Footnotes:
The bold Epilogue, which is here defended with so much animation, and the censure which it threw on the fathers of the stage, seems to have given great offence. It is thus severely assailed by Rochester:
But does not Dryden find even Jonson dull?
Beaumont and Fletcher incorrect, and full
Of lewd lines, as he calls them? Shakespeare's style
Stiff and affected? to his own, the while,
Allowing all the justice that his pride
So arrogantly had to these denied:
And may I not have leave impartially
To search and censure Dryden's works, and try
If those gross faults, his choice pen doth commit,
Proceed from want of judgment, or of wit?
Or if his lumpish fancy doth refuse
Spirit and grace to his loose slattern muse?
Five hundred verses, every morning writ,
Prove him no more a poet than a wit.
It is a bold, perhaps a presumptuous task, to attempt to separate the true from the false criticism in the foregoing essay; for who is qualified to be umpire betwixt Shakespeare and Dryden? Nevertheless, our knowledge of the manners of the respective ages which these extraordinary men adorned, and the remoteness of our own from both, may enable us, with impartiality at least, to sift the grounds of Dryden's censure. The nature of the stage in the days of Shakespeare has been ascertained, by the sedulous exertions of his commentators. A variety of small theatres, all of them accessible to the lowest of the people, poor and rude in all the arts of decoration, were dispersed through London when Shakespeare and Jonson wrote for the stage. It was a natural consequence, that the writings of these great men were biassed by the taste of those, for whom they wrote;
For those, who live to please, must please, to live.
Art was not demanded; and when used by Jonson, he complains it was not duly appreciated. Men of a middle rank were then probably worse educated than our mere vulgar. But the good old time bore rough and manly spirits, who came prepared with a tribute of tears and laughter, to bursts of pathos, or effusions of humour, although incapable of receiving the delights which a cultivated mind derives from the gradual developement of a story, the just dependence of its parts upon each other, the minute beauties of language, and the absence of every thing incongruous or indecorous. Dryden, on the other hand, wrote for a stage patronized by a monarch and his courtiers, who were professed judges of dramatic composition; while the rigour of religious prejudice, and perhaps a just abhorrence of the licentious turn of the drama, banished from the theatres a great proportion of the middle classes, always the most valuable part of an audience; because, with a certain degree of cultivation, they unite an unhacknied energy of feeling. Art, therefore, became, in the days of Dryden, not only a requisite qualification, but even the principal attribute of the dramatic poet. He was to address himself to the heads and judgments of his audience, on the acuteness of which they piqued themselves; not to their feelings, stupified, probably, by selfish dissipation. Even the acquisition and exercise of critical knowledge tends to blunt the sense of natural beauties, as a refined harmonist becomes indifferent to the strains of simple melody. Hence the sacrifices which Shakespeare made, without being aware, to the taste of his age, were amply compensated by his being called upon, and, as it were, compelled, by the nature of his audience, to rouse them with his thunder, and to melt them with his dew. I question much if the age of Charles II. would have borne the introduction of Othello or Falstaff. We may find something like Dryden's self-complacent opinion expressed by the editor of Corneille, where he civilly admits, "Corneille etoit inegal comme Shakespeare, et plein de genie comme lui: mais le genie de Corneille etoit a celui de Shakespeare ce qu' un seigneur est a l'egard d'un homme de peuple, né avec le meme esprit que lui." In other words, the works of the one retain the rough, bold tints of nature and originality, while those of the other are qualified by the artificial restraints which fashion imposes upon the homme de condition. It is, therefore, unjustly, that Dryden dwells so long on Shakespeare's irregularities, amongst which I cannot help suspecting he includes some of his greatest beauties. While we do not defend his quibbles and carwitchets, as Bibber would have termed them, we may rejoice that he purchased, at so slight a sacrifice, the power and privilege of launching into every subject with a liberty as unbounded as his genius;
As there is music, uninformed by art,
In those wild notes, which, with a merry heart,
The birds in unfrequented shades express,
Which better taught at home, yet please us less.
—Quicquid sum ego, quamvis Horat. Serm. |
Marriage a-la-mode was one of Dryden's most successful comedies. A venerable praiser of the past time, in a curious letter printed in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1745, gives us this account of its first representation. "This comedy, acted by his Majesty's servants at the Theatre-Royal, made its first appearance with extraordinary lustre. Divesting myself of the old man, I solemnly declare, that you have seen no such acting, no, not in any degree since. The players were then, 1673, on a court establishment, seventeen men, and eight women." Gent. Mag. Vol. xv. p. 99. From a copy of verses, to which this letter is annexed, we learn the excellence of the various performers by whom the piece was first presented. They are addressed to a young actress.
Henceforth, in livelier characters excel,
Though 'tis great merit to act folly well;
Take, take from Dryden's hand Melantha's part,
The gaudy effort of luxuriant art,
In all imagination's glitter drest;
What from her lips fantastic Montfort caught,
And almost moved the thing the poet thought.
These scenes, the glory of a comic age,
(It decency could blanch each sullied page)
Peruse, admire, and give unto the stage;
Or thou, or beauteous Woffington, display
What Dryden's self, with pleasure, might survey.
Even he, before whose visionary eyes,
Melantha, robed in ever-varying dies,
Gay fancy's work, appears, actor renowned.
Like Roscius, with theatric laurels crowned,
Cibber will smile applause, and think again
Of Harte, and Mohun, and all the female train,
Coxe, Marshal, Dryden's Reeve, Bet Slade, and Charles's reign.
Mrs Monfort, who, by her second marriage, became Mrs Verbruggen, was the first who appeared in the highly popular part of Melantha, and the action and character appear to have been held incomparable by that unquestionable judge of the humour of a coquette, or coxcomb, the illustrious Colley Cibber. "Melantha" says Cibber, "is as finished an impertinent as ever fluttered in a drawing-room; and seems to contain the most complete system of female foppery that could possibly be crowded into the tortured form of a fine lady. Her language, dress, motion, manners, soul, and body, are in a continual hurry to be something more than is necessary or commendable. And, though I doubt it will be a vain labour to offer you a just likeness of Mrs Monfort's action, yet the fantastic expression is still so strong in my memory, that I cannot help saying something, though fantastically, about it. The first ridiculous airs, that break from her, are upon a gallant never seen before, who delivers her a letter from her father, recommending him to her good graces as an honourable lover. Here, now, one would think she might naturally shew a little of the sex's decent reserve, though never so slightly covered. No, sir, not a tittle of it: Modesty is a poor-souled country gentlewoman; she is too much a court lady to be under so vulgar a confusion. She reads the letter, therefore, with a careless dropping lip, and an erected brow, humming it hastily over, as if she were impatient to outgo her father's commands, by making a complete conquest of him at once; and, that the letter might not embarrass the attack, crack! she crumbles it at once into her palm, and pours down upon him her whole artillery of airs, eyes, and motion; down goes her dainty diving body to the ground, as it she were sinking under the conscious load of her own attractions; then launches into a flood of fine language and compliment, still playing her chest forward in fifty falls and risings, like a swan upon waving water; and, to complete her impertinence, she is so rapidly fond of her own wit, that she will not give her lover leave to praise it. Silent assenting bows, and vain endeavours to speak, are all the share of the conversation he is admitted to, which, at last, he is removed from by her engagement to half a score of visits, which she swims from him to make, with a promise to return in a twinkling." Cibber's Apology, p. 99.
By this lively sketch, some judgment may be formed of the effect produced by the character of Melantha, when ably represented; but, to say the truth, we could hardly have drawn the same deduction from a simple perusal of the piece. Of the French phrases, which the affected lady throws into her conversation, some have been since naturalized, as good graces, minuet, chagrin, grimace, ridicule, and others. Little can be said of the tragic part of the drama. The sudden turn of fortune in the conclusion is ridiculed in "The Rehearsal."
The researches of Mr Malone have ascertained that "Marriage A-la-Mode" was first acted in 1673, in an old theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, occupied by the King's company, after that in Drury-Lane had been burned, and during its re-building. The play was printed in the same year.
My Lord,
I humbly dedicate to your Lordship that poem, of which you were pleased to appear an early patron, before it was acted on the stage. I may yet go farther, with your permission, and say, that it received amendment from your noble hands ere it was fit to be presented. You may please likewise to remember, with how much favour to the author, and indulgence to the play, you commended it to the view of his Majesty, then at Windsor, and, by his approbation of it in writing, made way for its kind reception on the theatre. In this dedication, therefore, I may seem to imitate a custom of the ancients, who offered to their gods the firstlings of the flock, (which, I think, they called Ver sacrum) because they helped them to increase. I am sure, if there be any thing in this play, wherein I have raised myself beyond the ordinary lowness of my comedies, I ought wholly to acknowledge it to the favour of being admitted into your lordship's conversation. And not only I, who pretend not to this way, but the best comic writers of our age, will join with me to acknowledge, that they have copied the gallantries of courts, the delicacy of expression, and the decencies of behaviour, from your lordship, with more success, than if they had taken their models from the court of France. But this, my lord, will be no wonder to the world, which knows the excellency of your natural parts, and those you have acquired in a noble education. That which, with more reason, I admire, is that being so absolute a courtier, you have not forgot either the ties of friendship, or the practice of generosity. In my little experience of a court, (which, I confess, I desire not to improve) I have found in it much of interest, and more of detraction: Few men there have that assurance of a friend, as not to be made ridiculous by him when they are absent. There are a middling sort of courtiers, who become happy by their want of wit; but they supply that want by an excess of malice to those who have it. And there is no such persecution as that of fools: They can never be considerable enough to be talked of themselves; so that they are safe only in their obscurity, and grow mischievous to witty men, by the great diligence of their envy, and by being always present to represent and aggravate their faults. In the mean time, they are forced, when they endeavour to be pleasant, to live on the offals of their wit whom they decry; and either to quote it, (which they do unwillingly) or to pass it upon others for their own. These are the men who make it their business to chace wit from the knowledge of princes, lest it should disgrace their ignorance. And this kind of malice your lordship has not so much avoided, as surmounted. But if by the excellent temper of a royal master, always more ready to hear good than ill; if by his inclination to love you; if by your own merit and address; if by the charms of your conversation, the grace of your behaviour, your knowledge of greatness, and habitude in courts, you have been able to preserve yourself with honour in the midst of so dangerous a course; yet at least the remembrance of those hazards has inspired you with pity for other men, who, being of an inferior wit and quality to you, are yet persecuted, for being that in little, which your lordship is in great[2]. For the quarrel of those people extends itself to any thing of sense; and if I may be so vain to own it, amongst the rest of the poets, has sometimes reached to the very borders of it, even to me. So that, if our general good fortune had not raised up your lordship to defend us, I know not whether any thing had been more ridiculous in court than writers. It is to your lordship's favour we generally owe our protection and patronage; and to the nobleness of your nature, which will not suffer the least shadow of your wit to be contemned in other men. You have been often pleased, not only to excuse my imperfections, but to vindicate what was tolerable in my writings from their censures; and, what I never can forget, you have not only been careful of my reputation, but of my fortune. You have been solicitous to supply my neglect of myself; and to overcome the fatal modesty of poets, which submits them to perpetual wants, rather than to become importunate with those people who have the liberality of kings in their disposing, and who, dishonouring the bounty of their master, suffer such to be in necessity who endeavour at least to please him; and for whose entertainment he has generously provided, if the fruits of his royal favour were not often stopped in other hands. But your lordship has given me occasion, not to complain of courts whilst you are there. I have found the effects of your mediation in all my concernments; and they were so much the more noble in you, because they were wholly voluntary. I, became your lordship's, (if I may venture on the similitude) as the world was made, without knowing him who made it; and brought only a passive obedience to be your creature. This nobleness of yours I think myself the rather obliged to own, because otherwise it must have been lost to all remembrance: For you are endowed with that excellent quality of a frank nature, to forget the good which you have done.
But, my lord, I ought to have considered, that you are as great a judge, as you are a patron; and that in praising you ill, I should incur a higher note of ingratitude, than that I thought to have avoided. I stand in need of all your accustomed goodness for the dedication of this play; which, though perhaps it be the best of my comedies, is yet so faulty, that I should have feared you for my critic, if I had not, with some policy, given you the trouble of being my protector. Wit seems to have lodged itself more nobly in this age, than in any of the former; and people of my mean condition are only writers, because some of the nobility, and your lordship in the first place, are above the narrow praises which poesy could give you. But, let those who love to see themselves exceeded, encourage your lordship in so dangerous a quality; for my own part, I must confess, that I have so much of self-interest, as to be content with reading some papers of your verses, without desiring you should proceed to a scene, or play; with the common prudence of those who are worsted in a duel, and declare they are satisfied, when they are first wounded. Your lordship has but another step to make, and from the patron of wit, you may become its tyrant; and oppress our little reputations with more ease than you now protect them. But these, my lord, are designs, which I am sure you harbour not, any more than the French king is contriving the conquest of the Swissers. It is a barren triumph, which is not worth your pains; and would only rank him amongst your slaves, who is already,
My Lord,
Your Lordship's most obedient,
And most faithful servant,
John Dryden.
Footnotes:
Chaste, pious, prudent, Charles the Second,
The miracle of thy Restoration
May like to that of quails be reckoned,
Rained on the Israelitish nation;
The wished-for blessing, from heaven sent,
Became their curse and punishment.
For this satiric effusion the author was banished from the court.
Lord, how reformed and quiet are we grown,
Since all our braves and all our wits are gone!
Fop-corner now is free from civil war,
White-wig and vizard make no longer jar.
France, and the fleet, have swept the town so clear,
That we can act in peace, and you can hear.
'Twas a sad sight, before they marched from home,
To see our warriors in red waistcoats come,
With hair tucked up, into our tireing-room.
But 'twas more sad to hear their last adieu:
The women sobbed, and swore they would be true;
And so they were, as long as e'er they could,
But powerful guinea cannot be withstood,
And they were made of play-house flesh and blood.
Fate did their friends for double use ordain;
In wars abroad they grinning honour gain,
And mistresses, for all that stay, maintain.
Now they are gone, 'tis dead vacation here,
For neither friends nor enemies appear.
Poor pensive punk now peeps ere plays begin,
Sees the bare bench, and dares not venture in;
But manages her last half-crown with care,
And trudges to the Mall, on foot, for air.
Our city friends so far will hardly come,
They can take up with pleasures nearer home;
And see gay shows, and gaudy scenes elsewhere;
For we presume they seldom come to hear.
But they have now ta'en up a glorious trade,
And cutting Morecraft[1] struts in masquerade.
There's all our hope, for we shall shew to-day
A masking ball, to recommend our play;
Nay, to endear them more, and let them see
We scorn to come behind in courtesy,
We'll follow the new mode which they begin,
And treat them with a room, and couch within:
For that's one way, howe'er the play fall short,
To oblige the town, the city, and the court.
Footnote:
Polydamas, Usurper of Sicily.
Leonidas, the rightful Prince, unknown.
Argaleon, favourite to Polydamas.
Hermogenes, foster-father to Leonidas.
Eubulus, his friend and companion.
Rhodophil, captain of the guards.
Palamede, a courtier.
Palmyra, daughter to the Usurper.
Amalthea, sister to Argaleon.
Doralice, wife to Rhodophil.
Melantha, an affected lady.
Philotis, woman to Melantha.
Beliza, woman to Doralice.
Artemis, a court lady.
SCENE,—Sicily.
Enter Doralice and Beliza.
Dor. Beliza, bring the lute into this arbour; the
walks are empty: I would try the song the princess
Amalthea bade me learn.
[They go in, and sing.
Why should a foolish marriage vow,
Which long ago was made,
Oblige us to each other now,
When passion is decayed?
We loved, and we loved, as long as we could,
'Till our love was loved out in us both;
But our marriage is dead, when the pleasure is fled:
'Twas pleasure first made it an oath.
If I have pleasures for a friend,
And further love in store,
What wrong has he, whose joys did end,
And who could give no more?
'Tis a madness that he
Should be jealous of me,
Or that I should bar him of another:
For all we can gain,
Is to give ourselves pain,
When neither can hinder the other.
Enter Palamede, in a riding-habit, and hears the Song. Re-enter Doralice and Beliza.
Bel. Madam, a stranger.
Dor. I did not think to have had witnesses of my bad singing.
Pala. If I have erred, madam, I hope you'll pardon the curiosity of a stranger; for I may well call myself so, after five years absence from the court: but you have freed me from one error.
Dor. What's that, I beseech you?
Pala. I thought good voices, and ill faces, had been inseparable; and that to be fair, and sing well, had been only the privilege of angels.
Dor. And how many more of these fine things can you say to me?
Pala. Very few, madam; for if I should continue to see you some hours longer, you look so killingly that I should be mute with wonder.
Dor. This will not give you the reputation of a wit with me. You travelling monsieurs live upon the stock you have got abroad, for the first day or two: to repeat with a good memory, and apply with a good grace, is all your wit; and, commonly, your gullets are sewed up, like cormorants. When you have regorged what you have taken in, you are the leanest things in nature.
Pala. Then, madam, I think you had best make that use of me; let me wait on you for two or three days together, and you shall hear all I have learnt of extraordinary in other countries; and one thing which I never saw 'till I came home, that is, a lady of a better voice, better face, and better wit, than any I have seen abroad. And, after this, if I should not declare myself most passionately in love with you, I should have less wit than yet you think I have.
Dor. A very plain, and pithy declaration. I see, sir, you have been travelling in Spain or Italy, or some of the hot countries, where men come to the point immediately. But are you sure these are not words of course? For I would not give my poor heart an occasion of complaint against me, that I engaged it too rashly, and then could not bring it off.
Pala. Your heart may trust itself with me safely; I shall use it very civilly while it stays, and never turn it away, without fair warning to provide for itself.
Dor. First, then, I do receive your passion with as little consideration, on my part, as ever you gave it me, on yours. And now, see what a miserable wretch you have made yourself!
Pala. Who, I miserable? Thank you for that. Give me love enough, and life enough, and I defy Fortune.
Dor. Know, then, thou man of vain imagination, know, to thy utter confusion, that I am virtuous.
Pala. Such another word, and I give up the ghost.
Dor. Then, to strike you quite dead, know that I am married too.
Pala. Art thou married? O thou damnable virtuous woman!
Dor. Yes, married to a gentleman; young, handsome rich, valiant, and with all the good qualities that will make you despair, and hang yourself.
Pala. Well, in spite of all that, I'll love you: Fortune has cut us out for one another; for I am to be married within these three days; married, past redemption to a young, fair, rich, and virtuous lady; and it shall go hard but I will love my wife as little, as, I perceive, you do your husband.
Dor. Remember, I invade no propriety: my servant you are, only 'till you are married.
Pala. In the meantime, you are to forget you have a husband.
Dor. And you, that you are to have a wife.
Bel. [aside, to her Lady.] O madam, my lord's just at the end of the walks! and, if you make not haste, will discover you.
Dor. Some other time, new servant, we'll talk further of the premises; in the mean while, break not my first commandment, that is, not to follow me.
Pala. But where, then, shall I find you again?
Dor. At court. Yours, for two days, sir.
Pala. And nights, I beseech you, madam. [Exeunt Doralice and Beliz.
Pala. Well, I'll say that for thee, thou art a very dexterous executioner; thou hast done my business at one stroke: yet I must marry another—and yet I must love this; and if it lead me into some little inconveniencies, as jealousies, and duels, and death, and so forth—yet, while sweet love is in the case, Fortune, do thy worst, and avaunt, mortality!
Enter Rhodophil, who seems speaking to one within.
Rho. Leave 'em with my lieutenant, while I fetch
new orders from the king.—How? Palamede!
[Sees Palamede.
Pala. Rhodophil!
Rho. Who thought to have seen you in Sicily?
Pala. Who thought to have found the court so far from Syracuse?
Rho. The king best knows the reason of the progress. But, answer me, I beseech you, what brought you home from travel?
Pala. The commands of an old rich father.
Rho. And the hopes of burying him?
Pala. Both together, as you see, have prevailed on my good nature. In few words, my old man has already married me; for he has agreed with another old man, as rich and as covetous as himself; the articles are drawn, and I have given my consent, for fear of being disinherited; and yet know not what kind of woman I am to marry.
Rho. Sure your father intends you some very ugly wife, and has a mind to keep you in ignorance till you have shot the gulf.
Pala. I know not that; but obey I will, and must.
Rho. Then I cannot chuse but grieve for all the good girls and courtezans of France and Italy. They have lost the most kind-hearted, doting, prodigal humble servant, in Europe.
Pala. All I could do, in these three years I staid behind you, was to comfort the poor creatures for the loss of you. But what's the reason that, in all this time, a friend could never hear from you?
Rho. Alas, dear Palamede! I have had no joy to write, nor indeed to do any thing in the world to please me. The greatest misfortune imaginable is fallen upon me.
Pala. Pr'ythee, what's the matter?
Rho. In one word, I am married: wretchedly married; and have been above these two years. Yes, faith, the devil has had power over me, in spite of my vows and resolutions to the contrary.
Pala. I find you have sold yourself for filthy lucre; she's old, or ill conditioned.
Rho. No; none of these: I'm sure she's young; and, for her humour, she laughs, sings, and dances eternally; and, which is more, we never quarrel about it, for I do the same.
Pala. You're very unfortunate indeed: then the case is plain, she is not handsome.
Rho. A great beauty too, as people say.
Pala. As people say? why, you should know that best yourself.
Rho. Ask those, who have smelt to a strong perfume two years together, what's the scent.
Pala. But here are good qualities enough for one woman.
Rho. Ay, too many, Palamede. If I could put them into three or four women, I should be content.
Pala. O, now I have found it! you dislike her for no other reason but because she's your wife.
Rho. And is not that enough? All that I know of her perfections now, is only by memory. I remember indeed, that about two years ago I loved her passionately; but those golden days are gone, Palamede: Yet I loved her a whole half year, double the natural term of any mistress; and I think, in my conscience, I could have held out another quarter, but then the world began to laugh at me, and a certain shame, of being out of fashion, seized me. At last, we arrived at that point, that there was nothing left in us to make us new to one another. Yet still I set a good face upon the matter, and am infinite fond of her before company; but when we are alone, we walk like lions in a room; she one way, and I another. And we lie with our backs to each other, so far distant, as if the fashion of great beds was only invented to keep husband and wife sufficiently asunder.
Pala. The truth is, your disease is very desperate; but, though you cannot be cured you may be patched up a little: you must get you a mistress, Rhodophil. That, indeed, is living upon cordials; but, as fast as one fails, you must supply it with another. You're like a gamester who has lost his estate; yet, in doing that, you have learned the advantages of play, and can arrive to live upon't.
Rho. Truth is, I have been thinking on't, and have just resolved to take your counsel; and, faith, considering the damned disadvantages of a married man, I have provided well enough, for a poor humble sinner, that is not ambitious of great matters.
Pala. What is she, for a woman?
Rho. One of the stars of Syracuse, I assure you: Young enough, fair enough; and, but for one quality, just such a woman as I could wish.
Pala. O friend, this is not an age to be critical in beauty. When we had good store of handsome women, and but few chapmen, you might have been more curious in your choice; but now the price is enhanced upon us, and all mankind set up for mistresses, so that poor little creatures, without beauty, birth, or breeding, but only impudence, go off at unreasonable rates: And a man, in these hard times, snaps at them, as he does at broad gold; never examines the weight, but takes light or heavy, as he can get it.
Rho. But my mistress has one fault, that's almost unpardonable; for, being a town-lady, without any relation to the court, yet she thinks herself undone if she be not seen there three or four times a day with the princess Amalthea. And, for the king, she haunts and watches him so narrowly in a morning, that she prevents even the chemists, who beset his chamber, to turn their mercury into his gold.
Pala. Yet, hitherto, methinks, you are no very unhappy man.
Rho. With all this, she's the greatest gossip in nature; for, besides the court, she's the most eternal visitor of the town; and yet manages her time so well, that she seems ubiquitary. For my part, I can compare her to nothing but the sun; for, like him, she takes no rest, nor ever sets in one place, but to rise in another.
Pala. I confess, she had need be handsome, with these qualities.
Rho. No lady can be so curious of a new fashion, as she is of a new French word: she's the very mint of the nation; and as fast as any bullion comes out of France, coins it immediately into our language.
Pala. And her name is—
Rho. No naming; that's not like a cavalier: Find her, if you can, by my description; and I am not so ill a painter that I need write the name beneath the picture.
Pala. Well, then, how far have you proceeded in your love?
Rho. 'Tis yet in the bud, and what fruit it may bear I cannot tell; for this insufferable humour, of haunting the court, is so predominant, that she has hitherto broken all her assignations with me, for fear of missing her visits there.
Pala. That's the hardest part of your adventure. But, for aught I see, fortune has used us both alike: I have a strange kind of mistress too in court, besides her I am to marry.
Rho. You have made haste to be in love, then; for, if I am not mistaken, you are but this day arrived.
Pala. That's all one: I have seen the lady already, who has charmed me; seen her in these walks, courted her, and received, for the first time, an answer that does not put me into despair.
To them Argaleon, Amalthea, and Artemis.
I'll tell you more at leisure my adventures. The walks fill apace, I see. Stay, is not that the young lord Argaleon, the king's favourite?
Rho. Yes, and as proud as ever, as ambitious, and as revengeful.
Pala. How keeps he the king's favour with these qualities?
Rho. Argaleon's father helped him to the crown: besides, he gilds over all his vices to the king, and, standing in the dark to him, sees all his inclinations, interests, and humours, which he so times and soothes, that, in effect, he reigns.
Pala. His sister Amalthea, who, I guess, stands by him, seems not to be of his temper.
Rho. O, she's all goodness and generosity.
Arga. Rhodophil, the king expects you earnestly.
Rho. 'Tis done, my lord, what he commanded: I only waited his return from hunting. Shall I attend your lordship to him?
Arga. No; I go first another way. [Exit hastily.
Pala. He seems in haste, and discomposed.
Amal. [to Rhod. after a short whisper.] Your friend? then he must needs be of much merit.
Rho. When he has kissed the king's hand, I
know he'll beg the honour to kiss yours. Come,
Palamede.
[Exeunt Rhodo. and Pala. bowing to
Amal.
Arte. Madam, you tell me most surprising news.
Amal. The fear of it, you see,
Has discomposed my brother; but to me,
All, that can bring my country good, is welcome.
Arte. It seems incredible, that this old king,
Whom all the world thought childless,
Should come to search the farthest parts of Sicily,
In hope to find an heir.
Amal. To lessen your astonishment, I will
Unfold some private passages of state,
Of which you are yet ignorant: Know, first,
That this Polydamus, who reigns, unjustly
Gained the crown.
Arte. Somewhat of this I have confusedly heard.
Amal. I'll tell you all in brief: Theagenes,
Our last great king,
Had, by his queen, one only son, an infant
Of three years old, called, after him, Theagenes.
The general, this Polydamus, then married;
The public feasts for which were scarcely past,
When a rebellion in the heart of Sicily
Called out the king to arms.
Arte. Polydamus
Had then a just excuse to stay behind.
Amal. His temper was too warlike to accept it.
He left his bride, and the new joys of marriage,
And followed to the field. In short, they fought,
The rebels were o'ercome; but in the fight
The too bold king received a mortal wound.
When he perceived his end approaching near,
He called the general, to whose care he left
His widow queen, and orphan son; then died.
Arte. Then false Polydamus betrayed his trust?
Amal. He did; and, with my father's help,—for which
Heaven pardon him!—so gained their soldiers' hearts,
That, in a few days, he was saluted king:
And when his crimes had impudence enough
To bear the eye of day,
He marched his army back to Syracuse.
But see how heaven can punish wicked men,
In granting their desires: The news was brought him,
That day he was to enter it, that Eubulus,
Whom his dead master had left governor,
Was fled, and with him bore away the queen,
And royal orphan; but, what more amazed him,
His wife, now big with child, and much detesting
Her husband's practices, had willingly
Accompanied their flight.
Arte. How I admire her virtue!
Amal. What became
Of her, and them, since that, was never known;
Only, some few days since, a famous robber
Was taken with some jewels of vast price,
Which, when they were delivered to the king,
He knew had been his wife's; with these, a letter,
Much torn and sullied, but which yet he knew
To be her writing.
Arte. Sure, from hence he learned
He had a son?
Amal. It was not left so plain:
The paper only said, she died in child-bed;
But when it should have mentioned son or daughter,
Just there it was torn off.
Arte. Madam, the king.
To them Polydamus, Argaleon, Guard and Attendants.
Arga. The robber, though thrice racked, confessed no more.
But that he took those jewels near this place.
Poly. But yet the circumstances strongly argue,
That those, for whom I search, are not far off.
Arga. I cannot easily believe it.
Arte. No,
You would not have it so. [Aside.
Poly. Those, I employed, have in the neighbouring hamlet,
Amongst the fishers' cabins, made discovery
Of some young persons, whose uncommon beauty,
And graceful carriage, make it seem suspicious
They are not what they seem: I therefore sent
The captain of my guards, this morning early,
With orders to secure and bring them to me.
Enter Rhodophil and Palamede.
O, here he is.—Have you performed my will?
Rho. Sir, those, whom you commanded me to bring,
Are waiting in the walks.
Poly. Conduct them hither.
Rho. First, give me leave
To beg your notice of this gentleman.
Poly. He seems to merit it. His name and quality?
Rho. Palamede, son to lord Cleodemus of Palermo,
And new returned from travel.
[Palamede approaches, and kneels to kiss the
Kings hand.
Poly. You are welcome.
I knew your father well, he was both brave
And honest; we two once were fellow soldiers
In the last civil wars.
Pala. I bring the same unquestion'd honesty
And zeal to serve your majesty; the courage
You were pleased to praise in him,
Your royal prudence, and your people's love,
Will never give me leave to try, like him,
In civil wars; I hope it may in foreign.
Poly. Attend the court, and it shall be my care
To find out some employment, worthy you.
Go, Rhodophil, and bring in those without.
[Exeunt Rho. and Pala.
Rhodophil returns again immediately, and with him enter Hermogenes, Leonidas, and Palmyra.
Behold two miracles!
[Looking earnestly on Leon. and Palmyra.
Of different sexes, but of equal form:
So matchless both, that my divided soul
Can scarcely ask the gods a son or daughter,
For fear of losing one. If from your hands,
You powers, I shall this day receive a daughter,
Argaleon, she is yours; but, if a son,
Then Amalthea's love shall make him happy.
Arga. Grant, heaven, this admirable nymph may prove
That issue, which he seeks!
Amal. Venus Urania, if thou art a goddess,
Grant that sweet youth may prove the prince of Sicily!
Poly. Tell me, old man, and tell me true, from whence
[To Herm.
Had you that youth and maid?
Her. From whence you had
Your sceptre, sir: I had them from the gods.
Poly. The gods then have not such another gift.
Say who their parents were.
Her. My wife, and I.
Arga. It is not likely, a virgin, of so excellent a beauty,
Should come from such a stock.
Amal. Much less, that such a youth, so sweet, so graceful,
Should be produced from peasants.
Her. Why, nature is the same in villages,
And much more fit to form a noble issue,
Where it is least corrupted.
Poly. He talks too like a man that knew the world,
To have been long a peasant. But the rack
Will teach him other language. Hence with him!
[As the Guards are carrying him away, his peruke
falls off.
Sure I have seen that face before. Hermogenes!
'Tis he, 'tis he, who fled away with Eubulus,
And with my dear Eudoxia.
Her. Yes, sir, I am Hermogenes;
And if to have been loyal be a crime,
I stand prepared to suffer.
Poly. If thou would'st live, speak quickly,
What is become of my Eudoxia?
Where is the queen and young Theagenes?
Where Eubulus? and which of these is mine?
[Pointing to Leon. and Palm.
Her. Eudoxia is dead, so is the queen,
The infant king, her son, and Eubulus.
Poly. Traitor, 'tis false: Produce them, or—
Her. Once more
I tell you, they are dead; but leave to threaten,
For you shall know no further.
Poly. Then prove indulgent to my hopes, and be
My friend for ever. Tell me, good Hermogenes,
Whose son is that brave youth?
Her. Sir, he is yours.
Poly. Fool that I am! thou see'st that so I wish it,
And so thou flatter'st me.
Her. By all that's holy!
Poly. Again. Thou canst not swear too deeply.—
Yet hold, I will believe thee:—Yet I doubt.
Her. You need not, sir.
Arga. Believe him not; he sees you credulous,
And would impose his own base issue on you,
And fix it to your crown.
Amal. Behold his goodly shape and feature, sir;
Methinks he much resembles you.
Arga. I say, if you have any issue here,
It must be that fair creature;
By all my hopes I think so.
Amal. Yes, brother, I believe you by your hopes,
For they are all for her.
Poly. Call the youth nearer.
Her. Leonidas, the king would speak with you.
Poly. Come near, and be not dazzled with the splendour,
And greatness of a court.
Leon. I need not this encouragement;
I can fear nothing but the gods.
And, for this glory, after I have seen
The canopy of state spread wide above
In the abyss of heaven, the court of stars,
The blushing morning, and the rising sun,
What greater can I see?
Poly. This speaks thee born a prince; thou art, thyself,
[Embracing him.
That rising sun, and shalt not see, on earth,
A brighter than thyself. All of you witness,
That for my son I here receive this youth,
This brave, this—but I must not praise him further,
Because he now is mine.
Leon. I wo'not, sir, believe [Kneeling.
That I am made your sport;
For I find nothing in myself, but what
Is much above a scorn. I dare give credit
To whatsoe'er a king, like you, can tell me.
Either I am, or will deserve to be, your son.
Arga. I yet maintain it is impossible
This young man should be yours; for, if he were,
Why should Hermogenes so long conceal him,
When he might gain so much by his discovery?
Her. I staid a while to make him worthy, sir,
Of you. [To the King.
But in that time I found
Somewhat within him, which so moved my love,
I never could resolve to part with him.
Leon. You ask too many questions, and are [To Arga.
Too saucy for a subject.
Arga. You rather over-act your part, and are
Too soon a prince.
Leon. Too soon you'll find me one.
Poly. Enough, Argaleon!
I have declared him mine; and you, Leonidas,
Live well with him I love.
Arga. Sir, if he be your son, I may have leave
To think your queen had twins. Look on this virgin;
Hermogenes would enviously deprive you
Of half your treasure.
Her. Sir, she is my daughter.
I could, perhaps, thus aided by this lord,
Prefer her to be yours; but truth forbid
I should procure her greatness by a lie!
Poly. Come hither, beauteous maid: Are you not sorry
Your father will not let you pass for mine?
Palm. I am content to be what heaven has made me.
Poly. Could you not wish yourself a princess then?
Palm. Not to be sister to Leonidas.
Poly. Why, my sweet maid?
Palm. Indeed I cannot tell;
But I could be content to be his handmaid.
Arga. I wish I had not seen her. [Aside.
Palm. I must weep for your good fortune; [To Leon.
Pray, pardon me, indeed I cannot help it.
Leonidas,—alas! I had forgot,
Now I must call you prince,—but must I leave you?
Leon. I dare not speak to her; for, if I should,
I must weep too. [Aside.
Poly. No, you shall live at court, sweet innocence,
And see him there. Hermogenes,
Though you intended not to make me happy,
Yet you shall be rewarded for the event.
Come, my Leonidas, let's thank the gods;
Thou for a father, I for such a son.
[Exeunt all but Leon. and Palm.
Leon. My dear Palmyra, many eyes observe me,
And I have thoughts so tender, that I cannot
In public speak them to you: Some hours hence,
I shall shake off these crowds of fawning courtiers,
And then— [Exit Leon.
Palm. Fly swift, you hours! you measure time for me in vain,
'Till you bring back Leonidas again.
Be shorter now; and, to redeem that wrong,
When he and I are met, be twice as long! [Exit.
Enter Melantha and Philotis.
Phil. Count Rhodophil's a fine gentleman indeed, madam; and, I think, deserves your affection.
Mel. Let me die but he's a fine man; he sings and dances en François, and writes the billets doux to a miracle.
Phil. And those are no small talents, to a lady that understands, and values the French air, as your ladyship does.
Mel. How charming is the French air! and what an etourdi bête is one of our untravelled islanders! When he would make his court to me, let me die but he is just Æsop's ass, that would imitate the courtly French in his addresses; but, instead of those, comes pawing upon me, and doing all things so mal a droitly.
Phil. 'Tis great pity Rhodophil's a married man, that you may not have an honourable intrigue with him.
Mel. Intrigue, Philotis! that's an old phrase; I have laid that word by; amour sounds better. But thou art heir to all my cast words, as thou art to my old wardrobe. Oh, count Rhodophil! Ah mon cher! I could live and die with him.
Enter Palamede, and a Servant.
Serv. Sir, this is my lady.
Pala. Then this is she that is to be divine, and
nymph, and goddess, and with whom I am to be
desperately in love.
[Bows to her, delivering a letter.
This letter, madam, which I present you from your
father, has given me both the happy opportunity,
and the boldness, to kiss the fairest hands in Sicily.
Mel. Came you lately from Palermo, sir?
Pala. But yesterday, madam.
Mel. [Reading the letter.] Daughter, receive the bearer of this letter, as a gentleman whom I have chosen to make you happy. [O Venus, a new servant sent me! and let me die but he has the air of a gallant homme!] His father is the rich lord Cleodemus, our neighbour: I suppose you'll find nothing disagreeable in his person or his converse; both which he has improved by travel. The treaty is already concluded, and I shall be in town within these three days; so that you have nothing to do but to obey your careful father.
[To Pala.] Sir, my father, for whom I have a blind obedience, has commanded me to receive your passionate addresses; but you must also give me leave to avow, that I cannot merit them from so accomplished a cavalier.
Pala. I want many things, madam, to render me accomplished; and the first and greatest of them is your favour.
Mel. Let me die, Philotis, but this is extremely French; but yet Count Rhodophil—a gentleman, sir, that understands the grand monde so well, who has haunted the best conversations, and who, in short, has voyaged, may pretend to the good graces of a lady.
Pala. [Aside.] Hey-day! Grand monde! Conversation! voyaged! and good graces! I find my mistress is one of those that run mad in new French words.
Mel. I suppose, sir, you have made the tour of France; and, having seen all that's fine there, will make a considerable reformation in the rudeness of our court: For let me die, but an unfashioned, untravelled, mere Sicilian, is a bête; and has nothing in the world of an honnête homme.
Pala. I must confess, madam, that—
Mel. And what new minuets have you brought over with you? their minuets are to a miracle! and our Sicilian jiggs are so dull and sad to them!
Pala. For minuets, madam—
Mel. And what new plays are there in vogue? And who danced best in the last grand ballet? Come, sweet servant, you shall tell me all.
Pala. [aside.] Tell her all? Why, she asks all, and will hear nothing.—To answer in order, madam, to your demands—
Mel. I am thinking what a happy couple we shall be! For you shall keep up your correspondence abroad, and every thing that's new writ, in France, and fine, I mean all that's delicate, and bien tourné, we will have first.
Pala. But, madam, our fortune—
Mel. I understand you, sir; you'll leave that to me: For the menage of a family, I know it better than any lady in Sicily.
Pala. Alas, madam, we—
Mel. Then, we will never make visits together, nor see a play, but always apart; you shall be every day at the king's levee, and I at the queen's; and we will never meet, but in the drawing-room.
Phil. Madam, the new prince is just passed by the end of the walk.
Mel. The new prince, sayest thou? Adieu, dear
servant; I have not made my court to him these
two long hours. O, it is the sweetest prince! so
obligeant, charmant, ravissant, that—Well, I'll
make haste to kiss his hands, and then make half a
score visits more, and be with you again in a twinkling.
[Exit running, with Phil.
Pala. [solus.] Now heaven, of thy mercy, bless me from this tongue! it may keep the field against a whole army of lawyers, and that in their own language, French gibberish. It is true, in the day-time, it is tolerable, when a man has field room to run from it; but to be shut up in a bed with her, like two cocks in a pit, humanity cannot support it. I must kiss all night in my own defence, and hold her down, like a boy at cuffs, and give her the rising blow every time she begins to speak.
Enter Rhodophil.
But here comes Rhodophil. It is pretty odd that my mistress should so much resemble his: The same newsmonger, the same passionate lover of a court, the same—But, Basta, since I must marry her. I'll say nothing, because he shall not laugh at my misfortune.
Rho. Well, Palamede, how go the affairs of love? You have seen your mistress?
Pala. I have so.
Rho. And how, and how? has the old Cupid, your father, chosen well for you? is he a good woodman?
Pala. She's much handsomer than I could have imagined: In short, I love her, and will marry her.
Rho. Then you are quite off from your other mistress?
Pala. You are mistaken; I intend to love them both, as a reasonable man ought to do: For, since all women have their faults and imperfections, it is fit that one of them should help out the other.
Rho. This were a blessed doctrine, indeed, if our wives would hear it; but they are their own enemies: If they would suffer us but now and then to make excursions, the benefit of our variety would be theirs; instead of one continued, lazy, tired love, they would, in their turns, have twenty vigorous, fresh, and active lovers.
Pala. And I would ask any of them, whether a poor narrow brook, half dry the best part of the year, and running ever one way, be to be compared to a lusty stream, that has ebbs and flows?
Rho. Ay, or is half so profitable for navigation?
Enter Doralice, walking by, and reading.
Pala. Ods my life, Rhodophil, will you keep my counsel?
Rho. Yes: Where's the secret?
Pala. There it is: [Shewing Dor.] I may tell you, as my friend, sub sigillo, &c. this is that very lady, with whom I am in love.
Rho. By all that's virtuous, my wife! [Aside.
Pala. You look strangely: How do you like her? Is she not very handsome?
Rho. Sure he abuses me. [Aside.]—Why the devil do you ask my judgment?
Pala. You are so dogged now, you think no man's mistress handsome but your own. Come, you shall hear her talk too; she has wit, I assure you.
Rho. This is too much, Palamede. [Going back.
Pala. Pr'ythee do not hang back so: Of an old
tried lover, thou art the most bashful fellow!
[Pulling him forward.
Dor. Were you so near, and would not speak, dear husband? [Looking up.
Pala. Husband, quoth a! I have cut out a fine piece of work for myself. [Aside.
Rho. Pray, spouse, how long have you been acquainted with this gentleman?
Dor. Who? I acquainted with this stranger? To my best knowledge, I never saw him before.
Enter Melantha at the other end.
Pala. Thanks, fortune, thou hast helped me. [Aside.
Rho. Palamede, this must not pass so. I must know your mistress a little better.