My Lord,
When I first designed this play, I found, or thought I found, somewhat so moving in the serious part of it, and so pleasant in the comic, as might deserve a more than ordinary care in both; accordingly, I used the best of my endeavour, in the management of two plots, so very different from each other, that it was not perhaps the talent of every writer to have made them of a piece. Neither have I attempted other plays of the 374 same nature, in my opinion, with the same judgment, though with like success. And though many poets may suspect themselves for the fondness and partiality of parents to their youngest children, yet I hope I may stand exempted from this rule, because I know myself too well to be ever satisfied with my own conceptions, which have seldom reached to those ideas that I had within me; and consequently, I may presume to have liberty to judge when I write more or less pardonably, as an ordinary marksman may know certainly when he shoots less wide at what he aims. Besides, the care and pains I have bestowed on this, beyond my other tragi-comedies, may reasonably make the world conclude, that either I can do nothing tolerably, or that this poem is not much amiss. Few good pictures have been finished at one sitting; neither can a true just play, which is to bear the test of ages, be produced at a heat, or by the force of fancy, without the maturity of judgment. For my own part, I have both so just a diffidence of myself, and so great a reverence for my audience, that I dare venture nothing without a strict examination; and am as much ashamed to put a loose indigested play upon the public, as I should be to offer brass money in a payment; for though it should be taken, (as it is too often on the stage) yet it would be found in the second telling; and a judicious reader will discover, in his closet, that trashy stuff, whose glittering deceived him in the action. I have often heard the stationer sighing in his shop, and wishing for those hands to take off his melancholy bargain, which clapped its performance on the stage. In a playhouse, every thing contributes to impose upon the judgment; the lights, the scenes, the habits, and, above all, the grace of action, which is commonly the best where there is the most need of it, 375 surprise the audience, and cast a mist upon their understandings; not unlike the cunning of a juggler, who is always staring us in the face, and over-whelming us with gibberish, only that he may gain the opportunity of making the cleaner conveyance of his trick. But these false beauties of the stage are no more lasting than a rainbow; when the actor ceases to shine upon them, when he gilds them no longer with his reflection, they vanish in a twinkling. I have sometimes wondered, in the reading, what was become of those glaring colours which amazed me in "Bussy D'Amboys" upon the theatre; but when I had taken up what I supposed a fallen star, I found I had been cozened with a jelly[2]; nothing but a cold, dull mass, which glittered no longer than it was shooting; a dwarfish thought, dressed up in gigantic words, repetition in abundance, looseness of expression, and gross hyperboles; the sense of one line expanded prodigiously into ten; and, to sum up all, uncorrect English, and a hideous mingle of false poetry, and true nonsense; or, at best, a scantling of wit, which lay gasping for life, and groaning beneath a heap of rubbish. A famous modern poet used to sacrifice every year a Statius to Virgil's manes[3]; and I have indignation 376 enough to burn a D'AMBOIS annually, to the memory of Jonson[4]. But now, my lord, I am sensible, perhaps too late, that I have gone too far: for, I remember some verses of my own Maximin and Almanzor, which cry vengeance upon me for their extravagance, and which I wish heartily in the same fire with Statius and Chapman. All I can say for those passages, which are, I hope, not many, is, that I knew they were bad enough to please, even when I wrote them; but I repent of them amongst my sins; and, if any of their fellows intrude by chance into my present writings, I draw 377 a stroke over all those Dalilah's of the theatre; and am resolved I will settle myself no reputation by the applause of fools. It is not that I am mortified to all ambition, but I scorn as much to take it from half-witted judges, as I should to raise an estate by cheating of bubbles. Neither do I discommend the lofty style in tragedy, which is naturally pompous and magnificent; but nothing is truly sublime, that is not just and proper. If the antients had judged by the same measure, which a common reader takes, they had concluded Statius to have written higher than Virgil, for,
Quæ super-imposito moles geminata Colosso
378 carries a more thundering kind of sound, than
Tityre, tu patulæ recubans sub tegmine fagi:
yet Virgil had all the majesty of a lawful prince, and Statius only the blustering of a tyrant. But when men affect a virtue which they cannot easily reach, they fall into a vice, which bears the nearest resemblance to it. Thus, an injudicious poet, who aims at loftiness, runs easily into the swelling puffy style, because it looks like greatness. I remember, when I was a boy, I thought inimitable Spencer a mean poet, in comparison of Sylvester's "Dubartas," and was wrapt into an ecstasy when I read these lines:
Now, when the winter's keener breath began
To crystalize the Baltic ocean;
To glaze the lakes, to bridle up the floods,
And periwig with snow the bald-pate woods:—[5]
379 I am much deceived if this be not abominable fustian, that is, thoughts and words ill-sorted, and without the least relation to each other; yet I dare not answer for an audience, that they would not clap it on the stage: so little value there is to be given to the common cry, that nothing but madness can please madmen, and the poet must be of a piece with the spectators, to gain a reputation with them. But, as in a room, contrived for state, the height of the roof should bear a proportion to the area; so, in the heightenings of poetry, the strength and vehemence of figures should be suited to the occasion, the subject, and the persons. All beyond this is monstrous: it is out of nature, it is an excrescence, and not a living part of poetry. I had not said thus much, if some young gallants, who pretend to criticism, had not told me, that this tragi-comedy wanted the dignity of style; but, as a man, who is charged with a crime of which he thinks himself innocent, is apt to be too eager in his own defence; so, perhaps, I have vindicated my play with more partiality than I ought, or than such a trifle can deserve. Yet, whatever beauties it may want, it is free at least from the grossness of those faults I mentioned: what credit it has gained upon the stage, I value no farther than in reference to my profit, and the satisfaction I had, in seeing it represented with all the justness and gracefulness of action. But, as it is my interest to please my audience, so it is my ambition to be read: that I am sure is the more lasting and the nobler design: for the propriety of thoughts and words, which are the hidden beauties of a play, are but confusedly judged in the vehemence of action: all things are there beheld, as in a hasty motion, where the objects only glide before the eye, and disappear. The most discerning critic can judge no more of these 380 silent graces in the action, than he who rides post through an unknown country can distinguish the situation of places, and the nature of the soil. The purity of phrase, the clearness of conception and expression, the boldness maintained to majesty, the significancy and sound of words, not strained into bombast, but justly elevated; in short, those very words and thoughts, which cannot be changed, but for the worse, must of necessity escape our transient view upon the theatre; and yet, without all these, a play may take. For, if either the story move us, or the actor help the lameness of it with his performance, or now and then a glittering beam of wit or passion strike through the obscurity of the poem, any of these are sufficient to effect a present liking, but not to fix a lasting admiration; for nothing but truth can long continue; and time is the surest judge of truth. I am not vain enough to think that I have left no faults in this, which that touchstone will not discover; neither, indeed, is it possible to avoid them in a play of this nature. There are evidently two actions in it; but it will be clear to any judicious man, that with half the pains I could have raised a play from either of them; for this time I satisfied my humour, which was to tack two plays together; and to break a rule for the pleasure of variety. The truth is, the audience are grown weary of continued melancholy scenes; and I dare venture to prophecy, that few tragedies, except those in verse, shall succeed in this age, if they are not lightened with a course of mirth; for the feast is too dull and solemn without the fiddles. But how difficult a task this is, will soon be tried; for a several genius is required to either way; and, without both of them, a man, in my opinion, is but half a poet for the stage. Neither is it so trivial an undertaking, to make a 381 tragedy end happily; for it is more difficult to save, than it is to kill. The dagger and the cup of poison are always in a readiness; but to bring the action to the last extremity, and then by probable means to recover all, will require the art and judgement of a writer; and cost him many a pang in the performance.
And now, my lord, I must confess, that what I have written, looks more like a Preface, than a Dedication; and, truly, it was thus far my design, that I might entertain you with somewhat in my own art, which might be more worthy of a noble mind, than the stale exploded trick of fulsome panegyrics. It is difficult to write justly on any thing, but almost impossible in praise. I shall therefore wave so nice a subject; and only tell you, that, in recommending a protestant play to a protestant patron, as I do myself an honour, so I do your noble family a right, who have been always eminent in the support and favour of our religion and liberties. And if the promises of your youth, your education at home, and your experience abroad, deceive me not, the principles you have embraced are such, as will no way degenerate from your ancestors, but refresh their memory in the minds of all true Englishmen, and renew their lustre in your person; which, my lord, is not more the wish, than it is the constant expectation, of
Your lordship's
Most obedient, faithful servant,
John Dryden.
Footnotes:
Super imposito moles gemmata colosso.
Bussy. I'll sooth his plots, and strew my hate with smiles,
Till, all at once, the close mines of my heart
Rise at full state, and rush into his blood.
I'll bind his arm in silk, and rub his flesh,
To make the veine swell, that his soule may gush
Into some kennel, where it loves to lie;
And policy be flanked with policy.
Yet shall the feeling centre, where we meet.
Groan with the weight of my approaching feet.
I'll make the inspired threshold of his court
Sweat with the weather of my horrid steps,
Before I enter; yet, I will appear
Like calm securitie, befor a ruin.
A politician must, like lightning, melt
The very marrow, and not taint the skin;
His wayes must not be seen through, the superficies
Of the green centre must not taste his feet,
When hell is plowed up with the wounding tracts,
And all his harvest reap't by hellish facts.
Montsurry, when he discovers that the Friar had acted as confident
in the intrigue betwixt his lady and d'Ambois, thus elegantly
expresses the common idea of the world being turned upside
down.
Now, is it true, earth moves, and heaven stands still;
Even heaven itself must see and suffer ill.
The too huge bias of the world hath swayed
Her back-part upwards, and with that she braves
This hemisphere, that long her month hath mocked.
The gravity of her religious face,
Now grown too weighty with her sacrilege,
And here discerned sophisticate enough,
Turns to the antipodes, and all the forms
That here allusions have impressed in her,
Have eaten through her back, and now all see
How she is riveted with hypocrisie.
Yet, I observe, from the prologue to the edition of 1641, that
the part of D'Ambois was considered as a high test of a players'
talents:
—Field is gone,
Whose action first did give it name; and one
Who came the neatest to him, is denied,
By his grey beard, to shew the height and pride
Of d'Ambois' youth and braverie. Yet to hold
Our title still a-foot, and not grow cold,
By giving't o'er, a third man with his best
Of care and paines defends our interest.
As Richard he was liked, nor do we fear,
In personating d'Ambois, heile appear
To faint, or goe lesse, so your free consent,
As heretofore, give him encouragement.
I believe the successor of Field, in this once favourite character, was Hart. The piece was revived after the Restoration with great success.
Now, luck for us, and a kind hearty pit;
For he, who pleases, never fails of wit:
Honour is yours;
And you, like kings at city-treats, bestow it;
The writer kneels, and is bid rise a poet;
But you are fickle sovereigns, to our sorrow;
You dub to-day, and hang a man to-morrow:
You cry the same sense up, and down again,
Just like brass-money once a year in Spain:
Take you in the mood, whate'er base metal come,
You coin as fast as groats at Birmingham:
Though 'tis no more like sense, in antient plays,
Than Rome's religion like St Peter's days.
In short, so swift your judgments turn and wind,
You cast our fleetest wits a mile behind.
'Twere well your judgments but in plays did range,
But e'en your follies and debauches change
With such a whirl, the poets of our age
Are tired, and cannot score them on the stage;
Unless each vice in short-hand they indict,
Even as notch'd prentices whole sermons write[1].
The heavy Hollanders no vices know,
But what they used a hundred years ago;
Like honest plants, where they were stuck, they grow.
They cheat, but still from cheating sires they come;
They drink, but they were christened first in mum.
Their patrimonial sloth the Spaniards keep,
And Philip first taught Philip how to sleep.
The French and we still change; but here's the curse,
They change for better, and we change for worse;
They take up our old trade of conquering,
And we are taking theirs, to dance and sing:
Our fathers did, for change, to France repair,
And they, for change, will try our English air;
383 As children, when they throw one toy away,
Strait a more foolish gewgaw comes in play:
So we, grown penitent, on serious thinking,
Leave whoring, and devoutly fall to drinking.
Scowering the watch grows out-of-fashion wit:
Now we set up for tilting in the pit,
Where 'tis agreed by bullies chicken-hearted,
To fright the ladies first, and then be parted.
A fair attempt has twice or thrice been made,
To hire night murderers, and make death a trade[2].
When murder's out, what vice can we advance?
Unless the new-found poisoning trick of France:
And, when their art of rats-bane we have got,
By way of thanks, we'll send them o'er our plot.
Footnotes:
Torrismond, Son of Sancho, the deposed King, believing
himself Son of Raymond.
Bertran, a Prince of the blood.
Alphonso, a general Officer, Brother to Raymond.
Lorenzo, his Son.
Raymond, a Nobleman, supposed Father of Torrismond.
Pedro, an Officer.
Gomez, an old Usurer.
Dominick, the Spanish Friar.
Leonora, Queen of Arragon.
Teresa, Woman to Leonora.
Elvira, Wife to Gomez.
THE
OR THE
Alphonso and Pedro meet, with Soldiers on each Side, Drums, &c.
Alph. Stand: give the word.
Ped. The queen of Arragon.
Alph. Pedro?—how goes the night?
Ped. She wears apace.
Alph. Then welcome day-light; we shall have
warm work on't.
The Moor will 'gage
His utmost forces on this next assault,
To win a queen and kingdom.
Ped. Pox on this lion-way of wooing, though.
Is the queen stirring yet?
386
Alph. She has not been abed, but in her chapel
All night devoutly watched, and bribed the saints
With vows for her deliverance.
Ped. O, Alphonso!
I fear they come too late. Her father's crimes
Sit heavy on her, and weigh down her prayers.
A crown usurped; a lawful king deposed,
In bondage held, debarred the common light;
His children murdered, and his friends destroyed,—
What can we less expect than what we feel,
And what we fear will follow?
Alph. Heaven avert it!
Ped. Then heaven must not be heaven. Judge the event
By what has passed. The usurper joyed not long
His ill-got crown:—'tis true, he died in peace,—
Unriddle that, ye powers!—but left his daughter,
Our present queen, engaged upon his death-bed,
To marry with young Bertran, whose cursed father
Had helped to make him great.
Hence, you well know, this fatal war arose;
Because the Moor Abdalla, with whose troops
The usurper gained the kingdom, was refused;
And, as an infidel, his love despised.
Alph. Well, we are soldiers, Pedro; and, like lawyers,
Plead for our pay.
Ped. A good cause would do well though:
It gives my sword an edge. You see this Bertran
Has now three times been beaten by the Moors:
What hope we have, is in young Torrismond,
Your brother's son.
Alph. He's a successful warrior,
And has the soldiers' hearts: upon the skirts
Of Arragon our squandered troops he rallies.
Our watchmen from the towers with longing eyes
Expect his swift arrival.
387 Ped. It must be swift, or it will come too late.
Alph. No more.—Duke Bertran.
Enter Bertran attended.
Bert. Relieve the sentries that have watched all night.
[To Ped.] Now, colonel, have you disposed your men,
That you stand idle here?
Ped. Mine are drawn off
To take a short repose.
Bert. Short let it be:
For, from the Moorish camp, this hour and more,
There has been heard a distant humming noise,
Like bees disturbed, and arming in their hives.
What courage in our soldiers? Speak! What hope?
Ped. As much as when physicians shake their heads,
And bid their dying patient think of heaven.
Our walls are thinly manned; our best men slain;
The rest, an heartless number, spent with watching,
And harassed out with duty.
Bert. Good-night all, then.
Ped. Nay, for my part, 'tis but a single life
I have to lose. I'll plant my colours down
In the mid-breach, and by them fix my foot;
Say a short soldier's prayer, to spare the trouble
Of my new friends above; and then expect
The next fair bullet.
Alph. Never was known a night of such distraction;
Noise so confused and dreadful; jostling crowds.
That run, and know not whither; torches gliding,
Like meteors, by each other in the streets.
Ped. I met a reverend, fat, old gouty friar,—
With a paunch swoll'n so high, his double chin
Might rest upon it; a true son of the church;
Fresh-coloured, well thriven on his trade,—
388
Come puffing with his greasy bald-pate choir,
And fumbling o'er his beads in such an agony,
He told them false, for fear. About his neck
There hung a wench, the label of his function,
Whom he shook off, i'faith, methought, unkindly.
It seems the holy stallion durst not score
Another sin, before he left the world.
Enter a Captain.
Capt. To arms, my lord, to arms!
From the Moors' camp the noise grows louder still:
Rattling of armour, trumpets, drums, and ataballes;
And sometimes peals of shouts that rend the heavens,
Like victory: then groans again, and howlings,
Like those of vanquished men; but every echo
Goes fainter off, and dies in distant sounds.
Bert. Some false attack: expect on t'other side.
One to the gunners on St Jago's tower; bid them, for shame,
Level their cannon lower: On my soul
They are all corrupted with the gold of Barbary,
To carry over, and not hurt the Moor.
Enter a second Captain.
2 Capt. My lord, here's fresh intelligence arrived.
Our army, led by valiant Torrismond,
Is now in hot engagement with the Moors;
'Tis said, within their trenches.
Bert. I think all fortune is reserved for him!—
He might have sent us word though;
And then we could have favoured his attempt
With sallies from the town.
Alph. It could not be:
We were so close blocked up, that none could peep
Upon the walls and live. But yet 'tis time.
Bert. No, 'tis too late; I will not hazard it:
On pain of death, let no man dare to sally.
389
Ped. Oh envy, envy, how it works within him![Aside.
How now? what means this show?
Alph. 'Tis a procession.
The queen is going to the great cathedral,
To pray for our success against the Moors.
Ped. Very good: she usurps the throne, keeps
the old king in prison, and, at the same time, is
praying for a blessing. Oh religion and roguery,
how they go together!
[A Procession of Priests and Choristers in White,
with Tapers, followed by the Queen and Ladies,
goes over the Stage: the Choristers singing,
Look down, ye blessed above, look down,
Behold our weeping matrons' tears,
Behold our tender virgins' fears,
And with success our armies crown.
Look down, ye blessed above, look down:
Oh! save us, save as, and our state restore;
For pity, pity, pity, we implore:
For pity, pity, pity, we implore.
[The Procession goes off; and shout within. Then
Enter Lorenzo, who kneels to Alphonso.
Bert. [To Alph.] A joyful cry; and see your son Lorenzo. Good news, kind heaven!
Alph. [To Lor.]
O welcome, welcome! is the general safe?
How near our army? when shall we be succoured?
Or, are we succoured? are the Moors removed?
Answer these questions first, and then a thousand more;
Answer them all together.
Lor. Yes, when I have a thousand tongues, I will.
390
The general's well; his army too is safe,
As victory can make them. The Moors' king
Is safe enough, I warrant him, for one.
At dawn of day our general cleft his pate,
Spite of his woollen night-cap: a slight wound;
Perhaps he may recover.
Alph. Thou reviv'st me.
Ped. By my computation now, the victory was gained before the procession was made for it; and yet it will go hard but the priests will make a miracle of it.
Lor. Yes, faith; we came like bold intruding guests,
And took them unprepared to give us welcome.
Their scouts we killed, then found their body sleeping;
And as they lay confused, we stumbled o'er them,
And took what joint came next, arms, heads, or legs,
Somewhat indecently. But when men want light,
They make but bungling work.
Bert. I'll to the queen,
And bear the news.
Ped. That's young Lorenzo's duty.
Bert. I'll spare his trouble.—
This Torrismond begins to grow too fast;
He must be mine, or ruined.[Aside, and Exit.
Lor. Pedro a word:—[whisper.]
Alph. How swift he shot away! I find it stung him,
In spite of his dissembling.
[To Lorenzo.] How many of the enemy are slain?
Lor. Troth, sir, we were in haste, and could not stay
To score the men we killed; but there they lie:
Best send our women out to take the tale;
There's circumcision in abundance for them.
[Turns to Pedro again.
391 Alph. How far did you pursue them?
Lor. Some few miles.—
[To Pedro] Good store of harlots, say you, and dog-cheap?
Pedro, they must be had, and speedily;
I've kept a tedious fast.[Whisper again.
Alph. When will he make his entry? he deserves
Such triumphs as were given by ancient Rome:
Ha, boy, what say'st thou?
Lor. As you say, sir, that Rome was very ancient.
[To Pedro.] I leave the choice to you; fair, black, tall, low,
Let her but have a nose; and you may tell her,
I am rich in jewels, rings, and bobbing pearls,
Plucked from Moors' ears.
Alph. Lorenzo.
Lor. Somewhat busy
About affairs relating to the public.—
A seasonable girl, just in the nick now—[To Pedro.
[Trumpets within.
Ped. I hear the general's trumpet. Stand and mark
How he will be received; I fear, but coldly.
There hung a cloud, methought, on Bertran's brow.
Lor. Then look to see a storm on Torrismond's;
Looks fright not men. The general has seen Moors
With as bad faces; no dispraise to Bertran's.
Ped. 'Twas rumoured in the camp, he loves the queen.
Lor. He drinks her health devoutly.
Alph. That may breed bad blood betwixt him and Bertran.
Ped. Yes, in private.
But Bertran has been taught the arts of court,
To gild a face with smiles, and leer a man to ruin,
O here they come.—
392 Enter Torrismond and Officers on one Side, Bertran attended on the other; they embrace, Bertran bowing low.
Just as I prophesied.—
Lor. Death and hell, he laughs at him!—in his face too.
Ped. O you mistake him; 'twas an humble grin,
The fawning joy of courtiers and of dogs.
Lor. Here are nothing but lies to be expected:
I'll even go lose myself in some blind alley, and try
if any courteous damsel will think me worth the
finding.
[Aside, and Exit.
Alph. Now he begins to open.
Bert. Your country rescued, and your queen relieved,—
A glorious conquest, noble Torrismond!
The people rend the skies with loud applause,
And heaven can hear no other name but yours.
The thronging crowds press on you as you pass,
And with their eager joy make triumph slow.
Torr. My lord, I have no taste
Of popular applause; the noisy praise
Of giddy crowds, as changeable as winds;
Still vehement, and still without a cause;
Servant to chance, and blowing in the tide
Of swoln success; but veering with its ebb,
It leaves the channel dry.
Bert. So young a stoick!
Torr. You wrong me, if you think I'll sell one drop
Within these veins for pageants; but, let honour
Call for my blood, and sluice it into streams:
Turn fortune loose again to my pursuit,
And let me hunt her through embattled foes,
In dusty plains, amidst the cannons' roar,
There will I be the first.
Bert. I'll try him farther.—[Aside.
393
Suppose the assembled states of Arragon
Decree a statue to you, thus inscribed:
"To Torrismond, who freed his native land."
Alph. [To Ped.]
Mark how he sounds and fathoms him,
To find the shallows of his soul!
Bert. The just applause
Of god-like senates, is the stamp of virtue,
Which makes it pass unquestioned through the world.
These honours you deserve; nor shall my suffrage
Be last to fix them on you. If refused,
You brand us all with black ingratitude:
For times to come shall say,—Our Spain, like Rome,
Neglects her champions after noble acts,
And lets their laurels wither on their heads.
Torr. A statue, for a battle blindly fought,
Where darkness and surprise made conquest cheap!
Where virtue borrowed but the arms of chance,
And struck a random blow!—'Twas fortune's work,
And fortune take the praise.
Bert. Yet happiness
Is the first fame. Virtue without success
Is a fair picture shewn by an ill light;
But lucky men are favourites of heaven:
And whom should kings esteem above heaven's darlings?
The praises of a young and beauteous queen
Shall crown your glorious acts.
Ped. [To Alph.] There sprung the mine.
Torr. The queen! that were a happiness too great!
Named you the queen, my lord?
Bert. Yes: you have seen her, and you must confess,
A praise, a smile, a look from her is worth
The shouts of thousand amphitheatres.
She, she shall praise you, for I can oblige her:
To-morrow will deliver all her charms
394
Into my arms, and make her mine for ever.—
Why stand you mute?
Torr. Alas! I cannot speak.
Bert. Not speak, my lord! How were your thoughts employed?
Torr. Nor can I think, or I am lost in thought.
Bert. Thought of the queen, perhaps?
Torr. Why, if it were,
Heaven may be thought on, though too high to climb.
Bert. O, now I find where your ambition drives!
You ought not to think of her.
Torr. So I say too,
I ought not; madmen ought not to be mad;
But who can help his frenzy?
Bert. Fond young man!
The wings of your ambition must be clipt:
Your shame-faced virtue shunned the people's praise,
And senate's honours: But 'tis well we know
What price you hold yourself at. You have fought
With some success, and that has sealed your pardon.
Torr. Pardon from thee!—O, give me patience, heaven!—
Thrice vanquished Bertran, if thou dar'st, look out
Upon yon slaughtered host, that field of blood;
There seal my pardon, where thy fame was lost.
Ped. He's ruined, past redemption!
Alph. [To Torr.] Learn respect
To the first prince of the blood.
Bert. O, let him rave!
I'll not contend with madmen.
Torr. I have done:
I know, 'twas madness to declare this truth:
And yet, 'twere baseness to deny my love.
'Tis true, my hopes are vanishing as clouds;
Lighter than children's bubbles blown by winds:
My merit's but the rash result of chance;
395
My birth unequal; all the stars against me:
Power, promise, choice, the living and the dead;
Mankind my foes; and only love to friend:
But such a love, kept at such awful distance,
As, what it loudly dares to tell a rival,
Shall fear to whisper there. Queens may be loved,
And so may gods; else why are altars raised?
Why shines the sun, but that he may be viewed?
But, oh! when he's too bright, if then we gaze,
'Tis but to weep, and close our eyes in darkness.[Exit.
Bert. 'Tis well; the goddess shall be told, she shall,
Of her new worshipper.[Exit.
Ped. So, here's fine work!
He has supplied his only foe with arms
For his destruction. Old Penelope's tale
Inverted; he has unravelled all by day,
That he has done by night. What, planet struck!
Alph. I wish I were; to be past sense of this!
Ped. Would I had but a lease of life so long,
As 'till my flesh and blood rebelled this way,
Against our sovereign lady;—mad for a queen?
With a globe in one hand, and a sceptre in t'other?
A very pretty moppet!
Alph. Then to declare his madness to his rival!
His father absent on an embassy;
Himself a stranger almost; wholly friendless!
A torrent, rolling down a precipice,
Is easier to be stopt, than is his ruin.
Ped. 'Tis fruitless to complain; haste to the court;
Improve your interest there for pardon from the queen.
Alph. Weak remedies;
But all must be attempted.[Exit.
Enter Lorenzo.
Lor. Well, I am the most unlucky rogue! I have been ranging over half the town; but have sprung no game. Our women are worse infidels than the Moors: I told them I was one of the knight-errants, that delivered them from ravishment; and I think in my conscience, that is their quarrel to me.
Ped. Is this a time for fooling? Your cousin is
run honourably mad in love with her majesty; he
is split upon a rock, and you, who are in chase of
harlots, are sinking in the main ocean. I think,
the devil's in the family.
[Exit.
Lor. [Solus.] My cousin ruined, says he! hum, not that I wish my kinsman's ruin; that were unchristian: but, if the general is ruined, I am heir; there's comfort for a Christian! Money I have; I thank the honest Moors for it; but I want a mistress. I am willing to be lewd; but the tempter is wanting on his part.
Enter Elvira, veiled.
Elv. Stranger! Cavalier!—will you not hear me? you Moor-killer, you Matador!—
Lor. Meaning me, madam?
Elv. Face about, man! you a soldier, and afraid of the enemy!
Lor. I must confess, I did not expect to have been charged first: I see souls will not be lost for want of diligence in this devil's reign. [Aside.] Now, Madam Cynthia, behind a cloud, your will and pleasure with me?
Elv. You have the appearance of a cavalier; and if you are as deserving as you seem, perhaps you may not repent of your adventure. If a lady like 397 you well enough to hold discourse with you at first sight; you are gentleman enough, I hope, to help her out with an apology, and to lay the blame on stars, or destiny, or what you please, to excuse the frailty of a woman?
Lor. O, I love an easy woman! there's such ado, to crack a thick-shelled mistress; we break our teeth, and find no kernel. 'Tis generous in you, to take pity on a stranger, and not to suffer him to fall into ill hands at his first arrival.
Elv. You may have a better opinion of me than I deserve; you have not seen me yet; and, therefore, I am confident you are heart-whole.
Lor. Not absolutely slain, I must confess; but I am drawing on apace: you have a dangerous tongue in your head, I can tell you that; and if your eyes prove of as killing metal, there is but one way with me. Let me see you, for the safeguard of my honour; 'tis but decent the cannon should be drawn down upon me before I yield.
Elv. What a terrible similitude have you made,
colonel, to shew that you are inclining to the wars?
I could answer you with another in my profession:
Suppose you were in want of money, would
you not be glad to take a sum upon content in a
sealed bag, without peeping?—but, however, I will
not stand with you for a sample.
[Lifts up her veil.
Lor. What eyes were there! how keen their glances! you do well to keep them veiled; they are too sharp to be trusted out of the scabbard.
Elv. Perhaps now, you may accuse my forwardness; but this day of jubilee is the only time of freedom I have had; and there is nothing so extravagant as a prisoner, when he gets loose a little, and is immediately to return into his fetters.
Lor. To confess freely to you, madam, I was never in love with less than your whole sex before; but now I have seen you, I am in the direct road 398 of languishing and sighing; and, if love goes on as it begins, for aught I know, by to-morrow morning you may hear of me in rhyme and sonnet. I tell you truly, I do not like these symptoms in myself. Perhaps I may go shufflingly at first; for I was never before walked in trammels; yet, I shall drudge and moil at constancy, till I have worn off the hitching in my pace.
Elv. Oh, sir, there are arts to reclaim the wildest men, as there are to make spaniels fetch and carry: chide them often, and feed them seldom. Now I know your temper, you may thank yourself, if you are kept to hard meat. You are in for years, if you make love to me.
Lor. I hate a formal obligation with an Anno Domini at end on't; there may be an evil meaning in the word years, called matrimony.
Elv. I can easily rid you of that fear: I wish I could rid myself as easily of the bondage.
Lor. Then you are married?
Elv. If a covetous, and a jealous, and an old man be a husband.
Lor. Three as good qualities for my purpose as I could wish: now love be praised!
Enter Elvira's Duenna, and whispers to her.
Elv. [Aside.] If I get not home before my husband,
I shall be ruined. [To him.] I dare not stay
to tell you where. Farewell!—Could I once more—
[Exit.
Lor. This is unconscionable dealing; to be made a slave, and know not whose livery I wear. Who have we yonder?
Enter Gomez.
By that shambling in his walk, it should be my rich
399
old banker, Gomez, whom I knew at Barcelona: As
I live 'tis he!—What, old Mammon here!
[To Gomez.
Gom. How! young Beelzebub?
Lor. What devil has set his claws in thy haunches, and brought thee hither to Saragossa? Sure he meant a farther journey with thee.
Gom. I always remove before the enemy: When the Moors are ready to besiege one town, I shift quarters to the next; I keep as far from the infidels as I can.
Lor. That's but a hair's breadth at farthest.
Gom. Well, you have got a famous victory; all true subjects are overjoyed at it: There are bonfires decreed; an the times had not been hard, my billet should have burnt too.
Lor. I dare say for thee, thou hast such a respect for a single billet, thou wouldst almost have thrown on thyself to save it; thou art for saving every thing but thy soul.
Gom. Well, well, you'll not believe me generous, 'till I carry you to the tavern, and crack half a pint with you at my own charges.
Lor. No; I'll keep thee from hanging thyself for such an extravagance; and, instead of it, thou shalt do me a mere verbal courtesy. I have just now seen a most incomparable young lady.
Gom. Whereabouts did you see this most incomparable
young lady?—My mind misgives me plaguily.
[Aside.
Lor. Here, man, just before this corner-house: Pray heaven, it prove no bawdy-house.
Gom. [Aside.] Pray heaven, he does not make it one!
Lor. What dost thou mutter to thyself? Hast thou any thing to say against the honesty of that house?
400 Gom. Not I, colonel; the walls are very honest stone, and the timber very honest wood, for aught I know; but for the woman, I cannot say, till I know her better: Describe her person, and, if she live in this quarter, I may give you tidings of her.
Lor. She is of a middle stature, dark-coloured hair, the most bewitching leer with her eyes, the most roguish cast! her cheeks are dimpled when she smiles, and her smiles would tempt an hermit.
Gom. [Aside.] I am dead, I am buried, I am damned.—Go on, colonel; have you no other marks of her?
Lor. Thou hast all her marks; but she has a husband, a jealous, covetous, old hunks: Speak! canst thou tell me news of her?
Gom. Yes; this news, colonel, that you have seen your last of her.
Lor. If thou help'st me not to the knowledge of her, thou art a circumcised Jew.
Gom. Circumcise me no more than I circumcise you, colonel Hernando: Once more, you have seen your last of her.
Lor. [Aside.] I am glad he knows me only by that name of Hernando, by which I went at Barcelona; now he can tell no tales of me to my father.—[To him.] Come, thou wer't ever good-natured, when thou couldst get by it—Look here, rogue; 'tis of the right damning colour: Thou art not proof against gold, sure!—Do not I know thee for a covetous—
Gom. Jealous old hunks? those were the marks of your mistress's husband, as I remember, colonel.
Lor. Oh the devil! What a rogue in understanding was I, not to find him out sooner![Aside.
Gom. Do, do, look sillily, good colonel; 'tis a decent melancholy after an absolute defeat.
Lor. Faith, not for that, clear Gomez; but—
401 Gom. But—no pumping, my dear colonel.
Lor. Hang pumping! I was thinking a little upon a point of gratitude. We two have been long acquaintance; I know thy merits, and can make some interest;—Go to; thou wert born to authority; I'll make thee Alcaide, Mayor of Saragossa.
Gom. Satisfy yourself; you shall not make me what you think, colonel.
Lor. Faith, but I will; thou hast the face of a magistrate already.
Gom. And you would provide me with a magistrate's head to my magistrate's face; I thank you, colonel.
Lor. Come, thou art so suspicious upon an idle story! That woman I saw, I mean that little, crooked, ugly woman,—for t'other was a lie,—is no more thy wife,—As I'll go home with thee, and satisfy thee immediately, my dear friend.
Gom. I shall not put you to that trouble; no, not so much as a single visit; not so much as an embassy by a civil old woman, nor a serenade of twinkledum twinkledum under my windows; nay, I will advise you, out of my tenderness to your person, that you walk not near yon corner-house by night; for, to my certain knowledge, there are blunderbusses planted in every loop-hole, that go off constantly of their own accord, at the squeaking of a fiddle, and the thrumming of a guitar.
Lor. Art thou so obstinate? Then I denounce
open war against thee; I'll demolish thy citadel by
force; or, at least, I'll bring my whole regiment
upon thee; my thousand red locusts, that shall devour
thee in free quarters. Farewell, wrought night-cap.
[Exit Lorenzo.
Gom. Farewell, Buff. Free quarters for a regiment
of red-coat locusts? I hope to see them all in the
Red-Sea first! But oh, this Jezabel of mine! I'll
402
get a physician that shall prescribe her an ounce of
camphire every morning, for her breakfast, to abate
incontinency. She shall never peep abroad, no, not
to church for confession; and, for never going, she
shall be condemned for a heretic. She shall have
stripes by Troy weight, and sustenance by drachms
and scruples: Nay, I'll have a fasting almanack,
printed on purpose for her use, in which
No Carnival nor Christmas shall appear,
But lents and ember-weeks shall fill the year.[Exit.
Enter Alphonso and Pedro.
Alph. When saw you my Lorenzo?
Ped. I had a glimpse of him; but he shot by me,
Like a young hound upon a burning scent;
He's gone a harlot-hunting.
Alph. His foreign breeding might have taught him better.
Ped. 'Tis that has taught him this.
What learn our youth abroad, but to refine
The homely vices of their native land?
Give me an honest home-spun country clown
Of our own growth; his dulness is but plain,
But theirs embroidered; they are sent out fools,
But come back fops.
Alph. You know what reasons urged me;
But now, I have accomplished my designs,
I should be glad he knew them. His wild riots
Disturb my soul; but they would sit more close,
Did not the threatened downfal of our house,
403
In Torrismond, o'erwhelm my private ills.
Enter Bertran, attended, and whispering with a Courtier, aside.
Bert. I would not have her think, he dared to love her;
If he presume to own it, she's so proud,
He tempts his certain ruin.
Alph. [To Ped.]
Mark how disdainfully he throws his eyes on us.
Our old imprisoned king wore no such looks.
Ped. O! would the general shake off his dotage to the usurping queen,
And re-enthrone good venerable Sancho,
I'll undertake, should Bertran sound his trumpets,
And Torrismond but whistle through his fingers,
He draws his army off.
Alph. I told him so;
But had an answer louder than a storm.
Ped. Now, plague and pox on his smock-loyalty!
I hate to see a brave bold fellow sotted,
Made sour and senseless, turned to whey by love;
A drivelling hero, fit for a romance.—
O, here he comes! what will their greetings be?
Enter Torrismond, attended; Bertran and he meet and jostle.
Bert. Make way, my lords, and let the pageant pass.
Tor. I make my way, where'er I see my foe;
But you, my lord, are good at a retreat.
I have no Moors behind me.
Bert. Death and hell!
Dare to speak thus when you come out again.
Tor. Dare to provoke me thus, insulting man!
Ter. My lords, you are too loud so near the queen;
You, Torrismond, have much offended her.
'Tis her command you instantly appear,
To answer your demeanour to the prince.
[Exit Teresa; Bertran, with his company,
follow her.
Tor. O, Pedro, O, Alphonso, pity me!
A grove of pikes,
Whose polished steel from far severely shines,
Are not so dreadful as this beauteous queen.
Alph. Call up your courage timely to your aid,
And, like a lion, pressed upon the toils,
Leap on your hunters. Speak your actions boldly;
There is a time when modest virtue is
Allowed to praise itself.
Ped. Heart! you were hot enough, too hot, but now;
Your fury then boiled upward to a foam;
But since this message came, you sink and settle,
As if cold water had been poured upon you.
Tor. Alas! thou know'st not what it is to love!
When we behold an angel, not to fear,
Is to be impudent: No, I am resolved,
Like a led victim, to my death I'll go,
And, dying, bless the hand, that gave the blow.[Exeunt.
The Scene draws, and shews the Queen sitting in state; Bertran standing next to her; then Teresa, &c. She rises, and comes to the front.
Leonora. [To Bert.]
I blame not you, my lord; my father's will,
Your own deserts, and all my people's voice,
405
Have placed you in the view of sovereign power.
But I would learn the cause, why Torrismond,
Within my palace-walls, within my hearing,
Almost within my sight,—affronts a prince,
Who shortly shall command him.
Bert. He thinks you owe him more than you can pay;
And looks as he were lord of human kind.
Enter Torrismond, Alphonso, Pedro. Torrismond bows low, then looks earnestly on the Queen, and keeps at Distance.
Teresa. Madam, the general.—
Leo. Let me view him well.
My father sent him early to the frontiers;
I have not often seen him; if I did,
He passed unmarked by my unheeding eyes:—
But where's the fierceness, the disdainful pride,
The haughty port, the fiery arrogance?—
By all these marks, this is not, sure, the man.
Bert. Yet this is he, who filled your court with tumult,
Whose fierce demeanour, and whose insolence,
The patience of a god could not support.
Leo. Name his offence, my lord, and he shall have
Immediate punishment.
Bert. 'Tis of so high a nature, should I speak it,
That my presumption then would equal his.
Leo. Some one among you speak.
Ped. Now my tongue itches.[Aside.
Leo. All dumb! On your allegiance, Torrismond,
By all your hopes, I do command you, speak.
Tor. [Kneeling.]
O seek not to convince me of a crime,
Which I can ne'er repent, nor can you pardon;
Or, if you needs will know it, think, oh think,
That he who, thus commanded, dares to speak,
406
Unless commanded, would have died in silence.
But you adjured me, madam, by my hopes!
Hopes I have none, for I am all despair;
Friends I have none, for friendship follows favour;
Desert I've none, for what I did was duty:—
Oh that it were!—that it were duty all!
Leo. Why do you pause? proceed.
Tor. As one, condemned to leap a precipice,
Who sees before his eyes the depth below,
Stops short, and looks about for some kind shrub
To break his dreadful fall.—so I—
But whither am I going? If to death,
He looks so lovely sweet in beauty's pomp,
He draws me to his dart.—I dare no more.
Bert. He's mad, beyond the cure of hellebore.
Whips, darkness, dungeons, for this insolence.
Tor. Mad as I am, yet I know when to bear.
Leo. You're both too bold.—You, Torrismond, withdraw,
I'll teach you all what's owing to your queen.—
For you, my lord,—
The priest to-morrow was to join our hands;
I'll try if I can live a day without you.—
So both of you depart, and live in peace.
Alph. Who knows which way she points?
Doubling and turning like an hunted hare;—
Find out the meaning of her mind who can.
Pedr. Who ever found a woman's? backward and forward,
The whole sex in every word. In my conscience,
when she was getting, her mother was thinking of
a riddle.
[Exeunt all but the Queen and Teresa.
Leo. Haste, my Teresa, haste, and call him back.
Ter. Whom, madam?
Leo. Him.
Ter. Prince Bertran?
407
Leo. Torrismond;
There is no other he.
Ter. [Aside.] A rising sun,
Or I am much deceived.[Exit Teresa.
Leo. A change so swift what heart did ever feel!
It rushed upon me like a mighty stream,
And bore me, in a moment, far from shore.
I loved away myself; in one short hour
Already am I gone an age of passion.
Was it his youth, his valour, or success?
These might, perhaps, be found in other men:
'Twas that respect, that awful homage, paid me;
That fearful love, which trembled in his eyes,
And with a silent earthquake shook his soul.
But, when he spoke, what tender words he said!
So softly, that, like flakes of feathered snow,
They melted as they fell.—
Enter Teresa with Torrismond.
Ter. He waits your pleasure.
Leo. 'Tis well; retire.—Oh heavens, that I must speak
So distant from my heart!—[Aside.
[To Tor.] How now! What boldness brings you back again?
Tor. I heard 'twas your command.
Leo. A fond mistake,
To credit so unlikely a command;
And you return, full of the same presumption,
To affront me with your love!
Tor. If 'tis presumption, for a wretch condemned,
To throw himself beneath his judge's feet:
A boldness more than this I never knew;
Or, if I did, 'twas only to your foes.
Leo. You would insinuate your past services,
And those, I grant, were great; but you confess
A fault committed since, that cancels all.
408
Tor. And who could dare to disavow his crime,
When that, for which he is accused and seized,
He bears about him still! My eyes confess it;
My every action speaks my heart aloud:
But, oh, the madness of my high attempt
Speaks louder yet! and all together cry,—
I love and I despair.
Leo. Have you not heard,
My father, with his dying voice, bequeathed
My crown and me to Bertran? And dare you,
A private man, presume to love a queen?
Tor. That, that's the wound! I see you set so high,
As no desert or services can reach.—
Good heavens, why gave you me a monarch's soul,
And crusted it with base plebeian clay?
Why gave you me desires of such extent,
And such a span to grasp them? Sure, my lot
By some o'er-hasty angel was misplaced
In fate's eternal volume!—But I rave,
And, like a giddy bird in dead of night,
Fly round the fire that scorches me to death.
Leo. Yet, Torrismond, you've not so ill deserved,
But I may give you counsel for your cure.
Tor. I cannot, nay, I wish not to be cured.
Leo. [Aside.] Nor I, heaven knows!
Tor. There is a pleasure, sure,
In being mad, which none but madmen know!
Let me indulge it; let me gaze for ever!
And, since you are too great to be beloved,
Be greater, greater yet, and be adored.
Leo. These are the words which I must only hear
From Bertran's mouth; they should displease from you:
I say they should; but women are so vain,
To like the love, though they despise the lover.
Yet, that I may not send you from my sight
In absolute despair,—I pity you.
409
Tor. Am I then pitied! I have lived enough!—
Death, take me in this moment of my joy;
But, when my soul is plunged in long oblivion,
Spare this one thought! let me remember pity,
And, so deceived, think all my life was blessed.
Leo. What if I add a little to my alms?
If that would help, I could cast in a tear
To your misfortunes.
Tor. A tear! You have o'erbid all my past sufferings,
And all my future too!
Leo. Were I no queen—
Or you of royal blood—
Tor. What have I lost by my forefathers' fault!
Why was not I the twentieth by descent
From a long restive race of droning kings?
Love! what a poor omnipotence hast thou,
When gold and titles buy thee?
Leo. [Sighs.] Oh, my torture!—
Tor. Might I presume,—but, oh, I dare not hope
That sigh was added to your alms for me!
Leo. I give you leave to guess, and not forbid you
To make the best construction for your love:
Be secret and discreet; these fairy favours
Are lost, when not concealed[1].—provoke not Bertran.—
Retire: I must no more but this,—Hope, Torrismond.[Exit.
Tor. She bids me hope; oh heavens, she pities me!
And pity still foreruns approaching love,
410
As lightning does the thunder! Tune your harps,
Ye angels, to that sound; and thou, my heart,
Make room to entertain thy flowing joy.
Hence, all my griefs and every anxious care;
One word, and one kind glance, can cure despair.[Exit.
Enter Lorenzo.