appeared as if falling to the ground, where I once or twice found a white jelly-like matter among the grass, which I imagined to be distilled from them; and hence foolishly conjectured, that the stars themselves must certainly consist of a like substance."

7. Serpens, serpentem vorans, fit draco. Peccata, peccatis superaddita, monstra fiunt. Hieroglyphica animalium, per Archibaldum Simsonum Dalkethensis Ecclesiae pastorem, p. 95.

8. The idea of this sacred grove seems to be taken from that of Colonus near Athens, dedicated to the Eumenides, which gives name to Sophocles's second tragedy. Seneca describes the scene of the incantation in the following lines:

Est procul ab urbe lucus illicibus niger Dircaea circa vallis irriguae loca. Cupressus altis exerens silvis caput Virente semper alligat trunco nemus; Curvosque tendit quercus et putres situ Annosa ramos: hujus abrupit latus Edax vetustas: illa jam fessa cadens Radice, fulta pendet aliena trabe. Amara baccas laurus; et tiliae leves Et Paphia myrtus; et per immensum mare Motura remos alnus; et Phoebo obvia Enode Zephyris pinus opponens latus. Medio stat ingens arbor, atque umbra gravi Silvas minores urget; et magno ambitu Diffusa ramos, una defendit nemus. Tristis sub illa, lucis et Phoebi inscius Restagnat humor, frigore aeterno rigens. Limosa pigrum circuit fontem palus. Actus Tertius. Scena prima.

This diffuse account of the different kinds of forest trees, which composed the enchanted grove, is very inartificially put into the mouth of Creon, who, notwithstanding the horrible message which he has to deliver to OEdipus from the ghost, finds time to solace the king with this long description of a place, which he doubtless knew as well as Creon himself. Dryden, on the contrary, has, with great address, rendered the description necessary, by the violence committed within the sacred precinct, and turned it, not upon minute and rhetorical detail, but upon the general awful properties of this consecrated ground. Lucan's fine description of the Massyllian forest, and that of the enchanted grove in Tasso, have been both consulted by our author.]

9. The quarrel betwixt OEdipus and the prophet, who announces his guilt, is imitated from a similar scene in the OEdipus Tyrannus.

10. Borrowed from Shakespeare;

And lean-looked prophets whisper fearful change. Richard II.



EPILOGUE.

What Sophocles could undertake alone, Our poets found a work for more than one; And therefore two lay tugging at the piece, With all their force, to draw the ponderous mass from Greece; A weight that bent even Seneca's strong muse, And which Corneille's shoulders did refuse. So hard it is the Athenian harp to string! So much two consuls yield to one just king. Terror and pity this whole poem sway; The mightiest machines that can mount a play. How heavy will those vulgar souls be found, Whom two such engines cannot move from ground! When Greece and Rome have smiled upon this birth, You can but damn for one poor spot of earth; And when your children find your judgment such, They'll scorn their sires, and wish themselves born Dutch; Each haughty poet will infer with ease, How much his wit must under-write to please. As some strong churl would, brandishing, advance The monumental sword that conquered France; So you, by judging this, your judgment teach, Thus far you like, that is, thus far you reach. Since then the vote of full two thousand years Has crowned this plot, and all the dead are theirs, Think it a debt you pay, not alms you give, And, in your own defence, let this play live. Think them not vain, when Sophocles is shown, To praise his worth they humbly doubt their own. Yet as weak states each other's power assure, Weak poets by conjunction are secure. Their treat is what your palates relish most, Charm! song! and show! a murder and a ghost! We know not what you can desire or hope, To please you more, but burning of a Pope.[1]

Footnote: 1. The burning a Pope in effigy, was a ceremony performed upon the anniversary of queen Elizabeth's coronation. When parties ran high betwixt the courtiers and opposition, in the latter part of Charles the II. reign, these anti-papal solemnities were conducted by the latter, with great state and expence, and employed as engines to excite the popular resentment against the duke of York, and his religion. The following curious description of one of these tumultuary processions, in 1679, was extracted by Ralph, from a very scarce pamphlet; it is the ceremony referred to in the epilogue; and it shall be given at length, as the subject is frequently alluded to by Dryden.



"On the said 17th of November, 1679, the bells, generally, about the town, began to ring at three o'clock in the morning. At the approach of the evening, (all things being in readiness) the solemn procession began, setting forth from Moregate, and so passed, first to Aldgate, and thence through Leadenhall-street, by the Royal Exchange, through Cheapside, and so to Temple-bar in the ensuing order, viz.

"1. Came six whifflers, to clear the way, in pioneer caps, and red waistcoats.

"2. A bellman ringing, and with a loud (but doleful) voice, crying out all the way, remember Justice Godfrey.

"3. A dead body, representing justice Godfrey, in a decent black habit, carried before a jesuit, in black, on horse-back, in like manner as he was carried by the assassins to Primrose Hill.

"4. Next after Sir Edmonbury, so mounted, came a priest in a surplice, with a cope embroidered with dead bones, skeletons, skulls, and the like, giving pardons very plentifully to all those who should murder protestants; and proclaiming it meritorious.

"5. Then a priest in black alone, with a great silver cross.

"6. Four carmelites, in white and black habits.

"7. Four grey-friars, in the proper habits of their order.

"8. Six jesuits, with bloody daggers.

"9. A concert of wind music.

"10. Four bishops, in purple, and lawn sleeves, with a golden crosier on their breast, and crosier-staves in their hands.

"11. Four other bishops, in Pontificalibus, with surplices, and rich embroidered copes, and golden mitres on their heads.

"12. Six cardinals, in scarlet robes and caps.

"13. The Pope's doctor, i.e. Wakeman,[a] with jesuits-powder in one hand, and an urinal in the other.

"14. Two priests in surplices, with two golden crosses.

"Lastly, The Pope, in a lofty, glorious pageant, representing a chair of state, covered with scarlet, richly embroidered and fringed, and bedecked with golden balls and crosses: At his feet a cushion of state, and two boys in surplices with white silk banners, and bloody crucifixes and daggers with an incense pot before them, censing his holiness, who was arrayed in a splendid scarlet gown, lined through with ermin, and richly daubed with gold and silver lace; on his head a triple crown of gold, and a glorious collar of gold and precious stones, St Peter's keys, a number of beads, agnus deis, and other catholic trumpery. At his back, his holiness's privy counsellor, the degraded Seraphim, (anglice the devil,) frequently caressing, hugging, and whispering him, and oft times instructing him aloud to destroy his majesty, to forge a protestant plot, and to fire the city again, to which purpose he held an infernal torch in his hand.

"The whole procession was attended with 150 flambeaux and lights, by order; but so many more came in volunteers, as made up some thousands.

"Never were the balconies, windows, and houses more numerously lined, or the streets closer throng'd with multitudes of people, all expressing their abhorrence of Popery, with continual shouts and exclamations; so that 'tis modestly computed, that, in the whole progress, there could not be fewer than two hundred thousand spectators.

"Thus with a slow, and solemn state, they proceeded to Temple Bar; where with innumerable swarms, the houses seemed to be converted into heaps of men, and women, and children, for whose diversion there were provided great variety of excellent fireworks.

"Temple Bar being, since its rebuilding, adorned with four stately statues, viz. those of Queen Elizabeth and King James, on the inward, or eastern side, fronting the city; and those of King Charles the I. of blessed memory, and our present gracious sovereign, (whom God, in mercy to these nations, long preserve!) on the outside, facing towards Westminster; and the statue of Queen Elizabeth in regard to the day, having on a crown of gilded laurel, and in her hand a golden shield, with this motto inscribed: The Protestant Religion, and Magna Charta, and flambeaux placed before it. The Pope being brought up near thereunto, the following song, alluding to the posture of those statues, was sung in parts, between one representing the English Cardinal (Howard)[b] and others acting the people:

CARDINAL NORFOLK.

From York to London town we come, To talk of Popish ire, To reconcile you all to Rome, And prevent Smithfield fire.

PLEBEIANS.

Cease, cease, thou Norfolk Cardinal, See yonder stands Queen Bess; Who sav'd our souls from Popish thrall: O Queen Bess, Queen Bess, Queen Bess!

Your Popish plot, and Smithfield threat, We do not fear at all; For lo! beneath Queen Bess's feet, You fall, you fall, you fall.

"'Tis true, our King's on t'other side, A looking tow'rds Whitehall: But could we bring him round about; He'd counterplot you all.

"Then down with James, and set up Charles, On good Queen Bess's side; That all true Commons, Lords, and Earls, May wish him a fruitfull bride."

Now God preserve great Charles our King, And eke all honest men; And traitors all to justice bring: Amen, Amen, Amen.

"Then having entertained the thronging spectators for some time, with the ingenious fireworks, a vast bonfire being prepared, just over against the inner temple gate, his holiness, after some compliments and reluctancies, was decently toppled from all his grandeur, into the impartial flames; the crafty devil leaving his infallibilityship in the lurch, and laughing as heartily at his deserved ignominious end, as subtle jesuits do at the ruin of bigotted Lay Catholics, whom themselves have drawn in; or, as credulous Coleman's abettors did, when, with pretences of a reprieve at last gasp, they had made him vomit up his soul with a lye, and sealed his dangerous chops with a halter. This justice was attended with a prodigious shout, that might be heard far beyond Somerset-house; and 'twas believed the echo, by continued reverberations, before it ceased, reached Scotland, (the Duke was then there;) France, and even Rome, itself, damping them all with a dreadfull astonishment."

From a very rare broadside, in the collection made by Narcissus Luttrell.

Footnotes: a. Sir George Wakeman was physician to the queen, and a catholic. He was tried for the memorable Popish plot and acquitted, the credit of the witnesses being now blasted, by the dying declarations of those who suffered.

b. Philip, the 3d son of Henry Earl of Arundel, and brother to the Duke of Norfolk, created a Cardinal in 1675. He was a second cousin of Lady Elizabeth Howard, afterwards the wife of our poet.

* * * * *

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA:

OR,

TRUTH FOUND TOO LATE.

A

TRAGEDY.

Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus, Quam si proferres ignota indictaque primus. HOR.



TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

The story of Troilus and Cressida was one of the more modern fables, engrafted, during the dark ages, on "the tale of Troy divine." Chaucer, who made it the subject of a long and somewhat dull poem, professes to have derived his facts from an author of the middle ages, called Lollius, to whom he often refers, and who he states to have written in Latin. Tyrwhitt disputes the existence of this personage, and supposes Chaucer's original to have been the Philostrato dell' amorose fatiche de Troilo, a work of Boccacio. But Chaucer was never reluctant in acknowledging obligations to his contemporaries, when such really existed; and Mr Tyrwhitt's opinion seems to be successfully combated by Mr Godwin, in his "Life of Chaucer." The subject, whencesoever derived, was deemed by Shakespeare worthy of the stage; and his tragedy, of Troilus and Cressida, contains so many scenes of distinguished excellence, that it could have been wished our author had mentioned it with more veneration. In truth, even the partiality of an editor must admit, that on this occasion, the modern improvements of Dryden shew to very little advantage beside the venerable structure to which they have been attached. The arrangement of the plot is, indeed, more artificially modelled; but the preceding age, during which the infidelity of Cressida was proverbially current, could as little have endured a catastrophe turning upon the discovery of her innocence, as one which should have exhibited Helen chaste, or Hector a coward. In Dryden's time, the prejudice against this unfortunate female was probably forgotten, as her history had become less popular. There appears, however, something too nice and fastidious in the critical rule, which exacts that the hero and heroine of the drama shall be models of virtuous perfection. In the most interesting of the ancient plays we find this limitation neglected, with great success; and it would have been more natural to have brought about the catastrophe on the plan of Shakespeare and Chaucer, than by the forced mistake in which Dryden's lovers are involved, and the stale expedient of Cressida's killing herself, to evince her innocence. For the superior order, and regard to the unity of place, with which Dryden has new-modelled the scenes and entries, he must be allowed the full praise which he claims in the preface.

In the dialogue, considered as distinct from the plot, Dryden appears not to have availed himself fully of the treasures of his predecessor. He has pitilessly retrenched the whole scene, in the 3d act, between Ulysses and Achilles, full of the purest and most admirable moral precept, expressed in the most poetical and dignified language[1]. Probably this omission arose from Dryden's desire to simplify the plot, by leaving out the intrigues of the Grecian chiefs, and limiting the interest to the amours of Troilus and Cressida. But he could not be insensible to the merit of this scene, though he has supplied it by one far inferior, in which Ulysses is introduced, using gross flattery to the buffoon Thersites. In the latter part of the play, Dryden has successfully exerted his own inventive powers. The quarrelling scene between Hector and Troilus is very impressive, and no bad imitation of that betwixt Brutus and Cassius, with which Dryden seems to have been so much charmed, and which he has repeatedly striven to emulate. The parting of Hector and Andromache contains some affecting passages, some of which may be traced back to Homer; although the pathos, upon the whole, is far inferior to that of the noted scene in the Iliad, and destitute of the noble simplicity of the Grecian bard.

Mr Godwin has justly remarked, that the delicacy of Chaucer's ancient tale has suffered even in the hands of Shakespeare; but in those of Dryden it has undergone a far deeper deterioration. Whatever is coarse and naked in Shakespeare, has been dilated into ribaldry by the poet laureat of Charles the second; and the character of Pandarus, in particular, is so grossly heightened, as to disgrace even the obliging class to whom that unfortunate procurer has bequeathed his name. So far as this play is to be considered as an alteration of Shakespeare, I fear it must be allowed, that our author has suppressed some of his finest poetry, and exaggerated some of his worst faults.

Troilus and Cressida was published in 1679.

Footnote: 1. I need only recall to the reader's remembrance the following beautiful passage, inculcating the unabating energy necessary to maintain, in the race of life, the ground which has been already gained.

Ulys. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes: These scraps are good deeds past; which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done: Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright: To have done, is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; For honour travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons, That one by one pursue: If you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by, And leave you hindmost.— Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O'er run and trampled on: Then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours: For time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand; And with his arms out stretch'd, as he would fly, Grasps-in the comer: Welcome ever smiles, And Farewel goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,— That all, with one consent, praise new-born gawds, Though they are made and moulded of things past; And give to dust, that is a little gilt, More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. The present eye praises the present object: Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax; Since things in motion sooner catch the eye, Than what not stirs. The cry went once on thee, And still it might, and yet it may again, If thou would'st not entomb thyself alive, And case thy reputation in thy tent; Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, Made emulous missions 'mongst the gods themselves, And drave great Mars to faction.



TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

ROBERT,

EARL OF SUNDERLAND[1],

PRINCIPAL SECRETARY OF STATE, ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY-COUNCIL, &C.

MY LORD,

Since I cannot promise you much of poetry in my play, it is but reasonable that I should secure you from any part of it in my dedication. And indeed I cannot better distinguish the exactness of your taste from that of other men, than by the plainness and sincerity of my address. I must keep my hyperboles in reserve for men of other understandings. An hungry appetite after praise, and a strong digestion of it, will bear the grossness of that diet; but one of so critical a judgment as your lordship, who can set the bounds of just and proper in every subject, would give me small encouragement for so bold an undertaking. I more than suspect, my lord, that you would not do common justice to yourself; and, therefore, were I to give that character of you, which I think you truly merit, I would make my appeal from your lordship to the reader, and would justify myself from flattery by the public voice, whatever protestation you might enter to the contrary. But I find I am to take other measures with your lordship; I am to stand upon my guard with you, and to approach you as warily as Horace did Augustus:

Cui male si palpere, recalcitrat undique tutus.

An ill-timed, or an extravagant commendation, would not pass upon you; but you would keep off such a dedicator at arms-end, and send him back with his encomiums to this lord, or that lady, who stood in need of such trifling merchandise. You see, my lord, what an awe you have upon me, when I dare not offer you that incense which would be acceptable to other patrons; but am forced to curb myself from ascribing to you those honours, which even an enemy could not deny you. Yet I must confess, I never practised that virtue of moderation (which is properly your character) with so much reluctancy as now: for it hinders me from being true to my own knowledge, in not witnessing your worth, and deprives me of the only means which I had left, to shew the world that true honour and uninterested respect which I have always paid you. I would say somewhat, if it were possible which might distinguish that veneration I have for you, from the flatteries of those who adore your fortune. But the eminence of your condition, in this particular, is my unhappiness; for it renders whatever I would say suspected. Professions of service, submissions, and attendance, are the practice of all men to the great; and commonly they, who have the least sincerity, perform them best; as they, who are least engaged in love, have their tongues the freest to counterfeit a passion. For my own part, I never could shake off the rustic bashfulness which hangs upon my nature; but, valuing myself at as little as I am worth, have been afraid to render even the common duties of respect to those who are in power. The ceremonious visits, which are generally paid on such occasions, are not my talent. They may be real even in courtiers, but they appear with such a face of interest, that a modest man would think himself in danger of having his sincerity mistaken for his design. My congratulations keep their distance, and pass no farther than my heart. There it is that I have all the joy imaginable, when I see true worth rewarded, and virtue uppermost in the world.

If, therefore, there were one to whom I had the honour to be known; and to know him so perfectly, that I could say, without flattery, he had all the depth of understanding that was requisite in an able statesman, and all that honesty which commonly is wanting; that he was brave without vanity, and knowing without positiveness; that he was loyal to his prince, and a lover of his country; that his principles were full of moderation, and all his counsels such as tended to heal, and not to widen, the breaches of the nation: that in all his conversation there appeared a native candour, and a desire of doing good in all his actions: if such an one, whom I have described, were at the helm; if he had risen by his merits, and were chosen out in the necessity and pressures of affairs, to remedy our confusions by the seasonableness of his advice, and to put a stop to our ruin, when we were just rolling downward to the precipice; I should then congratulate the age in which I live, for the common safety; I should not despair of the republic, though Hannibal were at the gates; I should send up my vows for the success of such an action, as Virgil did, on the like occasion, for his patron, when he was raising up his country from the desolations of a civil war:

Hunc saltem everso juvenem succurrere seclo Ne, superi, prohibete.

I know not whither I am running, in this extacy which is now upon me: I am almost ready to re-assume the ancient rights of poetry; to point out, and prophecy the man, who was born for no less an undertaking, and whom posterity shall bless for its accomplishment. Methinks, I am already taking fire from such a character, and making room for him, under a borrowed name, amongst the heroes of an epic poem. Neither could mine, or some more happy genius, want encouragement under such a patron:

Pollio amat nostram, quamvis sit rustica, musam.

But these are considerations afar off, my lord: the former part of the prophecy must be first accomplished; the quiet of the nation must be secured; and a mutual trust, betwixt prince and people, be renewed; and then this great and good man will have leisure for the ornaments of peace; and make our language as much indebted to his care, as the French is to the memory of their famous Richelieu[2]. You know, my lord, how low he laid the foundations of so great a work; that he began it with a grammar and a dictionary; without which all those remarks and observations, which have since been made, had been performed to as little purpose, as it would be to consider the furniture of the rooms, before the contrivance of the house. Propriety must first be stated, ere any measures of elegance can be taken. Neither is one Vaugelas sufficient for such a work[3]. It was the employment of the whole academy for many years; for the perfect knowledge of a tongue was never attained by any single person. The court, the college, and the town, must be joined in it. And as our English is a composition of the dead and living tongues, there is required a perfect knowledge, not only of the Greek and Latin, but of the old German, the French, and the Italian; and, to help all these, a conversation with those authors of our own, who have written with the fewest faults in prose and verse. But how barbarously we yet write and speak, your lordship knows, and I am sufficiently sensible in my own English. For I am often put to a stand, in considering whether what I write be the idiom of the tongue, or false grammar, and nonsense couched beneath that specious name of Anglicism; and have no other way to clear my doubts, but by translating my English into Latin, and thereby trying what sense the words will bear in a more stable language. I am desirous, if it were possible, that we might all write with the same certainty of words, and purity of phrase, to which the Italians first arrived, and after them the French; at least that we might advance so far, as our tongue is capable of such a standard. It would mortify an Englishman to consider, that from the time of Boccace and of Petrarch, the Italian has varied very little; and that the English of Chaucer, their contemporary, is not to be understood without the help of an old dictionary. But their Goth and Vandal had the fortune to be grafted on a Roman stock; ours has the disadvantage to be founded on the Dutch[4]. We are full of monosyllables, and those clogged with consonants, and our pronunciation is effeminate; all which are enemies to a sounding language. It is true, that to supply our poverty, we have trafficked with our neighbour nations; by which means we abound as much in words, as Amsterdam does in religions; but to order them, and make them useful after their admission, is the difficulty. A greater progress has been made in this, since his majesty's return, than, perhaps, since the conquest to his time. But the better part of the work remains unfinished; and that which has been done already, since it has only been in the practice of some few writers, must be digested into rules and method, before it can be profitable to the general. Will your lordship give me leave to speak out at last? and to acquaint the world, that from your encouragement and patronage, we may one day expect to speak and write a language, worthy of the English wit, and which foreigners may not disdain to learn? Your birth, your education, your natural endowments, the former employments which you have had abroad, and that which, to the joy of good men you now exercise at home, seem all to conspire to this design: the genius of the nation seems to call you out as it were by name, to polish and adorn your native language, and to take from it the reproach of its barbarity. It is upon this encouragement that I have adventured on the following critique, which I humbly present you, together with the play; in which, though I have not had the leisure, nor indeed the encouragement, to proceed to the principal subject of it, which is the words and thoughts that are suitable to tragedy; yet the whole discourse has a tendency that way, and is preliminary to it. In what I have already done, I doubt not but I have contradicted some of my former opinions, in my loose essays of the like nature; but of this, I dare affirm, that it is the fruit of my riper age and experience, and that self-love, or envy have no part in it. The application to English authors is my own, and therein, perhaps, I may have erred unknowingly; but the foundation of the rules is reason, and the authority of those living critics who have had the honour to be known to you abroad, as well as of the ancients, who are not less of your acquaintance. Whatsoever it be, I submit it to your lordship's judgment, from which I never will appeal, unless it be to your good nature, and your candour. If you can allow an hour of leisure to the perusal of it, I shall be fortunate that I could so long entertain you; if not, I shall at least have the satisfaction to know, that your time was more usefully employed upon the public. I am,

MY LORD,

Your Lordship's most Obedient, Humble Servant, JOHN DRYDEN.

Footnotes: 1. This was the famous Earl of Sunderland, who, being a Tory under the reign of Charles, a Papist in that of his successor, and a Whig in that of William, was a favourite minister of all these monarchs. He was a man of eminent abilities; and our author shews a high opinion of his taste, by abstaining from the gross flattery, which was then the fashionable stile of dedication.

2. Alluding to the institution of an academy for fixing the language, often proposed about this period.

3. Author of a treatise on the French language.

4. Dutch is here used generally for the High Dutch or German.



THE

PREFACE.

The poet AEschylus was held in the same veneration by the Athenians of after-ages, as Shakespeare is by us; and Longinus has judged, in favour of him, that he had a noble boldness of expression, and that his imaginations were lofty and heroic; but, on the other side, Quintilian affirms, that he was daring to extravagance. It is certain, that he affected pompous words, and that his sense was obscured by figures; notwithstanding these imperfections, the value of his writings after his decease was such, that his countrymen ordained an equal reward to those poets, who could alter his plays to be acted on the theatre, with those whose productions were wholly new, and of their own. The case is not the same in England; though the difficulties of altering are greater, and our reverence for Shakespeare much more just, than that of the Grecians for AEschylus. In the age of that poet, the Greek tongue was arrived to its full perfection; they had then amongst them an exact standard of writing and of speaking: the English language is not capable of such a certainty; and we are at present so far from it, that we are wanting in the very foundation of it, a perfect grammar. Yet it must be allowed to the present age, that the tongue in general is so much refined since Shakespeare's time, that many of his words, and more of his phrases, are scarce intelligible. And of those which we understand, some are ungrammatical, others coarse; and his whole style is so pestered with figurative expressions, that it is as affected as it is obscure. It is true, that in his latter plays he had worn off somewhat of the rust; but the tragedy, which I have undertaken to correct, was in all probability one of his first endeavours on the stage.

The original story was written by one Lollius a Lombard, in Latin verse, and translated by Chaucer into English; intended, I suppose, a satire on the inconstancy of women: I find nothing of it among the ancients; not so much as the name Cressida once mentioned. Shakespeare, (as I hinted) in the apprenticeship of his writing, modelled it into that play, which is now called by the name of "Troilus and Cressida," but so lamely is it left to us, that it is not divided into acts; which fault I ascribe to the actors who printed it after Shakespeare's death; and that too so carelessly, that a more uncorrected copy I never saw. For the play itself, the author seems to have begun it with some fire; the characters of Pandarus and Thersites, are promising enough; but as if he grew weary of his task, after an entrance or two, he lets them fall: and the latter part of the tragedy is nothing but a confusion of drums and trumpets, excursions and alarms. The chief persons, who give name to the tragedy, are left alive; Cressida is false, and is not punished. Yet, after all, because the play was Shakespeare's, and that there appeared in some places of it the admirable genius of the author, I undertook to remove that heap of rubbish under which many excellent thoughts lay wholly buried. Accordingly, I new modelled the plot, threw out many unnecessary persons, improved those characters which were begun and left unfinished, as Hector, Troilus, Pandarus, and Thersites, and added that of Andromache. After this, I made, with no small trouble, an order and connection of all the scenes; removing them from the places where they were inartificially set; and, though it was impossible to keep them all unbroken, because the scene must be sometimes in the city and sometimes in the camp, yet I have so ordered them, that there is a coherence of them with one another, and a dependence on the main design; no leaping from Troy to the Grecian tents, and thence back again, in the same act, but a due proportion of time allowed for every motion. I need not say that I have refined his language, which before was obsolete; but I am willing to acknowledge, that as I have often drawn his English nearer to our times, so I have sometimes conformed my own to his; and consequently, the language is not altogether so pure as it is significant. The scenes of Pandarus and Cressida, of Troilus and Pandarus, of Andromache with Hector and the Trojans, in the second act, are wholly new; together with that of Nestor and Ulysses with Thersites, and that of Thersites with Ajax and Achilles. I will not weary my reader with the scenes which are added of Pandarus and the lovers, in the third, and those of Thersites, which are wholly altered; but I cannot omit the last scene in it, which is almost half the act, betwixt Troilus and Hector. The occasion of raising it was hinted to me by Mr Betterton; the contrivance and working of it was my own. They who think to do me an injury, by saying, that it is an imitation of the scene betwixt Brutus and Cassius, do me an honour, by supposing I could imitate the incomparable Shakespeare; but let me add, that if Shakespeare's scene, or that faulty copy of it in "Amintor and Melantius," had never been, yet Euripides had furnished me with an excellent example in his "Iphigenia," between Agamemnon and Menelaus; and from thence, indeed, the last turn of it is borrowed. The occasion which Shakespeare, Euripides, and Fletcher, have all taken, is the same,—grounded upon friendship; and the quarrel of two virtuous men, raised by natural degrees to the extremity of passion, is conducted in all three, to the declination of the same passion, and concludes with a warm renewing of their friendship. But the particular ground-work which Shakespeare has taken, is incomparably the best; because he has not only chosen two of the greatest heroes of their age, but has likewise interested the liberty of Rome, and their own honours, who were the redeemers of it, in this debate. And if he has made Brutus, who was naturally a patient man, to fly into excess at first, let it be remembered in his defence, that, just before, he has received the news of Portia's death; whom the poet, on purpose neglecting a little chronology, supposes to have died before Brutus, only to give him an occasion of being more easily exasperated. Add to this, that the injury he had received from Cassius, had long been brooding in his mind; and that a melancholy man, upon consideration of an affront, especially from a friend, would be more eager in his passion, than he who had given it, though naturally more choleric. Euripides, whom I have followed, has raised the quarrel betwixt two brothers, who were friends. The foundation of the scene was this: The Grecians were wind-bound at the port of Aulis, and the oracle had said, that they could not sail, unless Agamemnon delivered up his daughter to be sacrificed: he refuses; his brother Menelaus urges the public safety; the father defends himself by arguments of natural affection, and hereupon they quarrel. Agamemnon is at last convinced, and promises to deliver up Iphigenia, but so passionately laments his loss, that Menelaus is grieved to have been the occasion of it, and, by a return of kindness, offers to intercede for him with the Grecians, that his daughter might not be sacrificed. But my friend Mr Rymer has so largely, and with so much judgment, described this scene, in comparing it with that of Melantius and Amintor, that it is superfluous to say more of it; I only named the heads of it, that any reasonable man might judge it was from thence I modelled my scene betwixt Troilus and Hector. I will conclude my reflections on it, with a passage of Longinus, concerning Plato's imitation of Homer: "We ought not to regard a good imitation as a theft, but as a beautiful idea of him who undertakes to imitate, by forming himself on the invention and the work of another man; for he enters into the lists like a new wrestler, to dispute the prize with the former champion. This sort of emulation, says Hesiod, is honourable, [Greek: Agathe d' eris esti Brotoisin]—when we combat for victory with a hero, and are not without glory even in our overthrow. Those great men, whom we propose to ourselves as patterns of our imitation, serve us as a torch, which is lifted up before us, to enlighten our passage, and often elevate our thoughts as high as the conception we have of our author's genius."