by John Dryden
Plac. Oh, I am gone! [Dies.
Max. And after thee I go, Revenging still, and following ev’n to the other world my blow; [Stabs him again.
And shoving back this earth on which I sit, I’ll mount, and scatter all the Gods I hit. [Dies.
Enter Porphyrius, Berenice, Albinus, Soldiers. Porphyrius looks on the Bodies entering, and speaks.
Por. Tis done before, (this mighty work of fate!) And I am glad your swords are come too late. He was my prince, and though a bloody one, I should have conquered, and have mercy shewn. Sheath all your swords, and cease your enmity; They are not foes, but Romans, whom you see.
Ber. He was my tyrant, but my husband too; And therefore duty will some tears allow.
Por. Placidius here! And fair Valeria, new deprived of breath! Who can unriddle this dumb-show of death?
Cyd. When, sir, her father did your life deny, She killed herself, that she with you might die. Placidius made the emperor’s death his crime; Who, dying, did revenge his death on him.
[Porphyrius kneels, and takes Valeria’s hand.
Por. For thy dear sake, I vow, each week I live, One day to fasting and just grief I’ll give: And what hard fate did to thy life deny, My gratitude shall pay thy memory.
Cent. Meantime to you belongs the imperial power: We, with one voice, salute you emperor.
Sold. Long life, Porphyrius, emperor of the Romans!
Por. Too much, my countrymen; your love you shew, That you have thought me worthy to be so; But, to requite that love, I must take care, Not to engage you in a civil war. Two emperors at Rome the senate chose, And whom they chuse, no Roman should oppose. In peace or war, let monarchs hope or fear; All my ambition shall be bounded here. [Kissing Berenice’s hand.
Ber. I have too lately been a prince’s wife, And fear the unlucky omen of the life. Like a rich vessel, beat by storms to shore, ‘Twere madness should I venture out once more. Of glorious trouble I will take no part, And in no empire reign, but of your heart.
Por. Let to the winds your golden eagles fly; [To the Soldiers.
Your trumpets sound a bloodless victory: Our arms no more let Aquileia fear, But to her gates our peaceful ensigns bear; While I mix cypress with my myrtle wreath, — Joy for your life, and mourn Valeria’s death. [Exeunt.
EPILOGUE
SPOKEN BY MRS ELLEN, WHEN SHE WAS TO BE CARRIED OFF DEAD BY THE BEARERS.
TO THE BEARER.
Hold; are you mad? You damn’d confounded dog! I am to rise, and speak the epilogue.
TO THE AUDIENCE.
I come, kind gentlemen, strange news to tell ye; I am the ghost of poor departed Nelly. Sweet ladies, be not frighted; I’ll be civil, I’m what I was, a little harmless devil. For, after death, we spirits have just such natures, We had, for all the world, when human creatures; And, therefore, I, that was an actress here, Play all my tricks in hell, a goblin there. Gallants, look to’t, you say there are no sprites; But I’ll come dance about your beds at nights. And faith you’ll be in a sweet kind of taking, When I surprise you between sleep and waking. To tell you true, I walk, because I die Out of my calling, in a tragedy. O poet, damn’d dull poet, who could prove So senseless, to make Nelly die for love! Nay, what’s yet worse, to kill me in the prime Of Easter-term, in tart and cheese-cake time! I’ll fit the fop; for I’ll not one word say, To excuse his godly out-of-fashion play; A play, which, if you dare but twice sit out, You’ll all be slandered, and be thought devout. But, farewell, gentlemen, make haste to me, I’m sure e’er long to have your company. As for my epitaph when I am gone, I’ll trust no poet, but will write my own: — Here Nelly lies, who, though she lived a slattern, Yet died a princess, acting in St Catharine.
AN EVENING’S LOVE
OR, THE MOCK ASTROLOGER
CONTENTS
THE PREFACE.
PROLOGUE.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
ACT I.
ACT II.
ACT III.
ACT IV.
ACT V.
EPILOGUE.
TO HIS GRACE,
WILLIAM, DUKE OF NEWCASTLE,
ONE OF HIS MAJESTY’S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY COUNCIL, AND OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, &c.
MAY IT PLEASE YOUR GRACE,
Amongst those few persons of wit and honour, whose favourable opinion I have desired, your own virtue, and my great obligations to your grace, have justly given you the precedence. For what could be more glorious to me, than to have acquired some part of your esteem, who are admired and honoured by all good men; who have been, for so many years together, the pattern and standard of honour to the nation; and whose whole life has been so great an example of heroic virtue, that we might wonder how it happened into an age so corrupt as ours, if it had not likewise been a part of the former. As you came into the world with all the advantages of a noble birth and education, so you have rendered both yet more conspicuous by your virtue. Fortune, indeed, has perpetually crowned your undertakings with success, but she has only waited on your valour, not conducted it. She has ministered to your glory like a slave, and has been led in triumph by it; or, at most, while honour led you by the hand to greatness, fortune only followed to keep you from sliding back in the ascent. That, which Plutarch accounted her favour to Cymon and Lucullus, was but her justice to your grace; and, never to have been overcome where you led in person, as it was more than Hannibal could boast, so it was all that Providence could do for that party, which it had resolved to ruin. Thus, my lord, the last smiles of victory were on your arms; and, everywhere else declaring for the rebels, she seemed to suspend herself, and to doubt, before she took her flight, whether she were able wholly to abandon that cause, for which you fought[H].
But the greatest trials of your courage and constancy were yet to come: Many had ventured their fortunes, and exposed their lives to the utmost dangers for their king and country, who ended their loyalty with the war; and, submitting to the iniquity of the times, chose rather to redeem their former plenty, by acknowledging an usurper, than to suffer with an unprofitable fidelity (as those meaner spirits called it) for their lawful sovereign. But, as I dare not accuse so many of our nobility, who were content to accept their patrimonies from the clemency of the conqueror, and to retain only a secret veneration for their prince, amidst the open worship which they were forced to pay to the usurper, who had dethroned him; so, I hope, I may have leave to extol that virtue which acted more generously; and which was not satisfied with an inward devotion to monarchy, but produced itself to view, and asserted the cause by open martyrdom. Of these rare patterns of loyalty, your grace was chief: Those examples you could not find, you made. Some few Cato’s there were with you, whose invincible resolution could not be conquered by that usurping Cæsar. Your virtue opposed itself to his fortune, and overcame it, by not submitting to it. The last and most difficult enterprize he had to effect, when he had conquered three nations, was to subdue your spirit; and he died weary of that war, and unable to finish it.
In the mean time, you lived more happily in your exile, than the other on his throne. Your loyalty made you friends and servants amongst foreigners; and you lived plentifully without a fortune; for you lived on your own desert and reputation. The glorious name of the valiant and faithful Newcastle, was a patrimony which could never be exhausted.
Thus, my lord, the morning of your life was clear and calm; and, though it was afterwards overcast, yet, in that general storm, you were never without a shelter. And now you are happily arrived to the evening of a day, as serene as the dawn of it was glorious; but such an evening as, I hope, and almost prophecy, is far from night: ’Tis the evening of a summer’s sun, which keeps the day-light long within the skies. The health of your body is maintained by the vigour of your mind: Neither does the one shrink from the fatigue of exercise, nor the other bend under the pains of study. Methinks, I behold in you another Caius Marius, who, in the extremity of his age, exercised himself almost every morning in the Campus Martius, amongst the youthful nobility of Ro
me. And afterwards in your retirements, when you do honour to poetry, by employing part of your leisure in it, I regard you as another Silius Italicus, who, having passed over his consulship with applause, dismissed himself from business, and from the gown, and employed his age, amongst the shades, in the reading and imitation of Virgil.
In which, lest any thing should be wanting to your happiness, you have, by a rare effect of fortune, found, in the person of your excellent lady, not only a lover, but a partner of your studies; a lady whom our age may justly equal with the Sappho of the Greeks, or the Sulpitia of the Romans; who, by being taken into your bosom, seems to be inspired with your genius; and, by writing the history of your life[I], in so masculine a style, has already placed you in the number of the heroes. She has anticipated that great portion of fame, which envy often hinders a living virtue from possessing; which would, indeed, have been given to your ashes, but with a later payment; and of which you could have no present use, except it were by a secret presage of that which was to come, when you were no longer in a possibility of knowing it. So that if that were a praise, or satisfaction to the greatest of emperors, which the most judicious of poets gives him —
Præsenti tibi maturos largimur honores, &c.
that the adoration, which was not allowed to Hercules and Romulus till after death, was given to Augustus living, then certainly it cannot be denied, but that your grace has received a double satisfaction: the one, to see yourself consecrated to immortality while you are yet alive; the other, to have your praises celebrated by so dear, so just, and so pious an historian.
It is the consideration of this that stops my pen; though I am loth to leave so fair a subject, which gives me as much field as poetry could wish, and yet no more than truth can justify. But to attempt any thing of a panegyric, were to enterprize on your lady’s right; and to seem to affect those praises, which none but the duchess of Newcastle can deserve, when she writes the actions of her lord. I shall, therefore, leave that wider space, and contract myself to those narrow bounds, which best become my fortune and employment.
I am obliged, my lord, to return you not only my own acknowledgments, but to thank you in the names of former poets; the names of Jonson and D’Avenant[J] seem to require it from me, that those favours, which you placed on them, and which they wanted opportunity to own in public, yet might not be lost to the knowledge of posterity, with a forgetfulness unbecoming of the Muses, who are the daughters of memory. And give me leave, my lord, to avow so much of vanity, as to say, I am proud to be their remembrancer: For, by relating how gracious you have been to them, and are to me, I, in some measure, join my name with theirs: And the continued descent of your favours to me is the best title which I can plead for my succession. I only wish, that I had as great reason to be satisfied with myself, in the return of our common acknowledgments, as your grace may justly take in the conferring them: For I cannot but be very sensible, that the present of an ill comedy, which I here make you, is a very unsuitable way of giving thanks for them, who, themselves, have written so many better. This pretends to nothing more, than to be a foil to those scenes, which are composed by the most noble poet of our age and nation; and to be set as a water-mark of the lowest ebb, to which the wit of my predecessor has sunk, and run down in me. But, though all of them have surpassed me in the scene, there is one part of glory, in which I will not yield to any of them: I mean, my lord, that honour and veneration which they had for you in their lives; and which I preserve after them, more holily than the vestal fires were maintained from age to age; but with a greater degree of heat, and of devotion, than theirs, as being with more respect and passion than they ever were,
Your Grace’s
Most obliged, most humble,
and most obedient Servant,
JOHN DRYDEN.
AN EVENING’S LOVE.
Our author acknowledges, that this play of “The Mock Astrologer” is founded on “Le feint Astrologue,” by the younger Corneille, which he, in his turn, had imitated from “El Astrologo fingido” of Calderon. But Dryden has also laid Moliere under contribution. Most part of the quarrelling scene betwixt Wildblood and Jacintha, in the fourth act, is literally copied from that betwixt Lucile Eraste, Marinette, and Gros René, in “Le Depit Amoureux.” The absurd loquacity of Don Alonzo, and his friend’s mode of silencing him, by ringing a bell in his ears, is imitated from the scene betwixt Albert and Metaphraste, in the same play; and, it must be allowed, it is an expedient which might be more decently resorted to against an inundation of nonsense from a pedantic schoolmaster, as in Moliere, than to stop the mouth of a noble old Spaniard, the uncle of Don Lopez’ mistress. The play itself is more lively than most of Dryden’s comedies. Wildblood and Jacintha are far more pleasant than their prototypes, Celadon and Florimel; and the Spanish bustle of the plot is well calculated to keep up the attention. The character of Aurelia was perhaps suggested by the “Precieuses Ridicules” of Moliere, but cannot, with any justice, be said to be copied from them. The Preface contains some excellent remarks on the old comedy. There is also an elaborate defence, the first our poet deigned to make, against the charge of plagiarism. On this point he quotes the words of Charles II., who had only desired, that they, who accused Dryden of theft, would steal him such plays as Dryden’s: And he vindicates the right of an author to take his plot where he could best find it, in history or romance, providing that the conduct and disposition of the action, with the dialogue, character, and poetical ornaments, were original. Our author’s use of the terms and technical phrases of judicial astronomy intimate his acquaintance with that pretended science, in which he is known to have placed some confidence.
The “Mock Astrologer” appears to have been acted and published in 1668.
THE PREFACE.
I had thought, reader, in this preface, to have written somewhat concerning the difference betwixt the plays of our age, and those of our predecessors, on the English stage: To have shewn in what parts of dramatic poesy we were excelled by Ben Jonson, I mean, humour, and contrivance of comedy; and in what we may justly claim precedence of Shakespeare and Fletcher, namely in heroic plays: But this design I have waved on second considerations; at least, deferred it till I publish The Conquest of Granada, where the discourse will be more proper. I had also prepared to treat of the improvement of our language since Fletcher’s and Jonson’s days, and consequently of our refining the courtship, raillery, and conversation of plays: But as I am willing to decline that envy which I should draw on myself from some old opiniatre judges of the stage, so likewise I am prest in time so much that I have not leisure, at present, to go through with it. Neither, indeed, do I value a reputation gained from comedy, so far as to concern myself about it, any more than I needs must in my own defence: For I think it, in its own nature, inferior to all sorts of dramatick writing. Low comedy especially requires, on the writer’s part, much of conversation with the vulgar, and much of ill nature in the observation of their follies. But let all men please themselves according to their several tastes: That which is not pleasant to me, may be to others who judge better: And, to prevent an accusation from my enemies, I am sometimes ready to imagine, that my disgust of low comedy proceeds not so much from my judgment as from my temper; which is the reason why I so seldom write it; and that when I succeed in it, (I mean so far as to please the audience) yet I am nothing satisfied with what I have done; but am often vexed to hear the people laugh, and clap, as they perpetually do, where intended them no jest; while they let pass the better things, without taking notice of them. Yet even this confirms me in my opinion of slighting popular applause, and of contemning that approbation which those very people give, equally with me, to the zany of a mountebank; or to the appearance of an antick on the theatre, without wit on the poet’s part, or any occasion of laughter from the actor, besides the ridiculousness of his habit and his grimaces.
But I have descended, before I was aware, from comedy to farce; which consists principally of grimaces. That I a
dmire not any comedy equally with tragedy, is, perhaps, from the sullenness of my humour; but that I detest those farces, which are now the most frequent entertainments of the stage, I am sure I have reason on my side. Comedy consists, though of low persons, yet of natural actions and characters; I mean such humours, adventures, and designs, as are to be found and met with in the world. Farce, on the other side, consists of forced humours, and unnatural events. Comedy presents us with the imperfections of human nature: Farce entertains us with what is monstrous and chimerical. The one causes laughter in those who can judge of men and manners, by the lively representation of their folly or corruption: The other produces the same effect in those who can judge of neither, and that only by its extravagances. The first works on the judgment and fancy; the latter on the fancy only: There is more of satisfaction in the former kind of laughter, and in the latter more of scorn. But, how it happens, that an impossible adventure should cause our mirth, I cannot so easily imagine. Something there may be in the oddness of it, because on the stage it is the common effect of things unexpected, to surprise us into a delight: and that is to be ascribed to the strange appetite, as I may call it, of the fancy; which, like that of a longing woman, often runs out into the most extravagant desires; and is better satisfied sometimes with loam, or with the rinds of trees, than with the wholesome nourishments of life. In short, there is the same difference betwixt farce and comedy, as betwixt an empirick, and a true physician: Both of them may attain their ends; but what the one performs by hazard, the other does by skill. And as the artist is often unsuccessful, while the mountebank succeeds; so farces more commonly take the people than comedies. For, to write unnatural things, is the most probable way of pleasing them, who understand not nature. And a true poet often misses of applause, because he cannot debase himself to write so ill as to please his audience.