Cand. Beseech you, madam, ask not his opinion: What my faults are it is no matter; He loves me with them all.
Queen. Ay, he may love; but when he marries you,
Your bridal shall be kept in some dark dungeon.
Farewell, and think of that, too easy maid!
I blush, thou sharest my blood.
[Exeunt Queen and ASTERIA.
Cand. Inhuman queen! Thou canst not be more willing to resign Thy part in me, than I to give up mine.
Phil. Love, how few subjects do thy laws fulfil, And yet those few, like us, thou usest ill!
Cand. The greatest slaves, in monarchies, are they,
Whom birth sets nearest to imperial sway;
While jealous power does sullenly o'erspy,
We play, like deer, within the lion's eye.
'Would I for you some shepherdess had been,
And, but each May, ne'er heard the name of queen!
Phil. If you were so, might I some monarch be,
Then, you should gain what now you lose by me;
Then, you in all my glories should have part,
And rule my empire, as you rule my heart.
Cand. How much our golden wishes are in vain! When they are past, we are ourselves again.
Enter Queen and ASTERIA above.
Queen. Look, look, Asteria, yet they are not gone. Hence we may hear what they discourse alone.
Phil. My love inspires me with a generous thought,
Which you, unknowing in those wishes, taught.
Since happiness may out of courts be found,
Why stay we here on this enchanted ground;
And chuse not rather with content to dwell
(If love and joy can find it) in a cell?
Cand. Those who, like you, have once in courts been great,
May think they wish, but wish not, to retreat.
They seldom go, but when they cannot stay;
As losing gamesters throw the dice away.
Even in that cell, where you repose would find,
Visions of court will haunt your restless mind;
And glorious dreams stand ready to restore
The pleasing shapes of all you had before.
Phil. He, who with your possession once is blest,
On easy terms will part with all the rest.
All my ambition will in you be crowned;
And those white arms shall all my wishes bound.
Our life shall be but one long nuptial day,
And, like chafed odours, melt in sweets away;
Soft as the night our minutes shall be worn,
And chearful as the birds, that wake the morn.
Cand. Thus hope misleads itself in pleasant way,
And takes more joys on trust, than love can pay:
But, love with long possession once decayed,
That face, which now you court, you will upbraid.
Phil. False lovers broach these tenets, to remove The fault from them, by placing it on love.
Cand. Yet grant, in youth you keep alive your fire,
Old age will come, and then it must expire:
Youth but a while does at love's temple stay,
As some fair inn, to lodge it on the way.
Phil. Your doubts are kind; but, to be satisfied I can be true, I beg I may be tried.
Cand. Trials of love too dear the making cost; For if successless, the whole venture's lost. What you propose, brings wants and care along.
Phil. Love can bear both.
Cand. But is your love so strong?
Phil. They do not want, who wish not to have more; Who ever said an anchoret was poor?
Cand. To answer generously, as you have done,
I should not by your arguments be won:
I know, I urge your ruin by consent;
Yet love too well, that ruin to prevent.
Phil. Like water given to those whom fevers fry, You kill but him, who must without it die.
Cand. Secure me, I may love without a crime; Then, for our flight, appoint both place and time.
Phil. The ensuing hour my plighted vows shall be; The time's not long; or only long to me.
Cand. Then, let us go where we shall ne'er be seen By my hard mother.
Phil. Or my cruel queen.
[Exeunt PHIL. and CAND.
Queen above. O, Philocles, unkind to call me cruel!
So false Aeneas did from Dido fly;
But never branded her with cruelty.
How I despise myself for loving so!
Ast. At once you hate yourself, and love him too.
Queen. No, his ingratitude has cured my wound: A painful cure indeed!
Ast. And yet not sound. His ignorance of your true thoughts Excuses this; you did seem cruel, madam.
Queen. But much of kindness still mixed with it. Who could mistake so grossly, not to know A Cupid frowning, when he draws his bow?
Ast. He's going now to smart for his offence.
Queen. Should he, without my leave, depart from hence?
Ast. No matter; since you hate him, let him go.
Queen. But I my hate by my revenge will show: Besides, his head's a forfeit to the state.
Ast. When you take that, I will believe you hate. Let him possess, and then he'll soon repent; And so his crime will prove his punishment.
Queen. He may repent; but he will first possess.
Ast. O, madam, now your hatred you confess: If his possessing her your rage does move, 'Tis jealousy, the avarice of love.
Queen. No more, Asteria.
Seek Lysimantes out, bid him set his guards
Through all the court and city.
Prevent their marriage first; then stop their flight.
Some fitting punishments I will ordain,
But speak not you of Philocles again:
'Tis bold to search, and dangerous to find,
Too much of heaven's, or of a prince's mind.
[Queen descends, and exit.
As the Queen has done speaking, FLAVIA is going hastily over the stage; ASTERIA sees her.
Ast. Flavia, Flavia, whither so fast?
Fla. Did you call, Asteria?
Ast. The queen has business with Prince Lysimantes; Speak to any gentleman in the court, to fetch him. [Exit ASTERIA from above.
Fla. I suspect somewhat, but I'll watch you close;
Prince Lysimantes has not chose in me
The worst spy of the court—
Celadon! what makes he here?
Enter CELADON, OLINDA, and SABINA; they walk over the stage together, he seeming to court them.
Olind. Nay, sweet Celadon—
Sab. Nay, dear Celadon.
Fla. O ho! I see his business now; 'tis with Melissa's two daughters: Look, look, how he peeps about, to see if the coast be clear; like an hawk that will not plume, if she be looked on.
[Exeunt CEL. OLIND. and SAB.
So—at last he has trussed his quarry.
Enter FLORIMEL.
Flo. Did you see Celadon this way?
Fla. If you had not asked the question, I should have thought you had come from watching him; he's just gone off with Melissa's daughters.
Flo. Melissa's daughters! he did not court 'em, I hope?
Fla. So busily, he lost no time: While he was teaching the one a tune, he was kissing the other's hand.
Flo. O fine gentleman!
Fla. And they so greedy of him! did you never see two fishes about a bait, tugging it this way and t'other way? for my part, I looked at least he should have lost a leg or arm i'the service.—Nay, never vex yourself, but e'en resolve to break with him.
Flo. No, no, 'tis not come to that yet; I'll correct him first, and then hope the best from time.
Fla. From time! believe me, there's little good to be expected from him. I never knew the old gentleman with the scythe and hour-glass bring any thing but grey hair, thin cheeks, and loss of teeth: You see Celadon loves others.
Flo. There's the more hope he may love me among the rest: Hang it, I would not marry one of these solemn fops; they are good for nothing, but to make cuckolds. Give me a servant, that is an high flier at all games, that is bounteous of himself to many women; and yet, whenever I pleased to throw out the lure of matrimony, should come down with a swing, and fly the better at his own quarry.
Fla. But are you sure you can take him down when you think good?
Flo. Nothing more certain.
Fla. What wager will you venture upon the trial?
Flo. Any thing.
Fla. My maidenhead to yours.
Flo. That's a good one; who shall take the forfeit?
Fla. I'll go and write a letter, as from these two sisters, to summon him immediately; it shall be delivered before you. I warrant, you see a strange combat betwixt the flesh and the spirit: If he leaves you to go to them, you'll grant he loves them better?
Flo. Not a jot the more: A bee may pick of many flowers, and yet like some one better than all the rest.
Fla. But then your bee must not leave his sting behind him.
Flo. Well; make the experiment however: I hear him coming, and a whole noise of fidlers at his heels. Hey-day, what a mad husband shall I have!—
Enter CELADON.
Fla. And what a mad wife will he have! Well, I must go a little way, but I'll return immediately, and write it: You'll keep him in discourse the while? [Exit FLA.
Cel. Where are you, madam? What, do you mean to run away thus? Pray stand to't, that we may despatch this business.
Flo. I think you mean to watch me, as they do witches, to make me confess I love you. Lord, what a bustle have you kept this afternoon? What with eating, singing, and dancing, I am so wearied, that I shall not be in case to hear any more love this fortnight.
Cel. Nay, if you surfeit on't before trial, Lord have mercy upon you, when I have married you.
Flo. But what king's revenue, do you think, will maintain this extravagant expence?
Cel. I have a damnable father, a rich old rogue, if he would once die! Lord, how long does he mean to make it ere he dies!
Flo. As long as ever he can, I'll pass my word for him.
Cel. I think, then, we had best consider him as an obstinate old fellow, that is deaf to the news of a better world; and ne'er stay for him.
Flo. But e'en marry; and get him grandchildren in abundance, and great-grandchildren upon them, and so inch him and shove him out of the world by the very force of new generations—if that be the way, you must excuse me.
Cel. But dost thou know what it is to be an old maid?
Flo. No, nor hope I shan't these twenty years.
Cel. But when that time comes, in the first place, thou wilt be condemned to tell stories, how many men thou mightst have had; and none believe thee: Then thou growest forward, and impudently weariest all thy friends to solicit man for thee.
Flo. Away with your old common-place-wit: I am resolved to grow fat, and look young till forty, and then slip out of the world, with the first wrinkle, and the reputation of five and twenty.
Cel. Well, what think you now of a reckoning betwixt us?
Flo. How do you mean?
Cel. To discount for so many days of my years service, as I have paid in this morning.
Flo. With all my heart.
Cel. Imprimis, for a treat. Item, For my glass coach. Item, For sitting bare, and wagging your fan. And lastly, and principally, for my fidelity to you this long hour and half.
Flo. For this I bate you three weeks of your service; now hear your bill of faults; for your comfort 'tis a short one.
Cel. I know it.
Flo. Imprimis, item, and sum total, for keeping company with Melissa's daughters.
Cel. How the pox came you to know of that? Gad, I believe the devil plays booty against himself, and tells you of my sins. [Aside.
Flo. The offence being so small, the punishment shall be but proportionable; I will set you back only half a year.
Cel. You're most unconscionable: When then do you think we shall come together? There's none but the old patriarchs could live long enough to marry you at this rate. What, do you take me for some cousin of Methusalem's, that I must stay an hundred years, before I come to beget sons and daughters?
Flo. Here's an impudent lover! he complains of me without ever offering to excuse himself; item, a fortnight more for that.
Cel. So, there's another puff in my voyage, has blown me back to the north of Scotland.
Flo. All this is nothing to your excuse for the two sisters.
Cel. 'Faith, if ever I did more than kiss them, and that but once—
Flo. What could you have done more to me?
Cel. An hundred times more; as thou shalt know, dear rogue, at time convenient.
Flo. You talk, you talk; could you kiss them, though but once, and ne'er think of me?
Cel. Nay, if I had thought of thee, I had kissed them over a thousand times, with the very force of imagination.
Flo. The gallants are mightily beholden to you; you have found them out a new way to kiss their mistresses, upon other women's lips.
Cel. What would you have? You are my Sultana Queen, the rest are but in the nature of your slaves; I may make some slight excursions into the enemy's country for forage, or so, but I ever return to my head quarters.
Enter one with a letter.
Cel. To me?
Mess. If your name be Celadon. [CEL. reads softly.
Flo. He is swallowing the pill; presently we shall see the operation.
Cel. to the page.] Child, come hither, child; here's money for thee: So, begone quickly, good child, before any body examines thee: Thou art in a dangerous place, child—[Thrusts him out.] Very good; the sisters send me word, they will have the fiddles this afternoon, and invite me to sup there!—Now, cannot I forbear, an I should be damned, tho' I have scap'd a scouring so lately for it. Yet I love Florimel better than both of them together; there's the riddle on't: But only for the sweet sake of variety.—[Aside.] Well, we must all sin, and we must all repent, and there's an end on't.
Flo. What is it, that makes you fidge up and down so?
Cel. 'Faith, I am sent for by a very dear friend, and 'tis upon a business of life and death.
Flo. On my life, some woman?
Cel. On my honour, some man; do you think I would lie to you?
Flo. But you engaged to sup with me.
Cel. But I consider it may be scandalous to stay late in your lodgings. Adieu, dear miss! If ever I am false to thee again!— [Exit CELADON.
Flo. See what constant metal you men are made of! He begins to vex me in good earnest. Hang him, let him go and take enough of 'em: And yet, methinks, I can't endure he should neither. Lord, that such a mad-cap as I should ever live to be jealous! I must after him. Some ladies would discard him now, but I A fitter way for my revenge will find; I'll marry him, and serve him in his kind.
[Exit FLO.
ACT IV.
SCENE I,—The Walks.
MELISSA, after her OLINDA and SABINA.
Mel. I must take this business up in time: This wild fellow begins to haunt my house again. Well, I'll be bold to say it, 'tis as easy to bring up a young lion without mischief, as a maidenhead of fifteen, to make it tame for an husband's bed. Not but that the young man is handsome, rich, and young, and I could be content he should marry one of them; but to seduce them both in this manner:—Well, I'll examine them apart, and if I can find out which he loves, I'll offer him his choice.—Olinda, come hither, child.
Olin. Your pleasure, madam?
Met. Nothing but for your good, Olinda; what think you of Celadon?
Olin. Why I think he's a very mad fellow; but yet I have some obligements to him: he teaches me new airs of the guitar, and talks wildly to me, and I to him.
Mel. But tell me in earnest, do you think he loves you?
Olin. Can you doubt it? There were never two so cut out for one another; we both love singing, dancing, treats, and music. In short, we are each other's counterpart.
Mel. But does he love you seriously?
Olin. Seriously?—I know not that; if he did, perhaps I should not love him: But we sit and talk, and wrangle, and are friends; when we are together, we never hold our tongues; and then we have always a noise of fiddles at our heels; he hunts me merrily, as the hound does the hare; and either this is love, or I know it not.
Mel. Well, go back, and call Sabina to me.
[OLINDA goes behind.
This is a riddle past my finding out: Whether he loves her, or no, is the question; but this, I am sure of, she loves him:—O my little favourite, I must ask you a question concerning Celadon: is he in love with you?
Sab. I think, indeed, he does not hate me; at least, if a man's word may be taken for it.
Mel. But what expressions has he made you?
Sab. Truly, the man has done his part: He has spoken civilly to me, and I was not so young but I understood him.
Mel. And you could be content to marry him?
Sab. I have sworn never to marry: besides he's a wild young man; yet, to obey you, mother, I would be content to be sacrificed.
Mel. No, no, we would but lead you to the altar.
Sab. Not to put off the gentleman neither; for if I have him not, I am resolved to die a maid, that's once, mother.
Mel. Both my daughters are in love with him, and I cannot yet find he loves either of them.
Olin. Mother, mother, yonder's Celadon in the walks.
Mel. Peace, wanton; you had best ring the bells for joy. Well, I'll not meet him, because I know not which to offer him; yet he seems to like the youngest best: I'll give him opportunity with her. Olinda, do you make haste after me.
Olin. This is something hard though.
[Exit MEL.
Enter CELADON.
Cel. You see, ladies, the least breath of yours brings me to you: I have been seeking you at your lodgings, and from thence came hither after you.
Sab. 'Twas well you found us.
Cel. Found you! half this brightness betwixt you two was enough to have lighted me; I could never miss my way: Here's fair Olinda has beauty enough for one family; such a voice, such a wit, so noble a stature, so white a skin!—
Olin. I thought he would be particular at last. [Aside.
Cel. And young Sabina, so sweet an innocence, such a rose-bud newly blown. This is my goodly palace of love, and that my little withdrawing room. A word, madam.—[To SAB.
Olin. I like not this—[Aside.] Sir, if you are not too busy with my sister, I would speak with you.
Cel. I come, madam.
Sab. Time enough, sir; pray finish your discourse—and as you were a saying, sir,—
Olin. Sweet sir,—
Sab. Sister, you forget, my mother bid you make haste.
Olin. Well, go you, and tell her I am coming.
Sab. I can never endure to be the messenger of ill news; but, if you please, I'll send her word you won't come.
Olin. Minion, minion, remember this—[Exit OLIN.
Sab. She's horribly in love with you.
Cel. Lord, who could love that walking steeple! She's so high, that every time she sings to me, I am looking up for the bell that tolls to church.—Ha! give me my little fifth-rate, that lies so snug. She! hang her, a Dutch-built bottom: She's so tall, there's no boarding her. But we lose time—madam, let me seal my love upon your mouth. [Kiss] Soft and sweet, by heaven! sure you wear rose-leaves between your lips.
Sab. Lord, Lord, what's the matter with me! my breath grows so short, I can scarce speak to you.
Cel. No matter, give me thy lips again, and I'll speak for thee.
Sab. You don't love me—
Cel. I warrant thee; sit down by me, and kiss again,—She warms faster than Pygmalion's image. [Aside]—[Kiss.]—Ay marry, sir, this was the original use of lips; talking, eating, and drinking came in by and by.
Sab. Nay, pray be civil; will you be at quiet?
Cel. What, would you have me sit still, and look upon you, like a little puppy-dog, that's taught to beg with his fore-leg up?
Enter FLORIMEL.
Flo. Celadon the faithful! in good time, sir,—
Cel. In very good time, Florimel; for heaven's sake, help me quickly.
Flo. What's the matter?
Cel. Do you not see? here's a poor gentlewoman in a swoon! (Swoon away.) I have been rubbing her this half hour, and cannot bring her to her senses.
Flo. Alas! how came she so?
Cel. Oh barbarous! do you stay to ask questions? run, for charity.
Flo. Help, help! alas! poor lady—[Exit FLO.
Sab. Is she gone?
Cel. Ay, thanks be to my wit, that helped me at a pinch; I thank heaven, I never pumpt for a lye in all my life yet.
Sab. I am afraid you love her, Celadon!
Cel. Only as a civil acquaintance, or so; but, however, to avoid slander, you had best be gone before she comes again.
Sab. I can find a tongue as well as she.
Cel. Ay, but the truth is, I am a kind of scandalous person, and for you to be seen in my company—stay in the walks, by this kiss I'll be with you presently.
Enter FLORIMEL running.
Flo. Help, help!—I can find nobody.
Cel. Tis needless now, my dear; she's recovered, and gone off; but so wan and weakly,—
Flo.Umph! I begin to smell a rat.—What was your business here, Celadon?
Cel. Charity, Christian charity; you saw I was labouring for life with her.
Flo. But how came you hither?—Not that I care this, but only to be satisfied. [Sings.
Cel. You are jealous, in my conscience!
Flo. Who, I jealous!—then I wish this sigh may be the last that ever I may draw. [Sighs.
Cel. But why do you sigh, then?
Flo. Nothing but a cold, I cannot fetch my breath well. But what will you say, if I wrote the letter you had, to try your faith?
Cel. Hey day! this is just the devil and the sinner; you lay snares for me, and then punish me for being taken: Here's trying a man's faith indeed!—What, do you think I had the faith of a stock, or of a stone? Nay, an you go to tantalize a man—I love upon the square, I can endure no tricks to be used to me.
[OLINDA and SABINA at the door peeping.
Olin. and Sab. Celadon! Celadon!
Flo. What voices are those?
Cel. Some comrades of mine, that call me to play.—Pox on them, they'll spoil all. [Aside.
Flo. Pray, let's see them.
Cel. Hang them, tatterdemallions! they are not worth your sight.—Pray, gentlemen, begone; I'll be with you immediately.
Sab. No; we'll stay here for you.
Flo. Do your gentlemen speak with treble voices? I am resolved to see what company you keep.
Cel. Nay, good my dear.
[He lays hold of her to pull her back, she lays hold of OLINDA, by whom SABINA holds; so that, he pulling, they all come in.
Flo. Are these your comrades? [Sings.] 'Tis Strephon calls, what would my love? Why do you not roar out, like a great bass-viol, Come follow to the myrtle-grove.—Pray, sir, which of these fair ladies is it, for whom you were to do the courtesy? for it were unconscionable to leave you to them both:—What, a mans but a man, you know.
Olin. The gentleman may find an owner.
Sab. Though not of you.
Flo. Pray, agree whose the lost sheep is, and take him.
Cel. 'Slife, they'll cry me anon, and tell my marks.
Flo. Troth, I pity your highness there; I perceive he has left you for the little one: Methinks he should have been afraid to break his neck, when he fell so high as from you to her.
Sab. Well, my drolling lady, I may be even with you.
Flo. Not this ten years, by the growth, yet.
Sab. Can flesh and blood endure this!
Flo. How now, my amazon in decimo sexto!
Olin. Do you affront my sister?
Flo. Ay; but thou art so tall, I think I shall never affront thee.
Sab. Come away, sister; we shall be jeered to death else. [Exeunt OLIN. and SAB.
Flo. Why do you look that way? You can't forbear leering after the forbidden fruit.—But whene'er I take a wencher's word again!
Cel. A wencher's word!—Why should you speak so contemptibly of the better half of mankind? I'll stand up for the honour of my vocation.
Flo. You are in no fault, I warrant!—'Ware my busk[A].
[Footnote A: The now almost forgotten busk was a small slip of steel or wood, used to stiffen the stays. Florimel threatens to employ it as a rod of chastisement.]
Cel. Not to give a fair lady the lie, I am in fault; but otherwise—Come, let us be friends, and let me wait on you to your lodgings.
Flo. This impudence shall not save you from my table-book. Item, A month more for this fault. [They walk to the door.
1 Sold. [within.] Stand!—
2 Sold. Stand, give the word!
Cel. Now, what's the meaning of this, trow?—guards set!
1 Sold. Give the word, or you cannot pass:—These are they, brother; let's in and seize them.
The two Soldiers enter.
1 Sold. Down with him!
2 Sold. Disarm him!Cel. How now, rascals?— [Draws, and beats one off, and catches the other. Ask your life, you villain. 2 Sold. Quarter! quarter!
Cel. Was ever such an insolence?
2 Sold. We did but our duty;—here we were set to take a gentleman and lady, that would steal a marriage without the queen's consent, and we thought you had been they. [Exit Sold.
Flo. Your cousin Philocles, and the princess Candiope, on my life! for I heard the queen give private orders to Lysimantes, and name them twice or thrice.
Cel. I know a score or two of madcaps here hard by, whom I can pick up from taverns, and gaming-houses, and bordels; those I'll bring to aid him,—Now, Florimel, there's an argument for wenching: Where would you have had so many honest men together, upon the sudden, for a brave employment?
Flo. You'll leave me then, to take my fortune?
Cel. No:—If you will, I'll have you into the places aforesaid, and enter you into good company.
Flo. 'Thank you, sir; here's a key, will let me through this back-door to my own lodgings.
Cel. If I come off with life, I'll see you this evening; if not,—adieu, Florimel!
Flo. If you come not, I shall conclude you are killed; or taken, to be hanged for a rebel to-morrow morning: and then I'll honour your memory with a lampoon, instead of an epitaph.
Cel. No, no! I trust better in my fate: I know I am reserved to do you a courtesy. [Exit CEL.
[As FLORIMEL is unlocking the door to go out, FLAVIA opens it against her, and enters to her, followed by a Page.
Fla. Florimel, do you hear the news?
Flo. I guess they are in pursuit of Philocles.
Fla. When Lysimantes came with the queen's orders,
He refused to render up Candìope;
And, with some few brave friends he had about him,
Is forcing of his way through all the guards.
Flo. A gallant fellow!—I'll in, will you with me?— Hark! the noise comes this way!
Fla. I have a message from the queen to Lysimantes.— I hope I may be safe among the soldiers.
Flo. Oh, very safe!—Perhaps some honest fellow in the tumult may take pity of thy maidenhead, or so.—Adieu! [Exit FLO.
Page. The noise comes nearer, madam.
Fla. I am glad on't.—This message gives me the opportunity of speaking privately with Lysimantes.
Enter PHILOCLES and CANDIOPE, with three Friends, pursued by LYSIMANTES, and Soldiers.
Lys. What is it renders you thus obstinate? You have no hope of flight, and to resist is full as vain.
Phil. I'll die rather than yield her up.
Fla. My lord!
Lys. How now? some new message from the queen?— Retire a while to a convenient distance.
[To the Soldiers. LYS. and FLAV. whisper.
Lys. O Flavia, 'tis impossible! the queen in love with Philocles!
Fla. I have suspected it before; but now
My ears and eyes are witnesses.
This hour I overheard her, to Asteria,
Making such sad complaints of her hard fate!—
For my part, I believe, you lead him back
But to his coronation.
Lys. Hell take him first!
Fla. Presently after this she called for me,
And bid me run, and, with strict care, command you,
On peril of your life, he had no harm:
But, sir, she spoke it with so great concernment,
Methought I saw love, anger, and despair,
All combating at once upon her face.
Lys. Tell the queen,—I know not what,
I am distracted so.—
But go, and leave me to my thoughts.—
[Exit FLAVIA.
Was ever such amazing news,
Told in so strange and critical a moment?—
What shall I do?—
Does she love Philocles, who loves not her;
And loves not Lysimantes, who prefers her
Above his life?—What rests, but that I take
This opportunity, which she herself
Has given me, to kill this happy rival!—
Assist me, soldiers!
Phil. They shall buy me dearly.
Cand. Ah me, unhappy maid!
_Enter _CELADON, with his Friends, unbuttoned and reeling.
Cel. Courage, my noble cousin! I have brought A band of blades, the bravest youths of Syracuse; Some drunk, some sober, all resolved to run Your fortune to the utmost.—Fall on, mad boys!
Lys. Hold a little!—I'm not secure of victory against these desperate ruffians.
Cel. No, but I'll secure you! They shall cut your throat for such another word of them. Ruffians, quoth a'! call gamesters, whoremasters, and drunkards, ruffians!
Lys. Pray, gentlemen, fall back a little.
Cel. O ho, are they gentlemen now with you!—Speak first to your gentlemen soldiers to retire; And then I'll speak to my gentlemen ruffians. [CEL. signs to his party. There's your disciplined men now.—[They sign, and the Soldiers retire on both sides. Come, gentlemen, let's lose no time: While they are talking, let's have one merry main before we die, for mortality sake.
1 Fr. Agreed! here's my cloak for a table.
2 Fr. And my hat for a box.
[They lie down and throw.
Lys. Suppose I killed him!
'Twould but exasperate the queen the more:
He loves not her, nor knows he she loves him:—
sudden thought is come into my head,—
So to contrive it, that this Philocles,
And these his friends, shall bring to pass that for me,
Which I could never compass.—True, I strain
A point of honour; but then her usage to me—
It shall be so.—
Pray, Philocles, command your soldiers off;
As I will mine: I've somewhat to propose,
Which you perhaps may like.
Can. I will not leave him.
Lys. 'Tis my desire you should not.
Phil. Cousin, lead off your friends.
Cel. One word in your ear, coz:—Let me advise you, either make your own conditions, or never agree with him: his men are poor rogues, they can never stand before us.
[Exeunt all but Lys. Phil. and Cand.
Lys. Suppose some friend, ere night,
Should bring you to possess all you desire;
And not so only, but secure forever
The nation's happiness?
Phil. I would think of him, As some god or angel.
Lys. That god or angel you and I may be to one another.
We have betwixt us
An hundred men; the citadel you govern:
What were it now to seize the queen?
Phil. O impiety! to seize the queen!— To seize her, said you?
Lys. The word might be too rough,—I meant, secure her.
Phil. Was this your proposition?— And had you none to make it to but me?
Lys. Pray hear me out, ere you condemn me!—
I would not the least violence were offered
Her person. Two small grants is all I ask;
To make me happy in herself, and you
In your Candiope.
Cand. And will not you do this, my Philocles?— Nay, now my brother speaks but reason.
Phil. Interest makes all seem reason, that leads to it. Interest, that does the zeal of sects create, To purge a church, and to reform a state.
Lys. In short, the queen hath sent to part you two:— What more she means to her, I know not.
Phil. To her, alas!—Why, will not you protect her?
Lys. With you I can; but where's my power alone?
Cand. You know she loves me not: You lately heard her,
How she insulted over me: How she
Despised that beauty, which you say I have.—
I see, she purposes my death.
Phil. Why do you fright me with it? 'Tis in your brother's power to let us 'scape, And then you run no danger.
Lys. True, I may; But then my head must pay the forfeit of it.
Phil. O wretched Philocles! whither would love Hurry thee headlong?
Lys. Cease these exclamations.
There's no danger on your side: 'tis but to
Live without my sister; resolve that,
And you have shot the gulf.
Phil. To live without her! Is that nothing, think you? The damned in hell endure no greater pain, Than seeing heaven from far with hopeless eyes.
Cand. Candiope must die, and die for you:— See it not unrevenged at least.
Phil. Ha, unrevenged! On whom should I revenge it?—
But yet she dies, and I may hinder it?
'Tis I then murder my Candiope:—
And yet, should I take arms against my queen!
That favoured me, raised me to what I am?—
Alas! it must not be.
Lys. He cools again.—[Aside.
True, she once favoured you;
But now I am informed.
She is besotted on an upstart wretch
So far, that she intends to make him master
Both of her crown and person.
Phil. Knows he that!
Then, what I dreaded most is come to pass.—[Aside.
I am convinced of the necessity;
Let us make haste to raze
That action from the annals of her reign:
No motive but her glory could have wrought me.
I am a traitor to her, to preserve her
From treason to herself: Yet heaven knows,
With what a heavy heart
Philocles turns reformer. But have care
This fault of her strange passion take no air.
Let not the vulgar blow upon her fame.
Lys. I will be careful:—Shall we go, my lord?
Phil. Time wastes apace; each first prepare his men.— Come, my Candiope. [Exeunt PHIL. and CAND.
Lys. This ruins him forever with the queen;
The odium's half his, the profit all my own.
Those who, like me, by others' help would climb,
To make them sure, must dip them in their crime. [Exit.
SCENE II.—The Queen's apartments.
Enter Queen and ASTERIA.
Queen. No more news yet from Philocles?
Ast. None, madam, since Flavia's return.
Queen. O, my Asteria! if you loved me, sure You would say something to me of my Philocles! I could speak ever of him.
Ast. Madam, you commanded me no more to name him to you.
Queen. Then I command you now, speak of nothing else:— I charge you here, on your allegiance, tell me What I should do with him?
Ast. When you gave orders that he should be taken, You seemed resolved how to dispose of him.
Queen. Dull Asteria! not to know,
Mad people never think the same thing twice!—
Alas! I'm hurried restless up and down:—
I was in anger once, and then I thought
I had put into shore:
But now a gust of love blows hard against me,
And bears me off again.
Ast. Shall I sing the song, you made of Philocles, And called it Secret Love?
Queen. Do; for that's all kindness. And while thou singest it, I can think nothing but what pleases me.
SONG.
_I feed a flame within, which so torments me,
That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me:
'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love if,
That I had rather die, than once remove it.
Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it;
My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.
Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses,
But they fall silently, like dew on roses.
Thus, to prevent my love from being cruel,
My heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel:
And while I suffer this to give him quiet,
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.
On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;
While I conceal my love no frown can fright me:
To be more happy, I dare not aspire;
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher_.
Queen. Peace!—Methinks I hear the noise Of clashing swords, and clattering arms below.
Enter FLAVIA.
Now; what news, that you press in so rudely?
Fla. Madam, the worst that can be:— Your guards upon the sudden are surprised, Disarmed; some slain; all scattered.
Queen. By whom?
Fla. Prince Lysimantes, and Lord Philocles.
Queen. It cannot be; Philocles is a prisoner.
Fla. What my eyes saw,—
Queen. Pull them out; they are false spectacles.
Ast. O, virtue! impotent and blind as fortune! Who would be good, or pious, if this queen, Thy great example, suffers!
Queen. Peace, Asteria! accuse not virtue; She has but given me a great occasion Of showing what I am, when fortune leaves me.
Ast. Philocles to do this!
Queen. Ay, Philocles!—I must confess 'twas hard!—
But there's a fate in kindness,
Still to be least returned, where most 'tis given.—
Where's Candiope?
Fla. Philocles was whispering to her.
Queen. Hence, screech-owl!—Call my guards quickly there!—
Put them apart in several prisons!—
Alas! I had forgot, I have no guards,
But those which are my jailors.
Never 'till now unhappy queen!
The use of power, till lost, is seldom known;
Now, I should strike, I find my thunder gone.
[Exeunt Queen and FLAV.
PHILOCLES enters, and meets ASTERIA going out.
Phil. Asteria, where's the queen?
Ast. Ah, my lord! what have you done? I came to seek you.
Phil. Is it from her you come?
Ast. No; but on her behalf:—Her heart's too great, In this low ebb of fortune, to entreat.
Phil. Tis but a short eclipse, Which past, a glorious day will soon ensue.— But I would ask a favour too from you.
Ast. When conquerors petition, they command: Those, that can captive queens, who can withstand?
Phil. She, with her happiness, might mine create;
Yet seems indulgent to her own ill fate:
But she in secret hates me, sure; for why,
If not, should she Candiope deny?
Ast. If you dare trust my knowledge of her mind, She has no thoughts of you that are unkind.
Phil. I could my sorrows with some patience bear,
Did they proceed from any one but her:
But from the queen! whose person I adore,
By duty much, by inclination more.
Ast. He is inclined already; did he know, That she loved him, how would his passion grow! [Aside.
Phil. That her fair hand with destiny combines!
Fate ne'er strikes deep, but when unkindness joins:
For, to confess the secret of my mind,
Something so tender for the queen I find,
That even Candiope can scarce remove,
And, were she lower, I should call it love.
Ast. She charged me, not this secret to betray;
But I best serve her, if I disobey.
For, if he loves, 'twas for her interest done;
If not, he'll keep it secret for his own. [Aside.
Phil. Why are you in obliging me so slow?
Ast. The thing's of great importance, you would know; And you must first swear secresy to all.
Phil. I swear.
Ast. Yet hold; your oath's too general: Swear that Candiope shall never know.
Phil. I swear.
Ast. No; not the queen herself.
Phil. I vow.
Ast. You wonder why I am so cautious grown,
In telling what concerns yourself alone:
But spare my vow, and guess what it may be,
That makes the queen deny Candiope:
'Tis neither heat, nor pride, that moves her mind;
Methinks the riddle is not hard to find.
Phil. You seem so great a wonder to intend, As were, in me, a crime to apprehend.
Ast. 'Tis not a crime to know; but would be one, To prove ungrateful when your duty's known.
Phil. Why would you thus my easy faith abuse:
I cannot think the queen so ill would chuse.
But stay, now your imposture will appear;
She has herself confessed she loved elsewhere:
On some ignoble choice has placed her heart,
One, who wants quality, and more, desert.
Ast. This, though unjust, you have most right to say; For, if you'll rail against yourself, you may.
Phil. Dull that I was!
A thousand things now crowd my memory.
That make me know it could be none but I.
Her rage was love; and its tempestuous flame,
Like lightning, showed the heaven from whence it came.
But in her kindness my own shame I see;
Have I dethroned her, then for loving me?
I hate myself for that which I have done,
Much more, discovered, than I did unknown.
How does she brook her strange imprisonment?
Ast. As great souls should, that make their own content.
The hardest term, she for your act could find,
Was only this, O Philocles, unkind!
Then, setting free a sigh, from her fair eyes
She wiped two pearls, the remnant of wild showers,
Which hung like drops upon the bells of flowers:
And thanked the heavens,
Which better did, what she designed, pursue,
Without her crime, to give her power to you.
Phil. Hold, hold! you set my thoughts so near a crown,
They mount above my reach, to pull them down:
Here constancy, ambition there does move;
On each side beauty, and on both sides love.
Ast. Methinks the least you can, is to receive This love with reverence, and your former leave.
Phil. Think but what difficulties come between!
Ast. 'Tis wondrous difficult to love a queen.
Phil. For pity, cease more reasons to provide,
I am but too much yielding to your side;
And, were my heart but at my own dispose,
I should not make a scruple now to chuse.
Ast. Then if the queen will my advice approve, Her hatred to you shall expel her love.
Phil. Not to be loved by her as hard would be, As to be hated by Candiope.
Ast. I leave you to resolve while you have time; You must be guilty, but may chuse your crime. [Exit ASTERIA.
Phil. One thing I have resolved; and that I'll do, Both for my love, and for my honour too; But then (ingratitude and falsehood weighed), I know not which would most my soul upbraid. Fate shoves me headlong down a rugged way; Unsafe to run, and yet too steep to stay. [Exit PHIL.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—The Court.
FLORIMEL in man's habit.
Flor. 'Twill be rare now, if I can go through with it, to outdo this mad Celadon in all his tricks, and get both his mistresses from him; then I shall revenge myself upon all three, and save my own stake into the bargain; for I find I do love the rogue, in spite of all his infidelities. Yonder they are, and this way they must come. If clothes and a bon mien will take them, I shall do it.—Save you, Monsieur Florimel! Faith, me thinks you are a very janty fellow, poudré et ajusté, as well as the best of 'em. I can manage the little comb; set my hat, shake my garniture, toss about my empty noddle, walk with a courant slur, and at every step peck down my head: If I should be mistaken for some courtier now, pray where's the difference?
Enter, to her, CELADON, OLINDA, and SABINA.
Olin. Never mince the matter!
Sab. You have left your heart behind with Florimel; we know it.
Cel. You know you wrong me: when I am with Florimel, 'tis still your prisoner, it only draws a longer chain after it.
Flo. Is it e'en so! then farewell, poor Florimel! thy maidenhead is condemned to die with thee.
Cel. But let's leave this discourse; 'tis all digression, that does not speak of your beauties.
Flo. Now for me, in the name of impudence!—[Comes forward.] They are the greatest beauties, I confess, that ever I beheld—
Cel. How now, what's the meaning of this young fellow?
Flo. And therefore I cannot wonder that this gentleman, who has the honour to be known to you, should admire you, since I, that am a stranger—
Cel. And a very impudent one, as I take it, sir.
Flo. Am so extremely surprised, that I admire, love, am wounded, and am dying, all in a moment.
Cel. I have seen him somewhere, but where I know not:—Pry'thee, my friend, leave us; dost thou think, we do not know our way in court?
Flo. I pretend not to instruct you in your way; you see I do not go before you; but you cannot possibly deny me the happiness to wait upon these ladies; me, who—
Cel. Thee, who shalt be beaten most unmercifully, if thou dost follow them.
Flo. You will not draw in court, I hope?
Cel. Pox on him, let's walk away faster, and be rid of him.
Flo. O, take no care for me, sir! you shall not lose me; I'll rather mend my pace, than not wait on you.
Olin. I begin to like this fellow.
Cel. You make very bold here in my seraglio, and I shall find a time to tell you so, sir.
Flo. When you find a time to tell me on't, I shall find a time to answer you: But, pray, what do you find in yourself so extraordinary, that you should serve these ladies better than I? Let me know what 'tis you value yourself upon, and let them judge betwixt us.
Cel. I am somewhat more a man than you.
Flo. That is, you are so much older than I:—Do you like a man ever the better for his age, ladies?
Sab. Well said, young-gentleman.
Cel. Pish, thee! a young raw creature; thou hast ne'er been under the barber's hands yet.
Flo. No, nor under the surgeon's neither, as you have been.
Cel. 'Slife, what would'st thou be at? I am madder than thou art.
Flo. The devil you are! I'll tope with you; I'll sing with you; I'll dance with you;—I'll swagger with you—
Cel. I'll fight with you.
Flo. Out upon fighting; 'tis grown so common a fashion, that a modish man condemns it; a man of garniture and feather is above the dispensation of the sword.
Olin. Uds my life! here's the queen's music just going to us; you shall decide your quarrel by a dance.
Sab. Who stops the fiddles?
Cel. Base and treble, by your leaves, we arrest you at these ladies' suits.
Flo. Come on, sirs, play me a jig; you shall see how I'll baffle him.
DANCE.
Flo. Your judgment, ladies.
Olin. You, sir; you, sir: This is the rarest gentleman! I could live and die with him—
Sab. Lord, how he sweats! please you, sir, to make use of my handkerchief?
Olin. You and I are merry, and just of an humour, sir; therefore we two should love one another.
Sab. And you and I are just of an age, sir; and therefore, methinks, we should not hate one another.
Cel. Then I perceive, ladies, I am a castaway, a reprobate, with you: Why, 'faith, this is hard luck now, that I should be no less than one whole hour in getting your affections, and now must lose 'em in a quarter of it.
Olin. No matter, let him rail; does the loss afflict you, sir?
Cel. No, in faith, does it not; for if you had not forsaken me, I had you: So the willows may flourish, for any branches I shall rob 'em of.
Sab. However, we have the advantage to have left you; not you us.
Cel. That's only a certain nimbleness in nature, you women have, to be first inconstant; but if you had not made the more haste, the wind was veering too upon my weathercock: The best on't is, Florimel is worth both of you.
Flo. 'Tis like she'll accept of their leavings.
Cel. She will accept on't, and she shall accept on't: I think I know more than you of her mind, sir.
Enter MELISSA.
Mel. Daughters, there's a poor collation within, that waits for you.
Flo. Will you walk, musty sir?
Cel. No, marry, sir, I will not; I have surfeited of that old woman's face already.
Flo. Begin some frolic, then; what will you do for her?
Cel. Faith, I am no dog, to show tricks for her; I cannot come aloft to an old woman.
Flo. Dare you kiss her?
Cel. I was never dared by any man. By your leave, old madam— [He plucks off her ruff.
Mel. Help! help! do you discover my nakedness?
Cel. Peace, Tiffany! no harm! [He puts on the ruff.] Now, Sir, here's Florimel's health to you. [Kisses her.
Mel. Away, sir!—A sweet young man as you are, to abuse the gift of nature so!
Cel. Good mother, do not commend me so; I am flesh and blood, and you do not know what you may pluck upon that reverend person of yours.—Come on, follow your leader.
[Gives FLORIMEL the ruff; she puts it on.
Flo. Stand fair, mother—
Cel. What, with your hat on? Lie thou there;—and thou, too—
[Plucks off her hat and peruke, and discovers FLORIMEL.
All. Florimel!
Flo. My kind mistresses, how sorry I am, I can do you no further service! I think I had best resign you to Celadon, to make amends for me.
Cel. Lord! what a misfortune it was, ladies, that the gentleman could not hold forth to you?
Olin. We have lost Celadon too.
Mel. Come away; this is past enduring. [Exeunt MEL. and OLIN.
Sab. Well, if ever I believe a man to be a man, for the sake of a peruke and feather again.—
Flo. Come, Celadon, shall we make accounts even? Lord! what a hanging-look was there? indeed, if you had been recreant to your mistress, or had forsworn your love, that sinner's face had been but decent; but, for the virtuous, the innocent, the constant Celadon!
Cel. This is not very heroic in you now, to insult over a man in his misfortunes; but take heed, you have robb'd me of my two mistresses; I shall grow desperately constant, and all the tempest of my love will fall upon your head: I shall so pay you!—
Flo. Who, you pay me! you are a bankrupt, cast beyond all possibility of recovery.
Cel. If I am a bankrupt, I'll be a very honest one; when I cannot pay my debts, at least I'll give you up the possession of my body.
Flo. No, I'll deal better with you; since you are unable to pay, I'll give in your bond.
Enter PHILOCLES with a commanders staff in his hand, attended.
Phil. Cousin, I am sorry I must take you from your company about an earnest business.
Flo. There needs no excuse, my lord; we had despatched our affairs, and were just parting.
Cel. Will you be going, sir? sweet sir,—damn'd sir!—I have but one word more to say to you.
Flo. As I am a man of honour, I'll wait on you some other time.
Cel. By these breeches,—
Flo. Which, if I marry you, I am resolved to wear; put that into our bargain, and so adieu, sir.
[Exit FLO.
Phil. Hark you, cousin,—[They whisper. You'll see it exactly executed; I rely upon you.
Cel. I shall not fail, my lord; may the conclusion of it prove happy to you. [Exit CEL.
PHILOCLES solus.
Wheree'er I cast about my wandering eyes,
Greatness lies ready in some shape to tempt me.
The royal furniture in every room,
The guards, and the huge waving crowds of people,
All waiting for a sight of that fair queen,
Who makes a present of her love to me:
Now tell me, Stoick!
If all these with a wish might be made thine,
Would'st thou not truck thy ragged virtue for 'em?
If glory was a bait, that angels swallow'd,
How then should souls allied to sense resist it?
Enter CANDIOPE.
Ah poor Candiope! I pity her,
But that is all.—
Cand. O my dear Philocles!
A thousand blessings wait on thee!
The hope of being thine, I think, will put
Me past my meat and sleep with ecstasy,
So I shall keep the fasts of seraphims,
And wake for joy, like nightingales in May.
Phil. Wake, Philocles, wake from thy dream of
glory,
'Tis all but shadow to Candiope:
Canst thou betray a love so innocent? [Aside.
Cand. What makes you melancholick? I doubt, I have displeased you.
Phil. No, my love, I am not displeased with you, But with myself, when I consider, How little I deserve you.
Cand. Say not so, my Philocles; a love so true as yours, That would have left a court, and a queen's favour, To live in a poor hermitage with me,—
Phil. Ha! she has stung me to the quick!
As if she knew the falsehood I intended:
But, I thank heaven, it has recall'd my virtue;
[Aside.
Oh! my dear, I love you, and you only; [To her.
Go in, I have some business for a while;
But I think minutes ages till we meet.
Cand. I knew you had; but yet I could not chuse, But come and look upon you. [Exit CANDIOPE.
Phil. What barbarous man would wrong so sweet a virtue!
Enter the Queen in black, with ASTERIA.
Madam, the states are straight to meet; but why
In these dark ornaments will you be seen?
Queen. They fit the fortune of a captive queen.
Phil. Deep shades are thus to heighten colours set; So stars in night, and diamonds shine in jet.
Queen. True friends should so in dark afflictions shine, But I have no great cause to boast of mine.