Pala. It shall be your own fault else. Come, I'll introduce you.
Rho. Introduce me! where?
Pala. There. To my mistress.
[Pointing to Melantha, who swiftly passes
over the stage.
Rho. Who? Melantha! O heavens, I did not see her.
Pala. But I did: I am an eagle where I love; I have seen her this half hour.
Dor. [Aside.] I find he has wit, he has got off so readily; but it would anger me, if he should love Melantha.
Rho. [Aside.] Now, I could even wish it were my wife he loved; I find he's to be married to my mistress.
Pala. Shall I run after, and fetch her back again, to present you to her?
Rho. No, you need not; I have the honour to have some small acquaintance with her.
Pala. [Aside.] O Jupiter! what a blockhead was I, not to find it out! my wife, that must be, is his mistress. I did a little suspect it before. Well, I must marry her, because she's handsome, and because I hate to be disinherited by a younger brother, which I am sure I shall be, if I disobey; and yet I must keep in with Rhodophil, because I love his wife.—[To Rho.] I must desire you to make my excuse to your lady, if I have been so unfortunate to cause any mistake; and, withal, to beg the honour of being known to her.
Rho. O, that is but reason.—Hark you, spouse, pray look upon this gentleman as my friend; whom, to my knowledge, you have never seen before this hour.
Dor. I am so obedient a wife, sir, that my husband's commands shall ever be a law to me.
Enter Melantha again, hastily, and runs to embrace Doralice.
Mel. O, my dear, I was just going to pay my devoirs to you; I had not time this morning, for making my court to the king, and our new prince. Well, never nation was so happy, and all that, in a young prince; and he is the kindest person in the world to me, let me die if he is not.
Dor. He has been bred up far from court, and therefore—
Mel. That imports not: Though he has not seen the grand monde, and all that, let me die but he has the air of the court most absolutely.
Pala. But yet, madam, he—
Mel. O, servant, you can testify that I am in his
good graces. Well, I cannot stay long with you,
because I have promised him this afternoon to—But
hark you, my dear, I'll tell you a secret.
[Whispers to Dor.
Rho. The devil's in me, that I must love this woman. [Aside.
Pala. The devil's in me, that I must marry this woman. [Aside.
Mel. [Raising her voice.] So the prince and I—But you must make a secret of this, my dear; for I would not for the world your husband should hear it, or my tyrant, there, that must be.
Pala. Well, fair impertinent, your whisper is not lost, we hear you. [Aside.
Dor. I understand then, that—
Mel. I'll tell you, my dear, the prince took me by the hand, and pressed it a la derobbée, because the king was near, made the doux yeux to me, and, ensuite, said a thousand gallantries, or let me die, my dear.
Dor. Then I am sure you—
Mel. You are mistaken, my dear.
Dor. What, before I speak?
Mel. But I know your meaning. You think, my dear, that I assumed something of fierté into my countenance, to rebute, him; but, quite contrary, I regarded him,—I know not how to express it in our dull Sicilian language,—d'un air enjoüé; and said nothing but ad autre, ad autre, and that it was all grimace, and would not pass upon me.
Enter Artemis: Melantha sees her, and runs away from Doralice.
[To Artemis.] My dear, I must beg your pardon, I was just making a loose from Doralice, to pay my respects to you. Let me die, if I ever pass time so agreeably as in your company, and if I would leave it for any lady's in Sicily.
Arte. The princess Amalthea is coming this way.
Enter Amalthea: Melantha runs to her.
Mel. O, dear madam! I have been at your lodging in my new galeche, so often, to tell you of a new amour, betwixt two persons whom you would little suspect for it, that, let me die if one of my coach-horses be not dead, and another quite tired, and sunk under the fatigue.
Amal. O, Melantha, I can tell you news; the prince is coming this way.
Mel. The prince? O sweet prince! He and I are
to—and I forgot it.—Your pardon, sweet madam,
for my abruptness.—Adieu, my dear servant,—Rhodophil.—Servant,
servant, servant all.
[Exit running.
Amal. Rhodophil, a word with you. [Whispers.
Dor. [To Pala.] Why do you not follow your mistress, sir?
Pala. Follow her? Why, at this rate she'll be at the Indies within this half hour.
Dor. However, if you cannot follow her all day, you will meet her at night, I hope?
Pala. But can you, in charity, suffer me to be so mortified, without affording me some relief? If it be but to punish that sign of a husband there, that lazy matrimony, that dull insipid taste, who leaves such delicious fare at home, to dine abroad on worse meat, and pay dear for it into the bargain.
Dor. All this is in vain: Assure yourself, I will never admit of any visit from you in private.
Pala. That is to tell me, in other words, my condition is desperate.
Dor. I think you in so ill a condition, that I am
resolved to pray for you, this very evening, in the
close walk behind the terrace; for that's a private
place, and there I am sure nobody will disturb my
devotions. And so, good-night, sir.
[Exit.
Pala. This is the newest way of making an appointment
I ever heard of. Let women alone to
contrive the means; I find we are but dunces to
them. Well, I will not be so prophane a wretch as
to interrupt her devotions; but, to make them more
effectual, I'll down upon my knees, and endeavour
to join my own with them.
[Exit.
Amal. [To Rho.] I know already they do not love each other; and that my brother acts but a forced obedience to the king's commands; so that if a quarrel should arise betwixt the prince and him, I were most miserable on both sides.
Rho. There shall be nothing wanting in me, madam, to prevent so sad a consequence.
Enter the King and Leonidas; the King whispers Amalthea.
[To himself.] I begin to hate this Palamede, because
he is to marry my mistress: Yet break with him I
dare not, for fear of being quite excluded from her
company. It is a hard case, when a man must go
by his rival to his mistress: But it is, at worst, but
using him like a pair of heavy boots in a dirty journey;
after I have fouled him all day, I'll throw him
off at night.
[Exit.
Amal. [To the King.] This honour is too great for me to hope.
Poly. You shall this hour have the assurance of it.—
Leonidas, come hither; you have heard,
I doubt not, that the father of this princess
Was my most faithful friend, while I was yet
A private man; and when I did assume
This crown, he served me in the high attempt.
You see, then, to what gratitude obliges me;
Make your addresses to her.
Leon. Sir, I am yet too young to be a courtier;
I should too much betray my ignorance,
And want of breeding to so fair a lady.
Amal. Your language speaks you not bred up in desarts,
But in the softness of some Asian court,
Where luxury and ease invent kind words,
To cozen tender virgins of their hearts.
Poly. You need not doubt,
But in what words soe'er a prince can offer
His crown and person, they will be received.
You know my pleasure, and you know your duty.
Leon. Yes, sir, I shall obey, in what I can.
Poly. In what you can, Leonidas? Consider,
He's both your king, and father, who commands you.
Besides, what is there hard in my injunction?
Leon. 'Tis hard to have my inclination forced.
I would not marry, sir; and, when I do,
I hope you'll give me freedom in my choice.
Poly. View well this lady,
Whose mind as much transcends her beauteous face,
As that excels all others.
Amal. My beauty, as it ne'er could merit love,
So neither can it beg: And, sir, you may
Believe, that what the king has offered you,
I should refuse, did I not value more
Your person than your crown.
Leon. Think it not pride,
Or my new fortunes swell me to contemn you;
Think less, that I want eyes to see your beauty;
And, least of all, think duty wanting in me
To obey a father's will: But—
Poly. But what, Leonidas?
For I must know your reason; and be sure
It be convincing too.
Leon. Sir, ask the stars,
Which have imposed love on us, like a fate,
Why minds are bent to one, and fly another?
Ask, why all beauties cannot move all hearts?
For though there may
Be made a rule for colour, or for feature,
There can be none for liking.
Poly. Leonidas, you owe me more
Than to oppose your liking to my pleasure.
Leon. I owe you all things, sir; but something, too,
I owe myself.
Poly. You shall dispute no more; I am a king,
And I will be obeyed.
Leon. You are a king, sir, but you are no god;
Or, if you were, you could not force my will.
Poly. [Aside.] But you are just, ye gods; O you are just,
In punishing the crimes of my rebellion
With a rebellious son!
Yet I can punish him, as you do me.—
Leonidas, there is no jesting with
My will: I ne'er had done so much to gain
A crown, but to be absolute in all things.
Amal. O, sir, be not so much a king, as to
Forget you are a father: Soft indulgence
Becomes that name. Tho' nature gives you power
To bind his duty, 'tis with silken bonds:
Command him, then, as you command yourself;
He is as much a part of you, as are
Your appetite and will, and those you force not,
But gently bend, and make them pliant to your reason.
Poly. It may be I have used too rough a way.—
Forgive me, my Leonidas; I know
I lie as open to the gusts of passion,
As the bare shore to every, beating surge:
I will not force thee now; but I entreat thee,
Absolve a father's vow to this fair virgin;
A vow, which hopes of having such a son
First caused.
Leon. Show not my disobedience by your prayers;
For I must still deny you, though I now
Appear more guilty to myself than you:
I have some reasons, which I cannot utter,
That force my disobedience; yet I mourn
To death, that the first thing, you e'er enjoined me,
Should be that only one command in nature,
Which I could not obey.
Poly. I did descend too much below myself,
When I entreated him.—Hence, to thy desart!
Thou'rt not my son, or art not fit to be.
Amal. Great sir, I humbly beg you, make not me [Kneeling.
The cause of your displeasure. I absolve
Your vow; far from me be such designs;
So wretched a desire of being great,
By making him unhappy. You may see
Something so noble in the prince's nature,
As grieves him more, not to obey, than you,
That you are not obeyed.
Poly. Then, for your sake,
I'll give him one day longer to consider,
Not to deny; for my resolves are firm
As fate, that cannot change. [Exeunt King and Amal.
Leon. And so are mine.
This beauteous princess, charming as she is,
Could never make me happy: I must first
Be false to my Palmyra, and then wretched.
But, then, a father's anger!
Suppose he should recede from his own vow,
He never would permit me to keep mine.
Enter Palmyra; Argaleon following her, a little after.
See, she appears!
I'll think no more of any thing, but her.
Yet I have one good hour ere I am wretched.
But, oh! Argaleon follows her! so night
Treads on the footsteps of a winter's sun,
And stalks all black behind him.
Palm. O, Leonidas,
For I must call you still by that dear name,
Free me from this bad man.
Leon. I hope he dares not be injurious to you.
Arga. I rather was injurious to myself,
Than her.
Leon. That must be judged, when I hear what you said.
Arga. I think you need not give yourself that trouble:
It concerned us alone.
Leon. You answer saucily, and indirectly:
What interest can you pretend in her?
Arga. It may be, sir, I made her some expressions
Which I would not repeat, because they were
Below my rank, to one of hers.
Leon. What did he say, Palmyra?
Palm. I'll tell you all: First, he began to look,
And then he sighed, and then he looked again;
At last, he said, my eyes wounded his heart:
And, after that, he talked of flames and fires,
And such strange words, that I believed he conjured.
Leon. O my heart!—Leave me, Argaleon.
Arga. Come, sweet Palmyra,
I will instruct you better in my meaning:
You see he would be private.
Leon. Go yourself,
And leave her here.
Arga. Alas, she's ignorant,
And is not fit to entertain a prince.
Leon. First learn what's fit for you; that's to obey.
Arga. I know my duty is to wait on you.
A great king's son, like you, ought to forget
Such mean converse.
Leon. What? a disputing subject?
Hence, or my sword shall do me justice on thee.
Arga. Yet I may find a time— [Going.
Leon. What's that you mutter, [Going after him.
To find a time?—
Arga. To wait on you again—
In the mean while I'll watch you. [Softly.
[Exit, and watches during the scene.
Leon. How precious are the hours of love in courts!
In cottages, where love has all the day,
Full, and at ease, he throws it half away.
Time gives himself, and is not valued, there;
But sells at mighty rates, each minute, here:
There, he is lazy, unemployed, and slow;
Here, he's more swift; and yet has more to do.
So many of his hours in public move,
That few are left for privacy and love.
Palm. The sun, methinks, shines faint and dimly, here;
Light is not half so long, nor half so clear:
But, oh! when every day was yours and mine,
How early up! what haste he made to shine!
Leon. Such golden days no prince must hope to see,
Whose every subject is more blessed than he.
Palm. Do you remember, when their tasks were done,
How all the youth did to our cottage run?
While winter-winds were whistling loud without,
Our cheerful hearth was circled round about:
With strokes in ashes, maids their lovers drew;
And still you fell to me, and I to you.
Leon. When love did of my heart possession take,
I was so young, my soul was scarce awake:
I cannot tell when first I thought you fair;
But sucked in love, insensibly as air.
Palm. I know too well when, first my love began,
When at our wake you for the chaplet ran:
Then I was made the lady of the May,
And, with the garland, at the goal did stay:
Still, as you ran, I kept you full in view;
I hoped, and wished, and ran, methought, for you.
As you came near, I hastily did rise,
And stretched my arm outright, that held the prize.
The custom was to kiss whom I should crown;
You kneeled, and in my lap your head laid down:
I blushed, and blushed, and did the kiss delay;
At last my subjects forced me to obey:
But, when I gave the crown, and then the kiss,
I scarce had breath to say, Take that,—and this.
Leon. I felt, the while, a pleasing kind of smart;
That kiss went, tingling, to my very heart.
When it was gone, the sense of it did stay;
The sweetness clinged upon my lips all day,
Like drops of honey, loth to fall away.
Palm. Life, like a prodigal, gave all his store
To my first youth, and now can give no more.
You are a prince; and, in that high degree,
No longer must converse with humble me.
Leon. 'Twas to my loss the gods that title gave;
A tyrant's son is doubly born a slave:
He gives a crown; but, to prevent my life
From being happy, loads it with a wife.
Palm. Speak quickly; what have you resolved to do?
Leon. To keep my faith inviolate to you.
He threatens me with exile, and with shame,
To lose my birthright, and a prince's name;
But there's a blessing which he did not mean,
To send me back to love and you again.
Palm. Why was not I a princess for your sake?
But heaven no more such miracles can make:
And, since that cannot, this must never be;
You shall not lose a crown for love of me.
Live happy, and a nobler choice pursue;
I shall complain of fate, but not of you.
Leon. Can you so easily without me live?
Or could you take the counsel, which you give?
Were you a princess, would you not be true?
Palm. I would; but cannot merit it from you.
Leon. Did you not merit, as you do, my heart,
Love gives esteem, and then it gives desert.
But if I basely could forget my vow,
Poor helpless innocence, what would you do?
Palm. In woods, and plains, where first my love began,
There would I live, retired from faithless man:
I'd sit all day within some lonely shade,
Or that close arbour which your hands have made:
I'd search the groves, and every tree, to find
Where you had carved our names upon the rind:
Your hook, your scrip, all that was yours, I'd keep,
And lay them by me when I went to sleep.
Thus would I live: And maidens, when I die,
Upon my hearse white true-love-knots should tie;
And thus my tomb should be inscribed above,
Here the forsaken Virgin rests from love.
Leon. Think not that time or fate shall e'er divide
Those hearts, which love and mutual vows have tied.
But we must part; farewell, my love.
Palm. Till when?
Leon. Till the next age of hours we meet again.
Meantime, we may,
When near each other we in public stand,
Contrive to catch a look, or steal a hand:
Fancy will every touch and glance improve;
And draw the most spirituous parts of love.
Our souls sit close, and silently within,
And their own web from their own entrails spin;
And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such,
That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch. [Exeunt.
ACT III. SCENE I.
Enter Rhodophil, meeting Doralice and Artemis; Rhodophil and Doralice embrace.
Rho. My own dear heart!
Dor. My own true love! [She starts back.] I had
forgot myself to be so kind; indeed, I am very angry
with you, dear; you are come home an hour
after you appointed: if you had staid a minute
longer, I was just considering whether I should
stab, hang, or drown myself.
[Embracing him.
Rho. Nothing but the king's business could have
hindered me; and I was so vexed, that I was just
laying down my commission, rather than have failed
my dear.
[Kisses her hand.
Arte. Why, this is love as it should be betwixt man and wife: such another couple would bring marriage into fashion again. But is it always thus betwixt you?
Rho. Always thus! this is nothing. I tell you, there is not such a pair of turtles in Sicily; there is such an eternal cooing and kissing betwixt us, that indeed it is scandalous before civil company.
Dor. Well, if I had imagined I should have been this fond fool, I would never have married the man I loved: I married to be happy, and have made myself miserable by over-loving. Nay, and now my case is desperate; for I have been married above these two years, and find myself every day worse and worse in love: nothing but madness can be the end on't.
Arte. Doat on, to the extremity, and you are happy.
Dor. He deserves so infinitely much, that, the truth is, there can be no doating in the matter; but, to love well, I confess, is a work that pays itself: 'Tis telling gold, and, after, taking it for one's pains.
Rho. By that I should be a very covetous person; for I am ever pulling out my money, and putting it into my pocket again.
Dor. O dear Rhodophil!
Rho. O sweet Doralice! [Embracing each other.
Arte. [Aside.] Nay, I am resolved, I'll never interrupt
lovers: I'll leave them as happy as I found
them.
[Steals away.
Rho. What, is she gone? [Looking up.
Dor. Yes; and without taking leave.
Rho. Then there's enough for this time. [Parting from her.
Dor. Yes, sure, the scene is done, I take it.
They walk contrary ways on the stage; he, with his hands in his pockets, whistling; she singing a dull melancholy tune.
Rho. Pox o'your dull tune, a man can't think for you.
Dor. Pox o'your damned whistling; you can neither be company to me yourself, nor leave me to the freedom of my own fancy.
Rho. Well, thou art the most provoking wife!
Dor. Well, thou art the dullest husband, thou art never to be provoked.
Rho. I was never thought dull till I married thee; and now thou hast made an old knife of me; thou hast whetted me so long, till I have no edge left.
Dor. I see you are in the husband's fashion; you reserve all your good humours for your mistresses, and keep your ill for your wives.
Rho. Prythee leave me to my own cogitations; I am thinking over all my sins, to find for which of them it was I married thee.
Dor. Whatever your sin was, mine's the punishment.
Rho. My comfort is, thou art not immortal; and, when that blessed, that divine day comes of thy departure, I'm resolved I'll make one holiday more in the almanack for thy sake.
Dor. Ay, you had need make a holiday for me, for I am sure you have made me a martyr.
Rho. Then, setting my victorious foot upon thy head, in the first hour of thy silence, (that is, the first hour thou art dead, for I despair of it before) I will swear by thy ghost,—an oath as terrible to me as Styx is to the gods,—never more to be in danger of the banes of matrimony.
Dor. And I am resolved to marry the very same day thou diest, if it be but to show how little I'm concerned for thee.
Rho. Pray thee, Doralice, why do we quarrel thus a-days? ha! this is but a kind of heathenish life, and does not answer the ends of marriage. If I have erred, propound what reasonable atonement may be made before we sleep, and I will not be refractory; but withal consider, I have been married these three years, and be not too tyrannical.
Dor. What should you talk of a peace a-bed, when you can give no security for performance of articles?
Rho. Then, since we must live together, and both
of us stand upon our terms, as to matters of dying
first, let us make ourselves as merry as we can with
our misfortunes. Why, there's the devil on't! if
thou could'st make my enjoying thee but a little
easy, or a little more unlawful, thou should'st see
what a termagant lover I would prove. I have taken
such pains to enjoy thee, Doralice, that I have
fancied thee all the fine women of the town—to
help me out: But now there's none left for me to
think on, my imagination is quite jaded. Thou art
a wife, and thou wilt be a wife, and I can make
thee another no longer.
[Exit Rho.
Dor. Well, since thou art a husband, and wilt be a husband, I'll try if I can find out another. 'Tis a pretty time we women have on't, to be made widows while we are married. Our husbands think it reasonable to complain, that we are the same, and the same to them, when we have more reason to complain, that they are not the same to us. Because they cannot feed on one dish, therefore we must be starved. 'Tis enough that they have a sufficient ordinary provided, and a table ready spread for them: If they cannot fall too, and eat heartily, the fault is theirs; and 'tis pity, methinks, that the good creature should be lost, when many a poor sinner would be glad on't.
Enter Melantha and Artemis to her.
Mel. Dear, my dear, pity me, I am so chagrin to day, and have had the most signal affront at court! I went this afternoon to do my devoir to princess Amalthea, found her, conversed with her, and helped to make her court some half an hour; after which, she went to take the air, chose out two ladies to go with her, that came in after me, and left me most barbarously behind her.
Arte. You are the less to be pitied, Melantha, because you subject yourself to these affronts, by coming perpetually to court, where you have no business nor employment.
Mel. I declare, I had rather of the two be rallied nay, mal traitée at court, than be deified in the town; for, assuredly, nothing can be so ridicule as a mere town lady.
Dor. Especially at court. How I have seen them crowd and sweat in the drawing-room on a holiday-night! For that's their time to swarm and invade the presence. O, how they catch at a bow, or any little salute from a courtier, to make show of their acquaintance! and, rather than be thought to be quite unknown, they court'sy to one another; but they take true pains to come near the circle, and press and peep upon the princess, to write letters into the country how she was dressed, while the ladies, that stand about, make their court to her with abusing them.
Arte. These are sad truths, Melantha; and therefore I would e'en advise you to quit the court, and live either wholly in the town, or, if you like not that, in the country.
Dor. In the country! nay, that's to fall beneath the town, for they live upon our offals here. Their entertainment of wit is only the remembrance of what they had when they were last in town;—they live this year upon the last year's knowledge, as their cattle do all night, by chewing the cud of what they eat in the afternoon.
Mel. And they tell, for news, such unlikely stories! A letter from one of us is such a present to them, that the poor souls wait for the carrier's-day with such devotion, that they cannot sleep the night before.
Arte. No more than I can, the night before I am to go a journey.
Dor. Or I, before I am to try on a new gown.
Mel. A song, that's stale here, will be new there a twelvemonth hence; and if a man of the town by chance come amongst them, he's reverenced for teaching them the tune.
Dor. A friend of mine, who makes songs sometimes, came lately out of the west, and vowed he was so put out of countenance with a song of his; for, at the first country gentleman's he visited, he saw three tailors cross legged upon the table in the hall, who were tearing out as loud as ever they could sing,
—After the pangs of a desperate lover, &c.
And that all day he heard of nothing else, but the daughters of the house, and the maids, humming it over in every corner, and the father whistling it. Arte. Indeed, I have observed of myself, that when I am out of town but a fortnight, I am so humble, that I would receive a letter from my tailor or mercer for a favour.
Mel. When I have been at grass in the summer, and am new come up again, methinks I'm to be turned into ridicule by all that see me; but when I have been once or twice at court, I begin to value myself again, and to despise my country acquaintance.
Arte. There are places where all people may be adored, and we ought to know ourselves so well as to choose them.
Dor. That's very true; your little courtier's wife, who speaks to the king but once a month, need but go to a town lady, and there she may vapour and cry,—"The king and I," at every word. Your town lady, who is laughed at in the circle, takes her coach into the city, and there she's called Your honour, and has a banquet from the merchant's wife, whom she laughs at for her kindness. And, as for my finical cit, she removes but to her country house, and there insults over the country gentlewoman that never comes up, who treats her with furmity and custard, and opens her dear bottle of mirabilis beside, for a gill-glass of it at parting.
Arte. At last, I see, we shall leave Melantha where we found her; for, by your description of the town and country, they are become more dreadful to her than the court, where she was affronted. But you forget we are to wait on the princess Amalthea. Come, Doralice.
Dor. Farewell, Melantha.
Mel. Adieu, my dear.
Arte. You are out of charity with her, and therefore I shall not give your service.
Mel. Do not omit it, I beseech you; for I have such a tendre for the court, that I love it even from the drawing-room to the lobby, and can never be rebutée by any usage. But hark you, my dears; one thing I had forgot, of great concernment.
Dor. Quickly then, we are in haste.
Mel. Do not call it my service, that's too vulgar; but do my baise mains to the princess Amalthea; that is spirituelle!
Dor. To do you service, then, we will prendre
the carosse to court, and do your baise mains to the
princess Amalthea, in your phrase spirituelle.
[Exeunt Artemis and Doralice.
Enter Philotis, with a paper in her hand.
Mel. O, are you there, minion? And, well, are not you a most precious damsel, to retard all my visits for want of language, when you know you are paid so well for furnishing me with new words for my daily conversation? Let me die, if I have not run the risque already to speak like one of the vulgar, and if I have one phrase left in all my store, that is not thread-bare et usé, and fit for nothing but to be thrown to peasants.
Phil. Indeed, Madam, I have been very diligent in my vocation; but you have so drained all the French plays and romances, that they are not able to supply you with words for your daily expence.
Mel. Drained? What a word's there! Epuisée, you sot you. Come, produce your morning's work.
Phil. 'Tis here, madam. [Shows the paper.
Mel. O, my Venus! fourteen or fifteen words to serve me a whole day! Let me die, at this rate I cannot last till night. Come, read your works: Twenty to one, half of them will not pass muster neither.
Phil. Sottises. [Reads.
Mel. Sottises: bon. That's an excellent word to begin withal; as, for example, he or she said a thousand sottises to me. Proceed.
Phil. Figure: As, what a figure of a man is there! Naive, and naiveté.
Mel. Naive! as how?
Phil. Speaking of a thing that was naturally said, it was so naive; or, such an innocent piece of simplicity 'twas such a naiveté.
Mel. Truce with your interpretations. Make haste.
Phil. Foible, chagrin, grimace, embarrasse, double entendre, equivoque, ecclaircissement, suittè, beveue, façon, penchant, coup d'etourdy, and ridicule.
Mel. Hold, hold; how did they begin?
Phil. They began at sottises, and ended en ridicule.
Mel. Now, give me your paper in my hand, and hold you my glass, while I practise my postures for the day. [Melantha laughs in the glass.] How does that laugh become my face?
Phil. Sovereignly well, madam.
Mel. Sovereignly? Let me die, that's not amiss. That word shall not be yours; I'll invent it, and bring it up myself: My new point gorget shall be yours upon't. Not a word of the word, I charge you.
Phil. I am dumb, madam.
Mel. That glance, how suits it with my face? [Looking in the glass again.
Phil. 'Tis so languissant!
Mel. Languissant! that word shall be mine too,
and my last Indian gown thine for't. That sigh?
[Looks again.
Phil. 'Twill make a man sigh, madam. 'Tis a mere incendiary.
Mel. Take my guimp petticoat for that truth. If thou hast most of these phrases, let me die but I could give away all my wardrobe, and go naked for them.
Phil. Go naked? Then you would be a Venus, madam. O Jupiter! what had I forgot? This paper was given me by Rhodophil's page.
Mel. [Reading the letter.] Beg the favour from you.—Gratify my passion—so far—assignation—in the grotto—behind the terrace—clock this evening—Well, for the billets doux there is no man in Sicily must dispute with Rhodophil; they are so French, so gallant, and so tendre, that I cannot resist the temptation of the assignation. Now, go you away, Philotis; it imports me to practise what to say to my servant when I meet him. [Exit Philotis.] Rhodophil, you'll wonder at my assurance to meet you here;—let me die, I am so out of breath with coming, that I can render you no reason of it.—Then he will make this repartee; Madam, I have no reason to accuse you for that which is so great a favour to me.—Then I reply, But why have you drawn me to this solitary place? Let me die, but I am apprehensive of some violence from you.—Then says he, Solitude, madam, is most fit for lovers; but by this fair hand—Nay, now I vow you're rude, sir. O fy, fy, fy; I hope you'll be honourable?—You'd laugh at me if I should, madam.—What, do you mean to throw me down thus? Ah me! ah! ah! ah!
Enter Polydamas, Leonidas, and Guards.
O Venus! the king and court. Let me die, but I
fear they have found my foible, and will turn me
into ridicule.
[Exit, running.
Leon. Sir, I beseech you.
Poly. Do not urge my patience.
Leon. I'll not deny,
But what your spies informed you of is true:
I love the fair Palmyra; but I loved her
Before I knew your title to my blood.
Enter Palmyra guarded.
See, here she comes, and looks, amidst her guards,
Like a weak dove under the falcon's gripe.
O heaven, I cannot bear it.
Poly. Maid, come hither.
Have you presumed so far, as to receive
My son's affections?
Palm. Alas, what shall I answer? To confess it
Will raise a blush upon a virgin's face;
Yet I was ever taught 'twas base to lie.
Poly. You've been too bold, and you must love no more.
Palm. Indeed I must; I cannot help my love;
I was so tender when I took the bent,
That now I grow that way.
Poly. He is a prince, and you are meanly born.
Leon. Love either finds equality, or makes it:
Like death, he knows no difference in degrees,
But plains, and levels all.
Palm. Alas! I had not rendered up my heart,
Had he not loved me first; but he preferred me
Above the maidens of my age and rank,—
Still shunned their company, and still sought mine.
I was not won by gifts, yet still he gave;
And all his gifts, though small, yet spoke his love.
He picked the earliest strawberries in woods,
The clustered filberds, and the purple grapes;
He taught a prating stare to speak my name;
And, when he found a nest of nightingales,
Or callow linnets, he would show them me,
And let me take them out.
Poly. This is a little mistress, meanly born,
Fit only for a prince's vacant hours,
And then, to laugh at her simplicity,
Not fix a passion there. Now hear my sentence.
Leon. Remember, ere you give it, 'tis pronounced
Against us both.
Poly. First, in her hand
There shall be placed a player's painted sceptre,
And, on her head, a gilded pageant crown:
Thus shall she go,
With all the boys attending on her triumph;
That done, be put alone into a boat,
With bread and water only for three days;
So on the sea she shall be set adrift,
And who relieves her dies.
Palm. I only beg that you would execute
The last part first: Let me be put to sea;
The bread and water for my three days life
I give you back, I would not live so long;
But let me 'scape the shame.
Leon. Look to me, piety; and you, O Gods, look to my piety!
Keep me from saying that, which misbecomes a son;
But let me die before I see this done.
Poly. If you for ever will abjure her sight,
I can be yet a father; she shall live.
Leon. Hear, O you powers! is this to be a father?
I see 'tis all my happiness and quiet
You aim at, sir; and take them:
I will not save even my Palmyra's life
At that ignoble price; but I'll die with her.
Palm. So had I done by you,
Had fate made me a princess.—Death, methinks,
Is not a terror now:
He is not fierce, or grim, but fawns, and sooths me,
And slides along, like Cleopatra's aspick,
Offering his service to my troubled breast.
Leon. Begin what you have purposed when you please;
Lead her to scorn, your triumph shall be doubled.
As holy priests,
In pity, go with dying malefactors,
So I will share her shame.
Poly. You shall not have your will so much; first part them,
Then execute your office.
Leon. No; I'll die
In her defence. [Draws his sword.
Palm. Ah, hold, and pull not on
A curse, to make me worthy of my death:
Do not by lawless force oppose your father,
Whom you have too much disobeyed for me.
Leon. Here, take it, sir, and with it pierce my heart:
[Presenting his sword to his Father upon his
knees.
You have done more in taking my Palmyra.
You are my father; therefore I submit.
Poly. Keep him from any thing he may design
Against his life, while the first fury lasts;
And now perform what I commanded you.
Leon. In vain; if sword and poison be denied me,
I'll hold my breath and die.
Palm. Farewell, my last Leonidas; yet live,
I charge you, live, 'till you believe me dead.
I cannot die in peace, if you die first;
If life's a blessing, you shall have it last.
Poly. Go on with her, and lead him after me.
Enter Argaleon hastily, with Hermogenes.
Arga. I bring you, sir, such news as must amaze you,
And such as will prevent you from an action,
Which would have rendered all your life unhappy.
[Hermogenes kneels.
Poly. Hermogenes, you bend your knees in vain,
My doom's already past.
Her. I kneel not for Palmyra, for I know
She will not need my prayers; but for myself:
With a feigned tale I have abused your ears,
And, therefore, merit death: but since, unforced,
I first accuse myself, I hope your mercy.
Poly. Haste to explain your meaning.
Her. Then, in few words, Palmyra is your daughter.
Poly. How can I give belief to this impostor?
He, who has once abused me, often may.
I'll hear no more.
Arga. For your own sake, you must.
Her. A parent's love,—for I confess my crime,—
Moved me to say, Leonidas was yours;
But when I heard Palmyra was to die,
The fear of guiltless blood so stung my conscience,
That I resolved, even with my shame, to save
Your daughter's life.
Poly. But how can I be certain, but that interest,
Which moved you first to say your son was mine,
Does not now move you too, to save your daughter?
Her. You had but then my word; I bring you now
Authentic testimonies. Sir, in short,
[Delivers on his knees a jewel, and letter.
If this will not convince you, let me suffer.
Poly. I know this jewel well; 'twas once my mother's,
[Looking first on the jewel.
Which, marrying, I presented to my wife.
And this, O this is my Eudocia's hand.
This was the pledge of love given to Eudocia, [Reads.
Who, dying, to her young Palmyra leaves it;
And this, when you, my dearest lord, receive,
Own her, and think on me, dying Eudocia.
Take it; 'tis well there is no more to read. [To Arga.
My eyes grow full, and swim in their own light.
[He embraces Palm.
Palm. I fear, sir, this is your intended pageant.
You sport yourself at poor Palmyra's cost;
But if you think to make me proud,
Indeed I cannot be so: I was born
With humble thoughts, and lowly, like my birth.
A real fortune could not make me haughty,
Much less a feigned.
Poly. This was her mother's temper.
I have too much deserved thou shouldst suspect
That I am not thy father; but my love
Shall henceforth show I am. Behold my eyes,
And see a father there begin to flow:
This is not feigned, Palmyra.
Palm. I doubt no longer, sir; you are a king,
And cannot lie: Falsehood's a vice too base
To find a room in any royal breast.
I know, in spite of my unworthiness,
I am your child; for when you would have killed me,
Methought I loved you then.
Arga. Sir, we forget the prince Leonidas;
His greatness should not stand neglected thus.
Poly. Guards, you may now retire; Give him his sword,
And leave him free.
Leon. Then the first use I make of liberty
Shall be, with your permission, mighty sir,
To pay that reverence to which nature binds me.
[Kneels to Hermogenes.
Arga. Sure you forget your birth, thus to misplace
This act of your obedience; you should kneel
To nothing but to heaven, and to a king.
Leon. I never shall forget what nature owes,
Nor be ashamed to pay it; though my father
Be not a king, I know him brave and honest,
And well deserving of a worthier son.
Poly. He bears it gallantly.
Leon. Why would you not instruct me, sir, before,
[To Herm.
Where I should place my duty?
From which, if ignorance have made me swerve,
I beg your pardon for an erring son.
Palm. I almost grieve I am a princess, since
It makes him lose a crown.
Leon. And next, to you, my king, thus low I kneel,
To implore your mercy; if in that small time
I had the honour to be thought your son,
I paid not strict obedience to your will.
I thought, indeed, I should not be compelled,
But thought it as your son; so what I took
In duty from you, I restored in courage;
Because your son should not be forced.
Poly. You have my pardon for it.
Leon. To you, fair princess, I congratulate
Your birth; of which I ever thought you worthy:
And give me leave to add, that I am proud
The gods have picked me out to be the man,
By whose dejected fate yours is to rise;
Because no man could more desire your fortune,
Or franklier part with his, to make you great.
Palm. I know the king, though you are not his son,
Will still regard you as my foster-brother,
And so conduct you downward from a throne,
By slow degrees, so unperceived and soft,
That it may seem no fall: Or, if it be,
May fortune lay a bed of down beneath you!
Poly. He shall be ranked with my nobility,
And kept from scorn by a large pension given him.
Leon. You are all great and royal in your gifts;
[Bowing.
But at the donor's feet I lay them down:
Should I take riches from you, it would seem
As I did want a soul to bear that poverty,
To which the gods designed my humble birth:
And should I take your honours without merit,
It would appear, I wanted manly courage
To hope them, in your service, from my sword.
Poly. Still brave, and like yourself.
The court shall shine this night in its full splendour,
And celebrate this new discovery.
Argaleon, lead my daughter: As we go,
I shall have time to give her my commands,
In which you are concerned. [Exeunt all but Leonidas.
Leon. Methinks, I do not want
That huge long train of fawning followers,
That swept a furlong after me.
'Tis true I am alone;
So was the godhead, ere he made the world,
And better served himself, than served by nature.
And yet I have a soul
Above this humble fate. I could command,
Love to do good, give largely to true merit,
All that a king should do: But though these are not
My province, I have scene enough within,
To exercise my virtue.
All that a heart, so fixed as mine, can move,
Is, that my niggard fortune starves my love. [Exit.